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

by Stuart MacBride

  There was a light on in one of Macintyre’s upper rooms and had been for nearly fifteen minutes. The front door opened and Macintyre stepped out into the early morning cold, a heavy holdall in one hand, a mobile phone clamped to his ear with the other. Logan leant over and shook Jackie’s shoulder.

  She surfaced with a, ‘Phff, emem, neghe. . .’ blinking and yawning, as Macintyre locked up then climbed into his brand-new silver Audi with the personalized number plates.

  She didn’t pull out until Macintyre was down at the end of the street, indicating left onto Great Western Road. Right would have taken him to the junction with South Anderson Drive and the road to Dundee. Left went towards the town centre.

  They followed him at a safe distance, joining a convoy of cars crawling along behind a council gritter, its yellow flashing lights reflecting back from dark and lifeless shop windows all the way down Union Street, then along King Street too. . . Macintyre took a right halfway down, and so did Jackie, leaving the main road for a snow-covered side street, hanging back as far as possible.

  The footballer pulled into the car park opposite Pittodrie Football Stadium, but Jackie kept on going, drifting past, then stopping at the end of the road, where they could watch Macintyre climb out of his car, march round the back, take out the large holdall, then swagger off towards the players’ entrance. Giving some slope-foreheaded troglodyte a high five on the way.

  ‘Sod it,’ said Logan, ‘he’s just going to morning practice.’

  But just before the footballer disappeared into the ground, Logan could have sworn he looked directly at them and winked.

  The Inversnecky Café was something of an institution in Aberdeen: a dark green, single-storey building, lurking on the seafront along with half a dozen other ice cream places and restaurants, facing out towards the grey, wintry North Sea. The amusement arcade on the corner was open, but it was unlikely to be doing a lot of business on a freezing cold Sunday morning: There was no one about to see the bright flashing lights but bulldog-sized seagulls who waddled grumpily along the cold pavement, tearing into discarded chip papers and burger cartons.

  Surprisingly, Colin Miller was already waiting for Logan as he pulled into one of the parking spots opposite. The reporter was huddled round the side of the building, puffing away on a cigarette, looking out over the sea, oblivious to everything but the crashing waves and screeching gulls.

  ‘Didn’t know you smoked.’

  Miller cringed, dragged back from the middle distance. ‘I don’t. And if you tell Izzy any different I’ll fuckin’ do you. She’s mad enough at me as it is.’ He looked better than he had outside Garvie’s flat the other night. The stubble was gone, but the bags under his eyes were as dark as the clouds lowering over the water. At least he was dressed more like his old self: an expensive suit with scarlet woollen scarf and heavy black overcoat. He pulled the cigarette from his lips with black leather fingers and coughed long and hard, then flicked the butt out into the road.

  It was warm inside the café, the hiss and gurgle of an espresso machine sounding over a radio tuned to Northsound Two: the weather report predicting doom and gloom for the week ahead. It was busier than Logan had been expecting, couples and families down for the full fried Scottish heart attack experience. No one went to the Inversnecky for a bowl of muesli and half a grapefruit. A tall, gangly man, with a hairline that wasn’t so much receding as running hell for leather, took their order and left them to find their own table. Miller picked the one closest to the heater, complaining the whole time about how come they couldn’t get any decent weather in this shit-hole town for a change.

  ‘It’s March,’ said Logan settling in opposite, ‘what did you expect – a heat wave? Not exactly the Costa Del Sol, is it?’

  The reporter scowled, rubbing his gloved hands in the heater’s warm glow. ‘No, Aberdeen’s the Costa Del Shite.’ He looked up to see the man from the counter standing over him with two coffees and a raised eyebrow. ‘Aye, no offence like.’

  ‘You’re going to get spit in your breakfast, you know that, don’t you?’ said Logan when he’d gone.

  ‘Nah, Martin’s all right, I come here often enough. He knows what I’m like.’

  And so did Logan. ‘Come on then – why all the secrecy?’ There had been a mysterious message waiting on Logan’s answering machine when he’d got back to the flat after the unofficial stakeout: ‘Meet me at the Inversnecky, nine o’clock, you’re buying.’

