Cold Granite (30 page)

'Oh, thank the Lord for that.' Instantly relieved, she ushered them through the hal into a pink, candy-striped living room. 'Excuse the mess. Sunday's usual y my day for the housework, but I had a double shift at the hospital.' She stopped and surveyed the room, moving a discarded nurse's uniform off the sofa and onto the ironing board. The half-empty bottle of gin was swiftly tidied away to the sideboard. Above the fireplace was a framed fake oil painting, one of the ones photographers churn out. A man, a woman and a fair-haired little girl. A husband, a wife and a murdered child.

'Of course Kevin doesn't live here right now...He's having a break...' There was a pause.

'It was after our daughter went missing.'

'Ah. That's why we're here, Mrs Henderson.'

She waved them towards a lumpy brown sofa, the leather covered up with pink-and-yel ow throws. 'Because Kevin doesn't live here? It's only temporary!'

Insch pul ed a clear plastic envelope from his pocket. There were two pink hairclips in it.

'Do you recognize these, Mrs Henderson?'

She took the envelope, peered in at the contents and then back at Insch and went pale for the second time. 'Oh God, these were Lorna's! Her favourite Barbie hair things. She wouldn't go out of the house without them! Where did you get them?'

'We found Lorna, Mrs Henderson.'

'Found? Oh God...'

'I'm sorry, Mrs Henderson. She's dead.'

She seemed to turn in on herself and then: 'Tea. That's what we need. Hot sweet tea.'

She turned her back and scurried away into the kitchen, her towel ing bathrobe flapping as she went.

They found her sobbing into the kitchen sink.

Ten minutes later they were back in the lounge, Insch and Logan on the lumpy settee, WPC Watson and Mrs Henderson on matching lumpy brown armchairs, the Family Liaison Officer standing behind her making consoling noises, one hand on Mrs Henderson's shoulder.

Logan had made a big pot of tea and it sat steaming away on top of a coffee table festooned with Cosmopolitan magazines. Everyone had a cup, but no one was drinking.

'It's al my fault.' Mrs Henderson seemed to have shrunk two sizes since their arrival.

The pink bathrobe was draped around her like a cloak. 'If we'd only bought her that damn pony...'

DI Insch shifted forward on the settee slightly. 'I'm sorry to have to ask you this, Mrs Henderson, but I need you to tel us about the night Lorna went missing.'

'I never real y believed it. You know: that she wasn't coming back. She'd just run away.

One day she'd just walk back through that door and everything would be right again.' She looked down into her teacup. 'Kevin couldn't take it. He kept blaming me. Every day. "It's your bloody fault she's gone!" he'd say. He was right. It was my bloody fault. He...he met this woman at the supermarket where he works.' She sighed. 'But he doesn't real y love her! He's just punishing me...I mean, she's got no breasts. How can a man love a woman with no breasts? He's only doing it to punish me. He'l come back. You'l see. One day he'l walk right back in that door and everything wil be al right again.' She fel back into silence, chewing away at the inside of her cheek.

'About the night Lorna went missing, Mrs Henderson, did you see anyone on the road?

Any vehicles?'

Her eyes came up from her cup, glistening and far away. 'What? I don't remember...It was a long time ago and I was so angry with her. Why didn't we buy her that bloody pony?'

'How about vans, or trucks?'

'No. I don't remember. We went over al this at the time!'

'A man with a cart?'

She froze in place. 'What are you trying to say?'

DI Insch kept his mouth shut. Mrs Henderson stared at him for a moment and then jumped to her feet. 'I want to see her!'

DI Insch, put his cup careful y down on the carpet. I'm sorry, Mrs Henderson. That's not going to be possible.'

'She's my daughter, damn it, and I want to see her!'

'Lorna's been dead for a long time. She's...you don't want to see her, Mrs Henderson.

Please trust me. You want to remember her how she was.'

Standing in the middle of the lounge, Mrs Henderson scowled down at DI Insch's bald head. 'When did you find her? When did you find Lorna?'

'Yesterday.'

'Oh God...' she slapped a hand over her mouth. 'It's him isn't it? The man in the papers!

He kil ed her and buried her in that filth!'

'Calm down, Mrs Henderson. We have him in custody. He's not going anywhere.'

