Cold granite lm-1

by Stuart MacBride

  'Over there,' said the pointy-faced desk sergeant.

  Colin Miller, the Press and Journal's new golden boy from Glasgow, was standing over by the wanted posters. He wore a long black tailored raincoat that dripped steadily onto the tiled floor while he copied down details into a small palm computer.

  Miller turned and grinned as Logan approached. 'Laz!' he said, sticking out a hand. 'Good tae see you again. Love what you've done with the place.' He swept a hand round to indicate the steamy, cramped reception area with its soggy visitors and steamy windows.

  'My name's DS McRae. Not "Laz".'

  Colin Miller winked. 'Oh, I know. I've done me some diggin' since we met in the bogs yesterday. That wee WPC of yours is a bit tasty, byraway. She can bang me up any time, if you know what I mean.' He gave Logan another wink.

  'What do you want, Mr Miller?'

  'Me? I wanted tae take my favourite detective sergeant out for lunch.'

  'It's three o'clock,' said Logan, suddenly aware that, except for a bar of chocolate and a couple of butteries, he'd not had a thing to eat since WPC Watson's bacon buttie this morning. And he'd left that splattered all over the grass at Roadkill's house of horrors. He was starving.

  Miller shrugged. 'So it's a late lunch. High tea…' He cast a theatrical eye round the reception and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. 'We might be able to help each other out. Could be I know somethin' you could use.' Miller stood back and beamed again. 'What d'you say? The paper's buyin'?'

  Logan thought about it. There were strict rules about accepting gifts. The modern police force was at great pains to make sure no one could point the finger of corruption in their direction. Colin Miller was the last person he wanted to spend more time with. But then again, if Miller did have information…And he was starving.

  'You're on,' he said.

  *

  They'd found a corner booth in a little restaurant down in the Green. While Miller ordered a bottle of chardonnay and the tagliatelle with smoked haddock and peppers, Logan contented himself with a glass of mineral water and the lasagne. And some garlic bread. And a side salad.

  'Jesus, Laz,' said Miller, watching him tear into the breadbasket and butter. 'Don't they feed you lot?'

  'Logan,' said Logan, round a mouthful of bread. 'Not "Laz". Logan.'

  Miller leaned back in his seat and swirled his glass of white wine, watching the colours sparkle. 'I don't know,' he said. 'Like I said: I did some diggin'. Lazarus isn't a bad nickname for someone who's come back from the dead.'

  'I didn't come back from the dead.'

  'Aye you did. 'Cording to your medical reports you were dead for about five minutes.'

  Logan frowned. 'How do you know what's in my medical reports?'

  Miller shrugged. 'It's my job to know things, Laz. Like I know you found a dead child in the tip yesterday. Like I know you've got someone banged up for it already. Like I know you and the chief pathologist used to be an item.'

  Logan stiffened.

  Miller held up a hand. 'Easy, tiger. Like I said: it's ma job to know things.'

  The waiter arrived with their pasta and the mood eased a little. Logan found it difficult to fume and eat at the same time.

  'You said you had something for me,' he said, shoving salad into his mouth.

  'Aye. Your lot dragged a body out the harbour yesterday wi' his knees hacked off.'

  Logan took a look at the mound of quivering lasagne on his fork. The meat sauce glistened back at him, red and dripping, the pale-cream pasta poking through like slivers of bone. But his stomach wasn't about to be put off. 'And?' he asked, chewing.

  'And you don't know who he is: Mr No-Knees.'

  'And you do?'

  Miller picked up his wineglass and did the swirling trick again. 'Oh aye,' he said. 'Like I said: it's ma job.'

  Logan waited, but Miller just took a slow sip.

  'So who is it?' Logan said at last.

  'Well, now, that's where we can start helpin' each other, you know?' Miller smiled at him. 'I know some things and you know other things. You tell me your things and I tell you mine. End of the day we're both better off.'

  Logan put his fork down. He had known this was coming from the moment the reporter asked him out to lunch. 'You know that I can't tell you anything.' He pushed his plate away.

  'I know you can tell me a lot more than you tell the rest of the media. I know you can give me the inside track. You can do that.'

