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

by Stuart MacBride

  Garvie blushed. ‘There wouldn’t be any point . . . I still can’t. . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’m impotent.’ Staring hard at Captain Kirk fighting Spock in some sort of arena.

  ‘I see. And is there anyone who can confirm that you were in bed, alone?’

  ‘Not unless my cat counts. What am I supposed to have done?’

  ‘Do you know a Mr Jason Fettes?’

  Garvie didn’t even take time to think about it: ‘No.’

  ‘Really?’ Logan held up one of Fettes’ DVDs. ‘That’s funny because he was in From Rubber With Love too. See?’

  ‘Well,’ Garvie kept his eyes on Kirk and Spock, ‘with films you don’t always get to meet everyone who—’

  ‘You did a double entry with him and a girl called “Misty”. He was on the bottom. So to speak.’

  Silence. ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’

  Insch found an open packet of Skittles on the desk and helped himself. ‘Tough.’

  ‘He. . .’ Deep breath. ‘Look, I’m really not comfortable discussing this, OK? I mean, I saw that thing in the papers—’

  ‘But you didn’t come forward and tell us who he was?’

  ‘I wanted to . . . but. . .’

  Silence.

  Dark circles were beginning to form beneath Garvie’s arms, the smell of second-hand curry oozing out of him like a malodorous fog. Fidgeting in his seat, he stared up at the ceiling tiles, then down at his hands, then back to his Star Trek calendar again. Anything to avoid making eye-contact with DI Insch or Logan. He couldn’t have looked more guilty if he’d tried.

  ‘I. . . I didn’t think it would make any difference. . .’ Garvie ran a hand over his damp forehead, then wiped it dry on his trouser leg. ‘We worked together a couple of times, that’s all.’

  ‘And did you ever see him socially?’

  Squirm. ‘I . . . no . . . well . . . ehm. . .’ His cheeks bright red. ‘We . . . he. . .’ Gulp. ‘We met at a couple of . . . parties.’

  ‘What kind of parties?’

  ‘BDSM. . . BDSM parties.’

  Insch frowned. ‘What the hell is a—’

  Logan answered that one for him, ‘Bondage, domination and sadomasochism. Far as we can tell Fettes was pretty active in the scene.’

  There was an uncomfortable pause, then Garvie cleared his throat, fidgeted some more, and finally said, ‘When I started having . . . problems, I . . . well . . . sometimes it helped. The . . . it’s not. . .’ He gave up. ‘We used to go to parties in Ellon, or Cults. Westhill a couple of times. They’d have a Black Room, usually just a bedroom you know, with beanbags and stuff? The windows taped over, no lights. I had this sweet dark red, full-body rubber suit, custom made – a Kastley, top of the range. . . Doesn’t fit any more. . .’ Garvie paused and took a deep breath. ‘It’s meant to be anonymous, but I knew what Jason. . . Sometimes he and I. . .’ he trailed off and shrugged.

  ‘You’re saying Jason was gay.’

  Garvie almost laughed. ‘It’s not like that. Gay, straight . . . it’s . . . it’s not like that. You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘So you and Jason would meet up at bondage parties and have sex. Why did you tell us you’d never met him?’

  ‘Why do you think? I never hurt him, OK?’

  Logan leant across the desk and laid an understanding hand on Garvie’s arm. ‘Not even if he asked you to? Wanted you to be his “top”? Is that what happened, Frank? Did he ask you to hurt him and it just got out of hand?’

  ‘No! See: I knew you’d do this! I didn’t do that to him.’

  ‘Accidents happen, Frank. We can understand that.’

  ‘It wasn’t me! I’ve not seen Jason for over a month!’

  ‘He died four weeks ago.’

  Garvie shoved his chair back and lurched to his feet. ‘IT WASN’T ME!’

  ‘Calm down, Frank—’

  ‘You can’t pin this on me! I didn’t do anything!’ He wiped the sweat from his face. ‘It’s not fair!’

  ‘Not fair?’ Insch turned on him, ‘I’ll tell you what’s not bloody fair – a young man lying in the morgue while some sick bastard gets away with murder. THAT’S not fair!’

  Garvie backed away, trembling. ‘I want a lawyer.’

  ‘I’ll bet you do. Sergeant, escort Mr Garvie to the car please. We’re going for a little ride.’

