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

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Miller doesn’t want anyone to know about his fingers, he—’

  ‘Tough shit. Steve doesn’t want to be lying in hospital with a bullet in him! That Weegie bastard held his hands up earlier we’d have Chib in custody days ago, instead of getting our arses shot off!’

  She was right. Logan pulled out his phone and made the call – closing his eyes as Jackie rallied the car around the Queen Victoria roundabout – only to be told no one was available: everyone they had spare was manning roadblocks. Logan swore, hung up and dialled DI Insch’s mobile. ‘You do know he’s going to fire me for this, don’t you?’ he asked while the phone rang. ‘Inspector? It’s Logan – I need some backup.’

  ‘Backup? What the hell do you need backup for?’ Logan told him about Miller’s fingers and Chib’s threat to return if he was caught talking to the police again. ‘You think he’s daft enough to go back there? You mad? He’ll be scooting it down the road with his tail between his legs!’

  ‘What if he’s not?’

  Grumbling, Insch said he’d see what he could do and hung up. Jackie slowed the car to a more normal speed and turned off onto Forest Road, the entrance to Aberdeen’s moneyed district. ‘Well?’ she asked.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe? What sort of answer is that?’

  ‘The one I got, OK?’ He pointed at the entrance to Rubislaw Den North. ‘You want to go left here then on round the corner.’

  The street was silent. Little flecks of light danced across the pavements, sodium-yellow streetlight dappled through the swaying leaves of huge, mature beech trees. The house was up ahead, as dark and silent as the rest of the street. Logan tapped on the passenger window. ‘Pull in here.’

  Jackie squeezed the car in between a grubby blue Transit Van and a soft-top Porsche. ‘Right,’ she said, creaking on the handbrake, ‘what’s the plan?’

  ‘Sneak up, have a look about. If nothing’s happening we come back and wait in the car.’

  ‘Great. Just what I need: more hours cooped up in this bloody heap.’

  They stepped out into the night, picking their way past the filthy van. Logan stopped, turned, frowned and asked Jackie if it looked familiar to her. ‘You kidding?’ she said, turning her back on it. ‘Looks like every other crappy Transit in the whole city. I thought we were in a hurry?’

  Logan marched up the path to Isobel’s house, cupping his hands against the drawing-room window and peering through into the darkened room. Nothing. The lounge was the same. There was no way to get around to the back of the house.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Jackie.

  ‘Could always try the bell I suppose.’ Logan pressed the button and the familiar biiiiiing-bonnnnnnnng rang out from deep inside. They settled back to wait, and wait and – Logan tried the bell again. Both cars were in the drive: they had to be in, it was half past three in the morning!

  Jackie peered through the letterbox. ‘Like a graveyard in there.’

  ‘Is it just me,’ said Logan, ‘or are you starting to get a bad feeling about this?’

  ‘Maybe they’ve both passed out? You said Doc MacAlister was getting laid into the whisky when you were here – Miller’ll be on painkillers. . .’

  Logan stood back, gazing up at the dark house. ‘What’s the worst that can happen if we go in there and nothing’s wrong?’

  ‘You get your bollocks chewed off for breaking and entering.’

  ‘Not if we’ve got a key. . .’ He tipped up the small pot of pansies growing beside the door and rummaged about in the shadows beneath it, coming up with nothing but dirt and a worm. He tried the other side. Nothing. ‘Damn, she used to keep a spare key out here.’

  ‘Under a flowerpot by the door? Why not just put a big sign in the front garden saying, I’m stupid: please rob me?’

  ‘You got a torch on you?’ Jackie did; after all she was still wearing her uniform, drenched in sweat and blood, the faint, lingering whiff of petrol just discernible under the smoky stench of burning building. She was in the middle of handing it over when a light blossomed in the hall, glowing through the glass panes surrounding the door.

  ‘’Bout bloody time,’ said Jackie under her breath as the deadbolt clicked back, the chain rattled and the door opened wide.

  Isobel peered out at them. She looked a mess, hair flat on one side and sticking up all over the place on the other. Bloodshot eyes, a fresh graze on her left cheek. She was wearing baby-blue pyjamas with penguins on them – very appropriate. ‘What do you want?’ The words wreathed in whisky fumes.

  Logan stepped up to the door. ‘Isobel, are you OK? What happened to your cheek?’