'That filthy bastard!' She hurled her teacup against the wal . It exploded, raining shards of china, staining the wal paper with lukewarm, milky tea. 'He took my baby!'

No one said much on the way back either. The Family Liaison Officer cal ed in a neighbour to look after Mrs Henderson, who col apsed into tears as soon as the large, concerned woman arrived. They left the pair of them weeping on the sofa and let themselves out.

The roads were quiet as the grave as they headed back towards the centre of town: the snow was keeping everyone but the gritters inside.

Eight o'clock. A familiar figure slipped past as Insch swung the car round the Hazlehead roundabout. Peter Lumley's stepfather, trudging through the fal ing snow, shouting his son's name. Logan stared glumly at the soaking, cold figure until they'd left him far behind. He stil had that dreadful visit from the police to look forward to. When they final y told him that his son's body had been found.

Insch checked in with Control and got an address for Mr Henderson. He shared an apartment with his flat-chested supermarket woman in the less salubrious end of Rosemount.

They went through the same painful scene again. Only this time there was no self-blame. This time it was al directed at his stupid bitch ex-wife. His girlfriend sat on the couch in tears as he raged and swore. This wasn't like him, she said. He was usual y such a gentle man.

And then back to Force Headquarters.

'Christ, that was a fun day.' Insch sounded completely drained as he shambled across to the lifts. He mashed the up button with a fat thumb. Surprisingly the doors slid open immediately. 'Look,' he said getting in, leaving Logan and WPC Watson standing in the corridor.

'Why don't you two get changed and meet me back here in five. I've got two forms to fil in and then I'l buy you both a drink.'

WPC Watson looked at Logan and then back at the inspector. She looked as if she was searching for a good excuse to be somewhere else. But before she could find it, the lift doors slid shut, taking DI Insch away.

Logan took a deep breath.

'If you'd rather not,' he said to her 'I understand. I can tel the inspector you had a prior engagement.'

'You that keen to get rid of me?'

Logan raised an eyebrow. 'No. Not at al . I thought...Wel , after al that crap in the papers...you know,' he pointed at himself, 'Mr Shitebag.'

She smiled. 'With al due respect, sir: you can be a right arse at times. I met Mil er, remember? I know he's a wanker.' The smile slipped. 'I just didn't know if you'd want me there.

After that outburst. Swearing at the car?'

Logan beamed. 'No! It's OK. Honestly. OK, the swearing wasn't OK--' Her smile slipped and Logan charged on, afraid he'd screwed it al up again, '--but that's got nothing to do with anything. I'd like you to come. Especial y if Inspector Insch is buying.' He stopped. 'Not that I wouldn't want you to come if I was paying...It's...' He clamped his mouth shut to keep any more babble from fal ing out.

She looked at him for a moment. 'Right,' she said at last. 'I'l go get changed then. See you out front.'

As she disappeared Logan was sure she was laughing at him. He stood alone in the corridor, blushing furiously.

At the front desk, Big Gary was settling down to another night shift. He smiled and waved Logan over.

'Hey, Lazarus, nice to see you getting the recognition you deserve!'

Logan frowned and Gary whipped out a copy of the day's Evening Express, the Press and Journal's sister paper. There on the front page was a photograph of figures in blue rubber suits, picking through blurry animal carcases by hand.

'HOUSE O F H ORROR: B RAVE P OLICE H UNT F OR E VIDENCE'

'Let me guess,' Logan sighed, 'Colin Mil er again?' He must have worked fast.

Gary smacked the side of his nose with a finger. 'Got it in one, Mr Local Police Hero.'

'Gary, as soon as I outrank you I'm going to have you out there,' he pointed out into the snow, 'pounding the beat again.'

Gary winked. 'And until then you'l just have to put up with it. Biscuit?' He held up a packet of Kit Kats and despite himself Logan smiled. And took one.

'So what else is Mr Mil er saying?'

Gary puffed out his chest, flipped the paper over and read aloud, in his best Shakespearean voice: 'Blah, blah, blah, snow and ice, blah, blah. Flowery shite about how brave al the police are for digging through "a gruesome mine of death". Blah, blah, searching for "the vital evidence that wil make our children safe from this beast". Oh, you'l like this bit. "Local Police Hero Logan 'Lazarus' McRae was not above helping his team sort through the carcases by hand". Apparently you also saved Constable Steve Jacobs' life when a huge rat attacked him.

