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

by Stuart MacBride

  Logan grabbed him and shoved him up against the wall. ‘I trusted you!’

  The constable’s eyes went wide, words falling out of him, ‘Look, it wasn’t my idea, we—’

  ‘Don’t you bloody—’ He curled his right hand into a fist.

  ‘It was Insch! He made us do it!’

  For a moment Logan forgot to breathe. ‘Insch? What the hell does—’

  ‘We’re supposed to take turns—’

  ‘TAKE TURNS?’ That was it: Logan was going to smack him one.

  ‘But . . . but I had rehearsals Monday and Wednesday and Jackie was at that party and I couldn’t get to Macintyre’s house in time and—’

  ‘Macintyre?’ Logan let go of him.

  ‘Watching his house. I couldn’t get there till after rehearsal and I watched the house all night, but he could’ve been out already and I didn’t mean to let him get away and that girl got raped and—’

  ‘Oh God.’ He sat down on the creaky office chair, feeling sick – they’d just been keeping tabs on the footballer. . . And he’d kissed the Deputy PF! Logan covered his face with his hands and groaned; he was supposed to be seeing Rachael again tonight! Jackie was going to kill him.

  Rennie was still babbling, ‘I wanted to tell you, but Insch didn’t want to get you involved. He. . . Are you OK?’

  Logan said, ‘No,’ and went back to banging his head off the desk.

  The morgue was surprisingly empty for Dr Isobel MacAlister’s farewell performance: just Logan, DI Insch, and Brian – her floppy-haired assistant. Thank God this wasn’t a suspicious death, or the PF would be here and so would Rachael. And Logan was dreading having to speak to her. . . A nervous-looking man with a shaven head and a bad case of the fidgets bumbled through from the storage room. ‘This,’ said Isobel, her voice even more disapproving than usual, ‘is Dr Milne. He’ll be standing in for me while I’m on maternity leave.’

  The man raised a twitchy hand and said, ‘Hi. Call me Graeme, I’m sure we’re all going to—’

  Isobel cut him off. ‘Shall we get started?’

  Frank Garvie’s rubber-clad body nearly filled the stainless-steel cutting table. Normally he would have been stripped, his clothes sent up to the IB for examination, but Isobel had insisted that she was going to be the one to peel Garvie’s remains; arguing that the gimp suit was so tight it needed to be seen in context with the corpse. But Logan got the feeling she was just doing it to spin the whole thing out for as long as possible. Making the most of her last post mortem. Never wanting the fun to end.

  First the mask came off, the rubber squeaking as Isobel rolled it back, revealing Garvie’s sallow face. The jaws were slightly open, something red and shiny just visible between the pale lips. ‘A ball-gag,’ said Isobel, getting her assistant to photograph the thing in situ, before extracting it. Next the rope around the man’s throat came off, was dropped into an evidence bag, documented and logged. And then she ran a scalpel along the suit’s seams, the rubber suddenly contracting back to its original size, letting Garvie’s waxy skin bulge out onto the cold metal table.

  Four and a half hours later they were done, and everything Isobel had taken out of the ex-porn star was stuffed back inside, except for his brain – which now hung upside down in a white plastic bucket of formalin – and the six-and-a-half-inch bipolar probe she’d removed from his rectum: the other half of the electrostim set he’d been wired up to. ‘Well,’ she said, while her assistant and the new pathologist manhandled Frank Garvie’s violated body onto a gurney, ‘I’d say it’s almost certainly self-inflicted. The groin area of the suit was covered in seminal fluid: the electrical pads strapped to his penis and perineum would have milked the prostate. That, the rope round the throat, and the gag make it look like autoerotic asphyxiation taken to its logical conclusion. Bruising of the neck indicates he’s probably tried it before. . .’ She turned and gazed at her beloved morgue, the water gurgling in the cutting table, sluicing away the last traces of Frank Garvie. ‘I’m. . .’ a small catch in her voice, ‘I’m going to miss this place.’ Her eyes sparkled, and she wiped them with the heel of her hands. ‘Excuse me.’

  Logan and Insch watched her go.

  ‘Right,’ said the inspector clapping his hands together as the morgue door closed behind the departing pathologist, ‘lunch.’