  ‘Eh? Oh. . .’ Miller shrugged and stirred an extra packet of sugar into his mug. ‘Wanted to get out the house, you know? Only been a day and a bit and she’s already goin’ stir crazy. Next six months are goin’ tae be a soddin’ nightmare.’

  ‘Try the next eighteen years. Maybe longer – my brother didn’t leave home till he was thirty-two.’ Logan grinned. ‘And if it’s a girl, you’ve got boyfriends to worry about, teenage pregnancy, drugs, tattoos, piercings—’

  ‘Gonnae no dae that?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just gonnae no! Bad enough as it is without you stirring.’

  The door jingled open and a red-nosed couple stomped in from the wintry outdoors, bringing a blast of cold air with them. Miller shivered, even though they were practically sitting on top of the heater. ‘And get this,’ he said, pulling a disgusted face, ‘They want me to do a “Baby Diary”. Fuckin’ investigative journalist and they want me to do puff pieces on changing shitey nappies. . .’ He went off on a whinge, complaining about how he wasn’t appreciated, and how The Scotsman had offered him a huge chunk of money to move down to Edinburgh and work for them. And how he was seriously considering it, even though Logan knew there was no way in hell Miller would ever return to the central belt. Not if he wanted to keep the fingers he had left. He finally stopped whinging when their breakfasts arrived.

  Logan grabbed the tomato sauce. ‘You know I asked you to dig up some dirt on—’

  ‘DC Simon Allan Rennie, twenty-five, five foot eleven, went to Powis Academy – suspended six days for getting into a fight with his maths teacher. Lives in a flat on Dee Street. . .’

  Logan listened to Miller detailing the minutiae of Rennie’s life between bites of sausage, bacon, mushroom and egg. The reporter knew everything: from who the DC’s first girlfriend was, to the number of complaints made against him by members of the public in the last three years. But the upshot was that the Bastard Simon Rennie was clean. ‘How the hell do you know all this?’

  Miller smiled, piling beans up on a corner of toast. ‘Findin’ stuff out is what I do.’ Not like him to be so modest. He stuck the forkful in his mouth and chewed smugly. ‘Now, you goin’ tae ask me about your boy Garvie?’

  ‘What about him?’ Logan put down his cutlery.

  ‘Up to his ears in debt. See all that shite he had in his house – computers and home cinema and gadgets and that – owed a fortune. So he rents some stuff out on the side.’

  Logan scooted forward in his seat, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘Let me guess: hardcore bondage pornography?’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, man, it’s no’ the bloody Dark Ages!’ A sudden silence hit the dining room and all eyes turned to the reporter as he laughed. ‘You can get as much of that crap you want off the internet for free – no, he was rentin’ out server space. Encrypted server space. The kind you use for data you really don’t want people findin’ out about.’

  And Logan thought about the memory stick they’d found smashed to smithereens in Garvie’s flat. ‘What was it?’

  That was where Colin Miller’s encyclopaedic knowledge ground to a halt. ‘No idea. Yet. But you can bet it’s gonna be splashed all over the front page soon as I find out.’

  37

  It took nearly an hour to round up all the dirty washing and stuff it in the machine. The flat was a pigsty – it always was whenever they were both up to their ears, working too much overtime – so Logan spent most of the afternoon grumbling around the place, trying to make it
habitable again. He was in the middle of hoovering the lounge when the doorbell went: a long, insistent buzzing that finally managed to filter through the vacuum cleaner’s drone. It was PC Rickards, standing outside the main door, hands rammed deep into his pockets, shivering. Logan let him in. ‘Let me guess, DI Steel’s suddenly remembered—’

  ‘Sorry, sir. It’s the DCS – he wants you up at the station, now.’

  ‘What? I haven’t had a whole day off for weeks! Can’t it—’

  ‘He was really, really insistent.’

  Logan didn’t like the sound of that.

  The Chief Constable’s office looked like something out of a horror movie – DI Insch, the DCS in charge of CID, Big Gary, and that ginger-haired bastard Inspector Napier, all looking very unhappy. The CC sat behind his desk wearing a face like thunder, staring at Jackie as she stood to attention in the middle of the room.

