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

letters, but that didn’t deter the inspector. She sat at her desk, the window cracked slightly to let the curling cigarette smoke drift out into the blazing sunshine.

      Detective Inspector Steel was Laurel to DI Insch’s Hardy. Where Insch was fat, she was thin. Where Insch was bald, Steel looked as if someone had sellotaped a Cairn terrier to her head. Rumour had it she was only forty-two, but she looked a lot older. Years of chain smoking had left her face looking like a holiday home for lines and wrinkles. She was wearing a trouser suit from Markies, in charcoal grey so it wouldn’t show the ash that fell constantly from the end of her fag. The burgundy blouse underneath it hadn’t fared so well.

      It was hard to believe she was the biggest womanizer on the force.

      There was a mobile phone rammed between her ear and her shoulder and she talked into it out of one side of her mouth so as not to disturb the cigarette sticking out of the other. ‘No. No. No. . .’ she said in a hard staccato. ‘You get this: I get hold of you, I will rip you a new arsehole. No . . . no, I don’t care who the fuck you have to screw around. You don’t come across with the goodies before Friday, you and I are going to fall out. . . Fucking right I will. . .’ She looked up, saw Logan standing there and waved him towards a tatty-looking chair. ‘Yes . . . yes, that’s better. I knew we could come to an understanding. Friday.’ DI Steel snapped her mobile shut and smiled evilly. ‘Fully fucking fitted kitchen, my arse. You give these people an inch they’ll piss all over you.’ She picked a packet of king-size up off her desk and shook it in Logan’s direction. ‘Fag?’

      Logan declined and she smiled at him again.

      ‘No? Aye, you’re right: it’s a fucking filthy habit.’ She winkled a cigarette out of the pack and lit it from the one she was still smoking, before grinding the stub out on the windowsill. ‘So what can I do for you, Mr Police Hero?’ she asked, settling back in her chair, her head wreathed in fresh smoke.

      ‘Your floater: Mr No Kneecaps.’

      Steel raised an eyebrow. ‘Listening.’

      ‘I think it’s George “Geordie” Stephenson. He was an enforcer for Malcolm McLennan—’

      ‘Malk the Knife? Fuck. I didn’t think he was doing business up here.’

      ‘Word has it Geordie was sent up to cut a deal with the planning department: three hundred houses on greenbelt. The planner said no and Geordie pushed him under a bus.’

      ‘I don’t believe you.’ She even went so far as to take the cigarette out of her mouth. ‘Someone from Planning turned down a bribe?’

      Logan shrugged. ‘Anyway: it seems that Geordie had a liking for the horses. Only Lady Luck is not Geordie’s friend. And he was into some of the local bookies for some serious money.’

      DI Steel settled back in her seat, picking at her teeth with a chipped fingernail. ‘I’m impressed,’ she said at last. ‘Where’d you hear this?’

      ‘Colin Miller. He’s a reporter on the P&J.’

      She took a long draw on her fag, making the end glow hot orange. Smoke trickled down her nose as she examined Logan in silence. The room was shrinking, the walls obscured by curling layers of tobacco fog until only that glowing orange eye remained. ‘Inschy tells me you’re running the kid-in-the-bin-bag case now.’

      ‘Yes, ma’am.’

      ‘He tells me you’re not a complete waste of skin.’

      ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ But he wasn’t sure if that was really a compliment.

      ‘Don’t thank me. If you’re not a fuck-up, people notice. They give you things to do.’ She smiled at him through the smoke and Logan felt a small chill go down his spine. ‘Inschy and me: we’ve been talking about you.’

      ‘Oh?’ There was something unpleasant coming: he could feel it.

      ‘It’s your lucky day, Mr Police Hero. You’re going to get another chance to shine.’

       17

      Logan went straight to DI Insch. The inspector sat on the edge of a desk like a large, round vulture and listened calmly as Logan complained about DI Steel slope-shouldering the no-knees investigation onto him. He was just a detective sergeant! He couldn’t carry multiple homicide investigations! Insch listened and tutted and commiserated and then told him that things were tough all over and he shouldn’t be such a bloody prima donna.

      ‘What have you got going on the bin-bag case?’ asked Insch.

      Logan shrugged. ‘The appeal went out on the telly last night, so there’s a pile of sightings to go through. There was this one old lady who said we could call off the search, because little “Tiffany” was playing in the sand pit at the foot of the garden.’ He shook his head. ‘Silly old bat. . . Anyway, I’ve got a dozen uniform out working their way through the list.’

      ‘So you’re basically twiddling your thumbs till something comes up, then?’

      Logan blushed and admitted that yes, he was.

      ‘So what’s to stop you digging into the floater?’

      ‘Well, nothing as such, it’s just that. . .’ He tried not to meet Insch’s eyes. ‘Well, there’s the incident lines—’

      ‘Get a uniform to take the calls.’ Insch settled back on his large rump, arms crossed.

      ‘And . . . and. . .’ Logan stopped talking and flapped his arms a little. Somehow he couldn’t get the words out: I’m terrified of screwing all this up.

      ‘And nothing,’ said Insch. ‘You can have WPC Watson when she’s finished in court.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’ve not factored her into any of the search teams anyway.’

      Logan just slumped slightly.

      ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ The inspector levered himself off the desk and dug out a half-eaten packet of Polo Mints, helping himself to one before winding the tinfoil shut like a silvery fuse. ‘Here.’ He tossed the little dynamite-shaped package to Logan. ‘Call it an early Christmas bonus. Now bugger off and get to work.’

      When they heard that Logan had a body in the morgue that might be Geordie Stephenson, Lothian and Borders Police were delighted. But before they threw a full-blown party with cake and balloons, they wanted to make sure Logan’s stiff really was Malk the Knife’s favourite enforcer. So they emailed up everything they had on the man: fingerprints, criminal record, and a nice big photo that Logan had printed off in colour. Twelve copies. Geordie had a large face with heavy features, bouffant hairstyle and a porn-star moustache. Just the sort of face to go demanding money with menaces with. He looked a lot more battered and pasty now he was dead, but it was definitely the same man they’d dragged out of the harbour with his knees hacked off. And to make matters certain, the fingerprints were an exact match.

      Logan phoned Lothian and Borders back to give them the news. Geordie Stephenson was now collecting debts in the great beyond. They promised to send Logan up some cake.

      Now that they had a positive ID, the next thing to do was find out who killed him. And Logan was willing to bet it had something to do with Geordie’s gambling habit. So that meant doing the rounds of the bookies in Aberdeen. Flash Geordie’s face and see who squirmed.

      Logan popped into his little incident room on the way out, just to make sure everything was still going OK. On Insch’s instructions he’d commandeered an efficient-looking WPC with sandy-brown hair and thick eyebrows to woman the phones and co-ordinate the uniforms going door-to-door. She sat at the cluttered table with a phone headset on, taking down yet another possible identity for the dead girl. Then she brought him up to speed with the latest developments, which took all of three seconds – there weren’t any – and promised to call him on his mobile if anything came up.

      That