  'I thought you already had someone to feed you titbits.' Now that he wasn't eating any more Logan could concentrate on getting angry.

  Miller shrugged and twisted a long ribbon of pasta onto his fork. 'Aye, but you're better placed to help me, Laz. You're the man on the scene, like. And before you go stormin' off all huffy, remember: this is a trade. You tell me things, I tell you things. Them bastards should've made you a DI for catchin' that Angus Robertson. Man kills fifteen women an' you catch him single-handed? Shite, you should'a got a medal, man.' He twirled another piece of tagliatelle, loading it up with slivers of smoked fish. ''Stead of which they give you a pat on the back. You get a reward? Did you bollocks.' Miller leaned forward, pointing his fork at Logan. 'You ever thought of writing a book about it?' he asked. 'You could get yourself a fuckin' huge advance on that: serial-killer rapist stalks the streets, no one can lay a finger on him, then up pops DS McRae!' Miller waved his fork around like a conductor's baton as he got into the spirit, the tagliatelle unravelling as he spoke. 'The DS and the brave pathologist track down the killer, only he grabs her! Rooftop showdown: blood, battle, near-fatal injury. Killer gets sent down for thirty to life. Applause and curtain.' He grinned and stuffed the remaining pasta into his mouth. 'Bloody great story. Have to move quick, but, Joe Public doesnae have a long memory. I've got contacts. I can help. Shite, you deserve it!'

  He dropped the fork on his plate and dug about in his jacket pocket, coming out with a small wallet.

  'Here,' he said, pulling out a dark blue business card. 'You give Phil a call and tell him I sent you. He'll set you up with a fuckin' good deal, man. Best literary agent in London, I'm tellin' you. Done me proud.' He placed the card in the middle of the table, facing Logan. 'That's free byraway. A token of good will.'

  Logan said thank you. But left the card sitting where it was.

  'What I want from you,' said Miller, going back to his pasta. 'Is what's goin' on with all these dead kiddies. The fuckin' Press Office are givin' out the usual shite: no details. Nothin' meaty.'

  Logan nodded. It was standard practice: if you told the media everything they printed it, or staged reconstructions of it, or debated it on live television. Then all the nutters under the sun would be phoning up, claiming they were the new Mastrick Monster, or whatever trite nickname the press were going to give the man who abducted, killed and mutilated little boys before abusing their corpses. If nothing was kept secret there'd be no way of knowing if a call was genuine.

  'Now, I know wee David Reid was strangled,' Miller went on, but that much was common knowledge. 'I know he was abused.' Again nothing new there. 'I know the sick bastard hacked off the kid's dick with a pair of scissors.'

  Logan sat bolt upright. 'How the hell did you know-'

  'I know he stuffed something up the kid's bum. Probably couldn't get his own dick up, so he has to use-'

  'Who told you all this?'

  Miller did his shrug and wine glass routine again. 'Like I said: it's-'

  '-your job,' Logan finished for him. 'Sounds like you don't need any help from me.'

  'What I want to know is what's goin' on in the investigation, Laz. I want to know what you lot are doin' to catch the bastard.'

  'We are pursuing several lines of enquiry.'

  'Dead wee boy on Sunday, dead wee girl on Monday, two wee boys snatched. You got a serial killer on the loose.'

  'There's no evidence the cases are connected.'

  Miller sat back, sighed and poured himself another glass of chardonnay. 'OK, so you d
on't trust me yet,' said the reporter. 'I can understand that. So I'll do you a favour, just so's you know I'm a good guy. That bloke you dragged out the harbour, the one with no knees, his name was George Stephenson. Geordie to his friends.'

  'Go on.'

  'He was an enforcer for Malk the Knife. Heard of him?'

  Logan had. Malk the Knife: AKA Malcolm McLennan. Edinburgh's leading importer of guns, drugs and Lithuanian prostitutes. He'd turned himself semi-legitimate about three years ago, if you could call property development that. McLennan Homes had bought up big chunks of land on the outskirts of Edinburgh and covered them with little boxy houses. Recently he'd been sniffing around Aberdeen, looking to get into the property game here before the arse fell out of the market. Going up against the local boys. Only Malk the Knife didn't play the game like the local developers. He played hard and he played for keeps. And no one had ever been able to lay a finger on him. Not Edinburgh CID, not Aberdeen, not anyone.

