Читать книгу Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin - Stuart MacBride - Страница 32

DI Insch walked Logan back to the main incident room, grumbling and swearing under his breath the whole way. He wasn’t happy. Logan knew the superintendent’s idea to butter Colin Miller up didn’t sit well with Insch’s view of the world. The reporter had the whole country calling him incompetent. Insch wanted revenge, not his DS off playing patty cake.

‘Honestly, I didn’t talk to Miller,’ said Logan.

‘No?’

‘No. I think that’s why he did it. The thing with the panto and now this. I wouldn’t give him anything without going through you. He didn’t like that.’

Insch didn’t say anything, just pulled out a packet of jelly babies and started biting their heads off. He didn’t offer the bag to Logan.

‘Look, sir. Can’t we just issue a statement? I mean: the body had been there for years. Letting him go after he was beaten up couldn’t change that.’

They’d reached the incident room door and Insch stopped. ‘That’s not the way it works, Sergeant. They’ve sunk their teeth into my arse; they won’t let go that easily. You heard the super: if this goes on much longer, I’m off the case. Lothian and Borders will be running the show.’

‘I didn’t mean for this to happen, sir.’

Something like a smile flickered onto Insch’s face. ‘I know you didn’t.’ He offered the open bag of jelly babies and Logan took a green one. It tasted like five pieces of silver. Insch sighed. ‘Don’t worry: I’ll have a word with the troops. Let them know you’re not a rat.’

But Logan still felt like one.

‘Listen up!’ said DI Insch, addressing the uniforms sitting at desks, answering phones, taking statements. They went quiet as soon as they saw him. ‘You’ve all seen my picture in the paper this morning. I let Roadkill go on Wednesday night, and the next day a girl’s body turns up in his collection of dead things. Turns out I’m an incompetent arse with a penchant for dressing up in funny clothes when I should be out fighting crime. And you’ll also have read that DS McRae told me not to let Roadkill go. But being an idiot I did it anyway.’

Angry murmurs started, all directed at Logan. Insch held up a hand and there was instant silence. But the glaring continued.

‘Now I know you think DS McRae’s a shitebag right now, but you can forget it. DS McRae did not go to the papers. Understood? If he tells me any of you have been giving him grief. . .’ Insch made a throat-cutting gesture. ‘Now get your arses back to work and tell the rest of the shift. This investigation will continue and we will get our man.’

Half past ten and the post mortem was well underway. It was a nasty, rancid affair and Logan stood as far from the dissecting table as he could. But it wasn’t far enough; even with the morgue’s extractor fan going full belt the smell was overpowering.

The body had burst when the IB tried to lift it out of the pile at the farm. They’d had to scrape what was left of the internal organs off the steading floor.

Everyone in the room was wearing protective gear: white paper boiler suits, plastic shoe-covers, latex gloves and breathing masks. Only this time Logan’s mask wasn’t full of menthol chest rub. Isobel paced slowly up and down the table, prodding the corpulent flesh with a double-gloved finger, making detailed and methodical notes into her dictaphone. The bit of rough – Brian – trailed along after her like some sort of demented puppy. Floppy-haired wanker. DI Insch was again conspicuous by his absence, having used Logan’s guilty conscience to get out of it, but the PF and the back-up pathologist were there. Keeping as far away from the rotting corpse as possible without being somewhere else.

It was impossible to tell if the child had been strangled like David Reid. The skin was too heavily rotted around the throat. And something had been nibbling away at the flesh. Not just little wriggly white things either, and God knew there were enough of those, but a rat or a fox or something. A cold sweat beaded Isobel’s forehead as her running commentary faltered. Carefully, she lifted the internal organs out of the plastic bag they’d been shovelled into, trying to identify what it was she held in her hands.

Logan was convinced he’d never get the smell out of his nostrils. Little David Reid had been bad, but this one was a hundred times worse.

