Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin (Logan McRae)

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Hello?’ said Logan, when his hearing had returned. ‘Is this Ewan?’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Logan McRae of Grampian Police. Are you Darren Caldwell’s employer?’

  The voice on the other end of the phone became instantly suspicious. ‘What if I am? What’s he done?’

  ‘Can you tell me where Mr Caldwell was between the hours of nine and eleven yesterday morning?’

  Darren sat back on the settee smiling his smug smile and Logan got that sinking feeling again.

  ‘Helping me rewire a Volvo. Why?’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  There was a small pause and then: ‘Course I’m bloody sure. I was there. If he was somewhere else I’d’ve bloody noticed. Now what’s this all about?’

  It took another five minutes to get rid of him.

  Logan put the phone down and tried to hide the disappointment in his voice. ‘It seems we owe you an apology, Mr Caldwell,’

  ‘Fucking right you do!’ Darren stood up and pointed at the front door. ‘Now why don’t you get off your lazy arses and go look for my son?’

  He was good enough to slam the door behind them.

  They trailed off through the drizzle to the rusty Vauxhall Logan had signed for. All this way for nothing. And now he had no good news to give DI Insch. He just had to hope the performance had gone well tonight. Perhaps the inspector would be in a good mood and not to take a bite out of his backside.

  The PC behind the wheel turned the engine over, the car windows rapidly steaming up. He cranked up the blowers, but it made little difference. Instead he pulled off his clip-on tie and tried to wipe the worst of the fog away. It just moved the fuzzy moisture around.

  With a sigh they settled back to wait for the small patches of clear glass to creep up the windscreen.

  ‘You think his alibi’s for real?’ asked the WPC in the back.

  Logan shrugged.

  ‘The garage is open twenty-four hours: we’ll check it out on the way back into town.’ But Logan already knew the alibi would hold. Darren Caldwell couldn’t have snatched his son while the five-year-old went to the shops for milk and chocolate biscuits.

  But he’d been so sure!

  Eventually the blowers made enough of a dent in the fog to see out. The PC clicked on the headlights and pulled away from the kerb. They made a three point turn in the cul-de-sac and went back the way they’d come. Logan watched Darren’s house slide past the passenger window. He’d been so sure.

  As they drove through Portlethen, heading for the dual carriageway back to Aberdeen, Logan saw the lights of the big DIY stores and supermarket twinkling up ahead. The supermarket would have alcohol. And right now Logan thought that going home with a bottle of wine was a very good idea. He asked the PC driving to make a short detour.

  While the others waited in the car Logan slumped round the shelves, piling crisps and pickled onions into his basket. They’d gone out expecting to find the missing kid alive and well, returning to Force Headquarters as heroes. Instead they were going back empty handed with Logan looking like an idiot.

  He threw a bottle of Shiraz in on top of the crisps, cursing as he realized he’d crushed half of them. Looking sheepish he sneaked back to the snack aisle and swapped the salt-and-vinegar-flavoured crumbs for a fresh packet.

  Imagine Darren Caldwell living in that little house, not allowed to see his son, still driving around Torry trying to catch a glimpse of him. Poor sod. Logan had never had children. There had been a sticky moment when a girlfriend was two weeks late, but thankfully nothing ever came of it. He could only imagine what it must be like to have a son and be completely excluded from his life.

  There were only two checkouts open, one manned by a girl with more spots than skin, the other by an old man with a gnarled face and shaky hands. Neither of them seemed capable of working at much beyond a slow crawl.

  The woman in front of him in the queue had bought about every kind of ready-meal imaginable: curry and chips, pizza and chips, chicken chow mein and chips, burgers and chips, lasagne and chips. . . There wasn’t a single piece of fruit or vegetable in her trolley, but there were six two-litre bottles of Diet Coke and a chocolate gateau. So that was all right.

  Logan let his attention wander while the ancient man fumbled with the barcode scanner and the pre-packaged dinners. All the little shops – the shoe repair place, the photo-lab, the dry cleaners and the one selling grotesque glass clowns and porcelain figurines – were in darkness, the shutters down. Anyone having a last-minute, life-or-death need for an ornamental Scottie dog playing the bagpipes would just have to come back tomorrow.