  'Well,' said Miller, 'it seems Geordie was up here making sure Malkie got planning permission for his latest building scheme. Three hundred houses on greenbelt between here and Kingswells. Bit of the old bribery and corruption. Only Geordie has the bad luck to run into a planner that isn't bent.' He sat back and nodded. 'Aye, that came as a bit of a surprise tae me too. Didnae think there was any of the buggers left. Anyway, the planner says, "Get ye behind me Satan" and that's just what Geordie does.' Miller held up his hands and made pushing gestures. 'Right in front of the number two fourteen to Westhill. Splat!'

  Logan raised an eyebrow. He'd read about someone from the council falling under a bus, but there was never any suggestion it was anything other than an accident. The poor sod was in intensive care at the hospital. They didn't expect him to see Christmas.

  Miller winked. 'It gets better,' he said. 'Word is Geordie's got a bit of a problem with the horses. He's been spreading bets round the local bookies like butter. Big money. Only his luck's for shite. Now your Aberdeen bookie's no as…entrepreneurial as the ones down south, but they're no exactly Telly Tubbies. Next thing you know Geordie's floatin' face down in the harbour an' someone's hacked off his kneecaps with a machete.' The reporter sat back and swigged a mouthful of wine, grinning at Logan. 'Now is that no worth something to you?'

  Logan had to admit that it was.

  'Right then,' said Miller, settling his elbows on the tabletop. 'Your turn.' Logan walked back into Force Headquarters looking as if someone had shoved the winning lottery ticket into his hand. The rain had even let up, allowing him to walk all the way from the Green to the huge Queen Street station without getting wet.

  Insch was still in the incident room, giving orders and taking reports. From the look of things they'd had no joy in locating either Richard Erskine or Peter Lumley. The thought of those two little kids, out there, probably dead, took the edge off Logan's good mood. He had no business grinning like a loon.

  He cornered the inspector and asked him who was in charge of the missing kneecaps case.

  'Why?' asked Insch, his large face full of suspicion.

  'Because I've got a couple of leads for them.'

  'Oh aye?'

  Logan nodded, the grin seeping back onto his face as he repeated what Colin Miller had told him over lunch. When he'd finished Insch looked impressed.

  'Where the hell did you get all this?' he asked.

  'Colin Miller. The journalist from the Press and Journal. The one you told me not to piss off.'

  Insch's expression became unreadable. 'I said don't piss him off. I didn't say anything about climbing into bed with him.'

  'What? I didn't-'

  'Is this the first little chat you and this Colin Miller have had, Sergeant?'

  'I'd never seen him before yesterday.'

  Insch scowled at him, keeping silent; waiting for Logan to jump in and fill the uncomfortable pause with something incriminating.

  'Look, sir,' said Logan, unable to stop himself. 'He came to me. You can ask the front desk. He told me he had something that would help us.'

  'And what did you have to give him in return?'

  There was another pause, this one even more uncomfortable.

  'He wanted me to tell him about the investigation into the abductions and killings.'

  Insch stared at him. 'And did you?'

  'I…I told him I'd have to run any information past you first, sir.'

  At this DI Insch smiled. 'Good lad.' He pulled a bag of wine gums out of his pocket and offered them to Logan. 'But if I find out you're telling me lies I'll break you.'

  13

  Logan's free lunch had turned into rampant indigestion. He'd lied to DI Insch and hoped to God he wasn't going to get found out. After Colin Miller had told him all about the man with no kneecaps, Logan had reciprocated, detailing the missing child investigations. He'd been convinced he was doing good: establishing a rapport with an informant, building bridges with the local press. But Insch had acted as if he was selling secrets to the enemy. Logan had asked Insch for permission to tell Miller everything he'd already told him. And in the end Insch had agreed. God help him if the inspector ever found out the exchange had happened before he'd given the OK.

