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

by Stuart MacBride

  25 Howesbank Avenue was a middle terrace house in a sweeping street on the north-west corner of Middlefield. There was nothing behind the row of white-harled buildings except a small belt of scrubby grassland and then the disused granite quarries. After that it was a steep climb down to Bucksburn with its paper mills and chicken factory.

  The wind was howling along the back of the houses, kicking up a curtain of snow from the frozen ground to mix with the fresh, icy flakes falling from above. It clung to the building’s walls as if someone had wrapped them in glittering cotton wool. Christmas trees sparkled and flashed in the darkened windows; jolly Santas stuck to the glass. And here and there someone had tried to recreate old-fashioned leaded windows with black electrical tape and spray-on snow. Classy.

  Watson pulled the car up around the corner from the house, where it couldn’t be seen.

  Insch, Watson, Logan, and a uniformed PC Logan still thought of as the Bastard Simon Rennie, all clambered out into the snow. It had taken the Fiscal exactly three minutes to approve an apprehension warrant for Martin Strichen.

  ‘Right,’ said Insch, looking up at the house. It was the only one on the street that didn’t have a Christmas tree merrily sparkling away in the front window. ‘Watson, Rennie: you go round the back. No one in, no one out. Give us a bell when you get there.’ He held up his mobile phone. ‘We’ll take the front.’

  The uniformed contingent hunkered down into the ripping, ice-laden wind and disappeared around the back of the terraced row.

  Insch looked at his DS with an appraising eye. ‘You going to be up to this?’ he asked Logan.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘If this gets rough: are you up to it? I’m not having you drop down dead on me.’

  Logan shook his head, feeling the tips of his ears burn in the bitter gale. ‘Don’t worry about me, sir,’ he said, his breath whipped away by the wind before it could make a cloud of vapour. ‘I’ll hide behind you.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Insch with a smile. ‘Just make sure I don’t fall on you.’

  The phone in the inspector’s pocket buzzed discreetly. Watson and Rennie were in place.

  Number 25 had a front door that hadn’t seen a coat of paint in years. The peeling blue revealing bloated grey wood underneath, sparkling with frost. A pair of rippled glass panes were set into it, revealing a darkened hall.

  Insch tried the doorbell. Thirty seconds later he tried the doorbell again. And a third time.

  ‘All right! All right! Hold your bloody horses!’ The voice came from deep within the small house, followed by blossoming light that oozed through the glass.

  A shadow fell across the hall, bringing with it muttered swearing, not quite low enough to be inaudible.

  ‘Who is it?’ It was a woman, and her voice, rough from years of booze and fags, had all the welcome of a rabid Rottweiler.

  ‘Police.’

  There was a pause. ‘What’s the little bastard done now?’ But the door remained shut.

  ‘Open the door please.’

  ‘The little bastard’s not here.’

  Colour was beginning to travel up DI Insch’s neck. ‘Open this damn door now!’

  Click, clunk, clatter. The door opened a crack. The face that peered out at them was hard and lined, a cigarette dangling out of one corner of the twisted, thin mouth. ‘I told you: he’s no’ here. Come back later.’

  Insch wasn’t having any more of this. Pulling himself up to his full height, he leant his considerable weight on the door and shoved. The woman on the other side staggered back and he stepped over the threshold and into the small hallway.

  ‘You can’t come in here without a warrant! I have rights!’

  Insch shook his head and marched past her, through a small kitchen, and opened the back door. Watson and Rennie staggered in out of the cold, snow whipping past them into the dingy room.

  ‘Name?’ demanded Insch, pointing a fat finger at the outraged woman. She was dressed for the next ice age: thick woollen jumper, thick woollen skirt, heavy woollen socks, big fleecy slippers and, over the top of it all, an extra large cardigan in dung-brown. Her hair looked as if it had been styled in the nineteen fifties and not touched since. It glistened in greasy-looking curls, held tight to her head with hairgrips and an off-brown net.

  She crossed her arms, hitching up her sagging bosoms. ‘You got a warrant, you tell me.’