  He shuffled forward a step as the woman started packing her mound of microwave meals into plastic bags.

  A children’s television theme blared out from somewhere near the exit and Logan looked up to see an old woman hovering over one of the children’s rides – a blue plastic railway engine rocking serenely back and forth making ‘chuff-chuff’ noises. He watched the old woman smiling and bobbing in time with Thomas the Tank Engine until the theme tune ended and the railway engine ground to a halt. Granny opened her handbag, pulled out her purse and rummaged unsuccessfully inside for enough change to make the ride start up again. A sad-looking little girl emerged from Thomas’s innards. She took Granny’s hand and walked slowly out the door, all the time looking regretfully back at the engine’s grinning face.

  ‘. . . to pack?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Logan dragged his attention back to the man working the checkout.

  ‘Ah says, do yous want a hand to pack?’ He held up Logan’s packet of crisps. ‘Yer shopping, do yous want a hand to pack?’

  ‘Oh, no. No thanks.’

  Logan stuffed the wine, crisps and pickles into a plastic bag and headed back out to the car. He probably should have bought a few beers for the cold, damp and disappointed constables he’d dragged all the way out here, but it was too late now.

  There was a sound of laughter and Logan turned to see the little girl from the supermarket jumping up and down in a puddle while Granny laughed and clapped.

  He stood and stared at the scene, a frown creeping onto his face.

  If Richard Erskine’s dad wasn’t allowed to see him, chances were his grandparents weren’t either. Everybody loses. . .

  The main bedroom hadn’t looked much like the sort of place a twenty-two-year-old man slept in. That crocheted throw and all those jars of moisturiser. The half-naked woman and the computer, that was more like it.

  He jumped back in the car, slinging the shopping at his feet.

  ‘How do you fancy paying Mr Caldwell another visit?’ he asked with a smile.

  The dark red hatchback was still on the drive, but now there was a light blue Volvo estate sitting in front of the house, two wheels up on the kerb. That made Logan’s smile widen.

  ‘Pull up in the same place as last time,’ he told the driver. ‘You two around the back, we’ll take the front.’

  Logan gave them a minute to get in position and then strode up the front path and mashed the doorbell with his thumb.

  Darren Caldwell opened the door. His face went from annoyance to panic and then to flustered anger, all in the space of a heartbeat.

  ‘Hello, Darren,’ said Logan, sticking his foot in the door so it couldn’t be slammed in his face. ‘Mind if we come in again?’

  ‘What the fuck do you want now?’

  ‘Darren?’ It was a woman’s voice, high and slightly wobbly. ‘Darren there’s policemen in the back garden!’

  Darren’s eyes darted to the open kitchen door and then back to Logan.

  ‘Darren!’ came the woman’s voice again. ‘What we going to do?’

  The young man’s shoulders sagged. ‘It’s OK, Mum,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you put the kettle on?’ He stood back and let Logan and the WPC in.

  There was a pile of shopping bags in the middle of the lounge floor
. Logan opened one and found brand new clothes for a small child inside.

  A woman in her late forties emerged from the kitchen clutching a tea towel to her chest, working it through her fingers like a set of rosary beads. ‘Darren?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s OK, Mum. It’s too late.’ He slumped down on the horrible green settee. ‘You’re going to take him away aren’t you?’

  Logan motioned for the WPC to block the lounge door.

  ‘Where is he?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s not fair!’ Darren’s mother shook the tea towel in Logan’s face. It had little dancing sheep on it. ‘Why can’t I see my grandson? Why can’t he stay with his father?’

  ‘Mrs Caldwell—’ Logan started, but she hadn’t finished yet.

  ‘That rotten little cow took him away and won’t let us see him! He’s my grandson and I’m not allowed to see him! What kind of mother does that? What kind of mother doesn’t let a child see his own father? She doesn’t deserve to have him!’

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Logan.

  ‘Don’t you tell him anything, Darren!’

  Darren pointed towards the smaller of the two bedrooms, just visible over the WPC’s shoulder. ‘He’s just gone to sleep,’ he said so quietly Logan could barely hear him.

