Cold Granite (7 page)

The media presence outside the door of little Richard Erskine's house had almost doubled by the time they got there. The whole road was packed with cars. There were even a couple of outside broadcast vans. WPC Watson had to park miles away, so they trudged back through the rain, both sheltering under her umbrel a.

BBC Scotland had been joined by Grampian, ITN and Sky News. The harsh white television lights bleached colour from the pale granite buildings. No one seemed to take much notice of the winter rain, even though it was battering down from the sky in sheets of frigid water.

The blonde woman with the big boobs from Channel Four News was doing a piece to camera, standing far enough down the street to get the house and the rest of the pack in the background.

'...have to ask: does the media's attention on a family's pain, at a time like this, real y serve the public interest? When--'

Watson marched right through the shot, her blue and white umbrel a completely obscuring the woman from camera.

Someone yel ed: 'Cut!'

'You did that on purpose,' whispered Logan as the sounds of a swearing television journalist erupted. WPC Watson just smiled and barged her way through the crowd gathered at the foot of the stairs. Logan hurried after her, trying not to hear the howls of complaint mixed in with the shouted questions and demands for comment.

A Family Liaison Officer was through in the living room with Richard Erskine's mother and the bitter old woman from next door. There was no sign of DI Insch.

Logan left Watson in the lounge and tried the kitchen, helping himself to an open packet of Jaffa Cakes lying on the worktop next to the kettle. A half-glazed door led from the kitchen out into the back garden, the light blocked by a large figure standing outside.

But it wasn't Insch. It was a sad-looking, overweight detective constable with half-past-two o'clock shadow, chain-smoking under the tiny porch.

'Afternoon, sir,' said the DC, not bothering to straighten up, or put his cigarette out.

'Shitty weather, eh?' He wasn't a local lad: his accent was pure Newcastle.

'You get used to it.' Logan stepped out onto the back step next to the DC to do as much passive smoking as he could.

The constable took the cigarette out of his mouth and stuck a finger in, working a nail up and down between his back teeth. 'Don't see how. I mean I'm used to rain like, but Jesus this place takes the fucking biscuit.' He found whatever it was he was digging for and flicked it away into the downpour. 'Think it's going to keep up til the weekend?'

Logan looked out at the low, dark-grey clouds. 'The weekend?' He shook his head and took in another scarred lungful of second-hand smoke. 'This is Aberdeen: it won't stop raining til March.'

'Bol ocks!' The voice was deep, authoritative and coming from directly behind them.

Logan twisted his head round to see DI Insch standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets.

'Don't you listen to DS McRae, he's pul ing your leg.' Insch stepped out onto the already crowded top step, forcing Logan and the DC to shuffle precariously sideways.

'Won't stop raining til March?' Insch popped a fruit sherbet into his mouth. 'March?

Don't lie to the poor constable: this is Aberdeen.' He sighed and stuck his hands back in his pockets. 'It never stops fuckin' raining.'

They stood in silence, watching the rain do what rain does.

'Wel , I've got a bit of good news for you, sir,' said Logan at last. 'Mr Moir-Farquharson is receiving death threats.'

Insch grinned. 'Hope so. I've written enough of them.'

'He's representing Gerald Cleaver.'

Insch sighed again. 'Why doesn't that surprise me? Stil that's DI Steel's problem. Mine is: where's Richard Erskine?'

7

They found the body in the council tip at Nigg, just south of the city. A two-minute drive from Richard Erskine's house. A party of school children had been out on a field trip: 'Recycling and Green Issues'. They arrived by minibus at three twenty-six and proceeded to don little white breathing masks, the kind with the elastic band holding them on, and heavy-duty rubber gloves.

Everyone wore waterproofed jackets and Wel ington boots. They signed in at the Portacabin office next to the skips at three thirty-seven, before squelching their way into the tip. Walking through a landscape of discarded nappies, broken bottles, kitchen waste and everything else chucked out by hundreds of thousands of Aberdonians every day.

It was Rebecca Johnston, eight, who spotted it. A left foot, sticking up out of a pile of shredded black plastic bags. The sky was ful of seagul s - huge, fat bloated things that swooped and screamed at each other in a jagged bal et. One was tugging away at a bloodstained toe. This was what first grabbed Rebecca's attention.

