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

by Stuart MacBride

  The doorbell went again.

  ‘Er . . . that was me. . .’

  Sodding hell.

  Logan grunted his way out of bed and into some clothes, before lurching out of his flat, down the stairs and out the main door, looking rumpled and unshaven. PC Steve, infamous for his striptease rendition of Queen’s A Kind of Magic, was standing on the top step.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, looking sheepish. ‘Across the road: naked woman. Looks like she’s been battered to death. . .’ And any thoughts Logan had of having fun in the wee small hours disappeared.

  At quarter past two on a Tuesday morning the harbour was pretty much deserted. The grey granite buildings looked unnatural and jaundiced in the streetlights, their edges blurred by the drizzle. A huge supply vessel, painted luminous orange, was tied up at the bottom of Marischal Street, its lights bright haloes as Logan and PC Jacobs made their way round the corner to Shore Lane. It was a narrow one-way street at the heart of Aberdeen’s red light district: one side a five-storey wall of dirty granite and darkened windows, the other a collection of random-sized buildings. Even at this time of night, the smell was something special. Three days of torrential rain followed by a week of blazing sunshine had left the sewers full of drowned rats, rotting fragrantly. There were sodium lights bolted to the buildings, but most of them were buggered, leaving small islands of yellowed light in a sea of darkness. The cobbles were slick beneath their feet as PC Steve led Logan to a dark pool halfway down, where a WPC crouched over something white sprawled across the lane. The body.

  The WPC stood at the sound of their approach, shining her torch full in their faces. ‘Oh,’ she said, without enthusiasm. ‘It’s you.’ Stepping back, she played her spotlight over the naked corpse.

  It was a woman, her face battered and broken, one eye swollen nearly closed, the nose mashed flat, broken cheekbone, broken jaw, missing teeth. She wore a necklace of dark red bruises and nothing else.

  She was no spring chicken: the thick white flesh of her thighs rippled with cottage-cheese cellulite; stretch marks making sand dune ripples across her stomach; and in between, short rough stubble: long overdue for another homemade Brazilian wax. A rose and a bleeding dagger were emblazoned on the milk-bottle skin just above her left breast, the tattooed blood refusing to wash away in the rain.

  ‘Jesus, Rosie,’ said Logan, dropping to one knee on the cold, wet cobbled street so he could get a better look at her. ‘Who the hell did this to you?’

  ‘You know her?’ This from the unfriendly-looking WPC. ‘You one of her regulars?’

  Logan ignored her. ‘Rosie Williams. Been working the streets down here for as long as I can remember. God knows how many times she’s been done for soliciting.’ He reached forward and felt for a pulse on her neck.

  ‘Believe it or not, we already did that,’ said the WPC. ‘Dead as a doornail.’

  The drizzling rain muffled the sound of drunken voices singing and shouting somewhere back along the docks. Logan stood, looking up and down the alley. ‘IB? PF? Duty doctor?’

  The WPC snorted. ‘You must be bloody joking. They’re all sodding about at that fire. Much more important than some poor cow who got battered to death.’ She folded her arms. ‘Wouldn’t even send us a proper SIO, so we had to make do with you.’

  Logan gritted his teeth. ‘You got something to say, Constable?’ He stepped close enough to smell the stale cigarette smoke on her breath. She stared back at him, her face a thin line of displeasure.

  ‘How’s PC Maitland?’ she asked, her voice as cold as the corpse at their feet. ‘Still alive?’

  Logan bit back the reply. He was her senior officer; he had a responsibility to behave like a grown-up. But what he really wanted to do was find one of those greasy, rotting, bloated rats and shove it right up her—

  Shouts sounded from the other end of the alley, where it connected with Regent Quay. Three men staggered round the corner, lurching into one another, fumbling with their trousers, laughing as streams of steaming urine splashed against the alley walls. Logan turned back to the smug, defiant WPC. ‘Constable,’ he said with a thin smile, ‘you’re supposed to be securing the crime scene. So why can I see three men pissing all over it?’

  For a moment it looked as if she was going to answer back, then she stormed off up the alley, shouting ‘Hoy! You! What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?’

