Cold Granite (9 page)

The faded stair-carpet gave out at the middle floor; from here on up it was bare wooden boards that creaked and groaned as they climbed. There were three doors on the top landing.

One would lead up to the communal attic, one to the other top floor flat; but the third belonged to Norman Chalmers.

It was painted dark blue and a brass number six had been fixed just below the peephole.

WPC Watson flattened herself against the door, keeping herself and her uniform out of the line of sight.

Logan knocked lightly, just as a nervous downstairs neighbour might if he wanted to borrow a cupful of creme fraiche, or an avocado.

There was a creak, the roar of a television set, and then the sound of a deadbolt being drawn back. A key being turned in the lock.

The door was opened by a man in his early thirties with long hair, a squint nose and neatly trimmed beard. 'Hel o...' was as far as he got.

WPC Watson lunged for him, grabbed his arm and showed him a way nature never intended it to bend.

'What the...hey!'

She forced him back into the flat.

'Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! You're breaking my arm!'

Watson pulled out a pair of handcuffs. 'Norman Chalmers?' she asked, slapping the cold metal bracelets into place.

'I haven't done anything!'

Logan stepped into the smal entrance hal , squeezing past WPC Watson and her wriggling captive so that he could get the door closed. The tiny triangular entrance hal offered three panel edpine doors and an open doorway leading to a gal ey kitchen looking more like a rubber dinghy than a gal ey.

Everything was painted in eye-wateringly bright colours.

'Now then, Mr Chalmers,' said Logan, opening a door at random and discovering a compact bathroom in luminous green. 'Why don't we go sit down and have a nice little chat?' He tried another door, this time revealing a large orange lounge with a brown corduroy couch, a fake gas-fire, home cinema system and a computer. The wal s were covered with film posters and a huge rack of DVDs.

'What a lovely home you have, Mr Chalmers; or can I cal you Norman?'

Logan settled himself down on the nasty brown couch before realizing it was clarted in cat hair.

Chalmers bristled, his hands cuffed behind his back, WPC Watson stil holding on to him, stopping him from going anywhere. 'What the hel is this al about?'

Logan smiled like a shark. 'Al in good time, sir. WPC Watson, would you be so kind as to read this gentleman his rights?'

'You're arresting me? What for? I haven't done anything!'

'No need to shout, sir. Constable, if you please...'

'Norman Chalmers,' she said, 'I am detaining you on suspicion of the murder of an unidentified four-year-old girl.'

'What?' He struggled against the handcuffs as Watson went through the remainder of the speech, shouting over and over again that he hadn't done anything. He hadn't kil ed anyone.

This was al a mistake.

Logan let him run out of steam before holding up a set of duly signed and notarized papers. 'I have here a warrant to search these premises. You were careless, Norman. We found her body.'

'I didn't do anything!'

'You should have used a fresh bin-bag, Norman. You kil ed her, and just threw her out with al your other rubbish. But you didn't check for incriminating evidence, did you?' He held up the clear plastic wal et with the supermarket til receipt in it. 'Avocadoes, cabernet sauvignon, creme fraiche and a dozen free-range eggs. Do you have a Tesco Clubcard, sir?'

'This is insane! I didn't kil anyone!'

WPC Watson looked down to see a bulge in Chalmers's back pocket. It was a wal et. And there, nestling between a Visa card and membership of the local video shop was a Clubcard. The number on the card matched the one on the receipt.

'Get your coat, Mr Chalmers, you're going for a little ride.'

Interview room three was oppressively hot. The radiator pumped heat into the little beige space and Logan couldn't get it to stop. It wasn't even as if they could open a window. So instead they suffered the heat and the stale air.

Present: DS Logan McRae, WPC Watson, Norman Chalmers and DI Insch.

The inspector hadn't said a word since entering the room, just stood at the back, leaning against the wal , working his way through a family-sized bag of liquorice al sorts. Sweating.

Mr Chalmers had decided not to help the police with their enquiries. 'I told you I'm not saying a bloody thing til you get my lawyer in here.'

Logan sighed. They'd been over this time and time again. 'You're not getting a lawyer until we've finished the interview, Norman.'

'I want a bloody lawyer now!'