And at four o'clock, on the dot, they cal ed the police.

The smel was unbelievable, even on a wet and windy day like today. Up here on Doonies Hil the rain was bitterly cold. It hammered against the car, gusts of wind rocking the rusty Vauxhal , making Logan shiver even though the heater was going ful pelt.

Both he and WPC Watson were soaked to the skin. The rain had paid no attention to their police-issue 'waterproof jackets, saturated their trousers and seeped into their shoes.

Along with Christ knew what else. The car windows were opaque, the blowers making little headway.

The Identification Bureau hadn't turned up yet, so Logan and Watson had built a makeshift tent of fresh bin-bags and wheelie-bins over the body. It looked as if it was going to fly apart at any moment, torn to pieces by the howling wind, but it kept the worst of the rain off.

'Where the hel are they?' Logan cleared a porthole in the fogged-up windscreen. His mood had swiftly deteriorated as they'd struggled with whipping black plastic bags and uncooperative bins. The painkil er he'd taken at lunchtime was wearing off, leaving him sore every time he moved. Grumbling, he pul ed out the bottle and shook one into his hand, swal owing it down dry.

At long last an almost-white, unmarked van slithered its way slowly along the rubbish road, its headlights blazing. The Identification Bureau had arrived.

'About bloody time!' said WPC Watson.

They clambered out of the car and stood in the driving rain.

Behind the approaching van the North Sea raged, grey and huge, the frigid wind making its first landfal since the Norwegian fjords.

The van slid to a halt and a nervous-looking man peered out through the windshield at the driving rain and festering rubbish.

'You're not going to bloody melt!' shouted Logan. He was sore, cold, damp and in no mood for dicking about.

A troop of four IB men and women grudged their way out of the van into the downpour and swore the SOC tent up over Logan's makeshift fort. The wheelie-bins and black plastic bags were turfed out into the rain and the portable generators set up. With a roar they burst into life, flooding the area with sizzling white light.

No sooner was the crime scene waterproof than 'Doc' Wilson, the duty doctor, turned up.

'Evenin' al ,' he said, turning up the col ar of his coat with one hand and grabbing his medical bag with the other. He took one look at the minefield of crap that lay between the dirt road and the blue plastic marquee and sighed. 'I just bought these bloody shoes. Ah wel ...'

He stomped off towards the tent with Logan and WPC Watson in tow.

An acne-ridden IB officer with a clipboard stopped them at the threshold, keeping them al out in the driving rain until they'd signed in, and then watched them suspiciously until they'd al clambered into white paper boiler suits.

Inside the tent a single human leg rose out of the sea of refuse sacks, from the knee down, like the Lady of the Lake's arm. The only thing missing was Excalibur. The IB video operator was sweeping his way slowly around the remains, filming as the rest of the team careful y col ected rubbish from the bags surrounding the one with the leg in it and stuffed the debris into clear plastic evidence pouches.

'Dees a favour?' said the doctor, handing his medical bag to Watson.

She stood silently while he popped the case open and dug out a pair of latex gloves, snapping them on as if he was a surgeon.

'Give us a bittie room then,' he told the bustling IB people.

They stood back and let him get at the body.

Doc Wilson took hold of the ankle with his fingertips, just below the joint. 'No pulse.

Either this is yer genuine severed limb, or the victim's dead.' He gave the leg an experimental tug, causing the rubbish in the bag to shift and the IB team to hiss in pain. This was their crime scene! 'Nope. I'd say that leg's weil an' truly attached. Consider death declared.'

'Thanks, Doc,' said Logan as the old man straightened himself up and wiped his latex gloves on his trousers.

'Nae problem. You want us tae hang around til the pathologist and the Fiscal get here?'

Logan shook his head. 'No sense in us al freezing our backsides off. Thanks anyway.'

Ten minutes later an Identification Bureau photographer stuck his head round the entrance to the tent. 'Sorry I'm late, some idiot went for a swim in the harbour and forgot to take his kneecaps with him. Jesus, it's bloody freezing out there.'

It wasn't much warmer inside, but at least it was out of the rain.

'Afternoon, Bil y,' said Logan as the bearded photographer unwrapped himself.

