Cold Granite (12 page)

He grabbed a pint of orange juice and a couple of butteries at the nearest newsagents before pushing his way through the back door of police headquarters and into the dry. The desk sergeant looked up at him as Logan shook himself on the way to the lifts.

'Morning, Lazarus.'

Logan pretended not to hear him.

The briefing room smel ed of strong coffee, stale beer and hangovers. The turn-out was one hundred percent, which surprised Logan. Even the vomiting, stripping Constable Steve was sitting up at the back, looking decidedly unwel .

Logan, clutching a stack of photocopied posters of the dead girl, found a seat as close to the front as he could and sat waiting for DI Insch to start things off. The Inspector had asked him to stand up this morning and tel everyone exactly how little they knew about the four-year-old child discovered at the Nigg tip yesterday.

He looked up from his photocopies to see WPC Watson - Jackie - smiling at him. He smiled back. Now that he'd had a bit of time to work the panic out of his system he was beginning to like the idea. It had been four months since he and Isobel had gone their separate ways. It would be nice to start seeing someone again. Soon as the briefing was over he was going to ask DI Insch to assign him a different bodyguard. Surely no one could complain about him seeing her if they weren't working together.

He smiled over at WPC Jackie Watson, her lovely legs hidden beneath a pair of regulation black trousers. She smiled back. Al was wel with the world.

Logan suddenly became aware that everyone was smiling at him, not just WPC Jackie Watson.

'In your own time, Sergeant.'

He snapped his head around to see DI Insch staring at him. 'Er, yes. Thank you, sir.' He pul ed himself out of his seat and over to the desk Insch was sitting on, hoping he didn't look as embarrassed as he felt.

'Yesterday at four p.m. one Andrea Murray, head of Social Studies at Kincorth Academy, cal ed 999 to report the discovery of a human foot sticking out of a bin-bag at the Nigg tip. The foot belongs to an unidentified four-year-old girl: Caucasian, long blonde hair, blue eyes.' He handed a wad of photocopied sheets to the nearest person and told them to take one and pass it on. Each sheet was the same: a photograph from the morgue, full face, eyes closed, her cheeks lined where the packing tape had been. 'Our kil er tried to hack up the body for disposal, but didn't have the stomach to go through with it.'

There were rumblings of disgust from the men and women fil ing the briefing room.

'That means...' Logan had to raise his voice. 'That means this was probably his first time.

If he'd kil ed before it wouldn't have been a problem.'

Silence settled back in and Insch nodded approvingly.

Logan handed out a second set of copies. 'This is the statement of Norman Chalmers.

We arrested him last night on suspicion of murder after WPC Watson found evidence linking him to the bin-bag the body was dumped in.'

Someone slapped her on the shoulder and WPC Jackie Watson smiled.

'However,' continued Logan, 'we have a problem. Forensics found no sign of the girl ever having been in Chalmers's house. If he didn't take her there, where did he take her?

'I want one team to go through Mr Chalmers's dealings with a fine-tooth comb. Does he rent a garage? Is he housesitting for anyone? Does he have any relatives, recently taken into care, who've left him in charge of the family home? Does he work somewhere he could stash a body without arousing attention?'

There were nods al round the room.

'Next team: door-to-door al over Rosemount. Who was she? How did Chalmers get hold of her?' A hand was raised and Logan pointed at its owner. 'Yes?'

'How come the kid's no been reported missing yet?'

Logan nodded. 'Good question. A four-year-old girl, missing for at least twenty-four hours, and no one bothers to call the police? That's not right. This,' he said, handing around the last set of photocopied sheets, 'is a list from Social Services of al families on the register in Aberdeen, with a child matching the age and sex of our victim. Team three: this is your job. I want each and every family on this list questioned. Make sure you see the kid. We're not taking anyone's word for anything. OK?'

Silence.

'OK. Teams.' Logan set up three four-man teams and sent them off to get started. The rest of the room shifted in their seats, chatting as the 'volunteers' shuffled out.