  They put Garvie in the back of Insch’s Range Rover and stuck the child locks on, the inspector driving them back into town while Logan rode with the ex-porn star. Making sure he didn’t get up to anything. The sky had darkened – wind whipping white froth off the steel-grey North Sea, as they took the Beach Esplanade.

  A handful of hardy souls were out braving the elements with their dogs, marching along the top path, their coat-tails whipping about their legs. The Kings Links golf course was nearly deserted, and so was the road, just the clump and bump of potholes and the occasional whimper from their ‘guest’. The man was terrified, hunched up and trembling, eyes darting left and right, sweat beading on his forehead. Not big on small talk.

  ‘You know,’ said Logan, trying again, ‘it doesn’t have to be this hard, Frank, all you need to do is talk to us. OK?’

  Garvie inched away from him until he was hard against the other door without so much as a word. Logan sighed and watched the scenery go by instead, looking down the embankment at the side of the road as the golf course gave way to a driving range. There was a dilapidated old pitch-and-put between there and the road: a manky collection of four rusty white anchors and some little concrete lumps, all glowing in a shaft of golden sunlight. A wee boy was whacking a golf ball about on the patchy grass, completely oblivious to the brooding clouds and howling wind. Logan envied him, it would be nice to be that innocent again and un— ‘Stop the car!’

  Insch didn’t need to be told twice: he slammed on the brakes. The Range Rover screeched to a halt and Logan yanked the door handle. Nothing happened. ‘Bloody child locks!’

  ‘What the hell is going—’

  ‘Let me out!’

  ‘Sergeant?’

  Logan mashed his thumb down on the electric window button, sticking his hand through the gap and opening the door from the outside. Insch unbuckled himself, shouting, ‘What’s wrong?’ as Logan leapt from the car and started running hell for leather down the steep slope towards the large white-painted anchor that marked the northern edge of the pitch-and-put course, yelling back over his shoulder: ‘It’s Morrison! Call for backup!’

  He nearly lost it jumping over a gorse bush, slithering on the grass on the other side, just managing to stay upright by flailing his arms in circles. The kid had his back to Logan – completely oblivious – bent over his putter, trying to get his ball into a two-foot length of ancient drainpipe. He looked up at the last moment, just as Logan barrelled into him, sending them both crashing to the ground. The wee boy screamed as Logan pushed his face into the damp grass and dragged the handcuffs out, breathing hard. ‘Sean Morrison. . . I’m arresting you . . . for the murder of Jerry Cochrane—’

  Someone was shouting in the background.

  ‘—and the attempted murder of PC Jess Nairn. Hold still! You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention—’

  Angry voices getting closer. Sean struggling beneath him. Logan put his knee in the small of the child’s back. Trying not to take too much satisfaction from the yelp of pain. That would teach him to go kicking policemen in the head.

  ‘—when questioned something you later rely on in court—’

  ‘GET OFF HIM!’

  ‘—Anything you do say will be given in evidence.’ Logan pulled out his warrant card and flashed it at the furious-looking man running across the pitch-and-put course, an angry woman following close behind. ‘Police – stay back everything’s under—’ A fist connected with his cheekbone, snapping his head round. Logan crashed into the grass, struggling to get up as the man leap
t on him. Another fist caught him on the side of the head. The world roared in his ears, and the sound of a woman screaming something.

  Logan grabbed a handful of the man’s groin and did his best to crush it. Twisting at the same time. The guy’s face went purple and a thin sliver of spit dribbled from his lips as Logan shoved him off, staggered to his feet and kicked him in the backside, sending him sprawling. Logan stumbled, caught himself, and sat down hard on the wheel of the fake cannon-mount-thing between the second and third hole. ‘What part. . .’ he puffed, mouth full of the coppery taste of fresh blood, ‘what part of “Police, stay back” didn’t you understand?’

  ‘You bastard!’ The woman spat at him.

  Logan picked up his warrant card from the grass at Sean Morrison’s feet, and shoved it at her. ‘Police!’ He leant forward, hands on his knees, trying not to throw up. She ran to the small boy, crying, pulling him to his knees, kissed him on the cheeks and forehead, then stood, marched over to Logan and smacked him one.

  She had a better right hook than the man. ‘You dirty bastard! You dirty, fucking bastard!’ Another punch, but this time Logan was ready for her, grabbing her arm and yanking her off balance. She went crashing into the metal ramp between the cannon wheels, tumbling over it to lie spread-eagled on the third hole. Groaning.