  ‘Everyone watches too much bloody television,’ muttered Insch, pulling the apprehension warrant out and slapping it in her face. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She scrabbled backwards towards the dingy lounge. ‘I’m not his keeper!’

  The inspector took a step forward, his face purple, veins standing out on his face and neck. The old woman flinched.

  Logan’s voice cut through the tension. ‘When did you last see him?’

  She swivelled her head. ‘This morning. Went to do his bloody community service. Little bastard’s always doing community service. Dirty little pervert. Can’t get a bloody job, can he? To busy playing with himself in bloody changing rooms for that.’

  ‘OK,’ said Logan. ‘Where was he working today?’

  ‘I don’t bloody know, do I? The little bastard calls them in the morning and they tell him where he’s supposed to go.’

  ‘Calls where?’

  ‘The council!’ She almost spat at him. ‘Where else? Number’s on the phone table.’

  There was an occasional table, not much bigger than a postage stamp, with a grubby cordless phone on it and a small pad marked ‘MESSAGES’. A letter was pinned to the mahogany-effect wood by the phone’s base unit. It bore the crest of Aberdeen City Council: three towers, bordered by what looked like barbed wire, on a shield supported by a pair of rampant leopards. Very regal. It was Martin Strichen’s community service notice from the Parks Department. Pulling out his mobile phone, Logan punched in the number and spoke to the man responsible for handing out Strichen’s work details.

  ‘Want to take a guess?’ he said when the call was over.

  ‘Duthie Park?’ said Insch.

  ‘Bingo.’

  They dragged details of Martin’s car out of his mother while PCs Rennie and Watson searched the house. Watson returned, grim-faced, holding a clear plastic evidence wallet containing a pair of secateurs.

  Once Mrs Strichen heard what her little boy had done, she was more than happy to help the police lock him up for life. He deserved it, she said. He’d never been any good. She wished she’d strangled him at birth, or better yet stabbed him in the womb with a coat hanger. God knew she’d drunk enough gin and whisky to kill the little bastard off when she was carrying him.

  ‘Right,’ said Insch when she’d stomped off upstairs to the toilet. ‘It’s highly unlikely he’s going to come back here to the loving arms of his delightful mother, not after we get his name and description out to the media. But you never know. Watson, Rennie, I want you to stay here with the Wicked Witch of Middlefield. Keep well clear of the windows: I don’t want anyone knowing you’re here. If her boy does come home: call for back-up. You only tackle him if it’s safe.’

  Watson looked at him incredulously. ‘Come on, sir! He’s not coming back! Don’t leave me here. PC Rennie’s enough to keep an eye on things!’

  Rennie rolled his eyes and puffed. ‘Thanks a bundle!’

  She frowned at him. ‘You know what I mean. Sir, I can help, I can—’

  Insch cut her off. ‘Listen up, Constable,’ he said. ‘You are one of the most valuable people I have on my team. I have the greatest respect for your professional skills. What I don’t have is time to massage your bloody ego. You’re staying here to take charge of things. If Strichen does come back I want someone here who can put his lights out.’

  PC Rennie looked affronted again, but wisely kept his mouth shut.

  The inspector buttoned his coat back up. ‘Right, Logan, you’re with me.’ And with that they were gone.

&
nbsp; WPC Watson watched the door close behind them with a scowl on her face.

  The Bastard Simon Rennie sidled up beside her. ‘Gee, Jackie,’ he said in a whiny American accent. ‘You’re so big and special. Will you protect me if the nasty man comes back?’ He even fluttered his eyelashes.

  ‘You can be such a dick at times.’ She stormed off to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

  PC Rennie, grinned to himself in the hallway then flounced after her, calling, ‘Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!’

  Out in the patrol car Logan cranked up the heaters and waited for the windscreen to turn transparent again. ‘You sure about this?’ he asked the inspector, who had discovered an open packet of winegums in his overcoat and was busily picking off the little bits of fluff and pocket-grit.

  ‘Hmmm?’ Insch stuffed a red one in his mouth and offered the packet to Logan. The next one down was dark green and devoid of fuzz.

  ‘I mean,’ said Logan, plucking the sweet from the roll and popping it in his mouth. ‘What if he comes back?’