Gritting his teeth, Logan closed his eyes and counted to ten. 'Norman,' he said at last, tapping the investigation file against the tabletop. 'We've got Forensics going through your house right now. They're going to find traces of the girl. You know that. If you talk to us now it'l look a damn sight better for you when you get to court.'

Norman Chalmers just stared straight ahead.

'Look, Norman, help us to help you! A wee girl is dead--'

'Are you deaf? I want my fucking lawyer!' He folded his arms and sat back in his chair. 'I know my rights.'

'Your rights?'

'I have a legal right to legal council. You can't interview me without a lawyer present!' A self-righteous smile spread over Chalmers's face.

DI Insch snorted, but Logan almost laughed. 'No you don't! This is Scotland. You get to see your lawyer after we've finished with you. Not before.'

'I want my lawyer!'

'Oh for God's sake!' Logan hurled the file down on the tabletop, causing the contents to spil out onto the Formica. A photo of a little dead body wrapped up in parcel tape. Norman Chalmers didn't even look at it.

At last DI Insch spoke, his voice a low bass rumble in the crowded room.

'Get him his lawyer.'

'Sir?' Logan sounded as surprised as he looked.

'You heard me. Get him his lawyer.'

Forty-five minutes later they were stil waiting.

DI Insch stuffed another multicoloured square in his mouth and chewed noisily. 'He's doing this on purpose. The slimy little git's doing it just to piss us off.'

The door opened, just in time to catch the inspector's complaint.

'I beg your pardon?' said a voice from the door, with obvious disapproval.

Norman Chalmers's legal representative had arrived.

Logan took one look at the lawyer and suppressed a groan. He was a tal , thin man wearing a luxurious overcoat, expensive black suit, white shirt, blue silk tie and an earnest expression. His hair had more grey in it than the last time Logan had seen it, but the man's smile was every bit as annoying as he remembered. When the lawyer had cross-examined him, trying to make out that he'd fabricated the whole case. That Angus Robertson, AKA the 'Mastrick Monster', was the real victim.

'Don't worry, Mr Moir-Farquharson.' Insch pronounced it as it was spelt - 'Far-Quar-Son'

rather than the traditional 'Facherson', because he knew it annoyed him. 'I was speaking about some other slimy git. How nice of you to join us.'

The lawyer sighed and draped his overcoat over the back of the last spare seat at the interview table. 'Please tel me we don't have to go through al this again, Inspector,' he said, pul ing a slender, silver laptop from his briefcase. The soft purr of it powering up was almost inaudible in the crowded little room.

'Al what, Mr Far-Quar-Son?'

The lawyer scowled at him. 'You know very wel what. I am here to represent my client, not listen to your insults. I don't want to have to make yet another complaint to the Chief Constable about your behaviour.'

Insch's features darkened, but he didn't say anything.

'Now,' said the lawyer, picking away at the laptop's keyboard, 'I have a copy of the charges against my client. I would like to confer with him in private before we make a formal statement.'

'Aye?' Insch left his perch against the wal and leaned his huge fists against the tabletop, looming over Chalmers. 'Wel , we'd like to ask your "client" why he murdered a four-year-old girl and threw her body out with the garbage!'

Chalmers jumped out of his seat.

'I didn't! Wil you bastards bloody listen? I didn't do anything!'

Sandy Moir-Farquharson laid a hand on Chalmers's arm. 'It's al right. You don't have to say anything. Just sit back down and let me do the talking, OK?'

Chalmers looked down at his lawyer, nodded, and slowly sank back into his seat.

Insch hadn't moved.

'So, Inspector,' said Moir-Farquharson, 'as I said: I'd like to speak to my client in private.

After that we wil help you with your enquiries.'

'That's no how this works.' Insch scowled at the lawyer. 'You have no legal right of access to this wee shite whatsoever. You are here as a courtesy only.' He leaned in so close there was barely a breath between them. 'I'm running this show, not you.'

Moir-Farquharson smiled calmly up at him. 'Inspector,' he said in his most reasonable voice, 'I am wel aware of the vagaries of Scottish law. However, as a sign of good faith, I'm asking you to let me speak to my client in private.'

'And if I don't?'

'Then we sit here til the cows come home. Or your six hours' holding time run out. It's up to you.'

Insch glowered, stuffed the liquorice al sorts back in his pocket and left the room, trailing Logan and WPC Watson behind him. Out in the corridor it was a lot cooler, but the air contained a lot of swearing.

