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

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘I need to speak to you about Tony Burnett, Ma.’

  ‘And who’s your little friend?’ She turned the smile on Rickards who stammered and stuttered. ‘Oh, a shy one! We like him! Denise! Where’s that bloody tea?’

  ‘Coming! Fuck’s sake. . .’

  ‘Anyway, I was just saying the other day that we don’t get enough policemen in these days. Oh it’s not like it was when my Jamesy was alive, we—’

  ‘We’ve asked you not to confiscate passports as collateral, Ma.’

  ‘Especially with the Cheltenham Gold Cup coming up; you could have a sweepstake down the station!’

  ‘The passports, Ma. . .’

  A short woman with a black eye pushed through from the back room, carrying a tray with four teas on it and what looked like reheated pizza slices. ‘I’ve no milk, so it’s that evaporated stuff from a tin or nothin’.’

  They took their tea and microwaved spicy American in Ma’s office: a small room out back, the walls and ceiling lined with varnished tongue-and-groove wooden floorboards like a homemade sauna. Ma Stewart had a thing for little porcelain figurines of Scottie dogs, and photos of her grandchildren: the whole place was festooned with them. A little old-fashioned transistor radio sat on a high shelf, dribbling music into the potpourri-scented room as they ate. ‘Have you been watching that Celebrity Pop Idol?’ said Ma, taking a big bite of reheated pizza. ‘I never would have thought that coloured man off the news had such a lovely voice.’

  Logan tuned her out. She was always a nightmare to deal with. Not obstreperous, just . . . nice. And completely bloody oblivious. And how on earth did she find enough time to dust all these nasty wee china dogs? He looked around the room. Maybe they should just. . . There was a plain brown box sitting the floor by Ma Stewart’s desk, right next to Logan’s feet; the top open just far enough for him to make out the words Lesbo Nurses. He picked it up, and emptied it out onto the desk. It was a pick-and-mix of hardcore porn, and right at the bottom a copy of In Deep Sheep: Five and other ‘animal husbandry’ titles.

  ‘Oh Ma, not again!’

  ‘What?’ She dabbed at her scarlet lips with a pristine hanky. Logan settled back in his seat and stared at her, his bit of pizza solidifying on its paper plate. ‘Oh, all right!’ she said at last. ‘So sometimes I sell a few naughty movies to people who can’t get out on their own. Where’s the harm in that? Half these poor old dears can’t even get it up, never mind do anything else!’ She leaned forward, exposing her cleavage again, tapping on the desk with a bright-red nail. ‘If I can help spark the flames of their wrinkly ardour, I will. It’s my public duty. Not like it’s illegal or anything.’

  Logan groaned. ‘Yes it is! You have to be a licensed sex shop to sell R-eighteen movies! And this stuff. . .’ he poked the cover of Farmyard Frolics, ‘isn’t legal anywhere.’

  ‘You’re not eating your pizza. . . You want some cake? We’ve got some Battenburg – Denise’s other half works in a baker’s and we get all sorts in here—’

  ‘Ma: the DVDs. Where did you get them?’

  An exasperated breath sent the pale cleavage heaving. ‘Can we not come to some sort of arrangement? I mean, I didn’t know it was against the law! I would never—’

  ‘Where!’

  She pouted. ‘You used to be such a nice young man. . . Are you sure you don’t want some cake?’

  The search team Logan had called in from FHQ made bulls in china shops look like ballet dancers, much to the distress of Ma Stewart, who stood at the epicentre of destruction shouting, ‘Be careful with that! It’s a family heirloom!’

  ‘Everything’s a family bloody heirloom,’ muttered a PC, sticking one of the millions of china dogs in a cardboard box.

  Ma turned pleading eyes on Logan. ‘Oh, do make them be careful!’

  ‘Find anything yet?’

  Rickards pointed at a pair of cardboard boxes sitting on top of a cleared desk. ‘Movies. Nothing too filthy, just the latest blockbusters, all stuff still in the cinema.’

  Logan gave Ma Stewart a chance to explain herself and she puffed up like a prize pigeon. ‘It’s for my old folks,’ she said with her nose in the air. ‘They can’t get out to the pictures, so I bring the magic of Hollywood to them. There’s nothing wrong with that!’