God bless you, sir!' Gary cracked a salute.

'PC Rennie did al the work. Al I did was tel someone to get him to hospital!'

'Ah, but without your firm leadership no one else might have thought of it!' He wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. 'You're an inspiration to us al , so you are.'

'I hate you.' But Logan was smiling when he said it.

WPC Watson was easier to think of as 'Jackie' when she was out of uniform. The austere black had been replaced by a pair of jeans and a red sweatshirt, her curly brown hair fal ing down over her shoulders. She cursed and tugged at it as she struggled into a thick padded jacket.

At least one of them would be dressed for the snow. Logan was stil in his working suit.

He never got changed at the station. With his house only two minutes' walk away there never seemed any point.

She joined them at the desk, begged a Kit Kat off Big Gary and consumed it with delight.

Logan waited until she had a good mouthful before asking, 'How'd your prisoner get on this morning?'

She munched and crunched and eventually mumbled that he'd been given forty-two hours' community service with the council's Parks Department, as usual, and put on the sex offenders' register.

'As usual?'

Watson shrugged. 'Turns out he always gets the Parks Department,' she said, producing a smal shower of chocolate crumbs. 'Planting, weeding, fixing stuff. You know.' She swal owed and shrugged. 'Judge took pity on him, what with giving evidence in the Gerald Cleaver case and al . Went through the whole thing again, only without Sandy the Snake making out it's al some weird, twisted fantasy. Got to confess I kinda feel sorry for the kid. Can you imagine getting treated like that? Abusive father, drunkard mother and when you go to hospital you get Gerald bloody Cleaver fiddling about with you under the sheets.'

Silence settled in as they considered the flabby male nurse with a thing for little boys.

'You know,' said Big Gary, 'if it wasn't for Roadkil , I'd've put money on Cleaver for the dead kiddies.'

'How? He was in custody when Peter Lumley went missing.'

Gary flustered. 'Might have had an accomplice.'

'And he was a fiddler, not a kil er,' chipped in Jackie. 'He liked them alive.'

Logan winced. It wasn't a nice image, but she was right.

But Big Gary wasn't going to let go of it that easily. 'Maybe he can't get it up any more?

Maybe that's why he kil s them!'

'It doesn't change the fact that he's been locked up for the last six months. It's not him.'

'I'm not saying it was him. I'm just saying it could have been.' Gary scowled. 'And to think I let you buggers eat my biscuits! Ungrateful sods.'

24

One drink turned into two. Two turned into three. Three turned into a curry and four more. By the time Logan said goodnight to DI Insch and WPC Watson, al was right with the world again. OK, with the inspector there he and Jackie couldn't get up to anything, but Logan got the feeling they might have. If Insch hadn't been there.

None of which mattered at four-thirty in the morning when he staggered out of bed to drink his own bodyweight in water before fal ing queasily back to sleep.

Lorna Henderson's post mortem report was sitting on DI Insch's desk when Logan got in to work. Seven o'clock on the dot, even if it was a Saturday morning. The inspector was already there, sitting behind his desk looking slightly more pink than usual.

Henderson had died from blunt trauma. The cracked ribs would have crushed her left lung, the impact to the left temple shattering her skul , the one to the back of her head finishing off the job. The leg break was jagged, just above the knee. A four-year-old girl, beaten to death.

Roadkil had real y gone to town.

'You think we're going to get anything out of him?' asked Logan, turning the pathology photographs face down so that he wouldn't have to look at them any more.

Insch snorted. 'Doubt it. Doesn't matter though. We've got so much forensic evidence there's no way he's going to beat this one. Not even Slippery Sandy can get him off. Mr Philips is going to spend the rest of his life in Peterhead Prison with al the other sick bastards.' He pulled a packet of sherbet fruits from his pocket and offered them round the incident room. That done he settled down to working his way through the remainder. 'You taking Mil er back up to the farm today?' The reporter's name came out as if Insch was describing a foul smel .

'No,' Logan grinned. 'For some reason he's not too keen. Can't think why.'

Friday's little expedition had been quite enough for the reporter. Today's Press and Journal had nothing but nice words for the police. It was much the same as the Evening Express story, only with more editorializing. At least DI Insch was out of the spotlight.

'What about you?' he asked. 'How's your floater going?'

'Getting there.'