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

It’s too dark to see anything out there. . . You need to go home.’

      Lumley shook his head, sending small droplets of water flying from his lank hair. ‘I need to find him! He’s only five!’ He sank slowly down into an orange plastic seat.

      Logan’s phone started blaring its theme tune and he dug it out, switched it off and stuck it back in his pocket without even looking. ‘Sorry about that. How’s his mother holding up?’ he asked.

      ‘Sheila?’ Something almost approaching a smile touched Lumley’s mouth. ‘The doctor’s given her something. Peter means the world to her.’

      Logan nodded. ‘I know you probably don’t want to think about this,’ said Logan, working his words carefully, ‘but has Peter’s father been told he’s missing?’

      Lumley’s face closed up. ‘Fuck him.’

      ‘Mr Lumley, the boy’s father has a right to know—’

      ‘Fuck him!’ He wiped a hand across his face. ‘Bastard fucked off to Surrey with some tart from his office. Left Sheila and Peter without a fuckin’ penny. You know what he sends Peter for Christmas? For his birthday? Fuck all. Not even a fuckin’ card! That’s what he sends his son. That’s how much he cares. Fuckin’ bastard. . .’

      ‘OK, forget the father. I’m sorry.’ Logan stood. ‘Look, we’re going to have all the area cars keeping an eye out for your son. There’s nothing more you can do tonight. Go home. Get some rest. First light tomorrow morning we’ll be searching again.’

      Peter Lumley’s stepfather slid his head into his hands.

      ‘It’s OK,’ said Logan, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder, feeling the shivering turn into silent sobs. ‘It’s OK. Come on, I’ll give you a lift home.’

      Logan signed for one of the CID pool cars, another battered-looking Vauxhall in need of a wash. Mr Lumley didn’t say a word all the way from Queen Street to Hazlehead. Just sat in the passenger seat staring out of the window, searching for a five-year-old child.

      No matter how cynical you were, it would be impossible not to see the genuine love the man had for his stepson. Logan couldn’t help wondering if Richard Erskine’s dad was still out, searching for his missing son in the dark and the rain. Before remembering the poor sod had died before Richard was born.

      He frowned, working the dirty pool car round the roundabout that lead into Hazlehead proper. Something was nagging at him.

      Now he came to think about it: all the time they’d been in that house no one had mentioned the father. All the photos on the wall were of the missing child and his suffocating mother. You would have thought there would have been at least one of Richard’s dear departed dad. He didn’t even know the man’s name.

      Logan dropped Mr Lumley at the front door to his block of flats. It was hard to say, ‘Don’t worry, Mr Lumley, we’ll find him and he’ll be fine. . .’ when he was one hundred percent sure the child was already dead. So he didn’t, just made vague reassuring noises before driving off into the night.

      As soon as he was out of sight, Logan pulled out his mobile, turned it back on, and called the incident room. A harassed-sounding WPC answered the phone.

       ‘Yes?’

      ‘It’s DS McRae,’ said Logan, heading back into town. ‘Something wrong?’

      There was a pause and then: ‘Sorry, sir, the bloody press have been on. You bloody name it I’ve spoken to them: BBC, ITV, Northsound, the papers. . .’

      Logan didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Why?’

       ‘Bloody Sandy the Snake’s been stirring up shite. Seems we’re all incompetent and trying to pin all the murders on his client, ’cos we haven’t got a bloody clue. Says it’s Judith Corbert all over again.’

      Logan groaned. They’d only ever found her left ring finger, complete with gold wedding band, and Mr Sandy Moir-Farquharson had ripped the prosecution case to shreds. The husband walked free, even though everyone knew he’d done it; Slippery Sandy got a huge cheque, three chat-show appearances and a BBC Crime Special; and three good police officers were thrown to the wolves. Seven years ago and he was still digging her up to beat them with.

      Logan swung the car round onto Anderson Drive, making for the back road to Torry. Where little Richard Erskine had gone missing.

      ‘Yeah, that sounds like Sandy. What did you tell them?’

       ‘Told them to get stuffed and speak to the Press Office.’

      Logan nodded. ‘Quite right. Listen, I need you to look something up for me, OK? Did we get a name for Richard Erskine’s father?’

      ‘Hang on. . .’ The sound of someone massacring ‘Come On Baby Light My Fire’ came on as he was put on hold.

      He’d got all the way down to Riverside Drive before the WPC’s voice replaced the awful rendition. ‘Sorry, sir,’ she said, ‘we don’t have the father’s name on file, but the case notes say he died before the child was born. Why?’

      ‘Probably nothing,’ said Logan. ‘Listen: I’ll be at the Erskine house soon. Call the Family Liaison Officer. . . She still on site?’ Distraught mother with a missing child: they wouldn’t have assigned a man to look after her.

       ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Good. Call her and get her to meet me out front in about. . .’ he took a look at the grey buildings drifting past, the windows shining with yellow light, ‘two minutes.’

      She was waiting for him, watching him make an arse of parking the CID pool car.

      Trying not to look as flustered as he felt, Logan left the thing abandoned, half on the kerb, and buttoned up his coat against the rain.

      The Family Liaison Officer was better organized than he was: she had an umbrella.

      ‘Evening, sir,’ she said as he squeezed himself in under the brolly. ‘What’s up?’

      ‘I need to know if you’ve heard anything of the boy’s—’

      A harsh white flash broke through the rain, cutting him off.

      ‘What the hell?’ he asked, spinning around.

      There was a scruffy-looking BMW on the other side of the road, the passenger side window rolled down, letting a trickle of smoke escape into the cold night air.

      ‘I think it’s the Daily Mail,’ said the WPC holding the brolly. ‘You turn up: they think something’s happening. Flash, bang, wallop. If they can make up some shite to go along with it you’ll be on the front page tomorrow.’

      Logan turned his back on the car, making sure that if they took any more snaps all they’d get was the back of his head. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘have you heard anything about the child’s father?’

      She shrugged. ‘Only that he’s dead. And a right bastard, according to the next-door neighbour.’

      ‘What, did he beat her up, cheat on her?’

      ‘No idea. But the old witch makes him sound like Hitler, only without the winning personality.’

      ‘Sounds lovely.’

      Inside the Erskine household the only thing that had changed was the air quality. The walls were still lined with those freaky mother-and-son snaps, the wallpaper was still revolting, but the air was thick with cigarette smoke.

      In the lounge, Mrs Erskine was weaving away on the couch, unable to sit still, or upright. A large cut-glass tumbler of clear spirit was clutched in her hands, a half-smoked fag between her lips. The bottle of vodka on the coffee table was well on its way.

      Her friend, the next-door neighbour, the one who didn’t