Читать книгу Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin - Stuart MacBride - Страница 26

It was too late to go back to bed, so Logan grumbled his way into the shower and then up the road to Force Headquarters. The street was like a sheet of glass, the council having done its usual sterling job of not gritting the streets and pavements. But at least it wasn’t raining any more. Above his head the clouds were purple and dark grey, the rising sun still more than two hours away.

Headquarters was like a grave as he pushed through the main doors. There was no sign of the media army that had been camped there the night before. All that was left was a pile of crumpled fag ends, lying in the gutter like frozen worms.

Big Gary shouted a friendly ‘Mornin’, Lazarus!’ as Logan made for the lifts.

‘Morning, Gary,’ said Logan, really not in the mood for another barrage of bonhomie.

‘Here,’ called Gary, after making sure there was no one else about. ‘Did you hear? DI Steel’s bagged someone else’s wife. Again!’

Logan paused, despite himself. ‘Whose is it this time?’

‘Andy Thompson in Accounts.’

Logan winced. ‘Ouch. That’s rough.’

Big Gary raised his eyebrows. ‘You think so? I always thought his wife was kinda tasty meself.’

A balding head with a wide moustache poked itself out from behind the mirrored partition that separated the front desk from the small admin area around the back, and locked eyes on Logan. ‘Sergeant,’ said Eric – the other half of the Big Gary and Eric Show – without a great deal of warmth in his voice. ‘Could I have a word with you in my office, please?’

Puzzled, Logan followed him around behind the two-way mirror. The admin area was a jumble of filing cabinets, computers and boxes of crap, piled against the walls, opposite a long, chipped Formica table covered with in-trays and piles of paper. Logan got the feeling something nasty was about to happen. ‘What’s up, Eric?’ he asked, parking himself on the edge of the table: just like DI Insch.

‘Duncan Nicholson,’ said the desk sergeant, folding his arms. ‘That’s what’s up.’ Logan looked at him blankly and Eric let out an exasperated sigh. ‘You had a couple of uniform bring him in for questioning?’ No reaction. ‘He found the dead kid down the Bridge of Don!’

‘Oh,’ said Logan. ‘Him.’

‘Yes, him. He’s been in the holding cells since Monday afternoon.’ Eric checked his watch. ‘Forty-three hours! You have to charge him or let him go!’

Logan closed his eyes and swore. He’d forgotten all about the man. ‘Forty-three hours?’ The legal limit was six!

‘Forty-three hours.’

Eric crossed his arms and let Logan stew for a while. Today was turning into an utter bastard.

‘I released him Monday evening,’ said Eric when he thought Logan had suffered enough. ‘We couldn’t hold him any longer. As it was we had him far longer than we should have.’

‘Monday?’ That was two days ago! ‘Why didn’t you call me?’

‘We did! About a dozen times. You turned off your phone. Tried again last night too. If you’re going to have people picked up you have to deal with them. You can’t just abandon them here and leave us to sort it out. We’re not your mother!’

Logan swore again. He’d switched off his mobile while he was in the little girl’s post mortem. ‘Sorry, Eric.’

The desk sergeant nodded. ‘Aye, well. I’ve made sure there’s no sign of anything wrong in the logbook. As far as everyone’s concerned: nothing happened. He came in on a voly, he was held for a bit, he was released. Just don’t let it happen again, OK?’

Logan nodded. ‘Thanks, Eric.’

Logan slouched his way along the corridor to the small office he’d commandeered the day before, grabbing a plastic cup of coffee on the way. The building was beginning to stir as the early birds drifted into work. Closing the door behind him, Logan sank into the chair behind the desk and stared at the map pinned to the wall, not really seeing the streets and the rivers.

Duncan Nicholson. He’d forgotten all about leaving him in the cells to sweat. He let his head sink forward until it was resting on top of the stack of statements. ‘Bastard,’ he said into the pile of paper. ‘Bastard, bastard, bastard. . .’

There was a knock at the door and he snapped upright. The statement on top of the pile fluttered to the floor. He was wincing down to pick it up when the door opened and WPC Watson peered in.

‘Morning, sir,’ she said and then caught the expression on his face. ‘You OK?’

Logan forced a smile and sat back down. ‘Never better,’ he lied. ‘You’re in early.’

WPC Watson nodded. ‘Yeah, I’ve got court this morning: caught a bloke yesterday afternoon playing with himself in the ladies’ changing rooms at Hazlehead swimming pool.’

‘Sounds classy.’

She smiled and Logan found himself feeling a lot better.

‘Can’t wait for him to meet my mum,’ she said. ‘Look, I got to run: he’s giving evidence in this Gerald Cleaver sex abuse thing and I’m not to let him out of my sight. But I wanted to tell you we’re all dead impressed you found that kid.’

Logan smiled back. ‘It was a team effort,’ he said.

‘Bollocks it was. We’re all going out tonight again, not a big sesh, just a quiet drink. If you want to join us. . . ?’

Logan couldn’t think of anything he’d like more.

