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

by Stuart MacBride

  It was Mr Skate Or Die from the IB’s tech team, wanting him to know he’d tried those servers from the Garthdee house.

  Logan frowned. ‘Garvie, not Garthdee. Frank Garvie.’

  ‘Aye, whatever. Plugged them in this morning – everything’s encrypted.’

  ‘Can you crack it?’

  There was a pause and then some derisive laughter. ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll be right up.’

  The servers they’d confiscated from Garvie’s flat lay in the middle of a landfill site of empty Diet Coke cans and bits of wire. Both machines were hooked up to flat-screen monitors – reams of letters and numbers glowing pale green on black. ‘What you’re looking at,’ said the techie, ball-point pen sticking out of his mouth, ‘is two-five-six bit asymmetric encryption. Everything is wide open on the box, no security at all, but you can’t make any sense out of it without the matching keys.’

  ‘There has to be something you can—’

  ‘Not a sodding chance.’ He tapped one of the boxes with his pretend cigarette, ‘the military use hundred and twenty-eight bit for secret documents. Two-five-six is like, three hundred and forty billion, billion, billion times more secure. That’s your super top, top secret NSA, MI6 kind of thing. We won’t be able to crack stuff like this for at least another twenty-five years. And before you ask: you can buy encryption software off the internet for less than the price of a football ticket.’ The pen went back in his mouth. ‘Without the key we haven’t got a chance in hell of finding out what’s on these machines.’

  ‘Nope, not in.’ The voice of Alpha Thirteen. ‘We went round a couple of the neighbours, but they’ve no’ seen him since last night. Apparently he was pissed – standin’ in the stairwell, shoutin’ about how they was all a bunch of bastards and he’d never done nothing.’

  Logan clamped a hand over the telephone’s mouthpiece and passed on the message to DI Insch. ‘Not in.’

  The fat man glowered. ‘Tell them to keep going back. Every hour, on the hour. Soon as Garvie’s home I want the encryption key to those bloody files.’

  By eleven o’clock Logan was back in his gloomy little incident room, with the lights switched off, brooding about Jackie and Rennie, unable to work up any enthusiasm for the piles of paperwork he was supposed to be catching up on. How the hell could she do that to him? And with RENNIE! Simon Bloody Bastarding Rennie. Simon Bloody Bastarding Arse-Features Thick As Pig Shit Rennie Bastard—

  The sound of the door opening. Someone said, ‘Eh?’ and suddenly the room was full of light, leaving Logan blinking and cursing. Big Gary stood on the threshold, one hand on the light switch. ‘What you doing in here in the dark?’

  ‘What do you want Gary?’

  ‘Jesus, you sound cheery. . . That Glaswegian git’s been on the phone.’

  Logan waited for the rest of it, but nothing else was forthcoming. ‘And?’

  ‘The hell should I know – I look like your bloody secretary? If you switched your phone on every now and then you’d know, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Fine.’ He went back to staring at the wall. ‘Anything else?’

  There was a sigh, Gary muttered, ‘I give up,’ switched off the light and closed the door behind him.

  Logan pulled out his phone and called Colin Miller back. It seemed to ring forever before the reporter’s voice came on, deeper and more gravelly than normal.

  ‘What you want?’

  ‘Morning, Colin. Feeling better?’

  ‘Like a cat’s pissed in my mouth.’

  ‘You phoned.’

  ‘Did I?’ There was a loud, rattling cough. ‘Urgh. . . Did I do anythin’ stupit yesterday?’

  ‘Yes. Isobel speaking to you yet?’

  ‘She shouted a bit.’ Logan got the feeling that was something of an understatement – Dr Isobel MacAlister wasn’t the kind to suffer in silence. Colin groaned. ‘Said I was an irresponsible bastard for disappearin’. That anything could’ve happened. Aye, like last time, remember? When you fucked me over and—’

  ‘We went through this yesterday: you forgave me! Said I was your best mate.’

  ‘Must’ve been really pished. . .’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, you can’t un-forgive someone.’

  There was a long pause – enough to make Logan think Miller had hung up – and then the reporter said, ‘Izzy says I have to make nice.’

  ‘That mean no more kicking the crap out of us all over the front page of the P&J then?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ Another cough. ‘Oh God.’

