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

picked up his wineglass and did the swirling trick again. ‘Oh aye,’ he said. ‘Like I said: it’s ma job.’

      Logan waited, but Miller just took a slow sip.

      ‘So who is it?’ Logan said at last.

      ‘Well, now, that’s where we can start helpin’ each other, you know?’ Miller smiled at him. ‘I know some things and you know other things. You tell me your things and I tell you mine. End of the day we’re both better off.’

      Logan put his fork down. He had known this was coming from the moment the reporter asked him out to lunch. ‘You know that I can’t tell you anything.’ He pushed his plate away.

      ‘I know you can tell me a lot more than you tell the rest of the media. I know you can give me the inside track. You can do that.’

      ‘I thought you already had someone to feed you titbits.’ Now that he wasn’t eating any more Logan could concentrate on getting angry.

      Miller shrugged and twisted a long ribbon of pasta onto his fork. ‘Aye, but you’re better placed to help me, Laz. You’re the man on the scene, like. And before you go stormin’ off all huffy, remember: this is a trade. You tell me things, I tell you things. Them bastards should’ve made you a DI for catchin’ that Angus Robertson. Man kills fifteen women an’ you catch him single-handed? Shite, you should’a got a medal, man.’ He twirled another piece of tagliatelle, loading it up with slivers of smoked fish. ‘’Stead of which they give you a pat on the back. You get a reward? Did you bollocks.’ Miller leaned forward, pointing his fork at Logan. ‘You ever thought of writing a book about it?’ he asked. ‘You could get yourself a fuckin’ huge advance on that: serial-killer rapist stalks the streets, no one can lay a finger on him, then up pops DS McRae!’ Miller waved his fork around like a conductor’s baton as he got into the spirit, the tagliatelle unravelling as he spoke. ‘The DS and the brave pathologist track down the killer, only he grabs her! Rooftop showdown: blood, battle, near-fatal injury. Killer gets sent down for thirty to life. Applause and curtain.’ He grinned and stuffed the remaining pasta into his mouth. ‘Bloody great story. Have to move quick, but, Joe Public doesnae have a long memory. I’ve got contacts. I can help. Shite, you deserve it!’

      He dropped the fork on his plate and dug about in his jacket pocket, coming out with a small wallet.

      ‘Here,’ he said, pulling out a dark blue business card. ‘You give Phil a call and tell him I sent you. He’ll set you up with a fuckin’ good deal, man. Best literary agent in London, I’m tellin’ you. Done me proud.’ He placed the card in the middle of the table, facing Logan. ‘That’s free byraway. A token of good will.’

      Logan said thank you. But left the card sitting where it was.

      ‘What I want from you,’ said Miller, going back to his pasta. ‘Is what’s goin’ on with all these dead kiddies. The fuckin’ Press Office are givin’ out the usual shite: no details. Nothin’ meaty.’

      Logan nodded. It was standard practice: if you told the media everything they printed it, or staged reconstructions of it, or debated it on live television. Then all the nutters under the sun would be phoning up, claiming they were the new Mastrick Monster, or whatever trite nickname the press were going to give the man who abducted, killed and mutilated little boys before abusing their corpses. If nothing was kept secret there’d be no way of knowing if a call was genuine.

      ‘Now, I know wee David Reid was strangled,’ Miller went on, but that much was common knowledge. ‘I know he was abused.’ Again nothing new there. ‘I know the sick bastard hacked off the kid’s dick with a pair of scissors.’

      Logan sat bolt upright. ‘How the hell did you know—’

      ‘I know he stuffed something up the kid’s bum. Probably couldn’t get his own dick up, so he has to use—’

      ‘Who told you all this?’

      Miller did his shrug and wine glass routine again. ‘Like I said: it’s—’

      ‘—your job,’ Logan finished for him. ‘Sounds like you don’t need any help from me.’

      ‘What I want to know is what’s goin’ on in the investigation, Laz. I want to know what you lot are doin’ to catch the bastard.’

      ‘We are pursuing several lines of enquiry.’

      ‘Dead wee boy on Sunday, dead wee girl on Monday, two wee boys snatched. You got a serial killer on the loose.’

      ‘There’s no evidence the cases are connected.’

      Miller sat back, sighed and poured himself another glass of chardonnay. ‘OK, so you don’t trust me yet,’ said the reporter. ‘I can understand that. So I’ll do you a favour, just so’s you know I’m a good guy. That bloke you dragged out the harbour, the one with no knees, his name was George Stephenson. Geordie to his friends.’

      ‘Go on.’

      ‘He was an enforcer for Malk the Knife. Heard of him?’

      Logan had. Malk the Knife: AKA Malcolm McLennan. Edinburgh’s leading importer of guns, drugs and Lithuanian prostitutes. He’d turned himself semi-legitimate about three years ago, if you could call property development that. McLennan Homes had bought up big chunks of land on the outskirts of Edinburgh and covered them with little boxy houses. Recently he’d been sniffing around Aberdeen, looking to get into the property game here before the arse fell out of the market. Going up against the local boys. Only Malk the Knife didn’t play the game like the local developers. He played hard and he played for keeps. And no one had ever been able to lay a finger on him. Not Edinburgh CID, not Aberdeen, not anyone.

      ‘Well,’ said Miller, ‘it seems Geordie was up here making sure Malkie got planning permission for his latest building scheme. Three hundred houses on greenbelt between here and Kingswells. Bit of the old bribery and corruption. Only Geordie has the bad luck to run into a planner that isn’t bent.’ He sat back and nodded. ‘Aye, that came as a bit of a surprise tae me too. Didnae think there was any of the buggers left. Anyway, the planner says, “Get ye behind me Satan” and that’s just what Geordie does.’ Miller held up his hands and made pushing gestures. ‘Right in front of the number two fourteen to Westhill. Splat!’

      Logan raised an eyebrow. He’d read about someone from the council falling under a bus, but there was never any suggestion it was anything other than an accident. The poor sod was in intensive care at the hospital. They didn’t expect him to see Christmas.

      Miller winked. ‘It gets better,’ he said. ‘Word is Geordie’s got a bit of a problem with the horses. He’s been spreading bets round the local bookies like butter. Big money. Only his luck’s for shite. Now your Aberdeen bookie’s no as . . . entrepreneurial as the ones down south, but they’re no’ exactly Telly Tubbies. Next thing you know Geordie’s floatin’ face down in the harbour an’ someone’s hacked off his kneecaps with a machete.’ The reporter sat back and swigged a mouthful of wine, grinning at Logan. ‘Now is that no’ worth something to you?’

      Logan had to admit that it was.

      ‘Right then,’ said Miller, settling his elbows on the tabletop. ‘Your turn.’

      Logan walked back into Force Headquarters looking as if someone had shoved the winning lottery ticket into his hand. The rain had even let up, allowing him to walk all the way from the Green to the huge Queen Street station without getting wet.

      Insch was still in the incident room, giving orders and taking reports. From the look of things they’d had no joy in locating either Richard Erskine or Peter Lumley. The thought of those two little kids, out there, probably dead, took the edge off Logan’s good mood. He had no business grinning like a loon.

      He cornered the inspector and asked him who was in charge of the missing kneecaps case.

      ‘Why?’ asked Insch, his large face full of suspicion.

      ‘Because I’ve got a