  The WPC jerked her head in the direction of the bedroom and Logan nodded. She returned with a sleepy-looking little boy in blue and yellow tartan pyjamas. He yawned and stared blearily at all the people in the living room.

  ‘Come on, Richard,’ said Logan. ‘It’s time to go home.’

  15

  A patrol car sat outside the front door of Darren Caldwell’s house, the lights off, the engine slowly ticking over. Inside, one of Logan’s commandeered PCs was reading the young man his rights while his mother collapsed in tears on the lime-green sofa. And little Richard Erskine was fast asleep.

  Sighing, Logan stepped out into the misty drizzle. It was getting stuffy in there and he was beginning to feel sorry for Darren. He was little more than a kid. All he’d wanted to do was see his son. Maybe have him to stay for a bit. Watch him growing up. Instead he was going to end up with a criminal record, and probably a restraining order too.

  Logan’s breath curled away in wisps of white fog. It was getting colder. He hadn’t decided what to do about the owner of the Broadstane Garage. Supplying a false alibi: perverting the course of justice. Not that it mattered now they had the kid. Alibi or not, Darren had been caught red-handed.

  Still, perverting the course of justice was a serious offence. . .

  He stuck his hands deep in his pockets and stared out at the street. Silent houses, drawn curtains, the occasional twitch as some nosy neighbour tried to figure out what the police were doing at the Caldwell household.

  Warning, or press charges?

  He shivered and turned to go back into the house, his eyes sliding over the small garden with its border of dying roses to the pale blue Volvo. He pulled out his mobile phone and dialled Broadstane Garage’s number from memory.

  Five minutes later he was standing in the small kitchen with Darren Caldwell, the other officers dispatched to the lounge with a cup of tea and puzzled expressions. Darren slumped against the sink, shoulders hunched, staring through his reflection into the dark garden. ‘I’m going to go to prison, aren’t I?’ The question little more than a whisper.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to change your statement, Darren?’

  The face in the darkened glass bit its lip and shook its head. ‘No. No, I did it.’ He wiped a sleeve over his eyes and sniffed again. ‘I took him.’

  Logan settled back against the worktop.

  ‘No you didn’t.’

  ‘I did!’

  ‘You were at work. The Volvo you were re-wiring was your mother’s. I called the garage back and checked the registration number. You lent her your car. She was the one who grabbed Richard Erskine. Not you.’

  ‘It was me! I told you it was me!’

  Logan didn’t reply, letting the silence grow. In the lounge someone turned on the television: muffled voices and canned laughter.

  ‘You sure you want to do this, Darren?’

  Darren was.

  They drove back to Force Headquarters in silence, Darren Caldwell staring out of the window at the shining streets. Logan handed him over to the custody sergeant, watching as the contents of Darren’s pockets were stacked in a little blue tray, all signed and accounted for, along with his belt and shoelaces. Nervous sweat sparkled on his face, and his eyes were pink and watery. Logan tried not to feel guilty.

  The building was quiet as he made his way up to the main reception area. Big Gary was on the front desk, a phone to his ear and a gleeful expression on his face. ‘No, sir, no. . . aye. I’m sure that must have been a terrible shock. . . All over the front of your trousers. . . Yes, yes I’m taking this all down. . .’ No he wasn’t: he was drawing a picture of a man in a suit being squashed by a smiling man in a police car. The man doing the squashing looked like Big Gary and the squashee bore a striking resemblance to everyone’s favourite lawyer.

  A grin broke over Logan’s face. Settling on the edge of the desk, he lugged into Big Gary’s end of the conversation.

  ‘Oh, yes. I agree. Dreadful, dreadful. . . No, I don’t think so, sir.’ He scrawled the words ‘POMPOUS WEE SHITEBAG’ across the notepad and then punctuated it with lots of little arrows pointing at the squashed figure.

  ‘Yes, sir, I’ll make sure all the area cars are looking for the perpetrator. It’ll be our top priority.’ He slipped the phone back in its cradle before finishing with, ‘Soon as the Lord Provost walks in here and starts giving out free blowjobs.’