The long, red-and-white-striped scarf was stuffed into a jacket pocket, fol owed by a red bobble hat with 'UP T HE D ONS' stitched into it. He was bald underneath.

Logan was stunned. 'What happened to your hair?'

Bil y scowled as he clambered into his white paper rompersuit. 'Don't you bloody start.

Anyway I thought you were dead.'

Logan smiled. 'Aye, but I got better.'

The photographer polished his glasses with a grey handkerchief, and then did the same with the lens of his camera. 'Anybody touched anything?' he asked, spooling a fresh reel of film into place.

'Doc Wilson gave the leg a tug, but other than that it's fresh.'

Bil y snapped a huge flashgun onto the top of the camera, smacking it with the side of his hand until it emitted a high-pitched whine. 'OK, back up ladies and gentlemen...'

Hard, blue-white light crackled in the confined space, fol owed by the clatter-whirr of the camera and the whine of the flash. Again and again and again...

Bil y was almost finished when Logan's phone went off. Cursing, he dragged it out of his pocket. It was Insch, looking for an update.

'Sorry, sir.' Logan had to raise his voice over the battering rain on the tent's roof. 'The pathologist isn't here yet. I can't get a formal identification without moving the body.'

Insch swore, but Logan could barely hear him.

'We've just had an anonymous cal . Someone saw a child matching Richard Erskine's description getting into a dark red hatchback this morning.'

Logan looked down at the pale blue, naked leg sticking up out of the garbage. The information had come too late to save the five-year-old.

'Let me know as soon as the pathologist gets there.'

'Yes, sir.'

*

Isobel MacAlister turned up looking as if she'd just stepped off a catwalk: long Burberry raincoat, dark-green trouser suit, cream high-col ared blouse, delicate pearl earrings, her short hair artistical y tousled. Wel ington boots three sizes too big for her...She looked so good it hurt.

Isobel froze as soon as she was inside, her eyes fixed on Logan dripping away in the corner. She almost smiled. Placing her medical case down on top of a bin-bag, she got straight to business. 'Has death been declared?'

Logan nodded, trying not to let his voice show how much the sight of her disturbed him.

'Doc Wilson did it half an hour ago.'

Her mouth turned down at the edges. 'I got here as soon as I could. I do have other duties to perform.'

Logan winced. 'I wasn't implying anything,' he said, hands up. 'I was just letting you know when death was declared. That's al .' His heart was hammering in his ears, drowning out the pounding rain.

She stood her ground, staring at him, her face cold and unreadable. 'I see...' she said at last.

She turned her back on him, covered her immaculate suit with the standard white boiler suit, pulled on her tiny microphone, recited the standard who, when and where, and got down to work.

'We have a human leg: left, protruding from a refuse sack from the knee down. Big toe has been subject to some form of laceration, probably post mortem--'

'A seagull was eating it,' said Watson, getting a cold smile for her pains.

'Thank you, Constable.' Isobel turned back to the stiff leg. 'Big toe shows signs of predation by a large sea bird.' She reached forward and touched the pale, dead flesh with her fingertips. With pursed lips she started pressing her thumb into the bal of the foot, feeling the toes with her other hand. 'I'l need to get the remains out of the bag before I can give you any estimated time of death.' She motioned for one of the IB team to come over and made him spread a fresh plastic sheet on top of the shifting floor of rubbish. They dragged the bag with the leg sticking out of it from the pile and onto the sheet. Al the time Bil y flashed and whirred away.

Isobel hunkered down in front of the bin-bag and slit it open with one smooth pass of a scalpel. Rubbish spil ed out of the sack, caught by the plastic sheeting. The naked body was curled in a bal , held in the foetal position with brown packing tape. Logan caught a glimpse of pale-blond hair and shivered. Dead children looked smal er than he'd remembered.

The skin was a delicate shade of milk-bottle white between the swathes of brown sticky tape, faint patches of purple forming over the shoulders. The poor little sod had been upside-down in the bag and the blood had pooled in the lowest parts.

'Do you have an ID?' Isobel asked, peering at the smal corpse.

'Richard Erskine,' said Logan. 'He's five.'

Isobel looked up at him, a scalpel in one hand an evidence bag in the other. '"He's" not anything,' she said, straightening up. 'This is a girl. Three to four years old.'