  ‘Well, if we’re all friends again. . .’ Logan hesitated, this was a perfect opportunity to get Rennie back – ask Miller to screw him over in the press. ‘Any chance you could dig up some dirt on someone for me?’

  ‘Depends: who?’

  Rennie, Rennie, Rennie. . . Logan closed his eyes, bottling out at the last minute. He just couldn’t do it. Not even to Rennie.

  ‘You there? C’mon – who?’

  Yes he could. ‘Detective Constable Simon Rennie.’

  There was silence from the other end of the phone, and when Miller’s finally spoke, his voice had its professional edge back. ‘Been up to somethin’ has he?’

  ‘Depends what you find out, doesn’t it?’

  ‘And I get to publish what I dig up?’

  ‘No skin off my nose. Just as long as you tell me first.’

  ‘See what I can do.’ And then Miller hung up.

  That was it: no turning back now. If there was dirt to be had, Miller would find it and Rennie would be splattered all over the Press and Journal. Ruined. It took nearly five minutes for Logan to start feeling guilty. Sitting on his own, in the dark, he covered his face with his hands and swore and swore and swore.

  29

  By the time he got back to the flat that evening – having spent most of the day sulking and brooding in his little room at FHQ – Jackie was just heading out, dressed up in her black cat-burglar outfit again. She paused at the front door. Scowled. ‘You hear about the rape?’

  ‘Dundee last night? Yeah.’ The worst one yet: Wendy Nichol, twenty-six, computer programmer with a games company, bringing up her five-year-old daughter on her own. If a taxi driver hadn’t seen her leg sticking out of a bush she’d have bled to death. Insch had gone through the roof when the call came from Tayside Police: DCI Cameron blaming the whole thing on the fat man’s inability to put Rob Macintyre behind bars.

  ‘Unbe-fucking-lievable, how the hell. . .’ Jackie stopped. ‘I’m going to have to go out again tonight.’

  ‘Really.’ Not a question. Trying to keep the anger out of his voice.

  ‘Aye. You know what it’s like.’

  Logan nodded. He did indeed. He knew exactly what it was like. ‘I’m going out too. You going to see Cathy again?’ Trying to catch her off guard by using a random name.

  ‘No: Janette.’ The same name she’d given him earlier. Clever.

  ‘Right. Janette.’

  Jackie looked as if she was about to say something, then gave him a quick peck on the cheek instead. ‘Don’t wait up.’ She banged out through the main door and Logan stood where he was for a moment, before turning round and following her. Sneaking out onto Marischal Street in the rain, watching her march up the road with her mobile phone clamped to her ear. Jackie got to the top and made a right onto Union Street, coming to a halt in the bus shelter opposite the Tolbooth. She stuffed the phone back into her pocket and stood there, breath streaming in the cold night air.

  He hung back, loitering at the door to The Tilted Wig – where she couldn’t see him, but he could see her – cold rain plastering his hair to his head, seeping through his jacket. Three bendy buses had come and gone by the time an anonymous Citroën pulled into the stop, windscreen wipers going full tilt. Jackie threw her hands in the air, shouting, ‘About bloody time!’ then opened the passenger door. The interior light flickered on and Logan got a good look at the drive
r before Jackie climbed in and the door slammed shut. The Bastard Simon Rennie.

  The car indicated, then drew out into the steady stream of traffic. Joining the rush hour. Soaking wet, Logan stood and watched until the car disappeared.

  The Ferryhill House Hotel was one of the few places in Aberdeen optimistic enough to boast a beer garden – a collection of picnic benches sulking, unused, in the steady downpour. Logan marched through into the bar, looking like a drowned rat. Shivering, he peeled off his jacket and scanned the crowd. Not quite seven o’clock yet. No sign of Rachael.

  All the tables around the open fire were taken, so he made do with the next best thing, hanging his dripping jacket over the back of a chair. Then went up for a pint of Stella, taking it back to the table and staring at it; wondering if it wasn’t too late to chicken out. Maybe he should just go home? This was—

  ‘You came!’ He looked up to see Rachael Tulloch taking off a bright orange waterproof. Too late to back out now. She pulled out the seat opposite and sank into it, little droplets of water falling from her hair to sparkle on the tabletop. ‘Oh, you’ve got a drink, I’ll. . .’ she went to stand, but Logan shooed her back into her chair.

  ‘It’s OK, I’ll get it. Gin and tonic?’

  She blushed. ‘Please.’