  ‘You know how long you can get for pirating movies? Kill someone you’d be out sooner. The Federation for Copyright Protection are like the Gestapo, only without the winning sense of humour.’

  ‘I didn’t pirate anything. I’m providing a service to the community—’

  ‘Have you checked the computers?’

  Rickards nodded. ‘Nothing,’

  ‘What about the basement?’

  ‘Isn’t one: I checked. But we. . .’ Rickards trailed off, following the invisible line between Logan’s pointing finger and one of the desks: a scuffed Formica-and-chipboard job, the sort of thing you could pick up cheap from B&Q or Argos. It sat on a big red, brown and pink rug with elephants round the edge. The constable stared at it for a minute, then admitted he didn’t have a clue what Logan was on about.

  ‘Desk’s been moved. Look at the rug: you see the dark red bit with the dimples round it? That’s where it normally sits. And the wall behind it: you can’t see half the calendar – it’s hidden behind the edge of the desk.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Ma, ‘we had a book on feng shui and they said—’

  Rickards grabbed a policewoman and got her to help shift the desk off to one side.

  ‘—bad luck to move it! It destroys the energy flow of the whole room! It—’

  The edge of the rug was rolled back, exposing the dark border between trapdoor and floorboard. ‘Of course,’ said Logan, as an embarrassed Rickards apologized, ‘it probably helps that I’ve raided this place before.’

  The basement didn’t quite stretch the length of Ma’s office. It was a claustrophobic space in white-painted concrete blocks, one end stacked floor to ceiling with cardboard boxes – cigarettes, whisky, wine, and for some unfathomable reason, nappies. The other side had been given over to a mini pirating empire – four PCs and a stack of DVD burners. It wasn’t even automatic: someone would have to manually change the disks. A small colour laser printer sat in the corner, a stack of labels sitting next to it, and a couple of boxes of blank DVDs.

  ‘I’m really just storing these things for someone else,’ said Ma with her best harmless-little-old-lady smile. ‘Now, would anyone like a nice cup of tea? We’ve got Eccles cakes.’

  Logan arrested her.

  40

  ‘You know,’ said Rickards when Ma had been processed and stuck in a cell, ‘I thought she’d be more . . . upset.’

  Logan snorted. ‘She’s used to it. We’ve been doing her for peddling porn for years. We arrest her, she won’t tell us who her suppliers are because, “naebody likes a clype”, goes up before the Sheriff and does her, “I’m just a confused old woman” routine, he takes pity on her, she gets a small fine, some community service – which she actually enjoys – and about a year later we’ll catch her doing the same thing, and it all goes round again.’ He shook his head. ‘The circle of porn.’

  ‘Do we—’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ DC Rennie, looking flustered and out of breath, ‘but DI Insch wants to see you in his office.’

  ‘Can it wait?’

  Rennie shifted uncomfortably. ‘Well, you see . . . there’s been another rape. . .’

  Logan closed his eyes. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘That’s not the worst part.’

  By the time Logan pushed through into the inspector’s office most of the shouting seemed to be over, but the air still crackled with pent-up fury. Insch’s face was a furious shade of purple, glowering at Jackie as she stood with her hands behind her back in front of his desk, flexing her fingers. The room’s other occupant was a uniformed PC, slumped in one of the visitor chairs, holding a big wodge of toilet paper to his nose and making groaning noise
s.

  ‘I was just—’ was as far as Jackie got, before Insch held up a fat finger.

  ‘Not another word!’ There was some mumbling from Mr Blood and Toilet Paper, but Insch wasn’t in the mood. ‘That goes for you too!’ Silence.

  Logan’s heart sank. It didn’t take a genius to work out what had happened. ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

  ‘About bloody time. Take this,’ pointing at Jackie, ‘and have a word with it. Tell it that it’s this bloody close to getting suspended and if it doesn’t pull its bloody socks up I WILL KICK ITS ARSE FROM HERE TO BALMORAL!’ Flashes of spittle arced through the stuffy office. He turned a baleful eye on Jackie. ‘Get out of my bloody sight!’

