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

      Logan felt a tug at his sleeve and WPC Watson hissed in his ear, ‘Isn’t that—’

      But the old man got there first, shouting, ‘Mr McLeod! There’s some fuckin’ police bastards here tae see you!’

      ‘Now, now Dougie, that’s not nice,’ said Logan, taking a step towards the old man. The Alsatian was on its feet in an instant, teeth bared, its low growl making the hair on Logan’s neck stand on end. A string of saliva spiralled down between the animal’s broken teeth. It was an old dog, but it was vicious enough to frighten the crap out of him.

      Nobody moved. The dog kept on snarling, the old man kept on glowering, and Logan kept on hoping he wasn’t going to have to run for his life. Eventually a round face stuck itself out of the back room.

      ‘Dougie, what have I told you about that fuckin’ dog?’

      The old man cracked a smile, exposing green-and-brown dentures. ‘You said if the pigs come in, let ’im tear their fuckin’ throats out.’

      The newcomer frowned, then a smile broke his face in two. ‘Aye, you’re right. So I did.’ He was a good thirty years younger than Dougie, but the old man still called him ‘Mr’ McLeod.

      Simon McLeod had inherited his father’s coarse features. His left ear was missing a chunk, courtesy of a Rottweiler called Killer whose head now adorned the back office.

      ‘What do you bastards want then?’ he asked, settling his massive arms on the counter.

      Logan pulled out a colour picture of Geordie and held it out in front of him. ‘You recognize this man?’

      ‘Fuck you.’ He hadn’t even looked at the picture.

      ‘Nice offer, but I’ll pass this time.’ Logan slapped the photo down on the grimy counter. ‘Now: do you recognize him?’

      ‘Never seen him before.’

      ‘He was a loudmouthed git from Edinburgh. Came up here to do a job for Malk the Knife. Made some big bets and didn’t settle them.’

      Simon McLeod’s face closed up. ‘We don’t have a lot of people who don’t settle. It’s against management policy.’

      ‘Take another look, Mr McLeod. Sure you don’t recognize him? Ended up floating face down in the harbour with his kneecaps missing.’

      Simon’s eyes opened wide and he slapped a hand over his mouth. ‘Oh, him! God, now you mention it, I do remember something about hacking his kneecaps off and throwing him in the harbour! Christ, why’d you no’ say so sooner? Aye: I kilt him and I’m no’ fuckin’ bright enough to lie about it if the police come in here askin’ stupid fuckin’ questions.’

      Logan bit his tongue and counted to five. ‘Do you recognize him?’

      ‘Get to fuck and take your bitch with you. The smell’s upsettin’ Winchester.’ He pointed at the snarling Alsatian. ‘And even if I did recognize him, I’d sooner eat shite out a whore’s arse than tell you.’

      ‘Where’s your brother Colin?’

      ‘None of your fuckin’ business: that’s where he is. Now you goin’ to fuck off, or what?’

      Logan had to admit that there wasn’t a lot more they could do here. He was all the way to the door before a thought struck him and he turned. ‘Hacked off,’ he said, frowning. ‘How did you know the man’s kneecaps had been hacked off? I never said anything about that. I just said they were missing!’

      McLeod just laughed. ‘Aye, well done, Miss Marple. When someone ends up in the harbour with no knees like that it’s a message. It’s no’ a very good message if everyone doesnae get it. Every fucker in the city knows you don’t do what he did. Now fuck off.’

      They stood outside on the top step of the Turf ’n Track, watching clouds scud across the sky. There was just enough fading sunshine to cut through the seasonal chill and Logan watched a pair of plastic bags playing chase around the concrete in front of the boarded-up shops.

      WPC Watson leaned on the steel rail that ran along the front of the fortified buildings. ‘What now?’

      Logan shrugged. ‘We were never going to get anything out of the McLeods. We might have pulled in a couple of their punters, but can you see Dougie breaking down and spilling his guts?’

      ‘Not his own guts, no.’

      ‘So now we stick the photo under the noses of the other shopkeepers here. You never know. If we don’t mention the McLeods they might actually tell us something.’

      The Liverpudlian owner of the Chinese takeaway didn’t recognize Geordie’s face and neither did either of his Aberdonian staff. The video store had shut down years ago though the windows were still full of posters for forgotten blockbusters and ‘straight to video’ releases just visible through the aerosol scrawl. Last on the row was a combined newsagents, greengrocer and off-licence. The owner took one look at WPC Watson’s uniform and got a sudden attack of laryngitis. But he did sell Logan a packet of extra strong mints.

      Back outside again, the clouds had darkened the sky, the dying daylight giving up as the first fat drops of rain began to fall. They struck the concrete with a lifeless thud, one at a time, making large dark-grey circles that spread out, joining up as the heavens decided to really let rip. Dragging his suit jacket up over his head Logan ran for their rusty Vauxhall. Watson got there first and cranked on the blowers. They sat and steamed gently as the blowers did their best to clear the windows, sharing a packet of mints, watching hazy figures running for the shop doors to get in out of the rain for a mid-afternoon chicken chowmein, or the latest issue of Leather and Chains Monthly.

      Simon McLeod was up to something. But then the McLeods were always up to something. The trouble was proving it. They were from the old school: the kind in which lessons were taught with a claw hammer. No one ever saw anything. No one ever squealed.

      ‘So where now?’

      Logan shrugged. ‘Next bookies on the list I suppose.’

      WPC Watson stuck the car into reverse and backed out of the parking space. The headlights clicked on, turning the stair-rod rain into silver daggers. They’d almost reached the main road when a rust-and-green estate car appeared out of nowhere. Watson slammed on the brakes, shouted ‘Fuck!’ and stalled the engine.

      As the estate parked roughly in front of the Turf ’n Track, she wound down the window and hurled a mouthful of abuse out into the rain. Most of which involved the driver of the offending car’s rectum and WPC Watson’s boot. She stopped in mid-sentence. ‘Oh, God. Sorry, sir!’

      Logan raised an eyebrow.

      She blushed. ‘I kinda forgot you were there. I mean he didn’t indicate or anything. Sorry.’

      Logan took a deep breath and thought about what DI Insch had told him about the privileges of rank. He couldn’t just sit there and say nothing. She was in uniform for God’s sake! What if it got back to the papers? ‘Do you think a policewoman, in full uniform, leaning out of a car window, swearing her head off, does a lot for the Force?’

      ‘I didn’t think, sir.’

      ‘Jackie, when you do something like that you make us all look like a bunch of arseholes. You piss off everyone who sees it, or hears about it second-hand. And you put your job on the line.’

      Her blush went from strawberry to beetroot. ‘I . . . sorry.’

      He let her stew in silence for a slow count of ten, silently cursing inside. He’d hoped for a chance to impress her with his witty repartee, or his deductive acumen. Make her see what a great guy he was. The sort of guy you slept with twice. Giving her a dressing down hadn’t been part of the plan. An ‘undressing’ down maybe. . .

      Eight. Nine. Ten.

      ‘Come on,’ he said, trying out a friendly smile on her. ‘I