  Insch shrugged. ‘They don’t call her “Ball Breaker” for nothing. I put loads of uniforms out here and they’re going to scare him away. This has to be low key. I’m going to put a couple of unmarked cars down the road. If he comes back: they’ll see him. But my guess is he’s going to one of his little council hideyholes. And even if he is stupid enough to go home, I doubt he’ll give Watson any trouble. Strichen’s not got form for violence, not real violence.’

  ‘He decked Sandy the Snake!’

  Insch nodded and smiled happily. ‘Yeah, at least he did some good in his life. Anyway, you and I have plenty of other things to worry about. To the Bat Cave!’ He pointed a fat hand in the direction of Force Headquarters.

  Logan pulled the patrol car out into the blizzard, leaving 25 Howesbank Avenue, and WPC Watson, behind.

  36

  Every patrol car in the city was out looking for Martin Strichen, all of them armed with the details of his scabby Ford Fiesta. Forensics had found blood on the secateurs, wedged into the hinge; it was the same type as David Reid’s. If Strichen was out there they were damned well going to find him.

  Four and three-quarter hours, and counting.

  Back at Force Headquarters, DI Insch and DS McRae were wasting time. The big boys from Edinburgh had arrived. Two detective sergeants, both dressed in smart dark blue suits, with toning shirts and ties, one detective inspector with a face like the underside of an ashtray, and a clinical psychologist who insisted that everyone call him ‘Doctor’ Bushel.

  The DI had run two serial killer cases, both times getting his man. The first after six strangled students had been found on Carlton Hill, overlooking the east end of Princes Street. The second after a prolonged siege in the old town. No survivors. Three members of the public and one police officer had lost their lives that time. It was not, Logan thought, a great track record.

  The new inspector listened with cold hard eyes as Insch took the visiting muscle through the case to date. The DI asked some pretty searching questions along the way. He wasn’t an idiot: that was clear enough. And he was impressed that Insch and Logan had managed to identify their killer after only two bodies.

  Dr Bushel was so smug it was unbearable. Martin Strichen fitted the profile he’d provided perfectly – the one which said their child killer would have ‘mental health problems’. He didn’t seem to grasp the fact that it had been bugger all use in identifying Strichen.

  ‘And that’s where we are now,’ said Insch when he’d finished, making a ‘ta-da!’ gesture, indicating the contents of the incident room.

  The DI nodded. ‘Sounds like you don’t need any help from us,’ he said, the words coming out low and gravely, just laced with a hint of Southern Fife. ‘You know your man, you’ve got the search teams out. All you’ve got to do now is wait. He’ll turn up sooner or later.’

  Sooner or later wasn’t good enough for Insch. Sooner or later would mean Jamie McCreath had joined the ranks of the dead.

  The doctor got to his hind legs and peered at the crime scene photographs, pinned to the wall, making cryptic ‘Hmmm. . .’ and ‘I see. . .’ noises.

  ‘Doctor?’ said the DI. ‘You got any idea where he’s going to turn up?’

  The psychologist turned, the light flashing artfully off his round glasses. He flashed a smile to go along with it. ‘Your man isn’t going to rush this thing,’ he said. ‘He wants to take his time. After all, this is something that he’s been planning for a long time.’

  Logan shared an oh-my-God look with Insch. ‘Er. . .’ he said, treading carefully. ‘Do you not think this is more of a knee-jerk reaction?’

  Dr Bushel looked at Logan as if he was an errant child, but one he was willing to indulge. ‘Explain?’

  ‘He was abused by Gerald Cleaver when he was eleven. Cleaver was found not guilty on Saturday. On Sunday we found the Lumley child before Strichen could get back and mutilate him. Today there are adverts all over the telly: Cleaver’s sold his story to the papers. Strichen can’t cope with it all. It’s sent him over the edge.’

