Cold Granite (47 page)

He took off his glasses and polished them on the end of his tie. 'No, Martin Strichen must be able to justify his actions, if only to himself. He has his rituals. He wil want to take his time.'

Logan didn't say another word until Insch had shown the visitors the canteen and they were alone, back in the incident room again. 'What a sack of shite!'

Insch nodded and rummaged through his pockets for the umpteenth time that afternoon. 'Aye. But that wee sack of shite has helped catch four repeat offenders, three of them murderers. He's got al the people skil s of diphtheria, but he's experienced.'

Logan sighed. 'So what do we do now?'

Insch gave up on the sweetie hunt, sticking his large hands desolately into the trouser pockets of his suit. 'Now,' he said. 'Now we sit back and hope we get lucky.'

In summer the rear windows would look out across rol ing tufts of scrub grass, gilded with golden sun, the view stretching out to the horizon. Bucksburn's grey sprawl would be hidden by the steep hil down from the quarries. On a good day, when the paper mil s weren't belching out cumulus clouds of strange-smel ing steam, the hil sides, farmland and woods on the other side of the River Don would shine like emeralds. A bucolic haven, insulated from the droning traffic on the dual carriageway below.

But none of it was visible now. The snowstorm had turned into a blizzard and, standing at the master bedroom window, WPC Jackie Watson couldn't make out much beyond the back garden's fence. Sighing, she turned her back on the grey, howling afternoon and stomped back downstairs.

Martin Strichen's mum was hunched in an overstuffed armchair gaily upholstered in roses and poppies. She had a fag dangling from the corner of her mouth, and a graveyard of them sitting in the ashtray beside her. The tel y was on: a soap opera. Watson hated soap operas. But the Bastard Simon Rennie loved them. He sat on the floral couch and stared at the screen, slurping away at cup after cup of tea.

The remains of a packet of Jaffa Cakes sat on the coffee table and Watson grabbed the last two on her way past to stand directly in front of the two-bar electric heater, determined to get warm, even if she had to set fire to her trousers in the process. The whole house was freezing. As a special concession to her visitors Mrs Strichen had put the fire on, but not without a great deal of complaining. Electricity wasn't free, you know. And how was she supposed to cope when that little bastard brought no money in? Mrs Duncan down the road, her son was a drug dealer. He brought home lots of money and they went on two foreign holidays every year!

Of course he was doing a three-year stretch in Craiginches for possession with intent, but at least he was bloody trying!

When the steam rising from the backs of her trousers became too hot to bear Watson slumped through to the kitchen to put the kettle on, yet again. Endless cups of tea were the only way to keep warm in this sodding fridge of a house.

The kitchen wasn't big, just a square of linoleum with a smal table in the middle and work surfaces around the walls, al decorated in nicotine yel ow. Watson clattered three mugs off the draining board and onto the worktop, not real y caring if she chipped them. Three teabags. Sugar. Boiling water. But only enough milk for two. 'Arse.' There was no way she was going to stay here, in the cold, without even a cup of tea to sustain her. PC Rennie would have to take his black.

She took them through and dumped the two mugs on the coffee table. Mrs Strichen grabbed hers without even a word of thanks. PC Rennie got as far as, 'Ooh, smashing...' before he realized there was no milk in his. He gave Watson his best lost-puppy-dog look.

'Don't bother,' she told him. 'No more milk.'

He turned a disappointed look at the dark liquid in the cup. 'You sure?'

'Not a drop.'

Mrs Strichen scowled at them, sending a stream of smoke hissing between her teeth.

'Do you mind? I'm trying to watch this!'

On the screen a man with a fat head and patchy beard was watching TV and drinking tea. PC Rennie stared down into his tea again. 'I could go get some more milk,' he offered.

'Maybe some biscuits too?' Now that Watson had eaten al the Jaffa Cakes.

'Insch told us to wait here,' she said with a sigh.

'Yea, but we al know Strichen's not coming back here. It'l take me what? Five, ten minutes? There was a wee newsagents on the corner--'

Mrs Strichen even took the cigarette out of her mouth this time. 'Wil you please shut up!'

They went out to the hal .

'Look, I'l only be a minute. And it's not like you couldn't kick the shit out of him if he comes back! And there's two cars out there watching the roads.'