'Listen up,' said Insch. He didn't have to raise his voice: as soon as he opened his mouth everyone shut up. 'We've had a sighting of a child matching Richard's description getting into a dark red hatchback. Other witnesses claim to have seen a similar car hanging about the neighbourhood over the last few months. Chances are our pervert was staking out the area.' He stopped to look round the room, making sure he made eye contact with every person there.

'Richard Erskine has now been missing for twenty-two hours. Even if some scumbag hasn't grabbed him, it was pissing down and close to freezing last night. His chances aren't good. That means we have to look harder and faster. We wil turn this whole bloody city upside down if we need to, but we wil find him.'

You could almost smel the determination in the room, just under the cloying funk of hungover constables.

Insch read out the search team rosters and settled back on the desk as they exited the room. As Logan hung back for his instructions he saw the inspector cal Steve the Naked Drunkard over, holding him back until everyone else was gone. Then he began to talk in a voice so low Logan couldn't hear a word of it, but he could guess what was being said. The young constable's face started out flushed and swiftly turned a frightened shade of grey.

'Right,' said Insch at last, nodding his large, bald head at the trembling constable. 'You go wait outside.'

Steve the Stripper trudged out, head down, looking as if he'd been slapped.

When the door closed, Insch beckoned Logan over. 'I've got a Noddy job for you this morning,' he said, pul ing a family-sized bag of chocolate-covered raisins out of his suit pocket.

He fumbled about trying to open it before giving up and using his teeth. 'Bloody glue these things shut...' Insch spat out a corner of plastic and poked a finger into the hole he'd made.

'We've been asked to provide police support for the council's environmental health team.'

Logan tried not to groan. 'You're kidding me?'

'Nope. They need to serve notice and the bloke doing it is a nervous wee shite. He's convinced he's going to get murdered if we're not there to hold his hand. The Chief Constable wants us to be accessible. That means we have to be seen to be giving the council al the support it needs.' He pointed the hole in the top of the chocolate raisins in Logan's direction.

'But, sir,' said Logan, politely refusing - the things looked too much like huge rat droppings for his hungover stomach, 'couldn't uniform do this?'

Insch nodded and Logan could have sworn he saw an evil glint in the older man's eye.

'Yes indeed. In fact a uniform is going to do this. You're going along to supervise.' He shook a mound of droppings into the palm of his hand and tossed them back. 'That's one of the privileges of rank: you supervise those further down the tree.'

There was a meaningful pause that completely passed Logan by.

'Wel ,' said Insch, shooing him towards the door. 'Off you go.'

Stil wondering what that had been about, Logan left the briefing room. DI Insch sat on the desk, grinning like a maniac. It wouldn't take long before the penny dropped.

A worried-looking Constable Steve was waiting in the corridor. His face had regained a little bit of its colour and was now an unhealthy reddish-green rather than pale grey; but he stil looked dreadful. His eyes were pink with bloodshot veins, his breath reeked of extra strong mints, but it wasn't enough to disguise the alcohol oozing out of his pores.

'Sir,' he said, giving a sickly, nervous smile. 'I don't think I should drive, sir.' He hung his head. 'Sorry, sir.'

Logan raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth. Then shut it again. This must be the uniform he was supposed to supervise.

They were riding the lift down to the ground floor when Constable Steve disintegrated.

'How the hel did he know?' he asked, slumping in the corner with his head in his hands.

'Everything. He knew bloody everything!'

Logan could feel dread stomping down his spine. 'Everything?' Did the inspector know he'd got pissed and slept with WPC Watson?

Constable Steve moaned.

'He knew we'd been thrown out of the pub, he knew al about the getting naked...' he looked up at Logan with pitiful pink eyes: like a vivisectioned rabbit. 'He says I'm lucky he didn't just fire me! Oh God...'

For a moment it looked as if he was going to burst into tears. Then the lift went: 'ping'

and the doors slid open onto the car park where a couple of uniformed officers were wrestling a hairy bloke in jeans and a T-shirt out of the back of a patrol car. The man's T-shirt bore a lovely upside-down Christmas tree of blood. His nose was flattened and smeared.

'Buncha fuckin' bastards!' He lunged towards Logan, but the PC holding him wasn't about to let go. 'Fuckin' bastards wis askin' fer it!' Some of his teeth were missing too.