  ‘Well, you should have got here earlier then, shouldn’t you?’ said the man clattering two plates of microwaved moussaka down on their table. ‘There’s no chips.’ He saw the look on Insch’s face. ‘It’s not my fault! We’re cleaning the fryers for the next meal. I shouldn’t even be serving!’

  ‘So,’ said Logan as the man went back to his dirty deep-fat fryers and Insch went mad with the salt and pepper, ‘how’s the Rob Macintyre case coming?’

  The huge man froze for a moment, then started eating. ‘There is no case, remember?’

  Logan just sat there and stared at him, not saying a word. Giving him a taste of his own medicine.

  ‘What?’ Insch shovelled in another mouthful, chewing. Then another. Before finally coming out with, ‘Who the hell told you? It was Watson wasn’t it? I knew I shouldn’t have—’

  ‘It was Rennie. And I didn’t give him any option.’ Which was almost true. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were keeping tabs on Macintyre?’

  ‘You didn’t need to know. And neither does anyone else, so if you breathe a word of this I will personally see to it that both your testicles end up hanging on my office wall. Clear?’

  ‘Crystal.’

  Insch nodded and polished off the last forkful. ‘We’ve got one car out the front of Macintyre’s house – Rennie and Watson alternating. Not perfect, but it’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘But,’ said Logan as the inspector started wiping the plate clean with a podgy finger, sweeping up the sauce and grease then sooking it clean, ‘you can’t just—’

  ‘I made a promise! Those women deserve justice! Robert Macintyre raped them and I’m going to put him behind bars if it kills me!’

  The head of CID was waiting for them in the Fettes incident room, leaning back against the wall with his arms folded, a smile on his face, and very little hair on his head. ‘Inspector,’ he said as Insch froze on the threshold of the nearly empty room. The handful of uniform and CID were gone, leaving just the skeletally thin admin officer and a pile of file-boxes.

  ‘Where are all my—’

  ‘I’ve got some good news for you.’ The Detective Chief Superintendent picked a sheaf of paperwork from a folder on the table next to him. ‘Garvie was your prime suspect and he’s committed suicide, yes?’

  ‘Yes. . .’ Insch sounded cautious, as if he wasn’t sure where this was going.

  ‘And you’re certain he was the one involved in. . .’ he checked the sheets in his hand, ‘Jason Fettes’s death?’

  ‘Positive. We’re just looking for corroborating evidence, and—’

  ‘Excellent. In that case we’re going to de-prioritize this one. Your men have been reassigned to other active cases; finish up the paperwork and we’ll consider it done.’

  The inspector opened his mouth to say something, but the DCS held up a hand. ‘No, don’t thank me yet,’ he reached into his inside pocket, pulled out a crime report and passed it over, ‘soon as this came in I knew you’d appreciate it.’

  Insch unfolded the form, eyes scanning the details, his face slowly splitting into a wide grin.

  ‘Thought so.’ The DCS winked. ‘Just try not to piss him off too much, OK? If I get more than three complaints about your behaviour I’m giving it to someone else. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Very good. Carry on, Inspector.’ The DCS picked up his folder, gave them both a jaunty wave and left.

  Logan waited for Insch to explain, but the huge fat man was too busy dancing a happy little jig. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

  ‘You’ll never guess what,’ he said at last, fac
e flushed and sweaty. ‘Hissing Sid’s in hospital. Someone’s kicked the living shit out of him.’ He threw his arms open to the heavens and burst into song, ‘Zipidee doo dah. . .’

  Jackie wasn’t having an affair, and Sandy Moir-Farquharson had been given a good hiding. Logan smiled. Maybe the inspector was right. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad day after all.

  32

  Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. It was a private room, the blinds drawn against the weak winter sunshine, while Sandy Moir-Farquharson seethed. The lawyer’s face was a mess – split lip, swollen cheek, black eye, his nose bridged with plastic and tape, a wad of sterile bandage strapped to his forehead. A morphine drip snaked into his left arm, the right resting on top of the sheets, swathed in a cast from elbow to fingertip. ‘You thee thomething funny inthpector?’ He was missing at least two teeth.

  Insch closed his eyes for a second, then said, ‘I was just thinking of an amusing anecdote I heard last week, sir.’ Fighting to keep a straight face.