  She stood there, staring furiously at the carpet for a moment, then turned on her heel and pushed past Logan and out into the hall. Logan froze, looking from the inspector’s thunderous expression to PC Nosebleed, thought better of asking, and hurried out after Jackie, closing the door behind him as another tirade of abuse began.

  She was almost at the stairs by the time he caught up with her. ‘You want to fill me in?’

  ‘What the hell is wrong with everyone?’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ Then she started marching off again. ‘A woman’s been raped and he’s making jokes!’

  ‘So you clobbered him? Jackie, if he makes a complaint you’re going to get carpeted.’

  ‘One fucking night we’re not watching Macintyre. . .’

  Logan grabbed her. ‘Where, what happened?’

  She yanked her arm free of his grip. ‘Wendy Smith. Student nurse. She was eighteen. Finished her shift and Macintyre jumped her. Only this time the bastard beats and cuts her so badly she’s lost the sight in one eye. Her face looks like fucking strips of liver! Three hundred stitches! Three hundred! The people she worked with in A&E couldn’t even recognize her, and he gets a seven-figure book deal!’

  ‘Where? Where did it happen?’

  ‘Dun-fucking-dee. Same as usual. The little shite—’

  ‘Then it’s not him.’

  ‘Of course it’s him!’

  ‘IT CAN’T BE HIM!’ Losing it. Clenching his teeth to try and calm down. ‘We were there last time – remember? All night! He was at home when the last girl was raped: it’s on the video!’

  ‘It was him.’ She turned and made for the stairs.

  ‘How? How can it be him?’

  ‘It’s him!’

  This was pointless – like arguing with his mother – she was never going to admit she was wrong. Logan let her go.

  There was no way he was going straight home – not if she was in that kind of mood – so when the shift was over Logan asked if anyone wanted to go to the pub. No takers, not even Rennie.

  ‘Rehearsals. Come along, it’ll be fun. John’s coming, aren’t you?’

  Rickards nodded happily. ‘I’m prompting.’

  ‘Oh, well. . . Don’t worry about it. I’ll go see a film or something.’

  ‘No, come!’ Rennie made various theatrical gestures. ‘And then we can go get that curry we were talking about – lads’ night out!’

  Logan shrugged: why not?

  They marched up Union Street, with Rennie babbling on about how some plot in EastEnders was a parable for Othello.

  ‘So,’ said Rickards when Rennie managed to shut up for thirty seconds, ‘you got cornered by Tina last night.’

  ‘Tina?’ It took Logan a moment to figure out who he meant – Mrs Bottoms Wield The Power. ‘Yeah . . . she’s a little . . . intense.’

  ‘Yup, that’s our Tina. They’re not all that bad you know. She’s just a bit evangelical about the whole thing. Husband left her for a dental hygienist and she’s been on this self-empowerment trip ever since. Last year we got dragged along to see her in some bloody awful pantomime.’

  ‘Yeah, she said.’ They stopped at the lights on Union Terrace and watched the traffic grumble past. The day’s warmth was long gone and a cold wind whistled up Bridge Street, sending an old newspaper flapping drunkenly into the air like a dying seagull.

  ‘Be surprised how many people do both, you know: the scene and performing. Always thought about giving it a try myself. That’s how come I’m prompting. Next year—’

  ‘Hang on a second. . .’ Logan’s phone was ringing. According to the caller ID it was R TULLOCH – DPF. He stood, staring at the illuminated display as it rang, debating whether to take the call or pretend to be busy. Not really wanting to do either.

  Rennie: ‘You going to answer that then?’

  He’d speak to her. It wasn’t fair not to. He . . . the ringing stopped – it’d gone through to voicemail.

  Now he’d have to ring her back. ‘Shite.’ He dialled in and checked his messages. There was some hissing and clicking, then one from his mother he’d been avoiding for nearly a week – he skipped it; one from DI Steel about some stolen office equipment; and last but not least:

  ‘Hi, Logan? It’s me . . . er. . . Rachael. Look, I had a good time the other night and I wanted to know if. . .’ the volume dropped, as if she was muttering to herself. ‘Bloody hell, this was easier when I thought about it in the car. . . Look: dinner, tomorrow night. I’m making something scary out of an old Delia Smith book. Make it half-six, and you can keep me going with wine while I cook.’ A pause, then she remembered to leave him the address and hung up.

