Читать книгу Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin - Stuart MacBride - Страница 34

One drink turned into two. Two turned into three. Three turned into a curry and four more. By the time Logan said goodnight to DI Insch and WPC Watson, all was right with the world again. OK, with the inspector there he and Jackie couldn’t get up to anything, but Logan got the feeling they might have. If Insch hadn’t been there.

None of which mattered at four-thirty in the morning when he staggered out of bed to drink his own bodyweight in water before falling queasily back to sleep.

Lorna Henderson’s post mortem report was sitting on DI Insch’s desk when Logan got in to work. Seven o’clock on the dot, even if it was a Saturday morning. The inspector was already there, sitting behind his desk looking slightly more pink than usual.

Lorna Henderson had died from blunt trauma. The cracked ribs would have crushed her left lung, the impact to the left temple shattering her skull, the one to the back of her head finishing off the job. The leg break was jagged, just above the knee. A four-year-old girl, beaten to death. Roadkill had really gone to town.

‘You think we’re going to get anything out of him?’ asked Logan, turning the pathology photographs face down so that he wouldn’t have to look at them any more.

Insch snorted. ‘Doubt it. Doesn’t matter though. We’ve got so much forensic evidence there’s no way he’s going to beat this one. Not even Slippery Sandy can get him off. Mr Philips is going to spend the rest of his life in Peterhead Prison with all the other sick bastards.’ He pulled a packet of sherbet fruits from his pocket and offered them round the incident room. That done he settled down to working his way through the remainder. ‘You taking Miller back up to the farm today?’ The reporter’s name came out as if Insch was describing a foul smell.

‘No,’ Logan grinned. ‘For some reason he’s not too keen. Can’t think why.’

Friday’s little expedition had been quite enough for the reporter. Today’s Press and Journal had nothing but nice words for the police. It was much the same as the Evening Express story, only with more editorializing. At least DI Insch was out of the spotlight.

‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘How’s your floater going?’

‘Getting there.’

‘DI Steel tells me you’re keen on the McLeod brothers?’

Logan nodded. ‘It’s their kind of gig. Hands on. Brutal.’

Insch almost smiled. ‘Take after their dad, that pair. Going to get them for it?’

Logan tried not to shrug, but he knew it wasn’t a foregone conclusion. ‘Doing my damnedest. I’ve got Forensics crawling all over the clothes they found the body in. Might get something out of it. If not, maybe one of their punters will cough. . .’ He stopped, remembering Duncan Nicholson running into the shop, out of the rain.

Insch popped something green and fizzy into his mouth. ‘Not likely. Can you imagine anyone stupid enough to rat on the McLeod brothers? They’d tear him apart.’

‘What?’ Logan was dragged back from Nicholson: that plastic bag. ‘Oh, yeah. Probably. Simon McLeod said the whole thing was a warning. A message. That everyone in the city knew what it meant.’

‘Everyone in the city, eh?’ Insch crunched as he chewed. ‘How come I’ve no’ heard anything about it then?’

‘No idea. I’m hoping Miller can shed some light on that one.’

Twelve o’clock and Logan was sitting down to a big plate of steak-and-ale pie, chips and beans. The Prince of Wales was an old-fashioned place: all wood panelling and real ale, the low ceiling yellowed by generations of cigarette smokers. It was busy, full of men press-ganged into Saturday morning shopping by their wives and girlfriends. This was their reward: a pint of cold beer and a packet of prawn cocktail crisps.

The pub was made up of little rooms stitched together by short corridors. Logan and Miller sat in one at the front, next to the window. Not that the view was up to much, just the other side of a tall alley, the granite grey and dull and wet from the freezing-cold rain.

‘So,’ said Miller spearing a mangetout. ‘Have you got the bastard tae confess yet?’

Logan munched his way through a mouthful of beef and crispy pastry, wishing he’d gone for a pint of beer to wash it down and take the final edge off his hangover. But drinking on duty was tantamount to raping sheep in the Chief Constable’s eyes, so Logan was stuck with a pint of fresh orange and lemonade. ‘We’re pursuing our enquiries.’ The words came out muffled.

‘Nail his bloody arse to the wall. Sick wee shite that he is.’ Miller wasn’t on duty, so he could drink. Only he didn’t have a nice pint of Dark Island, but a large glass of chilled Sémillon Chardonnay with his salmon en croûte.