  ‘I don’t. . .’ The lawyer coughed, eye screwed up in pain. ‘Aaggg. . .’ Taking shallow, hissing breaths. And Logan began to feel sorry for the man. They’d treated it like a joke all the way up here in the car, laughing about someone being beaten up badly enough to require hospitalization. Moir-Farquharson slumped back in his bed, a faint sheen of sweat making his forehead glisten. ‘I don’t want you.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  ‘I don’t want you here. I want thomeone else.’

  DI Insch shook his head sadly. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but this isn’t a dating agency. Now what can you tell us about your accident?’

  ‘I wath athaulted!’

  ‘Really?’ Insch pulled out an immaculate-looking black notepad and flicked through it. ‘Ah, yes, my apologies. Assaulted last night as you left your office. Now, do you have any idea who might have some reason to hate you? Any enemies? Anyone you’ve screwed over, or annoyed? Neighbours, acquaintances, passersby, members of the general public perhaps? Outraged at your putting paedophiles, muggers, burglars and rapists back on the streets?’ He got a scowl in return.

  ‘How dare you thtand there and—’

  Logan jumped in before things got any worse. ‘I can assure you that we take assaults like this very seriously, sir.’

  The lawyer turned his baleful, one-eyed gaze on Logan. ‘I don’t want you either! Thith ith nothing more than a joke to the pair of you!’

  ‘Well, you’re welcome to make a complaint about that if you want to—’

  ‘Don’t you worry, I will! I’m—’

  ‘—but you know DI Insch and I will do everything we can to find those responsible.’ Silence settled in, leaving just the sound of someone screaming for the nurse from further down the corridor. ‘Now,’ said Logan, ‘can you take us through the events leading up to the attack?’

  ‘Well?’ said Insch, as they drove back to FHQ, ‘what do you think?’

  ‘Wallet missing, watch, briefcase . . . could just be a mugging.’ Logan frowned. ‘But it’s a bit OTT, isn’t it? More like a punishment beating. I mean it’s not like he’s short of enemies.’

  ‘Lucky to still be alive. If that cleaner woman hadn’t come out when she did the world would be a happier place right now. . . What? Don’t give me that look. I’m only kidding.’

  ‘Forensics?’

  Insch dug in his pockets, coming out with a packet of chocolate-covered raisins. ‘Too rainy last night. Couple of bloodstains under the car, but fibre’s a washout. They’re running some prints from the driver’s door.’

  The traffic grew heavier the closer they got to the centre of town, slowing to a crawl. ‘We should start with victims, witnesses, people he’s belittled in court.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Insch, fighting his way into the packet, tipping a small pile of little brown pellets into his hand and throwing them into his mouth, mumbling as he chewed. ‘Better check with Watson first then. She holds a grudge like nobody’s business.’

  That was what Logan was afraid of.

  Back at the station the day shift was winding down. Five to five. Time to grab one last cup of tea before signing out. Logan sat in what was laughingly known as the ‘Review Suite’ – little more than a cupboard with a filing cabinet, a unit full of removable hard drives from the police vans’ surveillance cameras, and the MUX desk wedged into it. Once upon a time the MUX had been cutting-edge technology, but now it felt like a steam-powered torture device. Feeling more than a little nauseous Logan ejected the current CCTV tape and slotted in the next one. If you were running the cameras you had some say over where they pointed. The picture moved because you moved it. Watching the tapes afterwards was an impotent exercise in motion sickness as the operators panned and zoomed about as if they were playing a video game. It didn’t help that it was roasting in here: the ancient oscillating fan sitting lifeless on the carpet, beyond all hope of resurrection. Not even kicking it had helped. So Logan had wedged open the door in a vain attempt to get some air into the place.

  He twisted the big circular control on the MUX and sent the tape reeling into fast-forward, looking for someone running away from Golden Square – where Hissing Sid had his offices – around the time the lawyer was attacked. The middle of Aberdeen was like a wildlife preserve for CCTV cameras, and Logan had last night’s tapes for all of them stacked up on the floor beside him.

  Insert tape: whirrrrrrr forward till the timestamp said nine pm; watch people lurch past at one frame a second; look for anything suspicious; feel guilty for not trusting Jackie; feel even guiltier for not telling Rachael it was all a big mistake; watch until the timestamp said nine thirty; eject tape and repeat.

