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

his mug of coffee close to his chest, but not close enough to stain his nice new suit. ‘You know damn fine why: I want the inside story. I want the scoop. This stuff,’ he poked the photo on the paper’s front page, ‘it’s no’ got a long shelf life. Today, tomorrow, an’ that’s yer lot. Kiddie’s turned up safe and well and it was nothin’ more than his dad. A domestic. No blood an’ guts for the punters to get all shocked an’ horrified about. If the kid was dead, it’d run for weeks. As it is, day after tomorrow no one will want to know.’

      ‘Bit cynical.’

      Miller shrugged. ‘Call it like I see it.’

      ‘That why your colleagues don’t like you?’

      Miller didn’t even flinch, just popped a swollen chunk of coffee-stained bread into his mouth. ‘Aye, well. . . No one likes a smart arse, no when it makes them look bad.’ He put on a passable Aberdonian accent: ‘“Yer nae a team player!”, “That’s no’ the way we dae things up here!”, “You keep this up and you’re oot!”’ He snorted. ‘Aye, they don’t like me, but they publish my stuff, don’t they? I’ve had more front pages since I got here than most of them old buggers have had in their whole bloody lives!’

      Logan smiled. Touched a nerve there.

      ‘So,’ Miller polished off the last of his croissant, sooking the crumbs off his fingertips, ‘you goin’ to tell me how you found the missing kid or what?’

      ‘No chance! I’ve already had one visit from Professional Standards, looking for whoever told you we’d found David Reid’s body. They’ll have my arse in a sling if I go handing out information without official permission.’

      ‘Like you did yesterday?’ asked Miller innocently.

      Logan just looked at him.

      ‘OK, OK,’ said the reporter, collecting up the breakfast debris. ‘I get the hint. Quid pro quo: right?’

      ‘You have to tell me who your source is.’

      Miller shook his head. ‘No’ goin’ to happen. You know that.’ He stuffed the milk and butter back in the fridge. ‘How’d you do with that info I gave you?’

      ‘Er . . . we’re following it up.’ Logan lied. The sodding body in the harbour! The one with no knees! After Insch chewed him out for talking to the press he’d not actually spoken to the DI in charge of the investigation. He’d been too busy sulking.

      ‘OK, well you go an have a wee word with your DI and I’ll tell you what I’ve found out about George Stephenson’s last known whereabouts. That sound fair?’ He pulled a freshly-printed business card out of his wallet and placed it on the table. ‘You’ve got till half-four. “How Did Police Hero Find Missing Kid?” Day after tomorrow: no one cares. You give us a shout when you know.’

       16

      It was too late to go back to bed, so Logan grumbled his way into the shower and then up the road to Force Headquarters. The street was like a sheet of glass, the council having done its usual sterling job of not gritting the streets and pavements. But at least it wasn’t raining any more. Above his head the clouds were purple and dark grey, the rising sun still more than two hours away.

      Headquarters was like a grave as he pushed through the main doors. There was no sign of the media army that had been camped there the night before. All that was left was a pile of crumpled fag ends, lying in the gutter like frozen worms.

      Big Gary shouted a friendly ‘Mornin’, Lazarus!’ as Logan made for the lifts.

      ‘Morning, Gary,’ said Logan, really not in the mood for another barrage of bonhomie.

      ‘Here,’ called Gary, after making sure there was no one else about. ‘Did you hear? DI Steel’s bagged someone else’s wife. Again!’

      Logan paused, despite himself. ‘Whose is it this time?’

      ‘Andy Thompson in Accounts.’

      Logan winced. ‘Ouch. That’s rough.’

      Big Gary raised his eyebrows. ‘You think so? I always thought his wife was kinda tasty meself.’

      A balding head with a wide moustache poked itself out from behind the mirrored partition that separated the front desk from the small admin area around the back, and locked eyes on Logan. ‘Sergeant,’ said Eric – the other half of the Big Gary and Eric Show – without a great deal of warmth in his voice. ‘Could I have a word with you in my office, please?’

      Puzzled, Logan followed him around behind the two-way mirror. The admin area was a jumble of filing cabinets, computers and boxes of crap, piled against the walls, opposite a long, chipped Formica table covered with in-trays and piles of paper. Logan got the feeling something nasty was about to happen. ‘What’s up, Eric?’ he asked, parking himself on the edge of the table: just like DI Insch.

      ‘Duncan Nicholson,’ said the desk sergeant, folding his arms. ‘That’s what’s up.’ Logan looked at him blankly and Eric let out an exasperated sigh. ‘You had a couple of uniform bring him in for questioning?’ No reaction. ‘He found the dead kid down the Bridge of Don!’

      ‘Oh,’ said Logan. ‘Him.’

      ‘Yes, him. He’s been in the holding cells since Monday afternoon.’ Eric checked his watch. ‘Forty-three hours! You have to charge him or let him go!’

      Logan closed his eyes and swore. He’d forgotten all about the man. ‘Forty-three hours?’ The legal limit was six!

      ‘Forty-three hours.’

      Eric crossed his arms and let Logan stew for a while. Today was turning into an utter bastard.

      ‘I released him Monday evening,’ said Eric when he thought Logan had suffered enough. ‘We couldn’t hold him any longer. As it was we had him far longer than we should have.’

      ‘Monday?’ That was two days ago! ‘Why didn’t you call me?’

      ‘We did! About a dozen times. You turned off your phone. Tried again last night too. If you’re going to have people picked up you have to deal with them. You can’t just abandon them here and leave us to sort it out. We’re not your mother!’

      Logan swore again. He’d switched off his mobile while he was in the little girl’s post mortem. ‘Sorry, Eric.’

      The desk sergeant nodded. ‘Aye, well. I’ve made sure there’s no sign of anything wrong in the logbook. As far as everyone’s concerned: nothing happened. He came in on a voly, he was held for a bit, he was released. Just don’t let it happen again, OK?’

      Logan nodded. ‘Thanks, Eric.’

      Logan slouched his way along the corridor to the small office he’d commandeered the day before, grabbing a plastic cup of coffee on the way. The building was beginning to stir as the early birds drifted into work. Closing the door behind him, Logan sank into the chair behind the desk and stared at the map pinned to the wall, not really seeing the streets and the rivers.

      Duncan Nicholson. He’d forgotten all about leaving him in the cells to sweat. He let his head sink forward until it was resting on top of the stack of statements. ‘Bastard,’ he said into the pile of paper. ‘Bastard, bastard, bastard. . .’

      There was a knock at the door and he snapped upright. The statement on top of the pile fluttered to the floor. He was wincing down to pick it up when the door opened and WPC Watson peered in.

      ‘Morning, sir,’ she said and then caught the expression on his face. ‘You OK?’

      Logan forced a smile and sat back down. ‘Never better,’ he lied. ‘You’re in early.’

      WPC Watson nodded. ‘Yeah, I’ve got court this morning: caught a bloke yesterday afternoon