He was feeling a lot better about himself as he walked down the corridor to the incident room and DI Insch’s morning briefing. WPC Jackie Watson wanted to go out with him again tonight. Or at least she wanted him to join her and her colleagues for a drink after work. Which was kind of the same thing. Sort of. . . They still hadn’t talked about what had happened the night before last.

And she still called him ‘sir’.

But then he still called her ‘Constable’. Not the most romantic of pet names.

He opened the door to the incident room and was met by a thunderous round of applause. Blushing, Logan made his way to a seat at the front, settling down in the chair as his face went beetroot red.

‘OK, OK,’ said DI Insch, holding up a hand for silence. Slowly the clapping faded to a halt. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he went on when it was quiet once more. ‘As you all know, last night Detective Sergeant Logan McRae returned Richard Erskine to his mother, after discovering the child at his grandmother’s house.’ He stopped and beamed at Logan. ‘Come on: stand up.’

Blushing even harder, Logan pulled himself out of his seat and the clapping started again.

‘That,’ said Insch, pointing at the embarrassed DS, ‘is what a real policeman looks like.’ He had to call for silence again and Logan sank back into his seat, feeling thrilled, delighted and horrified all at the same time. ‘We’ve found Richard Erskine.’ Insch pulled a manila folder from the desktop and pulled out an eight-by-six photograph of a red-haired boy with freckles and a gap-toothed smile. ‘But Peter Lumley is still missing. Chances are we’re not going to find him kipping at his grandma’s: the father can’t be arsed with the kid. But I want it checked out anyway.’

Insch took another picture from his folder. This one wasn’t so palatable: a blistered, swollen face, black and speckled with mould, the mouth open in a tortured scream. A post mortem photograph of David Reid.

‘This is what Peter Lumley is going to end up looking like if we don’t get him back soon. I want the search area widened. Three teams: Hazlehead golf course, riding stables, park. Every bush, every bunker, every pile of manure. I want them searched.’ He started rattling off names.

When Insch was finished and everyone had gone, Logan brought him up to date on the dead girl they’d found in a rubbish bag. It didn’t take long.

‘So what do you suggest?’ asked Insch, settling back on the desk and rummaging through his suit pockets for something sweet.

Logan did his best not to shrug. ‘We can’t put on a reconstruction. We’ve got no idea what she was wearing before she went into the bin-bag and they won’t let us re-enact dumping a body. Her picture’s gone into all the papers. We might get something out of that.’ The only good thing about Aberdeen being the ‘dead kiddie capital of Scotland’ right now was that the national tabloids and broadsheets were more than happy to parade the dead girl’s photo for their readers.

Insch located an old-looking Murray Mint and popped it in his mouth. ‘Keep on it. Someone out there must know who the poor wee sod is. Norman Chalmers had his fifteen minutes in court yesterday: remanded without bail. But the Fiscal’s no’ happy. We come up with something solid, or Chalmers walks.’

‘We’ll find something, sir.’

‘Good. The Chief Constable is worried about all these missing kids. It looks bad. Lothian and Borders have been on “offering their assistance”. Even sent us up a preliminary psychological profile.’ He held up four sheets of paper, stapled together, the crest of Lothian and Borders Police clearly visible on the covering page. ‘If we don’t watch out, Edinburgh are going to take over. And we’ll all end up looking like sheep-shagging, small-town halfwits.’

‘That’s nice,’ said Logan. ‘What’s the profile say?’

‘Same thing these bloody things always say.’ Insch flipped through the sheets. ‘Blah, blah, blah, “crime scene indicators”, blah, blah, “pathology of the victim”, blah, blah.’ He stopped, a wry smile on his face. ‘Here we go: “the offender is most likely a Caucasian male, in his early to late twenties, living alone or with his mother. He is most likely intelligent, but does not do well academically. As a result he will have a menial job that brings him into contact with children”.’

Logan nodded. It was the standard profile for just about everything.

‘You’ll like this bit,’ said Insch, putting on an academic voice: ‘“The offender has difficulty forming relationships with women, and may have a history of mental health problems. . .” Mental health problems! Talk about stating the bloody obvious!’ The smile vanished from his face. ‘Of course he’s got mental bloody health problems: he kills children!’ He crumpled up the profile and lobbed it, overhand, at the wastebasket by the door. It bounced off the wall and skittered across the blue carpet tiles, coming to rest under the second row of chairs. Insch snorted in disgust. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘it looks like DI McPherson’s not going to be back for another month at least. Thirty-seven stitches to keep his head together. Lovely. Nothing like some mad bastard with a kitchen knife to get a couple of weeks with your feet up in front of the telly.’ He sighed, not noticing the pained look on Logan’s face. ‘That means I’ve got his caseload to carry as well as my own. Four post office break-ins, three armed assaults, two violent rapes and a partridge in a bloody pear tree.’ He poked a friendly finger in Logan’s chest. ‘And that means I’m delegating the Bin-Bag Girl to you.’

‘But. . .’

Insch held up his hands. ‘Aye, I know it’s a big case, but I’ve got my hands full with David Reid and Peter Lumley. They might not be connected, but the last thing the Chief Constable wants is a paedophile serial killer running loose, picking up little boys whenever he feels the urge. Every other DI we’ve got is up to their ears, but you found Richard Erskine without adult supervision, and the media think the sun shines out of your arse. So this one’s yours.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Logan’s stomach had already started churning.