‘Preliminary findings,’ said Isobel when it was finally over, scrubbing and scrubbing at her hands. ‘Four cracked ribs and signs of blunt trauma to the skull. Broken hip. One broken leg. She was five. Blonde. There’s a couple of fillings in her rear molars.’ More soap, more scrubbing. It looked as if Isobel was trying to get clean all the way down to the bone. Logan had never seen her so shaken up by work before. ‘I’d estimate the time of death between twelve and eighteen months ago. It’s hard to be sure with so much decomposition. . .’ She shivered. ‘I’ll need to run some laboratory tests on the tissue samples to be sure.’

Logan placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry.’ He wasn’t sure what for. That their relationship had fallen apart? That once Angus Robertson was put away, they had nothing in common? That she’d had to suffer what she suffered on that tower block rooftop? That he hadn’t got to her sooner. . . That she’d just had to carve up a badly decomposed child like a turkey?

She smiled sadly at him, but tears sparkled at the edges of her eyes. For a moment there was a connection between them. A shared moment of tenderness.

And then Brian, her assistant, ruined it all. ‘Excuse me, Doctor, you have a phone call on line three. I’ve put it through to the office.’

The moment was gone and so was Isobel.

Roadkill was undergoing psychiatric evaluation by the time Logan was heading across town to the steadings and their gruesome contents. He didn’t hold out any hopes of Bernard Duncan Philips being found fit to stand trial. Roadkill was a nutjob and everyone knew it. The fact he kept three farm buildings full of dead animals he’d scraped off the road was a bit of a giveaway. Not to mention the dead child. The smell was still clinging to him.

Logan wound the car’s windows down as far as he dared, wisps of snow flickering in to melt in the heat of the blowers. That post mortem was going to stay with him for a long, long time. Shuddering, he turned the heat up again.

The city was grinding to a halt in the heavy snowfall. Cars slithered and stalled all the way down South Anderson Drive, some up on the kerb, others just churning away in the middle of the four-lane road. At least his police-issue, rust-acned Vauxhall wasn’t having too much difficulty.

Up ahead he could see the yellow on-off flash of a gritter spraying salt and sand across two lanes. The cars behind were hanging back, trying to avoid getting their paintwork scratched.

‘Better late than never.’

‘Sorry, sir?’

The PC doing the driving wasn’t someone Logan had recognized straightaway. He would have preferred WPC Watson, but DI Insch wasn’t having any of it. He’d picked the new PC to accompany Logan because he was less likely to give Logan a hard time for the story in the morning paper. Besides, WPC Jackie Watson was in court again today with her changing-room wanker. Last time he was giving evidence against Gerald Cleaver, this time he was there to be tried. Not that it was going to take long. He’d been caught red-handed. Literally. Grimacing away in the ladies’ changing room, dick in hand, banging away for all he was worth. It’d be in, plead guilty, mitigating circumstances, community service order and out again in time for tea. Maybe she’d be more inclined to speak to him with a successful prosecution under her belt?

It took them twice as long as it should have done to get across the Drive and out to Roadkill’s farm on the outskirts of Cults. Visibility was so bad they couldn’t see more than fifty yards in front of the car. The snow took everything away.

A crowd of reporters and television cameras was huddled outside the entrance to Roadkill’s farm, shivering and sneezing in the snow. Two PCs, dressed up in the warmest gear they could get under their luminous yellow coats, guarded the gate, keeping the Press out. Snow had piled up on their peaked caps making them look slightly festive. The expression on their faces spoiled the image. They were cold, they were miserable and they were fed up with the army of journalists poking microphones in their faces. Asking them questions. Keeping them out of their nice warm patrol car.

The small lane was clogged with cars and vans. BBC, Sky News, ITN, CNN – they were all here, the television lights making the snow leap out in sharp contrast to the dark grey sky. Earnest pieces to camera stopped as soon as Logan’s car pulled into view; then they descended like piranhas. Logan, stuck at the centre of the feeding frenzy, did just what DI Insch had told him: kept his bloody mouth shut as microphones and cameras were pushed through the open windows.

‘Sergeant, is it true you’ve been given control of this case?’