Logan watched the reporter take a delicate sip at his wine and smiled. Miller was a weird fish and to be honest, Logan was starting to like him. Even if he had come within a whisker of getting DI Insch fired. The clothes and the wine and the croissants and the chunky gold jewellery just added to the pantomime.

Logan waited until the reporter had a mouthful of salmon before asking, ‘What about George Stephenson then?’

‘Mmmph. . .’ Small flakes of pastry fell down the front of Miller’s delicate ivory shirt. ‘What about him?’

‘You said you still had information. Stuff I didn’t know?’

Miller smiled, letting even more pastry fall free. ‘How ’bout the last place he was seen alive?’

Logan took a guess: ‘Turf ’n Track?’

Miller’s smile became impressed. ‘Aye: spot on. Turf ’n Track.’

Logan knew it would be. Now all they had to do was prove it. ‘One of the McLeod brothers told me, “everyone knows you don’t do what Geordie did”, that it was a warning. Want to fill me in?’

Miller played with his wine glass, letting the light filter through it onto the wooden tabletop, making a little golden spotlight that danced across the grain.

‘You know he was into the local bookies for a fair chunk of money?’

‘You said that. How much?’

‘Two hundred and fifty thousand, six hundred and forty-two pounds.’

It was Logan’s turn to be impressed. That was a hell of a lot of money. ‘So how come they killed him? Why not just cripple him a little? He can’t pay up if he’s dead. Not to mention they’re killing off one of Malk the Knife’s boys. I hear Malkie doesn’t take kindly to that kind of thing.’

‘Aye, risky. If you do in one of Malkie’s boys without his permission he’s going tae come down on you like a ton of shite.’

Logan’s heart sank: the last thing Aberdeen needed was a spate of tit-for-tat killings. Gang warfare in the Granite City. Wouldn’t that be fun? ‘So why did they kill him then?’

Miller sighed and put his knife down. ‘They kilt him because everyone knows that you don’t do what he did.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘It means. . .’ Miller looked around the little room. A small corridor led off towards where they’d picked up lunch and another, out of sight in the opposite corner, led back through into the bar. Everyone else was chatting away, eating, drinking, enjoying being out of the horrible weather. No one was paying them the slightest bit of attention.

‘Listen, you know who Geordie worked for. You don’t piss him off twice, OK? Maybe you can get away with it once, but you do it twice and you’re no’ in for a good time, know what I mean?’

‘We’ve been over that!’

‘Aye, we have.’

Miller was looking increasingly uncomfortable. ‘You know how come I ended up in sunny Aberdeen?’ He waved his fork at the dreich weather on the other side of the window. ‘How come I gave up a post on the Sun tae come to this shite-hole?’ But he dropped his voice, so no one would hear him call Aberdeen a shite-hole. ‘Drugs. Drugs and whores.’

Logan raised an eyebrow.

Miller scowled. ‘No’ me, you dirty bastard. I was doin’ a story about all this crack comin’ intae Glasgow from Edinburgh. They wis smugglin’ it over from Eastern Europe inside prossies. You know: the old plastic-bag-up-the-fanny routine. Do it when they’re on the blob and the sniffer dogs don’t smell it. An’ even if they do smell somethin’ everyone’s too fuckin’ embarrassed to say anything.’ He took another sip of his wine. ‘And you’d be surprised how much crack cocaine you can stuff up a Lithuanian tart’s minge. Fuckin’ heaps of the stuff.’

‘What’s this got to do with Geordie?’

‘I’m comin’ to that. So anyways, I’m doin’ my Clark Kent routine: diggin’ up the dirt, really fuckin’ great stories. I mean I’m gettin’ nominated for awards left right and centre. Investigative Journalist of the Year, book deals, the whole works. Only I find out who’s runnin’ the scam, don’t I? I come up with a name. The big man in charge of flyin’ all these tarts, packed full of drugs, into the country.’

‘Let me guess: Malcolm McLennan.’

‘These two great big fuckers grabbed me on Sauchiehall Street. In broad daylight, but! Bundles me into a big black car. I am politely requested to drop the story like a radioactive tattie. If I’m fond of my fingers. And my legs.’

‘And did you?’

‘Course I fuckin’ did!’ Miller emptied half his wine glass in a single gulp. ‘No bastard’s hackin’ off my fingers with a butcher’s knife.’ He shivered. ‘Malk the Knife put the word about and next thing I know I’m out of a job. No paper in the central belt’d touch me with a bargepole.’ He sighed. ‘So here I am. Don’t get me wrong: it’s no’ that bad a place to wind up. Good job, lots of front page inches, nice car, flat, met a nice woman. . . Money’s no’ what I’m used to, but still. . . An’ I’m still alive.’