  A hand fluttered up to the graze and she tried for a smile; it didn’t work. ‘I may have . . . fallen over on the way to be sick.’ She stepped back and then held out a hand to him. ‘Come in, come in, you and your lovely wife Daphne.’ She swung a finger round to point at WPC Watson. ‘I’ve got some Pernod somewhere, I know you both love that.’

  Logan opened his mouth to say, ‘You know I hate Pernod!’ but she was already weaving her way back up the hall.

  ‘Daphne?’ hissed Jackie. Logan shrugged, Isobel must be more plastered than he’d thought. But then she’d never been much of a drinker. They followed her into the house and through to the kitchen at the rear. All the lights were on and there, in front of the breakfast bar, naked and strapped to a kitchen chair, was Colin, a bondage gag stretching his jaws wide, blood running freely from his chest, marking the place where his left nipple used to be.

  A noise behind them in the hall; Logan spun around and found himself looking down the barrel of a gun. It was the Gimp, one side of his face covered in dried blood. He motioned Logan through the door and into the kitchen proper.

  ‘DS McRae,’ said a familiar Edinburgh accent as the door was closed behind them. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’

  44

  Chib sauntered over to stand beside Colin Miller. The reporter was pale and sweaty, shivering and moaning behind the gag. Chib pulled out a pair of bull-nosed pliers, the rubber grips dark against his latex surgical gloves. ‘Now then,’ he said, all pleasant smiles as Colin started to cry, ‘DS McRae, I’d like you and . . . I’m sorry, darling, but I don’t know your name.’ Jackie just gazed in horror at the gun in the Gimp’s hands. ‘No? Cat got your tongue? Doesn’t matter: I’d like you both to sit down, nice and quietly, and we’ll have a chat about what’s going to happen next. OK?’

  The Gimp pointed to an empty chair at the kitchen table and Logan sank reluctantly down into it, trying not to flinch as the gun was jabbed into his ear and Isobel was told to secure his hands to the seat with some of the cable ties on the breakfast bar. She put them on nice and loose, leaving Logan plenty of room to escape. But the Gimp grabbed the end and yanked on the plastic, pulling the catches so tight that Logan hissed in pain.

  Jackie staggered back into the corner by the wine rack, hands up to her mouth, tears in her eyes, whimpering ‘Oh, God no. Oh, God no. Oh, God no’ over and over again.

  ‘Let’s get started,’ said Chib, dragging Colin’s left arm up, twisting it and forcing the wrist back so it was locked in place. The bandages on Colin’s hands were missing, exposing raw lumps of flesh stitched together over the swollen, bruise-covered stumps. The joins where two segments of finger had been reattached were clearly visible, the stitches puckering the inflamed skin. Chib levered open the pliers and clamped them around one of the restored joints. ‘Just so we all know we’re not playing games here. . .’ He grunted and twisted, yanking the length of finger away from Colin’s hand, ripping the stitches free. Fresh blood welled up in the ragged hole and, behind the gag, Colin screamed. Smiling, Chib crossed the kitchen to the pedal bin, stepped on the lever, and dropped the chunk of finger in amongst the eggshells. ‘These are the easy ones, it gets a lot more messy when we have to go in with the shears.’

  Isobel sat at the kitchen table next to Logan, eyes glazed, face pale as marble, tears r
unning down her cheeks as the Gimp fixed her hands to the seat, just like Logan’s.

  ‘Now, that was just one little bit of finger. Colin still has oh, four whole fingers, two thumbs, all those stumps. . .’ Chib’s lips moved as he did the arithmetic. ‘Twenty-three bits left! God, we could be here for hours, couldn’t we?’

  Logan tried to keep his voice calm and even, almost managing it. ‘This isn’t going to achieve anything, Chib, why d—’

  ‘No: it’s Brendan, not “Chib”: BRENDAN.’ Chib nodded and something hard clattered into the side of Logan’s head, pain slicing across his scalp as blood oozed down the side of his face. ‘“Chib” is such a childish nickname, don’t you think?’ He straightened his tie and put on his calm smile again. ‘Contrary to popular belief, torture and senseless violence do achieve things. You see, once we’re done here, they’ll discover what’s left of your bodies and know not to fuck with us. It’ll keep the junkies and pushers and whores in line. Fear is a great motivator.’

  ‘That how you keep your Gimp in line, is it?’ said Logan through gritted teeth. ‘Beat him every now and then? Teach him the error of his child-molesting ways?’

  ‘HE IS NOT A CHILD MOLESTER!’ Chib lunged forwards, ramming a fist into Logan’s face, snapping his head back, making the darkness roar. ‘Understand? I will not fucking tell you again!’