'I know, I know.' She looked back through the door to the flickering television and Martin Strichen's venomous mother. 'I just don't like going against the inspector's orders.'

'I won't tel if you won't.' PC Rennie grabbed one of the thick overcoats hanging up in the hal way. It smel ed a bit of stale chips, but it would keep the cold out. 'Wanna give me a kiss for luck?' He puckered up.

'Not if you were the last man on earth.' She pushed him towards the door. 'And get some crisps too. Salt and vinegar.'

'Yes, ma'am.' He executed a sloppy salute.

She watched the front door bang shut before heading back into the lounge to sit in front of mindless drivel and drink her tea.

It was hard to believe just how many buildings were either maintained or owned by Aberdeen City Council's Parks Department. The list had been faxed through by a grumpy-sounding man, not happy at being cal ed back into the office at a quarter to seven. Each and every building would have to be visited and searched. Dr Bushel was adamant that Strichen would have taken the child to one of them.

Logan didn't bother to point out just how bloody obvious that was.

The chances of picking the correct building to search, from the extensive list, were slim.

They weren't going to find him in time. Little Jamie McCreath wasn't going to live to see his fourth birthday.

Trying to whittle it down a bit, Logan had got the grumpy man at the Parks Department to search their records for every place where Strichen had done community service. That list was almost as long as the first. Martin Strichen had been in and out of trouble since he was eleven. Since Gerald Cleaver got his grubby hands on him. Strichen had done his time raking up leaves, pruning bushes, spraying weeds and unblocking toilets in most of the city's parkland.

Working in reverse chronological order, Logan got the search teams going, starting with the places Strichen had worked in recently. After that they'd work their way backwards through the list. With any luck they'd find the kid before he was violated. But a sinking feeling told Logan that wasn't going to be the case. They'd pick Strichen up in a couple of days, somewhere like Stonehaven, or Dundee. There was no way he was going to hang around Aberdeen. Not with his face on the front page of al the papers, on the television, his name and description on the radio.

They'd pick him up and he would, eventual y, lead them to the murdered child's body.

'How's it going?'

Logan looked up to see Insch standing in the doorway of his little incident room. The main room had too many clinical psychologists in it for Logan's liking and the peace and quiet had helped him get the search teams organized.

'Search is underway.'

Insch nodded and handed Logan a chipped mug of strong coffee. 'You're not sounding hopeful,' he said, settling onto the edge of Logan's desk and examining the list of possible venues.

Logan admitted that he wasn't. 'There's nothing more to do: the search teams have their orders, everyone knows what buildings they're to do next. That's it. Now they either find him or they don't.'

'You want to be out there?'

'Don't you?'

The inspector gave him a sad smile. 'Aye. But I'm babysitting the big boys...One of those privileges of rank.' Insch pulled himself off the edge of the desk and patted Logan on the shoulder. 'But you're just a lowly DS.' He winked. 'Get your arse out there.'

Logan checked a rusty blue Vauxhal out of the car park. It was dark, going on for seven.

The Wednesday night traffic was light, most people going straight home after work. The terrible weather had kept them there. Only the most foolhardy were bustling from pub to pub beneath the Christmas lights.

As the traffic grew scarcer the snow gained a hold on the roads. The black glistening tarmac of the city centre giving way to grey and final y white as Logan worked his way out from Force Headquarters. He didn't have any real destination in mind: he was driving for the sake of doing something. Just another pair of eyes looking for Martin Strichen's car.

He drove up Rosemount and did a tour of Victoria Park and the surrounding streets, never once getting out of the vehicle. With the snow driving in at ninety miles an hour and the temperature sub-zero, there was no way Martin Strichen was going to park miles from where he was going. Not when he had a kidnapped child in tow.

There was no sign of Martin's leprous Ford Fiesta anywhere near Victoria Park, so Logan tried Westburn Park, across the road. It was much bigger, crisscrossed with snow-covered, single-track roads. Logan slowly crunched his car through the blizzard, looking for any nook or cranny Strichen might have hidden his vehicle.

Nothing.

It was going to be a long night.

