Cold Granite (25 page)

So, al in al , life was OK. A bit of money in the bank, mates at work and a new girlfriend who wasn't shy about letting him get his hand up her jumper.

And then came the offer of overtime. He should have said no, but more cash meant a season ticket to the footbal . Matthew lived for Aberdeen Footbal Club. Which was why he was now dressed in a blue plastic boiler suit, black Wel ington boots, thick black rubber gloves, safety goggles and a breathing mask. The only skin showing was where his forehead didn't quite fit under the boiler suit's elasticated hood. He looked like something out of the X-Files and was sweating like a bastard.

The sleet pounding down out of the dark grey sky didn't make any difference to the sweat running down his back and into his boxers. But there was no way in hel he was taking the damn rubber rompersuit off!

Grunting, he lifted the shovel up to shoulder height and stuffed another load of rotting carcasses into the huge waste container. Everything stank of death. Even through the breathing mask he could smel it. Rotting meat. Vomit. He'd lost his breakfast and lunch yesterday. Not today though. Today he'd kept his Weetabix where they were supposed to be.

Al bloody day yesterday and al bloody day today. And from the look of it al bloody day tomorrow. Shovel ing up dead animals.

The filthy bastard who owned the place was standing in the doorway to one of the steadings, the one they'd cleared out yesterday. He didn't seem to notice the sleet either, just stood there in a ratty jumper looking miserable as his sicko col ection was carted away.

Matthew had seen his dad's paper this morning. Some parents in Garthdee had beaten the shite out of the bloke for hanging round their kids' school. The man's face was a patchwork of purple-and-green bruises. Served him fucking right, thought Matthew as he trudged back through the sleet for another shovelful of rotting corpses.

They were almost halfway through the pile in this building. One-and-a-half down, one-and-a-half to go. Then it would be a long shower, a season ticket and drinking til he puked. He was going to get so wasted when this was over!

Thinking such happy thoughts, Matthew rammed his shovel into the mound of festering meat and fur. The pile slithered and slipped as he worked. Cats and dogs and seagul s and crows and fuck knows what else. Gritting his teeth, he hefted the mound of dead things on the end of his shovel. And then he saw it.

Matthew opened his mouth to say something - to cal over the nervous bloke from the council who was supposed to be running things here, tel him what he'd found. But what came out was a high-pitched scream.

He dropped his shovelful of dead things and raced outside, slipping, slithering, fal ing to his knees; ripping off his breathing mask, throwing up his Weetabix into the snow.

Logan was parked on the other side of the road from the Turf 'n Track, watching the betting shop through the sleet and a pair of binoculars. The weather was horrendous. The delicate fal of snow he'd seen this morning had let up for a while and then this had started.

Thick globs of sleet hammering down out of the filthy sky, cold and wet and treacherous. It was already getting dark.

He'd phoned every health authority in the country, asking them for details of any little girls they'd treated for TB in the last four years. Like DI Insch he was optimistic; this should be a straightforward bit of policing. She'd had TB and now she was better. Which meant that she must have been treated at one of the health authorities. She'd be on their books. And Logan would have a name.

The latest jingly jangly tune finished on the radio and the DJ announced the mid-

afternoon news. Logan stuffed an extra strong mint into his mouth and turned it up slightly.

'Closing arguments continue today in the case of Gerald Cleaver, the fifty-six-year-old from Manchester accused of sexual abuse while working as a male nurse at Aberdeen Children's Hospital. With almost three weeks of testimony behind them, most of which has been extremely graphic and disturbing, the jury is expected to retire late tomorrow evening. Police security has been stepped up fol owing a number of threats to Cleaver's life. Cleaver's lawyer, Mr Moir-Farquharson, who has himself been the target of death threats during the trial, was assaulted two nights ago when someone threw a bucket of pig's blood over him.'

Logan gave a smal cheer and a one-man Mexican wave in the driver's seat of the rusty pool car.

'I wil not be intimidated by the work of a tiny, misdirected, minority.' The new voice was Sandy the Snake's. 'We have to make sure that justice is done here--'

Logan drowned out the rest with booing and loud raspberries.

