Cold Granite. Stuart MacBride

he offered one to the DS standing next to him, but Logan declined.

      The PC shrugged and fumbled a lighter out of the breast pocket of his uniform, setting the cigarette glowing like a hot coal in the darkness. ‘Some fuckin’ sight for your first day back, eh, sir?’

      A plume of white smoke blossomed into the night and Logan took a deep breath, dragging it into his scarred lungs before the wind could whip it away.

      ‘What’s Iso …’ He stopped himself. ‘What’s Dr MacAlister saying?’

      The SOC tent flashed again, the shadow puppets caught in frozen motion.

      ‘No much more than the duty doc, sir. Poor wee bastard was strangled with somethin’. She says the other stuff probably happened later.’

      Logan closed his eyes and tried not to picture the child’s swollen body.

      ‘Aye.’ The PC nodded wisely, the red-hot tip of his fag bobbing up and down in the darkness. ‘At least he was dead when it happened. That’s something to be grateful for.’

      Fifteen Concraig Circle was in one of the newer sections of Kingswells, a suburb just five minutes outside Aberdeen proper, and creeping closer every year. The houses here were billed as ‘individually-crafted executive villas’, but they looked as if they’d been thrown together by someone with a job lot of yellow brick and no imagination.

      Number fifteen was near the start of a winding cul-de-sac, the gardens still too new to be much more than rectangles of grass with stumpy bushes round the edges. Many of the plants still sported tags from the garden centre. The downstairs lights were on, shining through the closed Venetian blinds, even though it was nearly two in the morning.

      DS Logan McRae sat in the passenger seat of the CID pool car and sighed. Like it or not, he was currently the senior investigating officer and that meant he had to tell David Reid’s mother that her son was dead. But he’d brought along a Family Liaison Officer and a spare WPC to help shoulder the load. At least he wouldn’t have to do this on his own.

      ‘Come on then,’ he said at last. ‘No point putting it off any longer.’

      The front door was opened by a heavy-set man in his mid-fifties with a brick-red face, moustache and hostile, bloodshot, eyes. He took one look at WPC Watson’s uniform and said, ‘’Bout bloody time you bastards showed up!’ Arms crossed, not moving.

      Logan closed his mouth. This wasn’t what he’d been expecting. ‘I need to speak to Miss Reid.’

      ‘Aye? Well you’re too bloody late! The bloody papers were on fifteen minutes ago looking for a bloody quote!’ His voice rose with each word until he was bellowing in Logan’s face. ‘You should have told us first!’ He slammed a fist against his own chest. ‘We’re his bloody family!’

      Logan winced. How the hell had the media found out that David Reid’s body had been discovered? As if the family wasn’t in enough pain.

      ‘I’m sorry, Mr …?’

      ‘Reid. Charles Reid.’ The man re-crossed his arms and inflated himself even further. ‘Her dad.’

      ‘Mr Reid, I don’t know how the press found out about this. But I promise you: whoever’s responsible is going to get their backside kicked from here to Stonehaven.’ Logan paused. ‘And I know that doesn’t make everything OK, but right now I need to speak to David’s mother.’

      Her father glowered down at Logan from the top step. Finally he stepped aside and Logan could see through a glazed door into a small lounge, painted a cheerful yellow. In the middle of a bright-red sofa were two women: one looking like a floral-print battleship, the other like a zombie.

      The younger woman didn’t look up as the police walked into the living room. Just sat staring blankly at the television, watching Dumbo being tormented by the clowns. Logan looked expectantly at the Family Liaison Officer, but she was doing her damnedest not to make any sort of eye-contact with him.

      Logan took a deep breath. ‘Miss Reid?’

      No reaction.

      Logan sank down on his haunches in front of the sofa, blocking her view of the television. She stared right through him as if he wasn’t even there.

      ‘Miss Reid? Alice?’

      She didn’t move, but the older woman scowled and bared her teeth. Her eyes were puffy and red, tears glistening on her round cheeks and jowls. ‘How dare you!’ she snarled. ‘You useless bunch of sh—’

      ‘Sheila!’ The older man stepped forward and she shut up.

      Logan turned his attention back to the comatose figure on the couch. ‘Alice,’ he said, ‘we’ve found David.’

      At the sound of her son’s name there was a flicker of life in her eyes. ‘David?’ Her mouth barely moved, the word more breathed than spoken.

      ‘I’m sorry, Alice. He’s dead.’

      ‘David …’

      ‘He was murdered.’

      There was a moment’s silence and then her father exploded. ‘Fuckin’ bastard! Fuckin’, fuckin’ bastard! He was three!’

      ‘I’m sorry.’ It was all Logan could think of to say.

      ‘You’re sorry? You’re sorry?’ Mr Reid rounded on him, his face scarlet. ‘If you bunch of useless bastards had got your fingers out of your arses and found him when he went missing, he’d no’ be dead! Three months!’

      The Family Liaison Officer made flapping, placatory gestures, but Mr Reid ignored her. He was trembling with rage, tears sparking in his eyes. ‘Three! Bloody! Months!’

      Logan raised his hands.

      ‘Look, Mr Reid, calm down, OK? I know you’re upset—’

      The punch shouldn’t have caught Logan by surprise, but it did. A fist like a breezeblock slammed into his stomach, tearing at the scar tissue, making fire rip through his innards. He opened his mouth to scream, but there was no breath left in his lungs.

      Logan’s knees buckled. A rough hand grabbed the front of his jacket, pulling him forward, keeping him on his feet as another fist was drawn back, ready to turn him into a bloody pulp.

      WPC Watson shouted something, but Logan wasn’t listening. There was a crashing sound and the hand holding him let go. Logan collapsed onto the carpet, curling into a ball around his burning stomach. An angry shout, followed by WPC Watson yelling that she was going to break Mr Reid’s arm if he didn’t calm down.

      Mr Reid cried out in pain.

      The floral battleship screamed, ‘Charlie! Stop it for God’s sake!’

      WPC Watson said something highly unprofessional and after that everyone was silent.

      The patrol car flashed across Anderson Drive, siren blaring. Logan sat in the passenger seat, his face grey and clammy, hands wrapped around his stomach, teeth gritted at every bump and pothole.

      Mr Charles Reid was strapped in the back, seatbelt done up over his handcuffed wrists. He looked scared.

      ‘Oh God, I’m sorry! Oh God, I’m so sorry!’

      WPC Watson screeched the car to a halt in front of Accident and Emergency. In one of the spots marked ‘AMBULANCES ONLY’. She helped Logan out of the car as if he was made of glass, pausing only to tell Mr Reid, ‘Keep your damn arse in that car till I come back or I’ll have your guts for garters!’ Just to be safe she plipped on the alarm, locking him in the car.

      They made it all the way to the reception area before Logan passed out.

       3

      Grampian Police Headquarters. The building was grey concrete