WPC Watson stared out of the kitchen window, watching the snow whip back and forth on the furious wind. PC Rennie had been gone for fifteen minutes and since then her bored resentment had changed to nervous anticipation. It wasn't that she was worried about Martin Strichen coming back - after al , as the Bastard Simon Rennie had said, she could easily kick the shit out of him. Al modesty aside, she could kick the shit out of most people. Her nickname had been hard won. No, what worried her was...To be honest: she wasn't sure what was worrying her.

Maybe it was being taken out of the investigation to sit on a long shot? She should have been out there. Doing something. Not stuck here, watching soap operas and drinking tea.

Sighing, she clicked off the kitchen light and watched the snow.

The sound, when it came, made her jump. A clicking at the front door.

Al the hairs on the back of her head leapt up. He'd come back! The sil y bugger had come back home like nothing had happened! A grim smile pul ed at her face as she crept out of the kitchen and into the darkened hal .

The door handle creaked down and she tensed. It swung open and she grabbed the figure, pul ing him off balance, throwing him down against the plastic carpet protector. Leaping on top of him, her right hand bal ed into a fist.

The figure screamed and threw his hands over his face. 'Aaaaaaaaaaaaa!'

It was the Bastard Simon Rennie.

'Oh,' she said, dropping the fist and settling back on her haunches. 'Sorry about that.'

'Jesus, Jackie!' He peered out at her from between his fingers. 'If you wanted to jump my bones you only had to ask!'

'Thought you were someone else.' She climbed off Rennie and helped him to his feet.

'You OK?'

'Might have to see if there's a clean pair of boxer shorts upstairs, but other than that I'm fine.'

She apologized again and helped him through into the kitchen with the shopping.

'Got some Pot Noodles as wel ,' he said, emptying the bags onto the counter top. 'You want chicken and mushroom, beef and tomato, or spicy curry?'

Watson grabbed the chicken, Rennie the curry: the sour-faced Mrs Strichen could have what was left. While the noodles were soaking up a kettle of hot water, PC Rennie fil ed her in on his trip to the shops. One of Insch's cars was parked down at the entrance to the street opposite the shops and he'd spent a couple of minutes speaking to the occupants. They were from Bucksburn, just down the road and didn't think much of their assignment. It was a complete waste of time! Strichen wasn't coming back. But if he did, they were going to kick seven bel s out of him for making them sit out there in the freezing cold.

'Did they say how the search was going?' she asked, stirring absently at the rehydrating noodles.

'Bugger al . Lots of buildings and no idea which one he's going to be in.'

Watson sighed, staring out the back window again, watching the snow. 'It's going to be a long night.'

'Never mind,' Rennie grinned, 'she's got EastEnders on tape.'

Watson groaned. As if the day could get any worse!

There was no sign of Martin Strichen's Ford Fiesta in Westburn Park. Not for the first time Logan wondered if Strichen wouldn't just hit the main road out of Aberdeen. He had to know they were after him by now. Since leaving the station Logan had heard at least a dozen appeals for information on local radio. If he was Martin Strichen he'd be halfway to Dundee by now. Gradual y he let the car drift further out.

Now and then a patrol car would pass in the opposite direction, trawling the streets, just as he was. Maybe Hazlehead would be worth a try? Or Mastrick? In the end he knew it didn't real y matter where he went. Little Jamie McCreath was surely already dead. Sighing, he turned the car onto North Anderson Drive.

His mobile phone blared out its offensive ring tone and Logan pulled into the side of the road, the car bumping up onto a ridge of icy snow that hid the kerb.

'Logan.'

'Laz, my man! How's it going?'

Bloody Colin Mil er.

'What can I do for you, Colin?' he said with a weary sigh.

'Been listenin' to the news, been readin' the press releases. What's goin' on?'

An articulated lorry thundered past, sending a three-foot wave of slush spattering against the side of the car. Logan watched the tail-lights, twin eyes of red, disappear around the roundabout.

'You know bloody wel what's going on! You published your bloody story and cost us our best chance at catching this bastard.' Logan knew he was being unfair, that Mil er hadn't meant for it to turn out like this, but right now he didn't care. He was tired, frustrated and wanted someone to shout at. 'He's snatched another kid because you had to tel the world we'd found a poor wee dead...' He trailed off into silence as he final y saw what had been staring him in the face al along. 'Fuck!' He slammed his hand on the steering wheel. 'Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!'