  Someone else Logan didn't want finding that out was the inspector from Professional Standards, currently sitting on the opposite side of the interview room table, dressed in an immaculate black uniform. All parallel creases and shiny buttons. Inspector Napier: thinning ginger hair and a nose like a bottle opener. Asking lots and lots of questions about Logan's return to the force, his recuperation, his status as police hero, and his lunch with Colin Miller.

  Smiling sincerely, Logan lied for all he was worth.

  Half an hour later he was back in his commandeered office, looking up at the map on the wall, rubbing at the burning sensation sitting in the middle of his chest. Trying not to think about getting fired.

  The blue business card Miller had given him was sitting in his top pocket. Maybe the reporter was right. Maybe he did deserve better than this. Maybe he could write a book about Angus Robertson: Catching the Mastrick Monster. It had a kind of ring to it…

  WPC Watson had been in while he was out having lunch, leaving a fresh stack of printouts next to his witness statements. Criminal and civil records of everyone on his list. Logan sifted through it, not liking what he found. Not one of them had form for kidnapping, killing and disposing of young girls' bodies in a bin-bag.

  But Watson had been thorough. For each person she'd provided a break-down by age, telephone number, place of birth, national insurance number, occupation, length of time they'd lived at their current address. He had no idea how she'd managed to get hold of all this stuff. Just a shame none of it was of any use.

  Rosemount had always been something of a cultural melting pot and that was reflected in Watson's list: Edinburgh, Glasgow, Aberdeen, Inverness, Newcastle…There was even a couple from the Isle of Man. Now that was exotic.

  Sighing, he pulled the stack of statements over again, the ones he'd marked as being close enough to number seventeen to share a wheelie-bin. He read the bio WPC Watson had produced and then re-read the corresponding statement, trying to get some picture of them from their words. It wasn't easy: every time uniform took a statement they put it into police-statement-speak, a sort of bizarre, stilted English that was so far removed from the way people really spoke it was almost laughable.

  'I proceeded to work that morning,' Logan read aloud, 'having first removed the rubbish bag from my kitchen and placed it into the communal bin outside the building…' Who the hell spoke like that? Normal people 'went to work': 'proceeding to work' was something only policemen did.

  He turned back to the front page of the statement to see who had been so weirdly misquoted. The name was sort of familiar: someone from Norman Chalmers's building. Anderson…Logan smiled. It was the man whose bell they'd rung so that they could get into the building without Chalmers knowing. The one WPC Watson thought was up to something.

  Ac
cording to her write-up Mr Cameron Anderson was in his mid-twenties and hailed from Edinburgh: which explained why he had a first name like Cameron. He worked for a firm of sub-sea engineers making remote operated vehicles for the oil industry. Somehow Logan could picture the nervous young man fiddling about with little remote-controlled submarines.

  The next person on the list wasn't much more help and neither was the one after that, but he worked his way slowly through them anyway. If the killer was here they didn't jump off the page and tell him about it.

  Finally Logan put the last statement on top of the pile and stretched, feeling his back pop and crack. A yawn threatened to tear his head in half and he let it rip, ending with a tiny, almost inaudible, burp. It was a quarter to seven and Logan had been poring over these damned statements for most of the day. It was time to go home.

  Out in the hallway the building was quiet. The bulk of the administrative work got done during the day and after the admin staff went home the place was a lot less noisy. Logan stopped off at the incident room to see if anything had happened while he'd been cloistered in the office looking at statements.

  There was a small contingent of uniform in the room: two of them answering the phone while the remaining two got on with filing the reports generated by the last shift. He wasn't surprised to hear they'd had exactly the same amount of success as him. Bugger all.

  Still no sign of Richard Erskine, no sign of Peter Lumley, and no one had come forward to identify the little girl lying on a slab in the morgue.

  'You still here, Lazarus?'

  Logan turned to find Big Gary standing behind him, a couple of mugs in one hand and a packet of Penguin biscuits in the other. The large policeman nodded in the direction of the lifts. 'We've got someone downstairs looking for whoever's in charge of the missing kid investigation. I thought you was all away.'

  'Who is it?' Logan asked.

  'Says he's the new kid's stepfather.'

  Logan groaned. It wasn't that he didn't want to help, it was just that he wanted to go find WPC Watson and discover whether or not they'd had sex last night. And if they had, was she up for a rematch?