  By the time Logan got back to the table Rachael was putting a lipstick back in her bag. ‘Thanks,’ she said, accepting the drink, ‘you wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. Cheers,’ Holding up her glass for Logan to clink his off.

  They drank in silence. ‘Er. . .’ she said, coughed, and tried again. ‘We got someone in court today for those unlawful removals. In Tillydrone?’

  ‘Yeah? That’s great.’

  ‘Yeah. . .’ More silence. ‘I didn’t think you’d come.’ She played with the glass in her hands, not looking at him. ‘Thought you’d make some excuse, or say no, or something. . .’

  Logan tried for a laugh, but it came out sounding slightly strangled. ‘Sorry.’ He took a gulp of lager. ‘I’m glad you asked.’ Not sure if he was lying or not.

  She smiled. It made her eyes shine.

  The Indian restaurant on Crown Street was only a five-minute walk away, but they were both soaked to the skin by the time they hurried in through the door. At least eating would give them something to do in the awkward silences. Which were getting fewer. Mostly they talked about work: Logan told her about Zander Clark’s stash of Victorian porn, then launched into an anecdote about DI Steel chasing a prostitute who’d been shoplifting from Ann Summers, leaving a trail of vibrators, crotchless knickers and lubricant as she tried to get away. So Rachael told him about a man she’d prosecuted for trying to abort his girlfriend’s pregnancy with a bottle of bleach.

  As the night wore on, Logan tried hard not to think about what Jackie was up to. It didn’t matter anyway, she was sleeping with Rennie: it was over. First thing tomorrow morning he’d ask her to move out. And that would be that. So he told jokes and stories, and tried to convince himself he didn’t care.

  Outside afterwards, standing on the restaurant steps, waiting for the taxi. ‘You know,’ said Rachael, her voice coming out in a plume of steam, lightly scented with cardamom, cumin and garlic, ‘I’m really glad you came.’ She stared down at her woolly gloves, cheeks flushed and shiny pink.

  ‘So am I.’ And this time he meant it.

  ‘Would you. . .’ Deep breath. ‘Ah sod it.’ She grabbed him by the lapels and kissed him, her lips soft and warm and slightly spicy. . . And that’s when Logan’s phone rang.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he mumbled, and she backed off laughing as he checked the number. It was FHQ. ‘Sorry.’ He hit the call button and Sergeant Mitchell’s voice burst into his ear, ‘. . . No I do not, now get your backside in gear. . .’

  ‘What can I do for you, Eric?’

  ‘What? Oh halleluiah, it’s got its phone switched on for once! You sober?’

  ‘Yes.’ He’d been on pints of water since they arrived at the restaurant, not wanting to make a complete tit of himself. ‘Why?’

  ‘DI Insch isn’t. You’ve had Alpha Thirteen wasting time all day checking on an address in Danestone – a Frank Garvie – ring any bells?’ Logan admitted that it did. ‘Right,’ said Mitchell, ‘we’ve got reports of a disturbance at that address.’

  Logan didn’t see what that had to do with him. ‘And?’

  ‘And Insch says you’ve got to go—’

  ‘But—’ Rachael was making ‘cup of coffee’ motions at him.

  ‘Hey, if you want to tell Insch to sod off, you’re on your own. I’m staying well out of it.’

  Logan screwed up his eyes and wished a painful and embarrassing death on Detective Inspector Bloody Insch. ‘OK, OK, I’ll need a car.’

  ‘Fine, Oscar Foxtrot Two’s going that way. You can cadge a lift.’

  He hung up. ‘Sorry—’

  ‘You’ve got to go, haven’t you?’ she said, as the taxi pulled up behind her.

  ‘Yes. You know what DI Insch’s like these days.’

  ‘I’ve heard.’ She opened the taxi door. ‘Come on, I’ll give you a lift to the station.’

  Logan lurched out onto the rain-swept forecourt of FHQ, hoping he didn’t look like a drag queen, clarted in lipstick. He hurried through into the reception area as the taxi drove off into the night. Oscar Foxtrot Two – a small, grubby van with wire mesh over the rear windows – was sitting out back, waiting for him with the engine running, the sound of opera seeping out into the downpour. Logan jumped into the passenger seat, and immediately started coughing and spluttering. The whole thing stank of wet dog.

