Cold Granite (51 page)

Final y Logan worked his way through the crowd to a relative haven of calm. He located the expansive bulk of Detective Inspector Insch and plonked himself down on an empty stool next to him. Insch looked up, a broad smile split his face and he slapped Logan on the back with a huge hand. On the other side of the table Logan saw the Edinburgh contingent. The DI and his sergeants looking rosy and pleased, cal ing out congratulations, but the clinical psychologist looked as if the smile he was wearing might cause him permanent damage.

'The CC said tonight's on him!' beamed Insch, pounding Logan on the back again. 'Flash your warrant card at the bar and it's free!' He leaned back and downed half a pint of dark beer in one go.

Logan looked round at the assembled horde: Grampian's finest. Tonight was going to cost the Chief Constable a fortune.

40

Thursday morning at Grampian Police Force Headquarters was a sombre affair. Largely because ninety-five percent of the staff were heavily hungover. No one knew what the final tab for last night's revelry had been, but it had to be huge. After the beers, lagers, vodka and red bul s, the whole place descended into tequila shooters. The bar should, technical y, have closed three hours before the last partygoer staggered off into the snow. But who was going to do the pub for breaching their liquor licence? Three-quarters of Aberdeen's police force were in there screaming for more limes and salt.

Logan winced his way into work, having breakfasted on Irn-Bru and painkil ers. He couldn't face solids. The morning had brought blue skies and a crisp wind that coated the previous night's snow with frosted ice.

There was a press conference at half-nine and Logan was dreading it. Someone had climbed inside his head and was trying to push the contents out of his ears. His eyes, normal y a reasonable crystal blue, looked like something out of The Brides of Dracula.

When he entered the briefing room there was another rather quiet round of applause, accompanied by a lot of wincing from the participants. He waved them a greeting and slumped down into his usual seat.

DI Insch shushed everyone into silence and then launched into the briefing. Flying in the face of nature, the inspector was remarkably chirpy. Even though he'd been the one cal ing for flaming Drambuies at two o'clock in the morning. There was no justice.

Insch worked his way through the events of the previous night, eliciting more applause at the appropriate moment. And then it was business as usual: search teams, research, door-to-doors...

When everyone else had filtered out Logan was left alone with DI Insch.

'So,' said the fat man, settling back on the desk and pul ing out a pristine packet of fruit pastil es. 'How you feeling?'

'Other than the brass band kicking seven shades of shite out of my brain? Not bad.'

'Good.' Insch paused and picked at the wrapping. 'Divers found Martin Strichen's body at six-fifteen this morning. Caught in the weeds under the ice.'

Logan didn't even bother trying to smile. 'Right.'

'Just so you know, you're going to get a commendation for last night.'

He couldn't meet the inspector's eyes. 'But Strichen died.'

Insch sighed. 'Aye, he did. And so did his mum. But Jamie McCreath didn't, and neither did WPC Watson. And no other kid's going to either.' He laid a bear-like hand on Logan's shoulder. 'You did good.'

The press conference was a cattle market: journalists shouting, cameras flashing, television pundits grinning...Logan bore it with the best grace he could.

Colin Mil er was waiting for him when the conference was over, hanging around at the back of the room looking uncomfortable. He told Logan what a great job he'd done in finding the kid. How everyone was proud of him. He handed him a copy of that morning's paper with the headline: 'POLICE H ERO F OILS C HILD K ILLER!!! J AMIE R ETURNED S AFE T O H IS M OTHER! P

ICTURES P AGES 3 To 6...'. He bit his lip, took a deep breath and said, 'Now what?'

Logan knew Mil er wasn't talking about the case. He'd been asking himself the same question al morning. Ever since he'd walked into Force Headquarters and didn't go straight to see Inspector Napier and the rest of his Professional Standards goons. If he turned Isobel in she was ruined. But if he kept his mouth shut it could happen again: another investigation could be compromised, another chance wasted to catch a kil er before he kil ed again. Logan sighed.

There was only real y one thing he could do. 'You clear everything she tel s you through me.

Before you print it. If you don't: I go straight to the Procurator Fiscal and she gets dragged through the mud. Criminal prosecution. Jail time. The whole thing. OK?'

Mil er's face went blank, his eyes locked on Logan's. 'OK,' he said at last. 'OK. It's a deal.'

He shrugged. 'From what she said, I kinda thought you'd throw the book at her if you found out.

Said you'd jump at the chance to get rid of her.'

Logan's smile was as forced as his words. 'Yeah, wel she was wrong. I hope you guys are going to be happy.' He couldn't look Mil er in the eyes.

When the reporter had gone Logan wandered down to the reception area, staring out of the large glass doors at the gently fal ing snow. Thankful of the respite, he sank down on one of the uncomfortable purple seats and leaned his head back against the glass.

Jackie was going to be OK. And he was going to see her this afternoon, armed with a mound of grapes, a box of chocolates, and an invitation to dinner. Who knew, maybe this would be the start of something good?

Smiling, he stretched in his seat, yawning happily, as a heavy-set man pushed through the front doors, brushing the snow off his coat. The man was in his mid-fifties, with a carefully-sculpted beard which was now more salt than pepper. He marched purposeful y towards the reception desk. 'Hel o,' he said, twitching as if he had fleas. 'I need to speak to the detective with the biblical name.'

The desk sergeant pointed at Logan. 'Biblical hero, right over there.'

The man walked resolutely across the linoleum floor, his step only slightly loosened by however many whiskies he'd had to get his courage up this far. 'Are you the Biblical Detective?'

he asked, his voice reedy and a little slurred.

Against his better judgment, Logan admitted that he was.