  That left Logan and PC Steve with the battered remains of Rosie Williams. Logan dragged out his mobile phone and called Control, asking for an update on the duty doctor, Identification Bureau, pathologist, Procurator Fiscal and the rest of the circus that was meant to roll up whenever a suspicious death was discovered. No joy: everyone was still tied up at the big fire in Northfield, but DI McPherson would be with them as soon as possible. In the meantime Logan was to stay where he was and try not to get anyone else killed.

  An hour later there was still no sign of DI McPherson, or the IB, but the duty doctor had arrived. At least it had stopped raining. The doctor struggled his way into a white paper scene-of-crime suit before trudging down Shore Lane, ducking under the blue ‘POLICE’ tape WPC Buchan had grudgingly stretched across the alley.

  Doc Wilson wasn’t at his best at half past three in the morning, a fact he made abundantly clear by dropping his medical bag in a ratty-smelling puddle and swearing a blue streak. The bags under his eyes were family sized, his nose red and raw from a late summer cold.

  ‘Morning, Doc,’ said Logan, getting nothing but a grunt in reply as the doctor squatted down over the corpse and felt for a pulse.

  ‘She’s deid,’ he said, stood, and started back for his car.

  ‘Hold on a minute.’ Logan grabbed his arm. ‘Is that it? “She’s deed?” We know she’s dead: care to hazard a guess when and what of?’

  The doctor scowled. ‘That’s no’ my job; ask a bloody pathologist.’

  Surprised, Logan let go of the old man’s arm. ‘Rough night?’

  Doc Wilson ran a tired hand across his face, making the stubble scritch. ‘Sorry. I’m just knackered. . .’ He cast a glance over his shoulder at Rosie’s naked body and sighed. ‘Best guess: blunt trauma. The bruisin’s no’ that advanced, so circulation must’ve stopped pretty quickly. Given the lividity I’d say you’re lookin’ at three, maybe four hours ago.’ He stifled a yawn. ‘Beaten to death.’

  It was twenty past four before anyone else turned up, and by then Doc Wilson was long gone. The sun was already on its way, the sky a soft lemon stain wisped with grey, but Shore Lane remained shrouded in shadow.

  The Identification Bureau’s filthy white Transit Van reversed up the alley from the dual carriageway, a lone IB technician in white SOC coveralls guiding it in. Both rear doors opened and the ritual fight with the crime scene tent began: wrestling metal poles and blue plastic sheeting up over Rosie Williams’s body. A generator roared into life, chugging blue smoke out into the early morning – diesel fumes fighting with the stench of rotting rat – setting a pair of arc lights crackling. The Procurator Fiscal appeared not long after, parking at the far end of the alley where it emptied out onto Regent Quay. She was an attractive blonde in her early forties, looking almost as tired as Logan felt, smelling faintly of smoke. A serious-looking younger woman trailed along behind her: all frizzy hair, wide eyes and clipboard. Logan brought them up to speed as they struggled into a matching set of white paper over suits, then had to go through the whole thing again when the pathologist turned up. Dr Isobel MacAlister: tired, irritable and more than happy to take it out on Logan. Nothing like an ex-girlfriend to take all the fun out of a crime scene. And there was still no sign of DI McPherson. Which meant Logan was still responsible if anything went wrong. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about. The only upside was that it wouldn’t be his problem for long: there was no way they’d leave him in charge of a murder enquiry. Not with his recent track record. Not after he’d almost got PC Maitland killed in a botched raid. No, thi
s case would go to someone who wouldn’t screw it up. He checked his watch. Almost five. Still another two hours to go before his day shift was supposed to start and he’d already been at it for half the night.

  With a tired sigh, Logan stepped from the cold light of dawn into the SOC tent. It was going to be a long day.

  3

  Grampian Police Force Headquarters was a seven-storey concrete-and-glass tower block in broad bands of black and grey, hidden down a small road off the east end of Union Street. Topped with a thorny crown of communications antennae and emergency sirens, FHQ wasn’t exactly Aberdeen’s crowning architectural achievement, but it was home.

