Cold Granite. Stuart MacBride

right. Logan stepped back and looked up at the building. The lights were on.

      ‘OK.’ He leaned forward and rang the middle buzzer, the one marked ‘ANDERSON’. Two minutes later the door was opened by a nervous man in his mid to late twenties, big hair and heavy features, with a large bruise riding high on his cheekbone. He was still dressed from work: a cheap grey suit, the trousers all shiny at the knee, and a rumpled yellow shirt. In fact most of him looked rumpled. His face went pale when he saw WPC Watson’s uniform.

      ‘Mr Anderson?’ said Logan, stepping forward and sticking his foot in the door. Just in case.

      ‘Er … yes?’ The man had a strong Edinburgh accent, the vowels going up and down in the middle. ‘Is there a problem, officer?’ He backed off into the airlock, his scuffed shoes clicking on the brown-and-cream tiles.

      Logan smiled reassuringly. ‘Nothing for you to worry about, sir,’ he said, following the nervous young man into the building. ‘We need to speak to one of your neighbours, but his bell doesn’t seem to be working.’ Which was a lie.

      A weak smile spread across Mr Anderson’s face. ‘Oh … OK. Yeah.’

      Logan paused. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, that’s a nasty bruise you’ve got there.’

      Anderson’s hand fluttered up to the swollen, purple-and-green skin.

      ‘I … I walked into a door.’ But he couldn’t look Logan in the eye as he said it.

      They followed Mr Anderson up the stairs, thanking him for his help as he disappeared inside his first floor flat.

      ‘He was hell of a nervous,’ said Watson when the door latch clicked shut, the deadbolt was driven home, and the chain rattled into position. ‘Think he’s up to something?’

      Logan nodded. ‘Everyone’s up to something,’ he said. ‘And did you see that bruise? Walked into a door, my foot. Someone’s belted him one.’

      She stared at the door. ‘Too scared to report it?’

      ‘Probably. But, it’s not our problem.’

      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 crème fraîche, 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. ‘Hello …’ 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 small entrance hall, squeezing past WPC Watson and her wriggling captive so that he could get the door closed. The tiny triangular entrance hall offered three panelled-pine doors and an open doorway leading to a galley kitchen looking more like a rubber dinghy than a galley.

      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 walls were covered with film posters and a huge rack of DVDs.

      ‘What a lovely home you have, Mr Chalmers; or can I call 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 still holding on to him, stopping him from going anywhere. ‘What the hell is this all about?’

      Logan smiled like a shark. ‘All 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 killed anyone. This was all 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 killed her, and just threw her out with all your other rubbish. But you didn’t check for incriminating evidence, did you?’ He held up the clear plastic wallet with the supermarket till receipt in it. ‘Avocadoes, cabernet sauvignon, crème fraîche and a dozen free-range eggs. Do you have a Tesco Clubcard, sir?’

      ‘This is insane! I didn’t kill anyone!’

      WPC Watson looked down to see a bulge in Chalmers’s back pocket. It was a wallet. 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 wall, working his way through a family-sized bag of liquorice allsorts. Sweating.

      Mr Chalmers had decided not to help the police with their enquiries. ‘I told you I’m not saying a bloody thing till 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’ll 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