Logan settled back in his seat and examined the man sitting opposite him: the tailored suit, the gold baubles, the silk tie, even on a pissing-down Saturday in Aberdeen.

‘So that’s why I’ve not seen anything in the papers about Geordie’s body turning up in the harbour with no knees? You’re scared to publish anything in case Malk the Knife finds out about it?’

‘I go putting his business on the front page again and it’s goodbye to all ten little piggies.’ The reporter waved his fingers at Logan, the rings sparkling in the pub’s overhead lights. ‘No, I’m keepin’ my mouth shut on this one.’

‘Then why are you talking to me?’

Miller shrugged. ‘Just ‘cos I’m a journalist, it don’t mean I’m an amoral, parasitic wanker. I mean it’s no’ like I’m a lawyer or anything. I got a social conscience. I’m givin’ you information so you can catch the killer. I’m keepin’ my head down so it doesn’t cost me my fingers. Come time for court you’re on your own: I’m off to the Dordogne. Two weeks of French wine and haute cuisine. I’m no’ tellin’ any bugger anythin’.’

‘You know who did it, don’t you?’

The reporter finished off his wine and smiled lopsidedly. ‘No. But if I find out you’ll be the first to know. No’ that I’m lookin’ any longer. Got safer fish to fry.’

‘Like what?’

But Miller just smiled. ‘You’ll read about it soon enough. Anyway, gotta dash.’ He stood and shrugged his way into his thick black overcoat. ‘I’ve got a meetin’ with this bloke from the Telegraph. Lookin’ for a four-page spread in tomorrow’s Sunday supplement. “In Search Of The Dead: Catching The Aberdeen Child-Killer.” Very classy.’

Danestone had started out as farmland, like most of the outer regions of Aberdeen, but it had held out against the developers longer than the rest. So, by the time its green fields fell beneath the bulldozer, the mantra was build ’em quick and build ’em close together. The traditional grey granite blocks and gunmetal roof slates were nowhere to be seen: here it was all oatmeal harling and pantiles, winding cul-de-sacs and dead-end roads. Just like every other anonymous suburb.

But unlike the middle of Aberdeen, where the tenements and tall granite buildings cut the daylight down by an hour, the sun shone in abundance, the whole development sitting on a south-facing hill along the banks of the River Don. The only drawback was the proximity of the chicken factory, paper mills and sewage treatment plant. But you couldn’t have everything. As long as the wind didn’t blow from the west you were fine.

The wind wasn’t blowing from the west today. It was howling in from the east, straight off the North Sea, and full of icy horizontal rain.

Shivering, Logan wound the car window back up again. He’d parked a little down the road from a compact two-up two-down, the small garden looking half-dead in the battering rain. They’d been there for an hour, him and a bald DC in a parka jacket and there was still no sign of their target.

‘So where is he then?’ asked the DC, wriggling deeper into his insulated coat. All he’d done since they’d left the station was bitch about the weather. About the fact they were working on a Saturday. That it was raining. That it was cold. That he was hungry. That the rain was making his bladder twitchy.

Logan tried not to sigh. If Nicholson didn’t turn up soon there was going to be another murder in the papers tomorrow. ‘WHINGING POLICE BASTARD THROTTLED WITH OWN GENITALS IN PARKED CAR!’ He was just deciding whether it should be an OBE or a knighthood he’d get for killing the moaning wee sod when a familiar, battered, rust-encrusted, green Volvo growled its way past. The driver mounted the kerb in his enthusiasm to park, before scrambling about in the back seat of the car for something.

‘Show time.’ Logan opened his door and hurried out into the freezing rain. Grumbling, the DC followed.

They got to the Volvo just as Nicholson clambered out, clutching a pair of plastic bags. His face went white when he saw Logan.

‘Afternoon, Mr Nicholson.’ Logan forced a smile, even though there was icy water streaming down his neck, soaking into his shirt collar. ‘Mind if we look in the bags?’

‘Bags?’ The rain glittered on Duncan Nicholson’s shaven head, running off him like nervous sweat. He shoved the bags behind his back. ‘What bags?’

The unhappy DC stepped forward and growled from within his parka’s fur-lined hood. ‘I’ll give you what fucking bags!’