  The only highlight came when he was going through the Union Terrace tape – the camera tilted at a funny angle, picture partially obscured by a fat-arsed pigeon clinging onto a window ledge. Behind the grey feathers was the little alleyway that linked the Terrace with Diamond Street. Half past nine: cars swept by, headlights reflecting back off the rain-slicked tarmac. People wandered into shot, drunks, more cars, a bus, more people – Logan scrutinizing each and every face to see if they were on the ‘Who Hates Hissing Sid’ list he’d compiled with DI Insch – and then it happened.

  A pair of girlies, staggering up towards Union Street, arms round each other for balance as much as camaraderie, ignoring the rain. The one on the left was wearing what could almost be called a skirt – even though it must have been freezing that night – her companion a skimpy top and a pair of trousers that looked painted on. But they’d have needed a lot of paint – she was huge. They looked up and spotted the camera, laughed, then the big girl hoicked up her top and jiggled.

  ‘Oh dear Jesus. . .’ Logan didn’t know whether to laugh or cry – it was like watching someone swinging a pair of watermelons about in a duvet. A figure emerged from Diamond Place, hands in pockets, did a double take and limped past, trying not to look at the woman’s naked boobs. She put them away fast, then she and her friend roared with laughter and carried on up the road and out of sight. Logan ejected the tape, wrote FLASHER on a Post-it note and stuck it to the label. With any luck it would make it onto the Christmas blooper reel, along with all the other idiots who thought it was a good idea to expose their breasts, willies and arses to the surveillance cameras.

  He dumped the videos back in the CCTV control room and went home.

  Eight o’clock. Logan sat bolt upright, blinking, trying to figure out where the hell he was. . . In the lounge, on the sofa, something awful on the television, his mobile phone’s shrill squeal competing with the lumpy-looking ‘celebrity’ singing away on the screen. He grabbed the remote and put her out of his misery, then picked up the phone.

  ‘Hello?’ Trying not to sound as if he’d just woken up.

  ‘Logan? It’s Rachael,’

  Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, ‘Rachael, hi. I—’

  ‘Thought we had a date?’

  Logan checked his watch: eight o’cloc
k, he was supposed to be at the cinema half an hour ago. Which probably meant she was bloody furious.

  ‘I’m really sorry.’ Why the hell didn’t he call and cancel? ‘I got caught up in an assault case. Didn’t get back. . .’ he sighed. ‘I fell asleep.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Look, I’m really sorry. I was at that call all last night, only got two hours sleep, then it was non-stop all day. Hissing Sid got attacked. . .’ He sagged back into the sofa cushions, running a hand over his face, trying to figure out how on earth he was going to tell her it was all one big mistake.

  ‘Believe it or not I understand. The number of men I’ve left standing outside things, or sitting in restaurants on their own. . .’ an embarrassed cough. ‘Well, it’s not been hundreds, or anything like that. Maybe one or two. I mean I’m not . . . ehm. . .’ Silence. No doubt waiting for him to make the next move.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ he said, stalling for time, ‘look, we need to—’

  ‘Damn: hold on, I’ve got someone else trying to get through. . .’ and the line went silent. She’d put him on hold.

  ‘—talk.’ Logan swore, pulled himself to his feet and wandered over to the window, peering out into the dark night. A thin dusting of white clung to the sill, small flecks of snow drifting through streetlamp haloes. The sound of singing, muffled by the double glazing, came from somewhere down the street. He’d just have to come out with it: he’d made a mistake. He was seeing someone, and he’d thought Jackie was having an affair and . . . no, that would just make Rachael sound like a rebound. Even if it was true, she wouldn’t want to hear it. He—

  ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go: suspicious death in Tillydrone. I’ll call you later, OK?’

  ‘Wait, Rachael—’ But she’d already hung up.

  The street was quiet. Expensive cars lined the road, chinks of light shone out between drawn curtains onto snow-whitened gardens while more flakes slowly floated down from the orange-black sky, melting where they hit wet tarmac, clinging to skeletal trees and the cold metal of parked cars. There was only one vehicle the snow wouldn’t cling to: an anonymous silver Vauxhall, on the opposite side of the road and two doors down from Rob Macintyre’s house.