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

was drawing a picture of a man in a suit being squashed by a smiling man in a police car. The man doing the squashing looked like Big Gary and the squashee bore a striking resemblance to everyone’s favourite lawyer.

      A grin broke over Logan’s face. Settling on the edge of the desk, he lugged into Big Gary’s end of the conversation.

      ‘Oh, yes. I agree. Dreadful, dreadful. . . No, I don’t think so, sir.’ He scrawled the words ‘POMPOUS WEE SHITEBAG’ across the notepad and then punctuated it with lots of little arrows pointing at the squashed figure.

      ‘Yes, sir, I’ll make sure all the area cars are looking for the perpetrator. It’ll be our top priority.’ He slipped the phone back in its cradle before finishing with, ‘Soon as the Lord Provost walks in here and starts giving out free blowjobs.’

      Logan picked the doodle-covered pad off the table and examined the happy tableau. ‘Didn’t know you had an artistic bent, Gary.’

      Gary grinned. ‘Slippery Sandy: someone threw a bucket of blood all over him. Called him a “rapist lovin’ bastard” and fucked off.’

      ‘My heart bleeds.’

      ‘You got some messages by the way: a Mr Lumley. Called about six times in the last two hours. Wanting to know if we’ve found his son. Poor sod sounds desperate.’

      Logan sighed. The search teams had all gone home: there was nothing more they could do until morning. ‘Did you get hold of DI Insch?’ he asked.

      Gary shook his head, sending his jowls wobbling. ‘No chance.’ He checked his watch. ‘Show doesn’t finish for . . .’bout another five minutes. You know what he’s like about people callin’ when he’s givin’ his all for the theatre. Did I ever tell you about the—’

      The door at the end of the reception area burst open, banged against the wall and rebounded again. DI Insch stormed through in a flurry of gold and scarlet, his curly-toed boots squishing on the floor tiles. ‘McRae!’ he bellowed, face furious under a thick layer of make-up. He wore a stick-on goatee beard, complete with handlebar moustache. When he ripped it off it left a patch of angry pink around his mouth. A white tidemark showed where his turban must have sat, the skin of his bald head shiny under the overhead lights.

      Logan jumped to attention. He opened his mouth to ask how the night’s performance had gone but DI Insch got there first. ‘What the blue fucking hell do you think you’re playing at, Sergeant?’ He snatched off his clip-on earrings and slapped them on the desk. ‘You do not—’

      ‘Richard Erskine. We found him.’

      Beneath the make-up, all the colour went out of the inspector’s face. ‘What?’

      ‘He’s not dead. We found him.’

      ‘You’re kidding me!’

      ‘Nope. We’ve got a press conference scheduled in twenty minutes. The mother’s on her way in to the station.’ Logan stepped back and surveyed the deflating DI in his pantomime villain costume. ‘That’s going to look great on TV.’

      Wednesday morning started far too early. Quarter to six and the phone was ringing off the hook.

      Bleary and confused, Logan fumbled his way out from beneath the duvet and tried to switch off the alarm clock. It just went clunk at him. Logan picked it up, saw what time it was, swore, and sank back into the bed, one hand trying to rub some life into his face.

      The phone was still ringing.

      ‘Bugger off!’ he told it.

      The phone kept on ringing.

      Logan dragged himself into the lounge and snatched up the handset. ‘What?’

      ‘That’s a great phone manner you’ve got there by the way,’ said a familiar Glaswegian voice. ‘Now are you goin’ tae open your front door or what? I’m freezin’ my nuts off out here!’

      ‘What?’

      The doorbell bing-bonged and Logan swore again.

      ‘Hold on,’ he told the phone before putting it down on the coffee table and staggered out of his flat, down the communal stairs to the building’s front door. It was still pitch dark outside, but sometime during the night the rain had stopped. Now everything was coated in a crust of frost, reflecting the yellow streetlights. The reporter – Colin Miller – was standing on the doorstep, holding a mobile phone in one hand and a white plastic bag in the other. He was impeccably dressed in a dark grey suit and black overcoat.

      ‘Jesus, it’s fuckin’ freezing!’ The words came out in a cloud of fog. ‘You lettin’ me in or what?’ He raised the plastic bag up to eye level. ‘I brought breakfast.’

      Logan squinted out into the dark. ‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’

      ‘Aye. Now open up before all this shite gets cold.’

      They sat at the kitchen table, Logan slowly coming back to life, Miller helping himself to the contents of Logan’s cupboards while the kettle grumbled and rattled to a boil. ‘You got any proper coffee?’ he asked, slamming one set of doors and moving on to the next.

      ‘No. Instant.’

      Miller sighed and shook his head. ‘Bloody place is like a third world country. Never mind. I can slum it. . .’ The reporter dug out a couple of huge mugs and spooned in dark brown granules and sugar. He suspiciously examined the carton of semi-skimmed milk lurking in the fridge, but after sniffing it once or twice thumped it down on the table along with a tub of spreadable butter.

      ‘I wasnae sure what kind of breakfast you’d like so we’ve got croissants, sausage rolls, steak pies and Aberdeen rolls. Help yourself.’

      Logan dug a couple of rowies out of the bag and slathered one with butter. He took a big bite and sighed happily.

      ‘Don’t know how you can eat that shite,’ said Miller, handing Logan a coffee. ‘You know what’s in them?’

      Logan nodded. ‘Fat, flour and salt.’

      ‘No, not fat: lard. Only a fuckin’ Aberdonian could come up with a roll that looks like a cowpat. There’s half a ton of saturated animal fat and half a ton of salt in that! No’ surprising you’re all dropping dead of heart attacks.’ He pulled the bag over and helped himself to a croissant, tearing off a chunk, spreading it with jam and butter and dipping it in his coffee.

      ‘You can talk!’ Logan watched a thin film of sparkling grease float to the surface of the reporter’s mug. ‘Your lot invented deep-fried pizzas!’

      ‘Aye, touché.’

      Logan watched him rip, spread and dip another chunk of croissant, waiting until the reporter’s mouth was full of soggy bread before asking him why he’d come round at this ungodly hour.

      ‘Can a friend no’ pop round tae have breakfast with another friend?’ The words came out muffled. ‘You know, nice and social. . .’

      ‘And?’

      Miller shrugged. ‘You did good last night.’ He reached into the bag and came out with another croissant and a copy of that morning’s Press and Journal. The front page held a big photo of the press conference. ‘POLICE HERO FINDS MISSING CHILD’ said the headline in big, bold letters. ‘Found that little kiddie all by your ownsome. How’d you do it?’

      Logan dug a steak pie out of the bag, surprised to find it was still warm from the baker’s oven. He munched down on flaky pastry, coating the newspaper with crumbs as he read and ate at the same time. He had to admit: it was a good story. There wasn’t much in the way of fact, but Miller had managed to weave what there was into something a lot more interesting than it should have been. It looked as if the reporter was the paper’s golden boy for a reason. There was even a recap of Logan’s capture of the Mastrick Monster, just so everyone would know that DS Logan McRae was worthy of the title ‘POLICE HERO’.