‘DS McRae! Over here! Has Inspector Insch been suspended?’

‘Has Bernard Philips killed before?’

‘Did you know he was mentally unstable before the body was discovered?’

There was more, but it was lost in the cacophonous barrage of noise.

The PC drove gently through the crowd, all the way to the locked gate. Then came the voice Logan was waiting for: ‘Laz, ’bout time, man. I’m freezin’ ma nuts off out here!’ Colin Miller, rosy cheeks and red nose, dressed up in a thick black overcoat, thick padded boots, and furry hat. Very Russian.

‘Get in.’

The reporter clambered into the back seat, and another heavily wrapped-up man joined him.

Logan turned sharply, wincing as his stomach reminded him of the staples holding it together.

‘Laz, this is Jerry. He’s ma photographer.’

The photographer peeled a hand out of a thick snow glove and extended it for shaking.

Logan didn’t take it. ‘Sorry, Jerry, but this is a one-man-only deal. There will be official police photographs available for the story, but we can’t have unauthorized photos doing the rounds. You have to stay here.’

The reporter tried his friendliest smile. ‘Come on, Laz, Jerry’s a good lad. He’ll no’ take any gore shots, will you, Jerry?’

Jerry looked momentarily confused and Logan knew that was exactly what he’d been told to take.

‘Sorry. You and you only.’

‘Shite.’ Miller pulled off his furry cap, shaking the snow into the footwell of the back seat. ‘Sorry, Jerry. You go wait in the car. There’s some coffee in a thermos under the driver’s seat. Don’t eat all the gingersnaps.’

Swearing under his breath, the photographer clambered out of the car, into the crowd of journalists and the steadily falling snow.

‘Right,’ said Logan as they drove slowly through the blizzard. ‘Let’s make sure we’re clear on the rules here: we get editorial rights over any story. We supply the photographs. If there’s something we don’t want you to print because it jeopardizes the investigation, you don’t print it.’

‘An’ I get full exclusive rights. You don’t do this for anyone else.’ Miller’s smile was positively obscene.

Logan nodded. ‘And if you say one bad word about DI Insch I will personally kill you.’

Miller laughed, holding up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Whoa there, Tiger. No taking the piss out the Pantomime Dame. It’s a deal.’

‘The constables on duty have been told to answer your questions. As long as they’re appropriate.’

‘Is that fit-looking WPC of yours going to be here?’

‘No.’

Miller shook his head sadly. ‘Shame. I had an inappropriate question for her.’

They started by getting into full biohazard boiler suits, complete with gas masks. Then Logan began the tour. Steading number one: empty but for the residue of slime and ooze. Steading number two was where Miller got the first real lungful of the stench. He went surprisingly quiet as they stepped in amongst the decaying, furry corpses.

The scale of the pile was truly staggering. Even with half the dead animals removed to the waste containers outside, there were still hundreds of them in here. Badgers, dogs, cats, rabbits, seagulls, crows, pigeons, the occasional deer. If it had died on Aberdeen’s roads, it was here. Decaying slowly.

A hole in the pile was cordoned off. This was where they’d found the little girl.

‘Christ, Laz,’ said Miller, his voice muffled by the breathing mask. ‘This is fuckin’ grim!’

‘Tell me about it.’

They found the search team in steading number three. They were dressed in the same blue protective suits, working their way through the mound of decaying carcases by hand.

Corpse by corpse they picked them up, placed them on a table for examination and then piled them for disposal in the waste containers.

‘Why this one?’ asked Miller. ‘How come they’re not emptying the one where the girl was?’

‘Philips kept the steadings sequentially numbered.’ Logan pointed out through the door. ‘One through five. Six is the farmhouse. His plan must’ve been to fill them all. One by one.’

A pair of constables pulled a mangy-looking spaniel/labrador cross from the pile and carried it between them to the table.

‘This is the building he was in the middle of filling. If he took Peter Lumley, this is where he’ll be.’

Logan could see Miller frowning behind his safety goggles. ‘If you’re looking for another kid, how come you’re doing it like this? Why examine all the things one by one? Why no’ just turf the shite out till you find him?’