'Sorry, sir,' said the PC, holding him back.

Logan told him it was OK and led PC Steve away through the car park. They could have gone out through reception, but he didn't want anyone else seeing the pink-eyed constable in his current state. And anyway, the council buildings weren't that far away: a walk in the open air would do Steve the world of good.

Outside, the drizzle was refreshing after the oppressive heat of police headquarters.

They both stood on the ramp that wound from the rear of the building down to the street with their faces to the rain and stayed that way until a car horn made them jump.

The patrol car flashed its lights. Logan and the hungover PC waved an apology and walked around the side of Force HQ. Outside the Sheriff Court the protesters were already gathering, clutching their banners and placards, desperate for a glimpse of Gerald Cleaver. And an opportunity to string him up from the nearest lamppost.

The Nervous Wee Shite was waiting for them at the main council buildings, shifting from foot to foot, peering at his watch the whole time as if it was going to run off if left unsupervised for more than thirty seconds at a time. He gave PC Steve a worried look and then extended a hand for Logan to shake. 'Sorry to keep you waiting,' he said, even though he'd been standing there long before they arrived.

They exchanged introductions, but Logan had forgotten the man's name within thirty seconds of hearing it.

'Shal we get going?' The forgettable man stopped, fussed with a large leather folder, checked his watch again, and led them off towards a Ford Fiesta that looked in need of the last rites.

Logan sat in the passenger seat next to Mr Nervous, making PC Steve sit in the back, behind the driver. One: he didn't want the council's environmental health 'Danger Man' getting a good look at the bloody state the constable was in; and two: if PC Steve decided to throw up again, it wouldn't be al over the back of Logan's head.

Al the way across town their driver kept up a running commentary on what a terrible thing it was to work for the council, but how he couldn't escape to another job because he'd lose al his benefits. Logan tuned him out, just popping back up to the surface with the odd

'Sounds terrible,' and 'I know how you feel,' to keep the man happy. Instead he sat looking out of the window at the grey streets drifting slowly past.

Rush hour was getting to the point at which everyone who should have left for work half an hour ago suddenly realized they were going to be late. Here and there some daft soul sat behind the wheel, cigarette clenched between their teeth, with the window wound down.

Letting the smoke out and the drizzle in. Logan watched them with envy.

He was beginning to get the feeling DI Insch had been tel ing him something with that whole 'Privilege of Rank' speech. Something unpleasant. He ran a slow hand over his forehead, feeling the swol en lump of his brain through the skin.

It was no surprise that Insch had read Steve the riot act. The drunken PC could have caused the whole force a lot of embarrassment. Logan could see the headlines now: 'Naked Copper Showed Me His Truncheon!' If he were Steve's superior officer he'd have given him a bollocking too.

And that was when the penny dropped. Insch had said it right to his face: 'That's one of the privileges of rank: you supervise those further down the tree.' He was a detective sergeant, Steve a constable. They'd al gone out and got pissed and Logan hadn't done a bloody thing to stop the PC getting blootered and bol ock-naked.

Logan groaned.

This assignment was as much a punishment for him as it was for Steve.

Twenty-five minutes later they were climbing out of the Nervous Wee Shite's car in front of a dilapidated farm steading, the first outlying arm of a rambling croft on the outskirts of Cults. What little road there was disappeared into the undergrowth. A rundown farmhouse sulked at the end of the track, its grey stone weeping in the neverending rain. Derelict farm buildings sprawled around it, set in a wasteland of hip-deep grass and weeds. Ragwort and docken stuck up through the vegetation, their stems and leaves rust-brown beneath the winter sky. Two windows poked out of the building's slate roof like an empty, hostile stare. Below, a faded red door bore a big painted number six. Each of the rambling steadings had a number scrawled on them in white paint. Every surface was slick with the misty rain, reflecting back the flat, grey daylight.

'Homely,' said Logan, in an attempt to break the ice. And then he smel ed it. 'Oh Jesus!'

He slapped a hand over his mouth and nose.

It was the cloying, reeking stink of corruption. Of meat left for too long in the sun.

The smel of death.

11

PC Steve lurched once, twice, and charged into the bushes to be noisily and copiously sick.