  Logan grabbed a cup of coffee from the machine and pilfered a bourbon biscuit from the media office. There was no sign of DI McPherson. Not in his office, not in his incident room, not in the canteen, nowhere. Logan tried the dispatch office, but they’d not heard from McPherson since he’d called in from the hospital at quarter to six that morning. Broken leg, fractured wrist and concussion. He’d fallen down two flights of stairs. Logan swore. ‘Why didn’t someone tell me? I’ve been waiting on him since half two this morning!’ But the dispatcher just shrugged. Wasn’t his job to act as a secretary. If Logan was looking for someone to hand the case over to, DI Insch was probably the best bet. Even if he did have that arson attack to look after.

  DI Insch’s morning briefing was a sombre affair. The inspector perched at the front of the room, dressed in a smart grey suit, his considerable bulk straining its seams. The man just seemed to get larger every year, his round features and shiny bald head making him look like an angry pink egg. There was silence as he told the crowded room that PC Maitland’s condition hadn’t improved – they’d managed to remove the bullet, but he still hadn’t regained consciousness. There was going to be a whip-round for the family.

  Next up was a spate of drug-related violence. Some new pushers had moved in, kicking off a mini turf war. Nothing fatal yet, but it was likely to get worse.

  Then Logan had to give a five-minute rundown on Rosie Williams’s battered body before Insch took over again to talk about the previous night’s fire, his voice booming out in the crowded incident room. It had started in one of the older buildings off Kettlebray Crescent: a run-down, boarded-up street of council housing deemed too scabby for human habitation. Number fourteen had been used as a squat for the last couple of months, three men, two women and a nine-month-old baby girl, all of whom had been at home on the night of the fire. Which explained the unmistakable burnt-pork smell when the fire brigade finally managed to break down the door. There were no survivors.

  The inspector shifted, making the desk groan as he ferreted about in his trouser pockets. ‘I want one team going door-to-door two streets either side of the scene: anything you can get on the squatters, particularly names. I want to know who they were. Team two is going to pick through the surrounding buildings, gardens and waste ground. You,’ he said in a merry sing-song, children’s-television voice, ‘are looking for clues. Who was the chef at last night’s indoor barbecue? Get me something.’

  As the teams filed out of the room, Logan stayed put, trying not to look as tired and hacked-off as he felt.

  ‘Well,’ said Insch when the room was emptied, ‘what time you off to see Dracula?’

  Logan sagged even further into his chair. ‘Half eleven.’

  Insch swore and shifted his attention to his jacket pockets. ‘What kind of a bloody time is that? Why couldn’t he drag you in at seven if he was going to chew a strip out your arse? Waste of a bloody morning. . .’ A grunt of satisfaction as he finally found what he was looking for: a packet of fizzy dinosaurs. He stuffed one in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. ‘He tell you to bring a Federation rep with you?’

  Logan shook his head.

  ‘Well, probably not going to sack you then.’ He levered his bulk down from the desk. ‘If you’ve not got the Spanish Inquisition till half eleven, you can go pay your last respects to Rosie Williams. Post mortem’s at eight. I’ve got to do a press conference on this bloody fire. With bastard McPherson off on the sick, again, I’ve got more than enough on my plate without watching the Ice Queen hack up some murdered tart as well. I’m sure you can hold the fort without me. Go on.’ He made little shooing gestures. ‘You’re making the place look untidy.’

  Rosie was already washed by the time Logan slumped his way out across the rear car park and down the stairs to the morgue. It was a collection of odd-sized rooms, buried away in the basement of FHQ, not quite part of the building proper. The cutting room was spacious: clean white tiles and stainless steel tables sparkling in the overhead lighting, disinfectant and room freshener fighting a losing battle against the reek of burnt meat. A row of six trolleys sat against the far wall, their occupants sealed in white plastic body-bags. Locking in the freshness.

  Logan was only five minutes early, but he was still the only living person there. He let loose a huge yawn and tried to stretch the knots out of his shoulders. No sleep, followed by six hours in a cold, stinking alleyway was beginning to take its toll. Grunting, he slouched over to Rosie’s naked body. She lay on one of the glittering cutting tables, beneath the massive extractor hood, ready to give her all one last time. Rosie’s skin was even paler than it had been in the alley. Her blood had succumbed to gravity’s embrace, slipping slowly through the tissue to pool along her back and the underside of her arms and legs, making her porcelain flesh dark purple and bruised where it touched the table. Poor old Rosie. Her death hadn’t even merited front-page treatment, just a sidebar in this morning’s Press and Journal. ‘SIX MURDERED IN ARSON ATTACK!’ was the main story.

