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

‘It’s him isn’t it? The man in the papers! He killed her and buried her in that filth!’

      ‘Calm down, Mrs Henderson. We have him in custody. He’s not going anywhere.’

      ‘That filthy bastard!’ She hurled her teacup against the wall. It exploded, raining shards of china, staining the wallpaper with lukewarm, milky tea. ‘He took my baby!’

      No one said much on the way back either. The Family Liaison Officer called in a neighbour to look after Mrs Henderson, who collapsed into tears as soon as the large, concerned woman arrived. They left the pair of them weeping on the sofa and let themselves out.

      The roads were quiet as the grave as they headed back towards the centre of town: the snow was keeping everyone but the gritters inside.

      Eight o’clock. A familiar figure slipped past as Insch swung the car round the Hazlehead roundabout. Peter Lumley’s stepfather, trudging through the falling snow, shouting his son’s name. Logan stared glumly at the soaking, cold figure until they’d left him far behind. He still had that dreadful visit from the police to look forward to. When they finally told him that his son’s body had been found.

      Insch checked in with Control and got an address for Mr Henderson. He shared an apartment with his flat-chested supermarket woman in the less salubrious end of Rosemount.

      They went through the same painful scene again. Only this time there was no self-blame. This time it was all directed at his stupid bitch ex-wife. His girlfriend sat on the couch in tears as he raged and swore. This wasn’t like him, she said. He was usually such a gentle man.

      And then back to Force Headquarters.

      ‘Christ, that was a fun day.’ Insch sounded completely drained as he shambled across to the lifts. He mashed the up button with a fat thumb. Surprisingly the doors slid open immediately. ‘Look,’ he said getting in, leaving Logan and WPC Watson standing in the corridor. ‘Why don’t you two get changed and meet me back here in five. I’ve got two forms to fill in and then I’ll buy you both a drink.’

      WPC Watson looked at Logan and then back at the inspector. She looked as if she was searching for a good excuse to be somewhere else. But before she could find it, the lift doors slid shut, taking DI Insch away.

      Logan took a deep breath.

      ‘If you’d rather not,’ he said to her ‘I understand. I can tell the inspector you had a prior engagement.’

      ‘You that keen to get rid of me?’

      Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘No. Not at all. I thought. . . Well, after all that crap in the papers . . . you know,’ he pointed at himself, ‘Mr Shitebag.’

      She smiled. ‘With all due respect, sir: you can be a right arse at times. I met Miller, remember? I know he’s a wanker.’ The smile slipped. ‘I just didn’t know if you’d want me there. After that outburst. Swearing at the car?’

      Logan beamed. ‘No! It’s OK. Honestly. OK, the swearing wasn’t OK—’ Her smile slipped and Logan charged on, afraid he’d screwed it all up again, ‘—but that’s got nothing to do with anything. I’d like you to come. Especially if Inspector Insch is buying.’ He stopped. ‘Not that I wouldn’t want you to come if I was paying. . . It’s. . .’ He clamped his mouth shut to keep any more babble from falling out.

      She looked at him for a moment. ‘Right,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll go get changed then. See you out front.’

      As she disappeared Logan was sure she was laughing at him. He stood alone in the corridor, blushing furiously.

      At the front desk, Big Gary was settling down to another night shift. He smiled and waved Logan over.

      ‘Hey, Lazarus, nice to see you getting the recognition you deserve!’

      Logan frowned and Gary whipped out a copy of the day’s Evening Express, the Press and Journal’s sister paper. There on the front page was a photograph of figures in blue rubber suits, picking through blurry animal carcases by hand.

      ‘HOUSE OF HORROR: BRAVE POLICE HUNT FOR EVIDENCE’

      ‘Let me guess,’ Logan sighed, ‘Colin Miller again?’ He must have worked fast.

      Gary smacked the side of his nose with a finger. ‘Got it in one, Mr Local Police Hero.’

      ‘Gary, as soon as I outrank you I’m going to have you out there,’ he pointed out into the snow, ‘pounding the beat again.’

      Gary winked. ‘And until then you’ll just have to put up with it. Biscuit?’ He held up a packet of Kit Kats and despite himself Logan smiled. And took one.

      ‘So what else is Mr Miller saying?’

      Gary puffed out his chest, flipped the paper over and read aloud, in his best Shakespearean voice: ‘Blah, blah, blah, snow and ice, blah, blah. Flowery shite about how brave all the police are for digging through “a gruesome mine of death”. Blah, blah, searching for “the vital evidence that will make our children safe from this beast”. Oh, you’ll like this bit. “Local Police Hero Logan ‘Lazarus’ McRae was not above helping his team sort through the carcases by hand”. Apparently you also saved Constable Steve Jacobs’ life when a huge rat attacked him. God bless you, sir!’ Gary cracked a salute.

      ‘PC Rennie did all the work. All I did was tell someone to get him to hospital!’

      ‘Ah, but without your firm leadership no one else might have thought of it!’ He wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. ‘You’re an inspiration to us all, so you are.’

      ‘I hate you.’ But Logan was smiling when he said it.

      WPC Watson was easier to think of as ‘Jackie’ when she was out of uniform. The austere black had been replaced by a pair of jeans and a red sweatshirt, her curly brown hair falling down over her shoulders. She cursed and tugged at it as she struggled into a thick padded jacket.

      At least one of them would be dressed for the snow. Logan was still in his working suit. He never got changed at the station. With his house only two minutes’ walk away there never seemed any point.

      She joined them at the desk, begged a Kit Kat off Big Gary and consumed it with delight.

      Logan waited until she had a good mouthful before asking, ‘How’d your prisoner get on this morning?’

      She munched and crunched and eventually mumbled that he’d been given forty-two hours’ community service with the council’s Parks Department, as usual, and put on the sex offenders’ register.

      ‘As usual?’

      Watson shrugged. ‘Turns out he always gets the Parks Department,’ she said, producing a small shower of chocolate crumbs. ‘Planting, weeding, fixing stuff. You know.’ She swallowed and shrugged. ‘Judge took pity on him, what with giving evidence in the Gerald Cleaver case and all. Went through the whole thing again, only without Sandy the Snake making out it’s all some weird, twisted fantasy. Got to confess I kinda feel sorry for the kid. Can you imagine getting treated like that? Abusive father, drunkard mother and when you go to hospital you get Gerald bloody Cleaver fiddling about with you under the sheets.’

      Silence settled in as they considered the flabby male nurse with a thing for little boys.

      ‘You know,’ said Big Gary, ‘if it wasn’t for Roadkill, I’d’ve put money on Cleaver for the dead kiddies.’

      ‘How? He was in custody when Peter Lumley went missing.’

      Gary flustered. ‘Might have had an accomplice.’

      ‘And he was a fiddler, not a killer,’ chipped in Jackie. ‘He liked them alive.’

      Logan winced. It wasn’t a nice image, but she was right.

      But Big Gary wasn’t going to let go of it that easily. ‘Maybe he can’t get it up any more? Maybe that’s why he