The man stood up straight as a stair rod, chest out, chin in the air. 'I kil ed her,' he said, the words coming out as if they were fired from a machinegun. 'I kil ed her and I'm here to take the consequences...'

Logan rubbed a hand over his forehead. The last thing he needed was another case to worry about. 'Who?' he said, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. And failing.

'The girl. The one they found in the steading...' His voice cracked and for the first time Logan saw that his eyes were cherry-red, his cheeks and nose scarlet from crying. 'I'd been drinking.' He shivered, locked in the past. 'I didn't see her...I thought...al that time...When you arrested that man, I thought it would al go away. But he was kil ed, wasn't he? He was kil ed because of me...' He wiped the back of an arm over his eyes and dissolved into tears.

So this was the man who'd kil ed Lorna Henderson. The man Bernard Duncan Philips had died for. The man Nurse Henderson had kil ed for.

Sighing, Logan pulled himself out of his seat.

Another case solved. Another life ruined.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book is make-believe. What few facts there are come from people who answered a whole raft of daft questions. So, thanks to: Sgt. Jacky Davidson and Sgt. Matt MacKay of Grampian Police for help on police procedure in Aberdeen; Dr Ishbel Hunter, senior anatomical pathology technician at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary's department of pathology, for her graphic advice on post mortems; Brian Dickson, head of security at the Press and Journal for the guided tour.

Special thanks have to go to my agent Philip Patterson for sweet-talking the lovely Jane Johnson and Sarah Hodgson at HarperCol ins into publishing this book. And to the magnificent Lucy Vanderbilt, Andrea Joyce and the rest of the team for doing such a spectacular job on the international rights. And to Andrea Best, Kel y Ragland and Saskia van Iperen for taking it on board.

Thanks to James Oswald for early input, and to Mark Hayward, my first agent at Marjacq before he left to become a tax inspector, who suggested I stop writing al that SF rubbish and try a serial kil er novel instead.

Most of al , thanks to my naughty wife, Fiona: cups of tea, grammatical pointers, spel ing, refusing to read the book in case she didn't like it, and putting up with me al these years.

And final y: Aberdeen's real y not as bad as it sounds. Trust me ...

LOGAN MCRAE RETURNS IN

Dying Light

due for publication in May 2006

1

They wil scream ... they wil burn ... and they wil die ...

He stood in the shadows, on the opposite side of the dark street, watching as they entered the boarded-up building: scruffy wee shites in their tatty jeans and hooded tops. Three men and two women, nearly identical with their long hair, pierced ears, pierced noses and pierced God knew what else. Everything about them screamed 'Kil Me!'

He smiled. They would be screaming soon enough.

The squat was halfway down a terrace of abandoned two-storey buildings - dirty granite walls barely lit by the dul streetlights, windows covered with thick plywood. Except for one on the upper floor, where a thin, sick-looking light oozed out through dirty glass. The street was deserted, abandoned, condemned like its inhabitants, not a soul to be seen. No one about to watch him work.

Half past eleven and the music got even louder; a pounding rhythm that would easily cover any noise he made. He worked his way round the doorframe, twisting the screwdriver in time with the beat, then stepped back to admire his handiwork - six-inch galvanised woodscrews al the way round the door, holding it solid against the frame, making sure it stayed irrevocably shut. A grin split his face. This would be good. This would be the best one yet.

He slipped the screwdriver back into his pocket, pausing for a moment to stroke the cold, hard shaft. He was hard too, the front of his trousers bulging with barely concealed joy. He always loved this bit, just before the fire started, when everything was in place, when there was no way for them to escape. When death was on its way.

Quietly he pul ed three glass bottles and a green plastic petrol can from the holdal at his feet, leaving al the things he'd stolen from the scruffy shites' hiding place nestling at the bottom of the bag. He spent a happy minute unscrewing the bottle caps, fil ing them with petrol and popping the torn rag fuses in place. Then it was back to the screwed-shut front door. Lever open the letter box. Empty the petrol can through the slot, listening to the liquid splashing on the bare, wooden floorboards, just audible under the pounding music. A trickle seeped out under the door, dribbling down the front step to form a little pool of hydrocarbons. Perfection.

He closed his eyes, said a little prayer, and dropped a lit match into the puddle at his feet. Whooooomp. Blue flame fringed with yel ow raced under the door, into the house. Pause, two, three, four: just long enough for the blaze to get going. Throw a half brick in through the upstairs window, shattering the glass, letting the throbbing music out. Startled swearing from inside. And then the first petrol bomb went in. It hit the floor and exploded, showering the room with burning fuel. The swearing became screaming. He grinned and hurled the remaining bottles into the blaze.

Then it was back to the other side of the road, to lurk in the shadows and watch them burn. Biting his lip, he pul ed his erection free. If he was quick he could come and go before anyone arrived.

He needn't have hurried. It was fifteen minutes before anyone raised the alarm and another twelve before the fire brigade turned up. By then everyone was dead.

About the Author

Stuart MacBride has scrubbed toilets offshore, flunked out of university, set up his own graphic design company, got dragged into the heady world of the internet, developed massive applications for the oil industry, drunk heaps of wine and created the perfect recipe for mushroom soup. He lives, just left of the back of beyond, in north-east Scotland with his wife Fiona and enough potatoes to feed an army. Cold Granite is his first novel.

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Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations, and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Al names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCol insPublishers 2005

Copyright (c) Stuart MacBride 2005

The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Typeset in Meridien by Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Polmont, Stirlingshire Al rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCol ins e-books.

EPub Edition (c) 2005 ISBN: 9780007298976

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