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

18

      The atmosphere in the car never got much beyond polite as they made their way through the remaining bookies on Logan’s list. WPC Watson called him ‘sir’ and answered his questions, but she never volunteered anything unless it was directly pertinent to the case.

      It was a crappy afternoon.

      They slogged their way from the car to one betting shop after another.

      ‘Have you seen this man?’

      ‘No.’

      Sometimes the ‘no’ came with a free ‘fuck off’ and other times the ‘fuck off’ was silent. But it was always there. Except for the owner and staff at J Stewart and Son: Bookmakers est. 1974 in Mastrick. Who were surprisingly nice to them. Disturbingly, suspiciously nice.

      ‘Jesus, that was freaky,’ said Logan as they clambered back into the car. ‘Look, they’re still smiling at us.’ He pointed through the windscreen at a large woman with ratty grey hair tied into a bun on the top of her head. She waved back.

      ‘Seemed nice enough to me,’ said Watson, negotiating the car out of the car park. It was the most she’d said for about an hour.

      ‘You never met Ma Stewart before?’ asked Logan as they headed back towards the station. When WPC Watson didn’t reply he took that as a no. ‘I arrested her once,’ he said as they drifted onto the Lang Stracht, the wide road carved up into bus lanes and weird pseudo-box-junctions liberally sprinkled with bollards and pedestrian crossings. ‘Pornography. She was peddling it to school kids out the back of an old Ford Anglia. Nothing too heavy – no animals or anything like that. Just good old-fashioned German hard-core. Videos and magazines.’ He snorted. ‘Half the bloody children in Mastrick knew more about sex than their biology teacher. We got called in when this eight-year-old asked if you could get pregnant from fisting.’

      A small smile flickered round the corners of WPC Watson’s mouth.

      The offices of the Press and Journal went by on the left and Logan winced. With all the excitement and panic of being put in charge of the bin-bag case he’d forgotten all about Colin Miller’s visit this morning. He still hadn’t talked to DI Insch about the reporter’s request for an exclusive. And Miller said he had more information on ‘Geordie’ too. Logan pulled his phone out to call DI Insch, but didn’t get any further than punching in the first two numbers.

      A crackly voice boomed out of the radio. Someone had beaten up Roadkill.

      They hadn’t meant it to go this far. That was what the ringleaders said when questioned by the Police and the Press. They just wanted to make sure their children were safe. It wasn’t right, was it? A grown man like that hanging around the school gates. And it wasn’t the first time he’d done it either. Most afternoons he was there, just when the kids were getting let out. And he wasn’t right in the head. Everyone knew he wasn’t right in the head. He smelled funny. It wasn’t right.

      So what if he got roughed up a little bit? It wasn’t as if they’d meant it to go that far. But kids were missing! You know: kids. Kids like the ones that went to Garthdee Primary School. Kids like theirs. If the police had come sooner it wouldn’t have got out of hand. If they’d come when they were called, none of this would have happened.

      So when you really thought about it, it was all the police’s fault.

      The man sitting on the other side of the interview table had seen better days. Yesterday for example. That was the last time Logan had set eyes on Bernard Duncan Philips, AKA Roadkill. He’d been pretty tatty-looking then, but at least his nose hadn’t looked as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. Bruises were already running rampant across his face and one eye was swollen shut, the skin an angry purple. His beard was clean and spiky on one side where the hospital had washed away the dried blood. His lip was swollen up like a sausage and he winced every time he smiled. Which wasn’t often.

      The accusations levelled against him by the ‘concerned parents’ who’d beaten him up were too serious to ignore. So as soon as he was released from Accident and Emergency, he had found himself in police custody. And he fitted the Lothian and Borders profile: white male, mid-twenties, mental health problems, menial job, no girlfriend, lives alone. The only error was the claim that he wouldn’t do well academically. Roadkill had a degree in medieval history. But, as Insch said, see how much bloody good that had done him.

      It had been a long, difficult and convoluted interview. Every time it looked as if they were about to get some sort of consistent statement out of Roadkill off he’d go on another rambling tangent. All the time gently rocking back and forward in his seat. As Roadkill was mentally ill they’d had to drag in an ‘appropriate adult’ to make sure everything was above board, so a social worker from Craiginches Prison had to sit next to Roadkill as he rocked and rambled and smelled.

      The interview room stank to high heaven. Eau de Rotting Animal and BO Pour Homme. Roadkill really, really needed a bath. DI Insch had grabbed the first opportunity to get the hell out of there, leaving Logan and the social worker to suffer while he went off to check on Roadkill’s incoherent statement.

      Logan shifted in his seat and wondered for the umpteenth time where the inspector had got to. ‘Do you want another cup of tea, Bernard?’ he asked.

      Bernard didn’t say anything, just went on folding a bit of paper in half and in half again. And, when it was folded so tight it was a little solid lump that couldn’t be folded any more, he unfolded it carefully and started all over again.

      ‘Tea? Bernard? You want some more tea?’

      Fold. Fold. Fold.

      Logan slumped in his seat and let his head fall back until he was staring at the ceiling. Off-grey ceiling tiles, the pockmarked kind. The ones that looked like the surface of the moon. God this was dull. And it was going on six! He was supposed to be meeting WPC Jackie Watson for a quiet drink.

      Fold. Fold. Fold.

      Logan and the social worker complained about Aberdeen Football Club’s latest performance for a bit before lapsing into gloom and silence again.

      Fold. Fold. Fold.

      Six twenty-three and the inspector stuck his head round the interview room door and asked Logan to join him in the corridor.

      ‘You get anything out of him?’ asked Insch when they were both outside.

      ‘Only a really nasty smell.’

      Insch popped a fruit pastille into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. ‘Well, his statement checks out. The council van drops him off after work in the same place just before four every day. They’ve been doing it for years. He gets the four twenty-two bus to Peterculter, regular as clockwork. Wasn’t hard to find a bus driver who remembered him, the smell’s hard to forget.’

      ‘And the bus stop is—’

      ‘Right outside Garthdee Primary School. Apparently he used to go to school there, before he went mental. Probably feels safer with a familiar routine.’

      ‘And did any of our “concerned parents” bother to ask him why he was there every afternoon?’

      Insch snorted, and helped himself to another pastille. ‘Did they bollocks. They saw a ragged-arsed bloke who smells funny, hanging about outside the school and decided to beat the crap out of him. He’s not our killer.’

      So it was back into the smelly interview room.

      ‘Are you sure there isn’t something you want to tell us, Mr Philips?’ asked Insch, settling back down into his chair.

      There wasn’t.

      ‘Right,’ said the inspector. ‘Well, you’ll be happy to know we’ve managed to corroborate your version of events. I know you’re the one who was attacked, but we had to make sure the accusations against you were groundless, OK?’