  Logan rocked forwards in his seat, blood spiralling from his mouth, the edges of the room lurching in time to the hammering in his skull. Maybe getting Chib mad wasn’t such a good idea after all. The Edinburgh thug grabbed a handful of Logan’s hair, dragging his head up, shouting in his face, ‘You want to meet a child molester? Try growing up in a fucking children’s home! Try spending six years in borstal!’

  Huddled in the corner by the Shiraz and Zinfandel, Jackie sobbed, her cries getting louder and louder, blending into one long incoherent stream. ‘Ohgodnoohgodnoohgodnoohgodno. . .’ Her knees were drawn up to her chest, her broken arm covering her face, the plaster cast almost unrecognizable under the layers of soot and PC Steve’s blood.

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake. . .’ Chib turned his back on her in disgust. ‘Greg, please do something about that dreadful racket!’

  The word ‘No!’ burbled from Logan’s split lips, as the Gimp advanced, raising the gun like a cudgel, looking to crack her head open. And that’s when WPC Watson punched him full strength in the balls. The Gimp opened his mouth to suck in a tortured breath, but Jackie’s feet lashed out, catching him in the knee, sending him crashing to the kitchen floor. Snarling, she leapt on him, smashing her plaster cast into his face again and again and again. Chib screamed and leapt for her, but Jackie was too quick, rolling clear as the larger man clattered into the wine rack, sending bottles flying. Then she was on her feet, the gun in her right hand, the plaster on her left arm cracked and flaking, splattered with a patina of fresh, bright-red blood. The Gimp wasn’t moving.

  The whole thing had taken less than four seconds.

  She smiled, all traces of hysteria gone. ‘Women, eh? Can’t trust them an inch.’

  Chib licked his lips, looking from the barrel of the gun to the splayed, bloody figure of his friend. ‘Greg?’

  ‘On the ground – hands behind your head, legs crossed.’

  Chib crawled to his knees and inched forward, placing a hand on his friend’s motionless body. ‘Greg, are you OK?’

  ‘I said, hands behind your head!’

  ‘We need to get an ambulance! He’s not breathing!’

  ‘Good!’ She aimed a kick at the Gimp’s leg. ‘Bastard shot my friend!’

  Logan spat out a mouthful of blood and winced. ‘Jackie, we have to get him an ambulance.’

  ‘Yeah? Why?’ She turned on him, face creased and angry. ‘Why should this piece of shit live when Steve’s going to die?’

  ‘Why should either of them live?’ It was Isobel, her voice cracking on the words. ‘Look what they’ve done! You arrest them – then what?’ She was getting louder. ‘They go to trial, maybe get fourteen years? Out in seven for good behaviour, less with time served! You think the bastards won’t come back? Kill them!’

  Logan turned and stared aghast. ‘You can’t just kill them – they’re not bloody animals, they’re human beings!’

  ‘No they’re not.’ Jackie placed her boot in the small of Chib’s back and shoved, sending him sprawling across the body on the floor. She held up the gun, examining the mechanism, then racked a round into the chamber.

  ‘JACKIE, NO!’

  ‘Greg?’ Chib was back on his knees. ‘Come on, Greg, breathe!’

  ‘Do it!’ Isobel was wheedling now, her face contorted and ugly. ‘No one will ever find out. Colin knows someone with a pig farm – we can get rid of the bodies! They’ll come back if you don’t!’

  ‘JACKIE!’

  She placed the gun to the back of Chib’s head.

  45

  Two days later.

  ‘How much of this is true?’ asked Insch, tossing Logan’s report back across the desk. Fifteen pages of lies and half-truths, printed out this morning when he’d got back from the hospital. Outside the inspector’s window morning sunshine caressed the city, making the monolithic glass tombstone of St Nicholas House sparkle and gleam as summer put in a farewell appearance. From now on the weather forecast was doom and gloom. Thank you Aberdeen, and goodnight. . .

  ‘All of it. Every last word.’

  Insch just looked at him, letting the silence grow, waiting for Logan to step in and fill the void with something incriminating. Logan kept his swollen mouth shut. Two days on and Chib’s fist was still making its presence felt. ‘Fine,’ said the inspector at last. ‘You’ll be interested to know that the lab’s come back on the bullet they dug out of PC Jacobs – believe it or not, it matches the one they found in PC Maitland. Same rifling marks. Same shooter.’