There was movement across the road and he sat up straight, peering through his binoculars. The front door to the shop opened and Desperate Doug stuck his head out, took one look at the weather and stuck his head back in again. Thirty seconds later Winchester, the large Alsatian who'd been desperate to take a chunk out of Logan yesterday, was unceremoniously booted out into the sleet. The dog tried to get back in, was belted with Dougie's walking stick, then stood dejected as the door closed in its face. It stayed there for a minute, the sleet soaking into its greying fur, staring at the shop and then loped down the concrete steps into the car park. It circled a few times: sniffing the lampposts, the metal banister, peeing on some, ignoring others. Then at last it bunched its backend in under itself and gingerly coiled a huge turd in the middle of the car park.

That done, it turned and barked its head off at the Turf 'n Track's front door until Desperate Doug got up to let it in again. Two steps inside the betting shop and the Alsatian shook itself dry, sending a flurry of water and melting sleet al over its owner.

Suddenly Logan liked the dog a lot more. He settled back in his seat and let the radio's music wash over him.

A rust-green estate car lurched past his window, turned right into the smal col ection of shops, and slid to a halt in the newly beturded car park. It was the same car WPC Watson had hurled al that abuse at. Logan sighed. He was back to thinking of her as WPC Watson. Not Jackie of the Lovely Legs any more. And al because he had to tel her off for swearing at the driver of that ruddy car.

The estate car's driver rummaged about for something on the back seat, then hopped out clutching a plastic carrier bag and nearly fel on his backside in the slush. He had the col ar of his jacket turned up and a newspaper held over his shaved head, trying to keep the worst of the weather off. He slipped and slid his way up the disabled ramp to the bookies.

Logan frowned and turned the binoculars on the newcomer as he pushed his way through the door into the shop. The man's ears were festooned with piercings and he had a haunted look that was instantly recognizable: Duncan Nicholson. The same Duncan Nicholson who'd just happened to fal over the murdered body of a three-year-old boy. In a waterlogged ditch, hidden beneath a sheet of chipboard in the dark, in the pouring rain.

'What are you doing here, you little toerag?' Logan asked himself quietly.

Mastrick wasn't local for Nicholson. He lived in the Bridge of Don, wel across the city.

Big journey to make on a shitty day like this.

And then there was that carrier bag. Or what was in it.

'I wonder...'

But Logan's trail of thought was shattered as the police radio spluttered into life. They'd found another body.

It was dark by the time Logan reached the farm on the outskirts of Cults. The gate was open, a patrol car parked next to it containing a pair of unhappy-looking constables, just visible through the fogged-up windscreen. They were blocking access to the farm road. Logan pulled up next to them and rol ed down his window. The PC in the driver's seat did the same.

'Afternoon, sir,'

'What's the story?'

'DI Insch is here, so's the Fiscal. Duty doctor's just arrived. IB are stuck in traffic. And there's about six blokes from the council in one of the steadings. We had to restrain them from kil ing the property's owner.'

'Roadkil ?'

'Yup. He's holed up in the farmhouse with Insch. The inspector doesn't want him going anywhere til death's been declared.'

Logan nodded and started to wind up his window. The sleet was beginning to blow into the car.

'Sir?' asked the PC behind the wheel of the patrol car. 'Is it true we had him in custody last night and let him go?'

Logan felt a sickening lurch in the pit of his stomach. He'd been thinking the same thing ever since he'd heard. Worrying al the way over from Mastrick. They'd released Roadkil without charge and now another child was dead. He'd even given the guy a lift!

The sleet was thickening, turning into flurries of real snow as Logan slithered the pool car up the rutted driveway towards Roadkil 's farm. The steadings loomed out of the dark, the car's headlights picking out the open doors.

Blue police tape was stretched across the doorway of steading number two. The one they'd been emptying today.

Logan pulled up behind the duty doctor's car. There was another patrol car here, empty this time. Its occupants would be taking statements from the guys who'd found the body.

Stopping them from tearing Roadkil to pieces. The only car not parked next to the snow-shrouded waste containers was DI Insch's Range Rover. The big four-by-four was the only one that could handle the rutted drive in the snow. It was abandoned in front of the farmhouse. A faint yel ow light flickered in one of the downstairs windows.