  There was a strange protrusion bumping the skin over her ribcage and Logan was leaning in for a closer look when the door burst open and the pathologist swept in.

  ‘If you’re about to get romantic,’ said the newcomer with a grin, ‘I can come back later.’ Dr Dave Fraser, overweight, going on fifty-five, bald head, hairy ears. ‘I know you have a thing for the colder lady.’ He grinned and Logan couldn’t help smiling back. ‘Speaking of which: you will be disappointed to hear that Her Imperial Majesty the Ice Queen will not be joining us for this little funfest. Doctor’s appointment; not feeling well after last night.’ Logan breathed a sigh of relief. He was in no rush to see Isobel again after her foul mood at the crime scene this morning. Doc Fraser pointed at the six trolleys in the corner. ‘You can take a peek if you like, while I get set up.’

  Against his better judgement, Logan walked across to the collection of trolleys in the corner. Up close the smell was worse: burnt meat and rendered fat. One of the body-bags had been carefully folded up in quarters, the resulting package held in place with silver tape, making it small enough to take a nine-month-old child. Taking a deep breath, Logan picked one of the other bags, standing motionless in the antiseptic room for a moment, wondering if this was really such a good idea, before pulling the zip down. There wasn’t much of a face left: nose and eyes gone, the teeth yellow-brown shards poking through scorched-black flesh. The mouth open in a final, silent scream. Logan took one look, gagged, and zipped it back up again. He shuddered his way back to the cutting table.

  ‘Good, isn’t it?’ asked Dr Fraser, smiling at him from behind his surgical mask. ‘Tell you, I did one when they brought them in: all crispy on the outside and raw in the middle. Like every time my wife tries to barbecue.’

  Logan closed his eyes and tried not to think about it. ‘Shouldn’t they be in the fridges, instead of lying out there?’

  Dr Fraser nodded. ‘Yup, but the winch is buggered, and I’m not doing it: bad back. Brian can shift them when he gets here.’

  The aforementioned Brian – the mortuary’s senior Anatomical Pathology Technician – arrived bang on eight o’clock, along with the Procurator Fiscal, her assistant, a police photographer, and the corroborating pathologist: there to make sure Dr Fraser didn’t screw up the post mortem and cost them a conviction. He was a c
adaverous man with eyes like an unwell fish and a handshake to match. The PF’s sidekick was the same one who’d attended the crime scene in the wee small hours, a brand-new substantive depute, two years out of law school and moving up the career ladder. She was dressed in full surgical get-up, complete with mask and hat, her eyes shining with a mixture of fear and excitement. Logan got the distinct impression this was her first time at a real post mortem.

  ‘Everybody ready?’ asked Dr Fraser when they’d all clambered into the ubiquitous SOC over suits so as not to contaminate the body.

  ‘Er . . . before we begin,’ said the new girl, looking at her boss for permission before continuing. ‘I’d like to know where the victim’s clothes are: have they been examined?’

  Logan shook his head. ‘She was naked at the scene. No sign of any clothing. I had two uniforms search the alley and the surrounding ones as well.’

  She frowned. ‘So whoever killed her took her clothes,’ she said, not noticing as Logan and Dr Fraser exchanged a pained look. ‘Has she been raped? Is there any sign of recent sexual congress?’

  Dr Fraser screwed up his face and Logan could tell he was looking for a polite way to tell her to shut up and sod off. ‘We’ve not got that far yet, but as she was on the game I’d be pretty shocked if we didn’t find evidence of recent shagging.’ He told Brian to start the tape. ‘Now, if you’re sitting comfortably, we’ll begin.’

  Logan tried not to watch too closely as Fraser finished the external examination and went in with the knife – seeing someone’s innards getting hauled out in four big chunks and rummaged through always made his stomach churn. From the looks of things the deputy PF’s breakfast was doing the post mortem dance too. Her eyes had gone a watery pink and all the colour had drained from the small part of her face on show between the hat and the mask. Nice to see it wasn’t just him.

  When at last it was all over, and Rosie’s brain was floating in a bucket of formalin, Dr Fraser ordered Brian to stop the tape and go put the kettle on. It was time for tea and edited highlights.