‘OK,’ said Insch, hopping down off the desk. ‘You get going on that. I’ll go see what kind of Muppets I’ve inherited from McPherson.’

Logan’s little office was waiting for him. Expectantly. As if it knew he was carrying the can now. There was a copy of the photo they’d released to the media sitting on his desk. The one they’d taken in the morgue, touched up so she didn’t look quite so dead. She must have been pretty when she was alive. A four-year-old girl with shoulder-length blonde hair that curled softly around her pale face. Button nose. Round face. Round cheeks. According to the report her eyes were blue-green, but in the photo her eyes were shut. No one liked looking into the eyes of dead children. He took the picture and fixed it on the wall next to his map.

So far the response to the media appeal had been negligible. No one seemed to know who the little girl was. That would probably change by this evening when her picture went out again on the television. Then there would be a flood of helpful people phoning up to give them a whole heap of useless information.

He spent the next two hours poring over the statements again. He’d read it all before, but Logan knew the answer was in here somewhere. Whoever dumped the body lived within spitting distance of that wheelie-bin.

At last he gave up on the cold mug of coffee he’d been nurturing for the last hour and stretched the knots out of his back. He was getting nowhere. And he still hadn’t spoken to anyone about the body in the harbour. Maybe it was time for a break?

DI Steel’s office was one floor up, blue scuffed carpet tiles and creaky-looking furniture. There was a sign on the wall with ‘NO SMOKING’ written in big red letters, but that didn’t deter the inspector. She sat at her desk, the window cracked slightly to let the curling cigarette smoke drift out into the blazing sunshine.

Detective Inspector Steel was Laurel to DI Insch’s Hardy. Where Insch was fat, she was thin. Where Insch was bald, Steel looked as if someone had sellotaped a Cairn terrier to her head. Rumour had it she was only forty-two, but she looked a lot older. Years of chain smoking had left her face looking like a holiday home for lines and wrinkles. She was wearing a trouser suit from Markies, in charcoal grey so it wouldn’t show the ash that fell constantly from the end of her fag. The burgundy blouse underneath it hadn’t fared so well.

It was hard to believe she was the biggest womanizer on the force.

There was a mobile phone rammed between her ear and her shoulder and she talked into it out of one side of her mouth so as not to disturb the cigarette sticking out of the other. ‘No. No. No. . .’ she said in a hard staccato. ‘You get this: I get hold of you, I will rip you a new arsehole. No . . . no, I don’t care who the fuck you have to screw around. You don’t come across with the goodies before Friday, you and I are going to fall out. . . Fucking right I will. . .’ She looked up, saw Logan standing there and waved him towards a tatty-looking chair. ‘Yes . . . yes, that’s better. I knew we could come to an understanding. Friday.’ DI Steel snapped her mobile shut and smiled evilly. ‘Fully fucking fitted kitchen, my arse. You give these people an inch they’ll piss all over you.’ She picked a packet of king-size up off her desk and shook it in Logan’s direction. ‘Fag?’

Logan declined and she smiled at him again.

‘No? Aye, you’re right: it’s a fucking filthy habit.’ She winkled a cigarette out of the pack and lit it from the one she was still smoking, before grinding the stub out on the windowsill. ‘So what can I do for you, Mr Police Hero?’ she asked, settling back in her chair, her head wreathed in fresh smoke.

‘Your floater: Mr No Kneecaps.’

Steel raised an eyebrow. ‘Listening.’

‘I think it’s George “Geordie” Stephenson. He was an enforcer for Malcolm McLennan—’

‘Malk the Knife? Fuck. I didn’t think he was doing business up here.’

‘Word has it Geordie was sent up to cut a deal with the planning department: three hundred houses on greenbelt. The planner said no and Geordie pushed him under a bus.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ She even went so far as to take the cigarette out of her mouth. ‘Someone from Planning turned down a bribe?’

Logan shrugged. ‘Anyway: it seems that Geordie had a liking for the horses. Only Lady Luck is not Geordie’s friend. And he was into some of the local bookies for some serious money.’

DI Steel settled back in her seat, picking at her teeth with a chipped fingernail. ‘I’m impressed,’ she said at last. ‘Where’d you hear this?’

‘Colin Miller. He’s a reporter on the P&J.’

She took a long draw on her fag, making the end glow hot orange. Smoke trickled down her nose as she examined Logan in silence. The room was shrinking, the walls obscured by curling layers of tobacco fog until only that glowing orange eye remained. ‘Inschy tells me you’re running the kid-in-the-bin-bag case now.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘He tells me you’re not a complete waste of skin.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’ But he wasn’t sure if that was really a compliment.

‘Don’t thank me. If you’re not a fuck-up, people notice. They give you things to do.’ She smiled at him through the smoke and Logan felt a small chill go down his spine. ‘Inschy and me: we’ve been talking about you.’

‘Oh?’ There was something unpleasant coming: he could feel it.

‘It’s your lucky day, Mr Police Hero. You’re going to get another chance to shine.’