  ‘What the hell is wrong with you people?’ Logan lurched to his feet. ‘I’m a policeman! This is a murder suspect! Ow. . .’ The inside of his mouth ached: he’d taken a chunk out of his cheek. He spat a glob of blood out onto the ground at his feet as Insch’s Range Rover screeched to a halt by the abandoned hut, where they used to rent out the pitch-and-put golf clubs in the open season. The inspector jumped out and plipped on the locks – leaving Garvie handcuffed in the back – lumbering across the course with surprising speed.

  ‘Did you get him?’

  Logan nodded. ‘Over there.’ He winced and explored the inside of his mouth with a finger. One of his teeth was loose.

  Insch hauled the kid to his feet. The eight-year-old murderer wailed and moaned and blubbered, snot and tears streaming down his face. Logan pulled his finger out and stared. ‘Fuck.’

  It wasn’t Sean Morrison.

  20

  The Chief Constable’s office was full of unhappy faces – DI Insch and DI Steel sitting opposite one another in the visitors’ chairs while ‘God’ himself sat behind the desk, drumming his fingers lightly on the formal complaint lodged by the wee boy’s family. Count Nosferatu – AKA Inspector Napier, the ginger-haired, parrot-faced, miserable-bastard head of Professional Standards – lurked by the window, scowling at Logan as he went through the events leading up to the current fiasco. They’d kept him waiting outside for nearly an hour while they decided what they were going to do about him. Big Gary was here too, in his official capacity as Federation rep, which meant it was serious. They were probably going to fire him.

  Logan could feel Napier’s hooded eyes boring into his back like a set of steak knives. The inspector had gone out of his way to make life difficult ever since the ‘Mastrick Monster’ case; screwing Logan over had become something of a pet project for him. He’d be loving this. Logan got to the part where the family started threatening lawsuits then finished. Now the only sound in the room was the radiator, pinging away to itself beneath the window, and then the CC said, ‘You really, genuinely believed he was Sean Morrison?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Maybe he’d be lucky and get off with a suspension?

  ‘And you used force because you thought the child was violent?’ The CC steepled his fingers. ‘An eight-year-old boy?’

  ‘Sir, last time we ran into him he stabbed a policewoman in the throat. And he’d just killed—’

  ‘And you let him get away.’ Napier – his voice like a sliver of ice. ‘If it weren’t for your . . . “condition” Constable Nairn wouldn’t have had to rescue you, would she, Sergeant?’ Logan didn’t answer that. The inspector sneered. ‘Surely even you should have been able to subdue an eight-year-old child!’

  The CC held up a hand and Napier went quiet again. ‘You understand that we’re going to get hauled over the coals on this one, don’t you, Sergeant? Not only have Grampian Police failed to catch an eight-year-old murderer, we’re also going round assaulting children and their families at random.’

  ‘They attacked me! I was just—’

  The Chief Constable kept on talking. ‘Do you have any idea how incompetent that makes us look, Sergeant?’

  Logan had thought it was a rhetorical question, but the CC stared at him until he answered. ‘I thought it was Sean Morrison.’

  A sigh. ‘And that’s the only reason we’re not suspending you. But for God’s sake – next time you get the notion to arrest a small child, try and pick the right one!’

  If anyone asked, he’d say he was concentrating on the three million break-ins DI Steel had lumbered him with, but if he was being honest, Logan was hiding in the cramped little room he’d commandeered to watch Jason Fettes’ porn collection, having a bit of a sulk. The Force Medical Officer had given him a couple of cold packs for his bashed head, but they didn’t seem to be doing much good. He still ached.

  Bloody parents: what the hell did they think they were doing, dressing their bloody kid up like Sean Morrison? It wasn’t as if the kid’s description wasn’t plastered all over the papers and television news. . .

  He sat and stared at the laptops Rickards had purloined from the evidence store. Then started swearing. If anyone found out they’d been using the damn things to watch dirty DVDs he’d be right back up in front of Napier again and the pointy-faced bastard would get another shot at making life difficult. Logan was rummaging about under the desk, trying to untangle the wires and plugs, when the door battered open and a huge shadow loomed into the room. Insch.