  ‘. . . think so, don’t you?’ Sandy Moir-Farquharson stopped talking as Logan walked in, then pulled his bruised and battered features into a smug smile. ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t the great PC Watson’s partner in crime.’

  Logan ignored him, staring at Insch instead. ‘Sir?’

  But it was the Chief Constable who answered: ‘What the hell were you thinking? Didn’t you stop to consider the repercussions? Grampian Police does not need maverick officers bringing the force into disrepute!’

  Nope, going to need more of a clue than that. ‘Sorry, sir?’

  Hissing Sid leant forward in his visitors’ chair, cradling his broken arm. ‘You and Watson have been carrying out an illegal, unauthorized surveillance on Rob Macintyre’s property, even though I have a court order requiring you to stay away from my client.’ He smiled like a shark – the missing teeth filled with bright white, temporary dentures. ‘This is blatant harassment and we will not stand for it.’

  So Logan had been right: the little footballing bastard had winked at them. Maybe it wasn’t too late to bluff his way out? After all it’d just be Macintyre’s word against theirs. ‘I don’t—’

  ‘And don’t even bother trying to deny it.’ The lawyer held up a hand-held camcorder and pressed a button on the shiny silver plastic. Tinny sound bristled in the crowded room, a man with a pronounced Aberdonian accent talking to himself while the picture on the little built-in screen jostled from a close-up of an expensive watch – three fifteen in the morning – round until it was pointing straight back at the person holding the camera. Rob Macintyre grinned and waved, then swung the thing back again, pointing it at a darkened window. It took a moment for the autofocus and light balance to catch up, but eventually the picture showed a dark street, lines of parked cars beneath drifting flakes of snow. A wobble, then the camera zoomed in on a depressingly familiar Vauxhall and its occupants: Logan and Jackie, watching the footballer’s house.

  Hissing Sid was right, there was no point denying it, so Logan didn’t.

  The CC slammed a palm down on his desk, making everything shudder. ‘How could you be so stupid? You knew we’d been ordered to stay away from Macintyre!’

  Logan sneaked a quick glance at Jackie, standing boot-faced beside him. She’d obviously not told anyone it’d all been Insch’s idea in the first place, or the fat man would be up here getting his arse chewed off with them. And given the satisfied look of righteous indignation on Inspector Napier’s face, Logan had a shrewd idea what was coming next: gross misconduct, suspension and demotion. If they were lucky. And all because that fat bastard Insch was obsessed with pinning everything on Rob Bloody Macintyre.

  Logan took a deep breath and asked what day the tape had been recorded.

  ‘What?’ The CC looked shocked, ‘You were there more than once?’

  ‘You see!’ Hissing Sid snapped the camcorder screen shut. ‘I told you they’ve been running an illegal surveillance operation. We—’

  ‘Was this last night, or the night before?’ Logan asked again.

  ‘Last night.’

  Logan nodded. ‘Yes, we were watching Rob Macintyre’s house.’

  Inspector Napier levered himself to his feet, like a praying mantis in a black uniform. ‘Detective Sergeant McRae, I’m suspending you immediately pending a formal review by Professional Standards. You’ve shown a remarkable lapse in judgment and—’

  ‘We were protecting him: Macintyre.’

  Napier was about to say something, but the Chief Constable cut him off. ‘You what?’

  ‘After the attack on Mr Moir-Farquharson I made a list of possible enemies.’ Which was true: it was everything else that was a barefaced lie. ‘Top of the list were those allegedly raped by Mr Macintyre, who might be looking for revenge on one or both men. Knowing that Grampian Police had been formally warned not to approach Mr Macintyre directly, I persuaded Constable Watson to accompany me on an un-authorized surveillance operation of his property, in case he was targeted for attack.’ It sounded like a prepared statement for court. Logan was rather pleased with himself.

  There was a moment’s silence, then Moir-Farquharson said, ‘You don’t seriously expect us to believe—’

  ‘It’s how we caught Russell McGillivray. If we hadn’t been there watching the house, he’d have attacked Macintyre. And maybe this time he’d have gone all the way. We’d have been looking at a murder.’

  The angry red was slowly draining from the Chief Constable’s face, to be replaced by a cheery pink glow and a big smile. ‘And you went back last night. . . ?’

