Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin. Stuart MacBride

you, sir.’

      ‘It’s playing merry hell with my crime statistics,’ said Insch. ‘Nearly every bloody officer I’ve got is either out there searching for missing children or trying to find out who the little girl in the bin-bag was. How am I supposed to get the burglaries and the frauds and the indecent exposures sorted out if I don’t have any bloody uniforms left?’ He sighed and offered the bag to Logan.

      ‘No thank you, sir.’

      ‘I tell you, rank has fewer privileges than you think.’

      Logan looked across at the inspector. Insch was not the sort of officer who normally indulged in self-pity. At least not as far as Logan knew. ‘Like supervising uniforms, you mean?’ he asked.

      At this a smile broke over DI Insch’s large features. ‘Did you like Roadkill’s little collection?’

      So he had known all about the steadings full of rotting animal corpses. He had done it on purpose.

      ‘I don’t think I’ve been sick so many times in my life before.’

      ‘How was Constable Jacobs?’

      Logan was about to ask who Constable Jacobs was, when he realized the inspector was talking about PC Steve: the naked drunkard. ‘I don’t think he’ll forget this morning in a hurry.’

      Insch nodded. ‘Good.’

      Logan thought the large man was going to say something more, but Insch just stuffed another sweetie in his mouth and smiled evilly to himself.

      Hazlehead was right on the edge of city, just a stone’s throw from the countryside proper. On the other side of Hazlehead Academy only the crematorium stood between civilization and the rolling fields. The Academy had a reputation for drugs and violent pupils, but it wasn’t a patch on places like Powis and Sandilands, so things could have been worse.

      Logan pulled the car up in front of one of the tower blocks near the main road. It wasn’t as big as the ones in town, being a mere seven storeys, and was surrounded by mature, cadaverous trees. The leaves had come off late this year, coating the ground in slimy black clots that clogged the drains and made them overflow.

      ‘You got an umbrella?’ asked the inspector, taking a good long look at the horrible weather.

      Logan admitted that he had, in the boot, so Insch made him get out of the car and fetch it, not stepping out into the downpour until Logan had the brolly open and was standing right next to the car door.

      ‘Now that’s what I call service,’ said Insch with a grin. ‘Come on then, let’s go see the family.’

      Mr and Mrs Lumley had a corner apartment near the top of the tower block. To Logan’s surprise the lifts didn’t reek of piss, nor were they scrawled all over with badly-spelled graffiti. The lift doors opened onto a well-lit corridor and halfway down they found a uniform rummaging about in his nose.

      ‘Sir!’ he said, snapping upright and abandoning his excavations as soon as he saw the inspector.

      ‘How long you been here?’ asked Insch, sneaking a peek over the PC’s shoulder at the Lumley home.

      ‘Twenty minutes, sir.’ There was a tiny stationhouse less than two hundred yards from the tower blocks. Little more than a couple of rooms really, but it did the job.

      ‘You got someone going door-to-door?’

      The PC nodded. ‘Two PCs and a WPC, sir. The area car’s off broadcasting a description.’

      ‘When did he go missing?’

      The constable dragged a notebook out of his pocket, flicking it open at the right page. ‘The mother called at ten-thirteen. The child had been playing outside—’

      Logan was shocked. ‘In this weather?’

      ‘Mother says he likes the rain. Dresses up like Paddington Bear.’

      ‘Aye, well. . .’ said Insch, stuffing his hands deep in his pockets. ‘Takes all sorts. Friends?’

      ‘All at school.’

      ‘I’m glad someone is. Have you checked with the school, just in case our little friend has decided to go learn something?’

      The PC nodded. ‘We called them straight after the friends. They’ve not seen him for almost a week and a half.’

      ‘Lovely,’ said Insch with a sigh. ‘Right, come on then, out the way. We’d better see the parents.’

      Inside, the flat was all done up in bright colours, just like the house at Kingswells, where David Reid used to live before he was taken, strangled, abused and mutilated. There were pictures on the walls, like the Erskine’s house in Torry, but the kid was a scruffy-looking boy of about five, with a mop of red hair and a face full of freckles.

      ‘That was taken two months ago, at his birthday party.’

      Logan turned his attention from the wall to the woman standing in the lounge doorway. She was quite simply stunning: long, curly red hair hanging loose on her shoulders, a small upturned nose and wide green eyes. She’d been crying. Logan did his best not to stare at her considerable bosom as she showed them into the living room.

      ‘Have you found him?’ This from a tattered-looking man in blue overalls and socks.

      ‘Give them time, Jim, they’ve only just got here,’ said the woman, patting him on the arm.

      ‘Are you the father?’ asked Insch, perching himself on the edge of a bright blue sofa.

      ‘Stepfather,’ said the man, sitting back down again. ‘His father was a bastard—’

      ‘Jim!’

      ‘Sorry. His dad and me don’t get on.’

      Logan started a slow inspection of the cheerful room, making a show of examining the photos and the ornaments, all the time watching Jim the stepfather. It wouldn’t be the first time a stepson had fallen foul of mum’s new husband. Some people took to their partner’s kids as if they were their own, others looked at them as a constant reminder that they weren’t first. That someone else had shagged the one they loved. Jealousy was a terrible thing. Especially when vented on a five-year-old child.

      OK, every photo on the wall showed the three of them looking as if they were having a great time, but people didn’t tend to put up pictures of the bruises, cigarette burns and broken bones in the living room.

      Logan was particularly taken with a scene on a beach somewhere hot, in which everyone was in their swimming gear, grinning at the camera. The mother’s figure was breathtaking, especially in a bottle-green bikini. Even with the scar where she must have had a Caesarean section.

      ‘Corfu,’ said Mrs Lumley. ‘Jim takes us away somewhere nice every year. Last year it was Corfu, this year it was Malta. Next year we’re taking Peter to Florida to see Mickey Mouse. . .’ She bit her bottom lip. ‘Peter loves Mickey Mouse . . . he. . . Oh God, please find him!’ And with that she dissolved into her husband’s arms.

      Insch cast Logan a meaningful glance. Logan nodded and said, ‘Why don’t I make us all a nice cup of tea? Mr Lumley, can you show me where the things are?’

      Half an hour later Logan and Inspector Insch were standing at the bottom of the tower block’s stairwell, looking out at the driving rain.

      ‘What do you think?’ asked Insch, ferreting out his bag of fizzy sweeties.

      ‘The stepfather?’

      Insch nodded.

      ‘He seems genuinely fond of the kid. You should have heard him banging on about how Peter’s going to play for the Dons when he grows up. I don’t see him as the wicked stepdad.’

      The inspector nodded again. While Logan had been making the tea and questioning the dad, Insch had been gently pumping the mother for information.