  ‘You’ll get used tae it in a bit,’ said the woman sitting behind the steering wheel. ‘Gonnae give them a bath when we get hame, aren’t we, babies?’ Logan turned to see a pair of enormous Alsatians with their damp liquorice noses pressed up against the grille separating the back of the tiny van from the driver and passenger seats. The bigger of the two began to snarl and the dog handler laughed, telling the dog, ‘It’s OK, baby he’ll no’ hurt you.’ Then patted Logan on the knee. ‘Dinna make eye-contact, for God’s sake.’

  Logan faced the front. Quickly.

  She drove him out to Garvie’s flat in Danestone, keeping up a three-way conversation with Logan and her dogs about the documentary she’d seen last night on BBC2 about Bonny Prince Charlie sharing his bed with two Italian courtesans and a bloke from Ireland when he was over for the Jacobite rebellion. ‘Of course,’ she said, as she turned into Garvie’s cul-de-sac, ‘I’ve got a cousin who’s gay and he loves Drambuie. But he’s from Elgin.’

  The lights of Alpha Thirteen swept bars of blue through the rain, making it sparkle, as if it’d been electrified. Logan thanked the dog handler and scrambled out of the van and over to the patrol car. ‘What’s the story?’

  The PC pointed up at Garvie’s building. ‘Neighbour called in about half an hour ago complaining about the noise. They’ve been on the bloody phone every five minutes since, wanting to know why we’ve not done anything about it.’

  ‘When did Garvie get home?’

  The constable shrugged and Logan cursed. ‘You were supposed to be keeping an eye on the place!’

  ‘Don’t look at me – I only came on at ten.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake. . .’ Logan turned his collar up and dashed through the rain, up the short path, and in through the building’s front door. Angry voices echoed down from the floors above, shouting over a continuous loop of blaring music. He climbed the stairs, the noise getting louder with every step.

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! ‘TURN THAT FUCKING THING DOWN!’ A man’s voice.

  ‘SIR, I’M NOT GOING TO ASK YOU AGAIN—’

  ‘YOU SEE WHAT WE HAVE TO LIVE WITH?’ A high-pitched woman.

  ‘OPEN UP, YOU PERVERT BASTARD!’ The man again.

  They were on the second floor: five angry residents and an annoyed-looking policewoman. The noise from Garvie’s flat was deafenin
g, whooshing and booming and roaring, violins and keyboards building to a teeth-rattling crescendo. Then silence. Then round it went once more, in an infinite loop. No wonder the neighbours were spitting nails; an hour of this and the Pope would have been rampaging down Union Street with a baseball bat.

  Garvie’s front door had been given another paint-job, obscenities covering the woodwork, spreading out over the walls like an angry infection. Logan tapped the constable on the shoulder. ‘Anything?’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘I SAID: HAVE YOU GOT ANYTHING?’

  She looked confused for a moment, then shouted back, ‘NO. IT’S BEEN LIKE THIS SINCE WE GOT HERE. HOUSEHOLDER’S NOT ANSWERING—’

  ‘OK.’ Logan stepped up to the front door and squatted down, nose wrinkling at the smell of human urine. He pulled on a single latex glove and prised open the letterbox. The hallway lay in darkness, just a ripple of light seeping through from the lounge where that God-awful, repetitive racket was coming from.

  ‘I’VE TRIED THAT!’ the constable shouted. ‘NO SIGN OF HIM.’

  Logan motioned for her to join him downstairs. As soon as they were out of sight the neighbours started hammering on the door again. ‘It’s their own fault,’ said Logan. ‘They’ve been terrorizing the poor sod: graffiti, piss through the letterbox, dog shit in a burning paper bag. He’s probably got the most annoying bit of music he has, put it on a short loop, cranked up the volume and sodded off to a hotel for the night. Getting his own back.’

  The constable nodded. ‘So what we going to do?’

  Logan stared back up the stairs as another cycle began. ‘We’re going to have to break in. If we don’t they’ll lynch him when he gets back. You—’

  ‘WHY THE HELL AREN’T YOU DOING ANYTHING?’ A balding, middle-aged man stormed down from the floor above, bright scarlet with apoplectic rage.

  ‘Do you know anything about the vandalism to Mr Garvie’s flat, sir?’

  The man stopped. Going pale, then bright red again. ‘Are you accusing me of something?’

  ‘Thought so.’ Logan turned to the policewoman. ‘Did you get this gentleman’s name and address, Constable?’