  ‘Because we couldn’t be sure McGillivray was working alone.’

  The CC looked from Logan, to Jackie, to the lawyer, then back again. ‘I see. So you were only watching Mr Macintyre’s house—’

  ‘For his safety. Yes, sir.’

  ‘On your own time.’ He nodded, smiled, then said, ‘In which case I apologize, Sergeant. Good work.’

  Moir-Farquharson lurched to his feet, wincing all the way. ‘But—’

  ‘There’s going to be a letter of commendation for you and Constable Watson.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Well then, now that’s all settled we can get back to work. If you’ll all excuse me, I have other matters to attend to.’ He picked up his phone and started dialling. The interview was over.

  Out in the corridor the lawyer stared at Logan as the CC’s door swung shut behind them. ‘But. . .’ He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘Given the circumstances, I think it’s no longer appropriate for you to watch my client’s house.’

  ‘You remember what you said to me when I showed you Russell McGillivray’s photo?’

  The lawyer frowned, ‘I. . . I called him an ungrateful bastard.’

  ‘You can see yourself out.’

  38

  Sitting with Jackie in DI Insch’s office afterwards, watching the inspector swearing his way into a jumbo bag of fizzy dinosaurs, Logan had to admit that he’d been expecting more of a celebration. Instead Insch picked up a manila folder from his in-tray and tossed it across the desk.

  The contents had been emailed up by Tayside Police: another rape. ‘Bastard. . .’ Jessica Stirling, attacked just off the Kingsway – a huge dual carriageway that stretched across Dundee. She was only nineteen. Logan couldn’t even look at the victim photographs.

  ‘She was in town for a friend’s birthday last night.’ Insch picked up a purple brachiosaur and stared at it. ‘Studying musical theatre at RADA. Going to be a star. . .’ He stuffed the dinosaur back in the bag, uneaten. ‘Check the time.’

  Logan skimmed through the report – the attack took place between twenty to and twenty past three. The exact same time they were being videoed watching Macintyre’s house.

  Insch turned his back on the room, gazing out into the wintry afternoon. ‘It wasn’t him. All this time I’ve been dicking about chasing the little bastard and it wasn’t even him.’ There was a short humourless laugh. ‘If I hadn’t been so bloody convinced, we might have actually looked for someone else. And those gi
rls wouldn’t. . .’ He stopped and ran a hand over his fat features, shoulders slumped. It was as if he’d aged a decade in as many seconds, his voice flat and listless. ‘Why don’t you two go home? Forget about this evening. It’s not him.’

  ‘But, sir—’ Jackie, not looking happy, ‘—the wee fuck attacked me! He has to be—’

  ‘IT’S NOT HIM!’ Insch spun round, face bright purple. ‘Understand? It was all crap! All of it!’ He snatched a pile of files from his desk and hurled them at the far wall. ‘It was never him!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘It’s over, Constable. Finished.’ Turning back to the window. ‘I screwed up. Go home.’

  Thankfully Jackie didn’t say anything else, just grabbed her coat and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

  Logan caught up with her on the stairs as she stomped down towards the basement locker rooms. ‘Look,’ Logan made a grab for her arm, ‘I know it looks bad but—’

  ‘Don’t you dare patronize me!’

  ‘What am I supposed to say? He can’t have done the Dundee rape! We were watching him, you were there! He didn’t go anywhere, he—’

  ‘Bloody Russell McGillivray had the right idea.’ She shoved through into the female changing room, closing the door in Logan’s face.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘What? Logan looked up from his cup of tea to find Rickards and Rennie settling down on the other side of the canteen table. The bruise on Rennie’s face had taken on a bluish five-o’clock-shadow tinge. ‘Oh, yes. Great. Never better.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ Rennie threw an arm round his companion’s shoulders, ‘why don’t we have a lads’ night out tonight, after rehearsals? Beer, balti, and talking bollocks.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Rickards blushed then mumbled about a prior engagement he couldn’t get out of.

  ‘Ah,’ Rennie leered at him, ‘going to see your bondage buddies, eh? On a promise are we? Oh, spank me Mr Mainwaring!’