  Logan picked the doodle-covered pad off the table and examined the happy tableau. ‘Didn’t know you had an artistic bent, Gary.’

  Gary grinned. ‘Slippery Sandy: someone threw a bucket of blood all over him. Called him a “rapist lovin’ bastard” and fucked off.’

  ‘My heart bleeds.’

  ‘You got some messages by the way: a Mr Lumley. Called about six times in the last two hours. Wanting to know if we’ve found his son. Poor sod sounds desperate.’

  Logan sighed. The search teams had all gone home: there was nothing more they could do until morning. ‘Did you get hold of DI Insch?’ he asked.

  Gary shook his head, sending his jowls wobbling. ‘No chance.’ He checked his watch. ‘Show doesn’t finish for . . .’bout another five minutes. You know what he’s like about people callin’ when he’s givin’ his all for the theatre. Did I ever tell you about the—’

  The door at the end of the reception area burst open, banged against the wall and rebounded again. DI Insch stormed through in a flurry of gold and scarlet, his curly-toed boots squishing on the floor tiles. ‘McRae!’ he bellowed, face furious under a thick layer of make-up. He wore a stick-on goatee beard, complete with handlebar moustache. When he ripped it off it left a patch of angry pink around his mouth. A white tidemark showed where his turban must have sat, the skin of his bald head shiny under the overhead lights.

  Logan jumped to attention. He opened his mouth to ask how the night’s performance had gone but DI Insch got there first. ‘What the blue fucking hell do you think you’re playing at, Sergeant?’ He snatched off his clip-on earrings and slapped them on the desk. ‘You do not—’

  ‘Richard Erskine. We found him.’

  Beneath the make-up, all the colour went out of the inspector’s face. ‘What?’

  ‘He’s not dead. We found him.’

  ‘You’re kidding me!’

  ‘Nope. We’ve got a press conference scheduled in twenty minutes. The mother’s on her way in to the station.’ Logan stepped back and surveyed the deflating DI in his pantomime villain costume. ‘That’s going to look great on TV.’

  Wednesday morning started far too early. Quarter to six and the phone was ringing off the hook.

  Bleary and confused, Logan fumbled his way out
from beneath the duvet and tried to switch off the alarm clock. It just went clunk at him. Logan picked it up, saw what time it was, swore, and sank back into the bed, one hand trying to rub some life into his face.

  The phone was still ringing.

  ‘Bugger off!’ he told it.

  The phone kept on ringing.

  Logan dragged himself into the lounge and snatched up the handset. ‘What?’

  ‘That’s a great phone manner you’ve got there by the way,’ said a familiar Glaswegian voice. ‘Now are you goin’ tae open your front door or what? I’m freezin’ my nuts off out here!’

  ‘What?’

  The doorbell bing-bonged and Logan swore again.

  ‘Hold on,’ he told the phone before putting it down on the coffee table and staggered out of his flat, down the communal stairs to the building’s front door. It was still pitch dark outside, but sometime during the night the rain had stopped. Now everything was coated in a crust of frost, reflecting the yellow streetlights. The reporter – Colin Miller – was standing on the doorstep, holding a mobile phone in one hand and a white plastic bag in the other. He was impeccably dressed in a dark grey suit and black overcoat.

  ‘Jesus, it’s fuckin’ freezing!’ The words came out in a cloud of fog. ‘You lettin’ me in or what?’ He raised the plastic bag up to eye level. ‘I brought breakfast.’

  Logan squinted out into the dark. ‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’

  ‘Aye. Now open up before all this shite gets cold.’

  They sat at the kitchen table, Logan slowly coming back to life, Miller helping himself to the contents of Logan’s cupboards while the kettle grumbled and rattled to a boil. ‘You got any proper coffee?’ he asked, slamming one set of doors and moving on to the next.

  ‘No. Instant.’

  Miller sighed and shook his head. ‘Bloody place is like a third world country. Never mind. I can slum it. . .’ The reporter dug out a couple of huge mugs and spooned in dark brown granules and sugar. He suspiciously examined the carton of semi-skimmed milk lurking in the fridge, but after sniffing it once or twice thumped it down on the table along with a tub of spreadable butter.