  ‘What the hell are you doing down . . . never mind. Get your coat – the PF likes Garvie as a suspect. He and the victim knew each other, they’re both into bondage, they’ve had sex together – or whatever it is these freaks do – and Garvie’s impotent.’ Logan stuck his head out from beneath the desk, just in time to see a cola cube disappear into the inspector’s mouth. The huge man sooked thoughtfully. ‘That says sexually frustrated to me. Garvie gets himself one of those jumbo-sized strap-on things, ties Fettes up, and gets carried away. Suddenly there’s blood everywhere and a last-minute rush to the hospital.’

  ‘So we need to get a search warrant and—’

  Insch held up two sheets of paper. ‘Signed and sealed. We’re just waiting for the IB to get their backsides in gear.’ He smiled, the buzzing strip-light flickering off his bald head. ‘What did I tell you: Steel couldn’t crack it in four weeks and I’ve done it in less than a day.’

  Garvie’s flat was nothing special from the outside – two bedrooms on the second floor of a four-storey building in Danestone, a sprawl of boxy homes on the north bank of the River Don. Winding cul-de-sacs, yellow brick, and pantiles. Huge metal pylons marched through the middle of the place, like Martian tripods frozen on their way to war. Garvie’s building sat in the shadow of one, a faint electrical buzzing just audible through the open kitchen window. The flat was done up in classic geek chic: the lounge housed a complete collection of Star Trek, DS9, Voyager, Next Generation, Enterprise, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Stargate, Farscape, The Simpsons and a stack of Japanese Anime; PlayStation, Xbox and TiVo hooked into each other and a collection of fancy speakers; one wall dominated by a huge screen, the projector bolted to the roof above the door; and a single black leather couch. The spare bedroom was done out as a study with a collection of computers and stacks of books and comics. The latter all sealed away in individual plastic sheaths, as if Garvie was afraid they’d catch something.

  The bondage gear was in the master bedroom, taking up one side of the built-in wardrobe, the custom-made dark red rubber suit hanging next to a variety of leather harnesses, straps, paddles and flogging whips. ‘Houston, we have lift off. . .’ sai
d one of the IB technicians, emerging from the bottom of the wardrobe with a large black phallus. It was at least a foot and a half long, standing out in sharp contrast to its finder’s white paper over suit. It went in a large evidence bag. Next out was a familiar pink mushroom shape.

  Insch got as far as, ‘What the—’ before Logan jumped in with ‘Butt plug.’ The inspector stared at him.

  ‘I . . . er. . . DI Steel told me about them when we found one in Fettes’s bedroom.’ Feeling a blush rising up his cheeks, suddenly uncomfortably hot in his SOC outfit.

  Garvie’s porn collection was alphabetically ordered in a small bookcase next to the bed – a handful of his own films, and a collection of American and Dutch hardcore gay porn. Hidden away at the back of the sock drawer was a collection of unlabelled video tapes and two ancient seventeen-millimetre film canisters. One marked THE BUTLER’S REVENGE, the other FESTIVE FROLICS in faded brown script.

  ‘You know,’ said Logan as they were bagged up, ‘somehow I don’t see Garvie being the old-fashioned projector type. . .’ And he was right – they searched the whole place from top to bottom but there was no sign of any device that would play anything that old. ‘He’s got something dodgy in there.’ Logan asked the IB guys to take the canisters out and open them, expecting a nice juicy haul of drugs. Disappointed when they turned out to contain exactly what it said on the tin – old rolls of brittle, black and white film.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Insch, as they were sealed back up again and returned to their bags, ‘I’m sure you’ll get something right soon. Law of averages.’ Then he clomped off to stand on the doorstep and eat Chewits, leaving Logan to keep an eye on the IB team as they started sampling the bedclothes and carpet for blood and semen stains.

  An hour later and they were back in the car, watching the last of the evidence bags being loaded into the back of the IB’s filthy-white Transit van. ‘This makes no sense,’ said Insch, as Logan started the car, ‘there should be blood everywhere. Even if Garvie’s got kinky rubber sheets, there’d be a trail between the bedroom and the front door. . .’ He stared off into the middle distance for a bit. ‘Check all the hotels and B&Bs – see if anywhere rents rooms by the hour to the bondage crowd. Flash Fettes and Garvie’s photos about: I want to know if anyone put them up that night. And get a door-to-door done here too. Was Fettes a regular visitor?’ The inspector went rummaging in the glove compartment again, coming up empty. ‘Sod it. Well, come on, Sergeant, back to HQ, we haven’t got all bloody day.’