  The doctor smiled indulgently. ‘An interesting theory,’ he said. ‘The layperson often confuses the signs. You see, there are patterns here that only a trained eye can discern. Strichen is a highly organized offender. He takes great care to make sure his victims’ remains are not discovered. He has a highly ritualized fantasy world and those rituals mean he has to abide by his own internal set of rules. If he doesn’t do that then he has become nothing more than a monster preying on small children. You see, he’s ashamed of what he does—’ Dr Bushel pointed at a post mortem photograph of David Reid’s groin. ‘Pretending the child isn’t male, by removing the genitalia. Telling himself his crime is less heinous, because it’s not little boys he’s violating.’ He took off his glasses and polished them on the end of his tie. ‘No, Martin Strichen must be able to justify his actions, if only to himself. He has his rituals. He will want to take his time.’

  Logan didn’t say another word until Insch had shown the visitors the canteen and they were alone, back in the incident room again. ‘What a sack of shite!’

  Insch nodded and rummaged through his pockets for the umpteenth time that afternoon. ‘Aye. But that wee sack of shite has helped catch four repeat offenders, three of them murderers. He’s got all the people skills of diphtheria, but he’s experienced.’

  Logan sighed. ‘So what do we do now?’

  Insch gave up on the sweetie hunt, sticking his large hands desolately into the trouser pockets of his suit. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Now we sit back and hope we get lucky.’

  In summer the rear windows would look out across rolling tufts of scrub grass, gilded with golden sun, the view stretching out to the horizon. Bucksburn’s grey sprawl would be hidden by the steep hill down from the quarries. On a good day, when the paper mills weren’t belching out cumulus clouds of strange-smelling steam, the hillsides, farmland and woods on the other side of the River Don would shine like emeralds. A bucolic haven, insulated from the droning traffic on the dual carriageway below.

  But none of it was visible now. The snowstorm had turned into a blizzard and, standing at the master bedroom window, WPC Jackie Watson couldn’t make out much beyond the back garden’s fence. Sighing, she turned her back on the grey, howling afternoon and stomped back downstairs.

  Martin Strichen’s mum was hunched in an overstuffed armchair gaily upholstered in roses and poppies. She had a fag dangling from the corner of her mouth, and a graveyard of them sitting in the ashtray beside her. The telly was on: a soap opera. Watson hated soap operas. But the Bastard Simon Rennie loved them. He sat on the floral couch and stared at the screen, slurping away at cup after cup of tea.

  The remains of a packet of Jaffa Cakes sat on the coffee table and Watson grabbed the last two on her way past to stand directly in front of the two-bar electric heater, determined to get warm, even if she had to set fire to her trousers in t
he process. The whole house was freezing. As a special concession to her visitors Mrs Strichen had put the fire on, but not without a great deal of complaining. Electricity wasn’t free, you know. And how was she supposed to cope when that little bastard brought no money in? Mrs Duncan down the road, her son was a drug dealer. He brought home lots of money and they went on two foreign holidays every year! Of course he was doing a three-year stretch in Craiginches for possession with intent, but at least he was bloody trying!

  When the steam rising from the backs of her trousers became too hot to bear Watson slumped through to the kitchen to put the kettle on, yet again. Endless cups of tea were the only way to keep warm in this sodding fridge of a house.

  The kitchen wasn’t big, just a square of linoleum with a small table in the middle and work surfaces around the walls, all decorated in nicotine yellow. Watson clattered three mugs off the draining board and onto the worktop, not really caring if she chipped them. Three teabags. Sugar. Boiling water. But only enough milk for two. ‘Arse.’ There was no way she was going to stay here, in the cold, without even a cup of tea to sustain her. PC Rennie would have to take his black.

  She took them through and dumped the two mugs on the coffee table. Mrs Strichen grabbed hers without even a word of thanks. PC Rennie got as far as, ‘Ooh, smashing. . .’ before he realized there was no milk in his. He gave Watson his best lost-puppy-dog look.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ she told him. ‘No more milk.’

  He turned a disappointed look at the dark liquid in the cup. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Not a drop.’

  Mrs Strichen scowled at them, sending a stream of smoke hissing between her teeth. ‘Do you mind? I’m trying to watch this!’

  On the screen a man with a fat head and patchy beard was watching TV and drinking tea. PC Rennie stared down into his tea again. ‘I could go get some more milk,’ he offered. ‘Maybe some biscuits too?’ Now that Watson had eaten all the Jaffa Cakes.