Cold Granite. Stuart MacBride

disintegrated. ‘How the hell did he know?’ he asked, slumping in the corner with his head in his hands. ‘Everything. He knew bloody everything!’

      Logan could feel dread stomping down his spine. ‘Everything?’ Did the inspector know he’d got pissed and slept with WPC Watson?

      Constable Steve moaned.

      ‘He knew we’d been thrown out of the pub, he knew all about the getting naked …’ he looked up at Logan with pitiful pink eyes: like a vivisectioned rabbit. ‘He says I’m lucky he didn’t just fire me! Oh God …’

      For a moment it looked as if he was going to burst into tears. Then the lift went: ‘ping’ and the doors slid open onto the car park where a couple of uniformed officers were wrestling a hairy bloke in jeans and a T-shirt out of the back of a patrol car. The man’s T-shirt bore a lovely upside-down Christmas tree of blood. His nose was flattened and smeared.

      ‘Buncha fuckin’ bastards!’ He lunged towards Logan, but the PC holding him wasn’t about to let go. ‘Fuckin’ bastards wis askin’ fer it!’ Some of his teeth were missing too.

      ‘Sorry, sir,’ said the PC, holding him back.

      Logan told him it was OK and led PC Steve away through the car park. They could have gone out through reception, but he didn’t want anyone else seeing the pink-eyed constable in his current state. And anyway, the council buildings weren’t that far away: a walk in the open air would do Steve the world of good.

      Outside, the drizzle was refreshing after the oppressive heat of police headquarters. They both stood on the ramp that wound from the rear of the building down to the street with their faces to the rain and stayed that way until a car horn made them jump.

      The patrol car flashed its lights. Logan and the hungover PC waved an apology and walked around the side of Force HQ. Outside the Sheriff Court the protesters were already gathering, clutching their banners and placards, desperate for a glimpse of Gerald Cleaver. And an opportunity to string him up from the nearest lamppost.

      The Nervous Wee Shite was waiting for them at the main council buildings, shifting from foot to foot, peering at his watch the whole time as if it was going to run off if left unsupervised for more than thirty seconds at a time. He gave PC Steve a worried look and then extended a hand for Logan to shake. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said, even though he’d been standing there long before they arrived.

      They exchanged introductions, but Logan had forgotten the man’s name within thirty seconds of hearing it.

      ‘Shall we get going?’ The forgettable man stopped, fussed with a large leather folder, checked his watch again, and led them off towards a Ford Fiesta that looked in need of the last rites.

      Logan sat in the passenger seat next to Mr Nervous, making PC Steve sit in the back, behind the driver. One: he didn’t want the council’s environmental health ‘Danger Man’ getting a good look at the bloody state the constable was in; and two: if PC Steve decided to throw up again, it wouldn’t be all over the back of Logan’s head.

      All the way across town their driver kept up a running commentary on what a terrible thing it was to work for the council, but how he couldn’t escape to another job because he’d lose all his benefits. Logan tuned him out, just popping back up to the surface with the odd ‘Sounds terrible,’ and ‘I know how you feel,’ to keep the man happy. Instead he sat looking out of the window at the grey streets drifting slowly past.

      Rush hour was getting to the point at which everyone who should have left for work half an hour ago suddenly realized they were going to be late. Here and there some daft soul sat behind the wheel, cigarette clenched between their teeth, with the window wound down. Letting the smoke out and the drizzle in. Logan watched them with envy.

      He was beginning to get the feeling DI Insch had been telling him something with that whole ‘Privilege of Rank’ speech. Something unpleasant. He ran a slow hand over his forehead, feeling the swollen lump of his brain through the skin.

      It was no surprise that Insch had read Steve the riot act. The drunken PC could have caused the whole force a lot of embarrassment. Logan could see the headlines now: ‘NAKED COPPER SHOWED ME HIS TRUNCHEON!’ If he were Steve’s superior officer he’d have given him a bollocking too.

      And that was when the penny dropped. Insch had said it right to his face: ‘That’s one of the privileges of rank: you supervise those further down the tree.’ He was a detective sergeant, Steve a constable. They’d all gone out and got pissed and Logan hadn’t done a bloody thing to stop the PC getting blootered and bollock-naked.

      Logan groaned.

      This assignment was as much a punishment for him as it was for Steve.

      Twenty-five minutes later they were climbing out of the Nervous Wee Shite’s car in front of a dilapidated farm steading, the first outlying arm of a rambling croft on the outskirts of Cults. What little road there was disappeared into the undergrowth. A rundown farmhouse sulked at the end of the track, its grey stone weeping in the neverending rain. Derelict farm buildings sprawled around it, set in a wasteland of hip-deep grass and weeds. Ragwort and docken stuck up through the vegetation, their stems and leaves rust-brown beneath the winter sky. Two windows poked out of the building’s slate roof like an empty, hostile stare. Below, a faded red door bore a big painted number six. Each of the rambling steadings had a number scrawled on them in white paint. Every surface was slick with the misty rain, reflecting back the flat, grey daylight.

      ‘Homely,’ said Logan, in an attempt to break the ice. And then he smelled it. ‘Oh Jesus!’ He slapped a hand over his mouth and nose.

      It was the cloying, reeking stink of corruption. Of meat left for too long in the sun.

      The smell of death.

       11

      PC Steve lurched once, twice, and charged into the bushes to be noisily and copiously sick.

      ‘You see?’ said the nervous man from the council. ‘Didn’t I tell you it was terrible? Didn’t I?’

      Logan nodded and agreed, even though he hadn’t paid attention to a single word on the way out.

      ‘The neighbours have been complaining about the smell since last Christmas. We’ve written letter after letter, but we never get anything back,’ said the man, clutching his leather folder to his chest. ‘The postman refuses to deliver here any more you know.’

      ‘Really,’ said Logan. That explained why they never got a bloody reply. Turning his back on the retching constable, he started wading his way through the jungle. ‘Let’s go see if there’s anyone in.’

      Not surprisingly, the man from the council let him go first.

      The main farm building had once been well cared for. There were little flecks of white paint on the crumbling stone, twisted rusting brackets where hanging baskets would have been. But those days were long gone. Grass was growing in the gutters, blocking the downpipe, and water dripped over the edge. The door hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint for years. Weather and wasps had stripped the last coat away, leaving bare, bleached wood and a small iron number was screwed in the middle, rendered illegible by rust and dirt. The handle didn’t look much better. And over the lot was that big, white, hand-painted number six.

      Logan knocked. They stood back and waited. And waited. And waited. And …