When he had finished cursing the lawyer to the four winds, Insch told Watson to keep an eye on the door. He didn't want either of them doing a runner.

She didn't look too impressed. It wasn't a glamorous task, but that's what you got when you were a lowly WPC. One day she'd make CID, then she'd be the one tel ing uniforms to guard doorways.

'And, Constable,' Insch leaned in closer, his voice becoming a conspiratorial whisper.

'that was a damn fine bit of police work today: the supermarket receipt. I'l be putting in a good word for you on that one.'

She grinned. 'Thank you, sir.'

Logan and the inspector left her to it, working their way back to the incident room.

'Why did it have to be him?' asked Insch, parking himself on the edge of a desk. I'm supposed to be at the dress rehearsal in twenty minutes!' He sighed: there was no chance he'd make it now. 'We're going to get bugger al out of Chalmers now. God save us from crusading lawyers!'

Sandy Moir-Farquharson was notorious. There wasn't a single criminal defence lawyer in the whole city who could hold a candle to him. Aberdeen's best solicitor advocate, qualified to stand up and defend the guilty in open court. For years the Crown Prosecution Service had been trying to get him to come over to their side, act as a public prosecutor, help put people away, instead of getting them off. But the slippery wee sod wasn't having any of it. He was on a mission to prevent miscarriages of justice! To protect the innocent! And get his face on the tel y at every available opportunity. The man was a menace.

But secretly Logan knew if he ever got into trouble himself, he'd want Slippery Sandy representing him.

'So how come you let Hissing Sid suspend the interview?'

Insch shrugged. 'Because we were never going to get anything out of Chalmers anyway.

At least whatever the Snake comes up with wil be entertaining.'

'I thought he was busy representing our favourite child molester, Gerald Cleaver.'

Insch shrugged and dug the bag of sweets out of his pocket. 'You know Hissing Sid. That case's got about a week, week and a half left to run. After that he's going to need something else to get his face in front of the cameras.' The inspector offered the open bag to Logan who helped himself to a coconut wheel with a liquorice centre.

'Forensics are going to find something,' Logan said, chewing. 'The girl had to be in his flat. There were food scraps and empty wine bottles in that bag. There's no way he could have got her into that bin-bag anywhere else...Unless he's got another property he eats and drinks at.'

Insch grunted, rummaging in the bag. 'Get onto the council in the morning. See if he's got a second property registered anywhere. Just in case.' He found what he was looking for: one of the aniseed disks with blue bobbles on it. 'Listen,' he said, popping the sweet into his mouth,

'the post mortem's been scheduled for quarter to eight this evening.' He paused, his eyes fixed on the floor at his feet. 'I was wondering if you would mind...'

'You want me to go?'

'As senior investigating officer I should be there, but...wel ...'

The inspector had a little girl about the same age as the victim. Watching a four-year-old being fil eted like a side of meat would be rough for him. Al the same it wasn't a job Logan was looking forward to. Especial y if Dr Isobel MacAlister was going to be the one doing the fil eting.

I'l go,' he said at last, trying not to sigh. 'You should probably be interviewing Chalmers anyway...as senior investigating officer.'

'Thank you.' As a token of his esteem he gave Logan the last liquorice al sort.

Logan took the lift down to the morgue, hoping it would be Isobel's night off. Maybe he'd be lucky and get one of her deputies instead? But the way his luck was running he doubted it.

The morgue was unnatural y bright and airy for this time of night, the overhead lights sparkling off the dissecting tables and chil er cabinets. It was nearly as cold in there as it was outside. A heavy layer of disinfectant almost managed to hide the stench of corruption from this morning's post mortem. The smel of David Reid.

He arrived just in time to see the little girl being unloaded from her oversized body-bag.

She was stil wrapped in the packing tape, only now the shiny brown strips were dusted with white fingerprint powder.

Logan's heart sagged. It was Isobel, not one of her deputies, who stood on the far side of the stainless steel table, directing the little body into place. She was dressed in her cutting gear, the red rubber apron stil clean and free from gore. The Procurator Fiscal and the corroborating pathologist were already there, dressed in coveral s, discussing the body with Isobel as she described the rubbish tip where it had been discovered.