Logan looked from the steading with its warning tape to the farmhouse, fading in and out of view through the growing blizzard. Might as wel get the nasty bit over and done with.

It was freezing cold outside and as soon as Logan kil ed his car lights it was dark as wel .

He jumped back in the car and dug a flashlight out from under a pile of posters with Peter Lumley's face on them. Please God: let it be him. Don't let it be some other poor little bastard.

Not another one.

The torch dispel ed just enough darkness for Logan to see where he was putting his feet.

The snow was building up in the hol ows and potholes, hiding them, making it far too easy to slip and fal . Logan stumbled his way through the grass to steading number two, the fat snowflakes sticking to his jacket.

Inside, it smel ed terrible. But not as bad as it had on that first day when he'd made PC

Steve drag open the heavy wooden door. The wind took away some of the smel , but it was stil bad enough to make Logan gag as he crossed the threshold. Coughing, he pul ed a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it over his nose and mouth.

Half the carcases were gone and the concrete floor slippery with ooze and decayed body fluids. Doc Wilson, dressed in the regulation white paper boiler suit, was hunched down in front of the pile of corpses, his open medical bag sitting on top of a flattened bin-bag to keep it out of the slime.

Logan pulled on a set of coveral s. 'Evening, Doc,' he said, careful y picking his way across the concrete.

The duty doctor turned. A white mask hid the lower part of his face. 'How come when it's a messy job it's always me gets cal ed, eh?'

'Just lucky I guess,' said Logan. The humour was forced, but the doctor managed a smal smile behind his mask.

He pointed at the open bag and Logan helped himself to a pair of latex gloves and a mask. The smel suddenly vanished, replaced by an overwhelming reek of menthol that made his eyes water. 'Vicks VapoRub,' Doc Wilson said. 'Old pathology trick. Covers a multitude of sins.'

'What are we looking at?'

Please God let it be Peter Lumley.

'Difficult to tel . The poor wee sod's nearly rotted al away.'

The Doc lumbered to the side and Logan got his first real look at what had sent Matthew Oswald screaming out into the snow to throw up his Weetabix. A child's head protruded from the mass of animal corpses. There were no real features left, the bone poking out through slimy grey.

'Oh Christ.' Logan's stomach lurched.

'I dinna even know if it's a boy or a girl. We'l no know til we dig the body out and examine it properly.'

Logan looked at the grim head, the empty eye-sockets, the mouth hanging open, the teeth protruding from the shrunken gums. A matted mess of hair was almost indistinguishable from the fur of the animals piled up al around the body. A pair of smal pink clasps were embedded in the putrid scalp. Barbie hairgrips.

'It's a girl.' Logan stood. He couldn't take any more of this. 'Come on, Doc. Declare death and leave this for the pathologist.'

The doctor nodded sadly. 'Aye. Perhaps you're right. Poor wee sod...'

Logan stood outside in the snow, his face turned into the wind, letting the cold and damp wash away the stench of decay. It didn't dispel his nausea though. Shivering, he watched as Doc Wilson clambered his way through the snow and into his car. No sooner was the door closed than out came the cigarettes and the doctor was wreathed in smoke.

'Lucky bastard.'

He turned his back on the scene and trudged out into the blizzard, making for the farmhouse, the torch's beam a bar of white, swirling and whirling, marking his progress through the long grass. Ten steps and his trousers were soaked to the knee, his shoes ful of icy water. By the time he got to the front door his teeth were clattering in his head, the steady clacka-clacka-clacka running counterpoint to his shivers.

Light flickered from the kitchen window, but Logan could only make out silhouettes through the filthy glass. He didn't bother knocking, just heaved and shoved at the swol en door.

Inside, the house was even more dilapidated than he'd expected. With no one living here for God knows how long, the place had turned into a mausoleum of mould. He ran the torch over the hal way, picking out the remains of wal paper and furniture. Here and there the plaster was gone from the wal s, exposing the lath beneath. Dark fungus clustered round the holes like flies round an open sore. The staircase was missing rungs and one step was broken, the board snapped in the middle and sticking up at the ends. But there were stil photos on the wal s.