‘Oh these!’ They were produced again. ‘Shopping. Been to Tesco, haven’t I? Something for lunch. Now if you’ll excuse me—’

Logan didn’t move. ‘They’re Asda carrier bags, Mr Nicholson. Not Tesco’s.’

Nicholson looked from Logan to the grumpy DC. ‘I . . . I . . . er . . . recycling. I recycle my plastic bags. Gotta do our bit for the environment.’

The DC took another step. ‘I’ll fucking do for your environment—’

‘That’s enough, Constable,’ said Logan. ‘I’m sure Mr Nicholson is as keen as we are to get out of the rain. Shall we go inside, Mr Nicholson? Mind, it’s nice and dry down at the station. We could give you a lift.’

Two minutes later they were sitting in a small green kitchen, listening to the kettle boil. It was a nice enough house on the inside, if you didn’t mind concussing your cat. The walls were covered with patterned wallpaper, borders and friezes, expensive olive carpeting, big, framed, mass-produced oil paintings. Not a book in sight.

‘What a lovely home you have,’ said Logan, looking at Nicholson. Shaved head, tattoos and enough metalwork in his ears to set off every metal detector from here to Dundee. ‘Decorate it yourself, did you?’

Nicholson mumbled something about his wife being keen on those makeover shows. Everything was co-ordinated: kettle, toaster, blender, tiles and oven. All of it green. Even the linoleum was green. It was like sitting inside a huge bogey.

The two carrier bags were sitting on the tabletop.

‘Shall we take a look inside then, Mr Nicholson?’ Logan pulled one of them open and was surprised to see a packet of bacon and a tin of beans staring back at him. The other one had crisps and chocolate biscuits. Frowning, he tipped them out onto the table. Chocolate and crisps, beans and bacon. . . And right at the very bottom a pair of thick manila envelopes. Logan’s frown turned into a smile.

‘What have we here?’

‘Never seen them before in my life!’

It wasn’t rain dripping down Nicholson’s face now: it really was nervous sweat.

Logan snapped on a pair of latex gloves and picked up one of the envelopes. It stank of cigarette smoke. ‘Anything you’d like to say before I open these?’

‘I just carry them. I don’t know what’s in them. . . They’re not mine!’

Logan tipped the contents out onto the table. Photographs. Women hanging out the washing; women getting ready for bed. But mostly it was children. At school. Playing in the garden. One in the back seat of a car, looking scared. Whatever Logan had been expecting, it wasn’t this. Each of the pictures had a different name written on the back. No address, just a name. ‘What the hell is this?’

‘I told you: I don’t know nothing about what’s in them!’ His voice was getting higher, panicky. ‘I just carry them.’

The grumpy DC grabbed hold of Duncan Nicholson’s shoulders, shoving him back into his seat with a crash.

‘You filthy wee shite!’ He grabbed a photo of a small boy, sitting in a sandpit with a stuffed rabbit. ‘Was this how you found him? Is it? Did you photograph David Reid? Decide you wanted him? You filthy fuck!’

‘It isn’t like that! It’s nothing like that!’

‘Mr Duncan Nicholson, I’m detaining you on suspicion of murder.’ Logan stood, looking down at the spread of children’s faces, feeling sick. ‘Read him his rights, Constable.’

There wasn’t really room in the small house for four IB technicians, the video operator, photographer, Logan, the grumpy DC and two uniformed officers, but they squeezed in anyway. No one wanted to wait outside in the driving rain.

The contents of the two envelopes were now all bagged and tagged. Envelope number two wasn’t full of pictures; it was full of money and little pieces of jewellery.

Upstairs there was a cupboard, opposite the bathroom. Three foot long, four foot wide, just big enough to hold a computer, fancy-looking colour printer, and a barstool. And a bolt that only fastened from the inside.

There were shelves of CDs on the wall, the kind you burn at home, all labelled and dated, and boxes of high-quality, glossy printouts under the bench the computer sat on. Women and children; mostly children. They found a top-of-the-range digital camera in the bedroom.

There was a rattling sound from downstairs and everyone suddenly went quiet.

Creak. And the front door opened.

‘Dunky? Can you give me a. . . Who the hell are you?’

Logan poked his head down the stairs to see a heavily pregnant woman dressed in a black leather coat and carrying a stack of shopping bags staring in disbelief at the crowd of policemen filling her house.

‘Where’s Duncan? What have you bastards done with my husband?’