‘Because we might not be looking for all of him. There’s still a bit of David Reid missing.’

Miller looked at the pile of dead things and the police men and women going through the lot by hand. ‘Jesus. You’re looking for his dick? In this? Fuck me, but you bastards deserve a medal! Or your heads examined.’ Another rabbit was added to the table, given a brief inspection, and then thrown in the pile for disposal. ‘Fuck. . .’

Outside, snow was slowly consuming the waste containers. A thick coating lay on top, drifts climbed the sides. Logan had a nasty thought as he watched a shovelful of examined remains being stuffed into one of the containers.

It wasn’t easy running in Wellington boots and heavy snow, but Logan managed to get there just as the last seagull was tipped in. ‘Hold it,’ he said, grabbing the man with the shovel. No not a man, a woman. It was difficult to tell in the shapeless protective gear.

‘Where did you put the original contents?’

She looked at him as if he were mad, snow swirling down all around them. ‘What?’

‘The original contents: the council were filling these things. Where did you put the bodies they’d already put in there? Have you gone through them already?’

A look of unhappy comprehension appeared on the WPC’s face. ‘Shit!’ She threw her shovel down into the snow. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ Three deep breaths and then, ‘Sorry, sir. We’ve been at this all day. We’ve just been throwing the bodies in. No one thought about checking the stuff already in there.’ Her shoulders slumped and Logan knew how she felt.

‘Come on. We’ll empty this thing into steading number one and check the contents as we go. One group keeps going where they are, the other goes through this lot.’ Fun, fun, fun. ‘I’ll break the good news to the team.’ Why not? he thought to himself, they already hate me. Might as well give them good reason for it.

The news went down every bit as badly as Logan had anticipated. The only thing that made them feel any better was that he was prepared to pitch in and help. At least for a while.

And that was how Logan spent his afternoon. Miller, bless his cotton socks, swallowed his pride and picked up a shovel. The spaniel/labrador was near the top of the pile this time. Last in, first out. But slowly they worked their way through the contents of the waste container.

Logan was sure he’d examined the same burst-open rabbit about thirty times when the screaming started.

Someone came running out of steading number three clutching his hand to his chest. He slipped on the snow and went flat on his back. The screaming stopped for a moment as all the wind was knocked out of him.

The team abandoned their carcases and charged towards the fallen figure. Logan got there just as the screaming started up again.

Blood was oozing out of the constable’s thick rubber glove through a neat puncture mark in the palm. The victim tore off his mask and goggles. It was PC Steve. Ignoring the calls to calm down, he carried on screaming as he dragged the bloody glove off his injured hand. There was a ragged hole in it: right in the meaty bit between his thumb and forefinger. It pulsed dark-red blood, running down the blue plastic boiler suit and into the snow.

‘What did you do?’

PC Steve went on screaming so someone slapped him one. Logan couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the Bastard Simon Rennie.

‘Steve!’ Rennie said, preparing to haul off and smack him again, ‘What happened?’

PC Steve’s eyes were wild, darting between the steading and his bleeding hand. ‘Rat!’

Someone dragged their belt out from underneath their boiler suit and wrapped it around Steve’s wrist, pulling hard.

‘Jesus, Steve,’ said the Bastard Simon Rennie, peering at the hole in his friend’s hand. ‘That must’ve been one big rat!’

‘Fucking thing was like a Rottweiler! Ah, bastard that hurts!’

They stuffed a plastic bag with snow and stuck Steve’s bleeding hand into it, trying not to notice as the snow inside slowly turned from white to pink and then to red. Logan wrapped the whole lot in a spare boiler suit and told PC Rennie to take him to the hospital, lights and music all the way.

Miller and Logan stood side by side as the lights flickered into life on top of the patrol car. It did a messy three point turn on the slippery road before creeping off into the blizzard, siren blazing.

‘So,’ said Logan as the flashing lights were swallowed by the snow. ‘How are you enjoying your first day on the Force?’