  Same shooter? Logan closed his eyes and groaned. ‘The van.’

  Insch stopped and stared at him. ‘What van?’

  ‘Outside Miller’s house: grubby blue Transit. It was the same van that turned up at the warehouse when Maitland was shot. I knew I recognized it!’ He swore and stared up at the ceiling. There never had been any stolen property in that warehouse; it was Chib’s drugs distribution point. Miller said Graham Kennedy was the one who’d tipped him off about the place being full of nicked electrical goods, but Kennedy just wanted the police to get rid of the competition for him. Turn up, find the drugs, arrest the new boys from Edinburgh. Fine if it had worked, but it hadn’t: Chib and his pals got away. Then they returned the compliment, only Chib didn’t piss around with anonymous tip-offs, he went straight in with the abduction, torture and mass murder. Gotta love someone who takes their work seriously. Logan swore again.

  ‘You OK, Sergeant?’

  ‘Not really, sir, no.’

  Insch nodded and creaked his massive frame out of his chair, scrunching up an empty Jelly Babies packet and tossing it into the bin. ‘Come on, Fatal Accident Enquiry’s not till half four, I’ll stand you a bacon buttie and a cup of tea.’

  Logan’s stomach churned. ‘No, thanks, but I’m not really in the mood for bacon.’ All he could think about were Miller’s friend and his pigs. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ve got something I need to take care of.’

  He picked up a pool car and went looking for someone in uniform to take with him. WPC Buchan was standing by the back door, smoking a cigarette and chewing at her nails. She looked as if she hadn’t slept a wink since he’d ordered her off his crime scene two days ago. ‘It’s half ten, how come you’re still on?’ he asked and she flinched. ‘Thought night shift finished at seven.’

  She looked at the ground beneath her feet and shrugged. ‘Put in for a green shift. Couldn’t just go home and wait for Professional Standards to call. Climbing the walls. . .’

  ‘Come on,’ he said, tossing her the keys. ‘You’re driving.’ They made it as far as Hazlehead before she cracked and asked
him when he was going to file his complaint against her.

  ‘You know you’ve been behaving like a complete arsehole, don’t you?’ said Logan as the tower blocks drifted past and the countryside opened out on either side of the car. Her back stiffened, but she kept her mouth shut. ‘If I could go back,’ he said, ‘and fix things so Maitland and Steve didn’t get shot, I would. I never wanted it to turn out like this.’ The road up to the crematorium went past on the left, the building hidden behind a hill and a stand of trees. Logan sighed. ‘I’m not putting in a complaint. I’m giving you another chance.’

  She squinted at him from the corner of her eye. ‘Why?’ Suspicious.

  ‘Because. . .’ Pause. ‘Because everyone needs a second chance.’ Or in Logan’s case a third and fourth. Things still weren’t back to normal with DI Steel – this morning’s headline in the P&J hadn’t helped any. . .

  Silence settled back into the car again. It stayed there until the Kingswells roundabout had been and gone. Now it was just fields and the occasional house until Westhill, the grass shining emerald green in the sunshine. That was one of the great things about Aberdeen: no matter where you lived, the countryside was never more than fifteen minutes away. Except during rush-hour. ‘I. . .’ WPC Buchan cleared her throat. ‘First I thought he was just having an affair, but. . .’ Deep breath, the words coming out in a rush. ‘But I think he’s been sleeping with the women down the docks. The. . . prostitutes. Letting them off with cautions if they—’

  Logan held up a hand. ‘It’s OK, you don’t have to tell me.’ He’d already guessed: that was why Michelle Wood and Kylie didn’t have criminal records, and why the Lithuanian schoolgirl had offered to do him for free – because he was a policeman.

  ‘I kicked the bastard out.’

  ‘Good.’

  Ailsa stood at the kitchen window, watching the children playing in the schoolyard: the younger ones running around like mad things, the older, cooler kids kicking back on the grass, soaking up the sun. The horrible woman from next door had been remanded without bail. That’s what the papers said this morning. Remanded without bail: charged with the gruesome murder of Gavin Cruickshank. There was even a small picture of her ugly, hate-filled face staring out of the Press and Journal’s front page as they led her from the court building. Of course Gavin’s death wasn’t as important as some local sex scandal – Gavin only merited three short columns at the bottom of the page, but it was enough to let everyone know what a bitch Clair Pirie, neighbour-from-hell, had been. Ailsa took a deep shuddering breath. Oh God: she was finally gone.