  Logan’s thumb hovered over the ‘delete’ button; now he had to call her back. ‘Fuck, fuck . . . fuck.’

  Rennie smiled at him. ‘Good news?’

  ‘Shut up.’ Logan stuck the phone back in his pocket, message intact, and trudged away to Insch’s rehearsal. Maybe a bit of very amateur dramatics would make returning Rachael’s call a bit easier. Or maybe he was just being a spineless bastard.

  He knew which one his money was on.

  41

  . . . and his eyes flickered open in the darkness, the dream coming to a sudden halt. Logan screwed up his face and peered out blearily from beneath the duvet – according to the clock radio it was nineteen minutes past four. No wonder it was cold: the heating had been off since half eleven.

  He stuck a hand out, feeling along the mattress for Jackie, finding nothing but a deep-frozen expanse of bed. Still not home yet. No change there then, she was never. . . A noise from the hall – probably the same one that had woken him – someone fiddling with the flat’s front door. Cursing quietly, he shivered out of bed, grabbed his trousers off the chair in the corner and pulled them on, followed by what felt like a sweatshirt, and padded barefoot out into the hall just in time to see the door swing open and a familiar figure bundle in from the stairwell. Jackie, wearing her cat burglar outfit.

  She clunked the door closed behind her, trembling as she peeled off her coat and gloves and headed for the kitchen.

  ‘Jackie?’

  She froze for a moment, not looking round, then carried on, stripping in front of the washing machine, throwing everything in – hat, scarf, jacket, gloves, shirt, trainers, trousers, underwear – then added a couple of detergent pouches and switched the thing on. The hiss of rushing water sounded in the kitchen. Arms wrapped round her pale, shivering body, she marched through to the bathroom without a word. Her knuckles were swollen and red.

  ‘Jackie? What’s going on?’

  Click: the shower power cord was pulled, then another click and the blow heater filled the bathroom with a deep whubwhubwhoooo and the faint smell of burning dust. The light came on, and Jackie’s pale skin fluoresced white as she clambered into the bath, goosepimples disappearing behind the blue plastic shower curtain. Wafts of steam billowed out into the cold room.

  Logan closed the door. ‘Jackie, what the hell happened? What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Her was voice muffled by the water, curtain and noisy heater, but he could still hear the tremor in it. ‘Nothing’s happened. If anyone asks, I was here all night.’
<
br />   Oh fuck. . .’ Jackie?’

  ‘All night, OK? We spent the night here. You and me.’

  ‘Jackie what happened?’

  ‘Nothing happened. I was here all night: remember?’

  ‘Jackie?’

  No answer. He hung around but she wouldn’t say anything else. As far as PC Jackie Watson was concerned, the matter was closed.

  DARKNESS

  42

  Logan was up and out as soon as the alarm went off. They’d spent the night back to back, Jackie smelling of the large whisky she’d poured herself after her shower, Logan staring at the alarm clock’s glowing numerals. Waiting for the night to be over.

  He was half an hour early for the start of his shift, sat in the CID office with a big waxed-paper cup of fancy coffee from the canteen and two buttered rowies, hoping the caffeine would kick in soon and make the world a better place. Knowing it was too much to hope for.

  ‘Right,’ said Steel when the morning briefing was over and they’d all done their best rendition of We Are Not At Home To Mr Fuck-Up, ‘what you got on just now?’

  Logan didn’t have to think about it for long. ‘Nothing much, all the big stuff’s with the PF’s office. Just wee things to tidy up. . .’ He finished off with a huge yawn.

  ‘Good. You can take a couple of days off – you look like shite and the DCS’s been nagging me about the overtime bill. Like I care!’ Which was fair enough; he’d spent most of his three days off in the office anyway, so as far as Logan was concerned he was due some time in lieu. Steel got her cigarettes out, one winding its way into her gob where it bobbed and wove unlit while she talked. ‘When you come back we’ll take a look at some hate-mail wee Sean Morrison’s parents been getting.’

  ‘Hate-mail?’

  ‘Aye, well, nothing special. “Your kid’s a murderin’ wee shite”, that kind of thing. Just some arsehole blowin’ off steam. Meantime, finish up anything you’ve not done and fuck off out of it.’