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

tapes in the recording unit whirred away to themselves, the red light on the video camera winking away in the corner of the room.

      Insch leaned forward and smiled the kind of smile crocodiles reserve for sick wildebeest. ‘Sure you don’t just want to come clean, Mr Nicholson?’ he asked. ‘Save us all a lot of trouble. You just cough to it all and tell us what you’ve done with Peter Lumley’s body.’

      But Nicholson just ran a hand across his shaved head, making scratching noises as he wiped the sweat away. He looked awful – shaking, sweating, arms wrapped around himself, eyes darting from Logan to Insch to the door.

      Insch popped open a clear plastic wallet and pulled out a photo of a little boy on a tricycle. The child was in what looked like a back garden, the strut of a whirly washing line visible between an out-of-focus towel and a pair of jeans. Insch held up the photo with the image facing away from him so he could read the name in biro on the back. ‘So tell me, Mr Nicholson, who’s Luke Geddes?’

      Nicholson licked his lips and darted a nervous glance at the door, the wet WPC, everywhere but the child on the bike.

      ‘Is he one of your little victims, Nicholson? Next on your list for picking up, killing and screwing? No? What about this one—’ Insch dug another photo out of the wallet, a little blond boy in his school uniform, walking down a street alone. ‘Stir any memories? Stir anything else? Get you hard, does it?’ He pulled out another photo. ‘What about this one?’ Little boy sitting on the back seat of a car, looking scared. ‘This your car? Looks like a Volvo to me.’

      ‘I didn’t do anything!’

      ‘Bollocks you didn’t. You’re a lying wee scumbag and I am going to send your arse to jail till you die.’

      Nicholson swallowed hard.

      ‘We have some other photographs,’ said Logan. ‘Would you like to see them, Mr Nicholson?’ He turned over a manila folder and took out the pictures of David Reid’s post mortem.

      ‘Oh God. . .’ Nicholson went grey.

      ‘You remember little David Reid, don’t you, Mr Nicholson? The three-year-old you kidnapped, strangled and raped?’

      ‘No!’

      ‘Surely you remember him? You went back for bits of him didn’t you? With a pair of secateurs?’

      ‘No! God, no! I didn’t do it! I only found him! I didn’t touch him!’ He grabbed at the table as if he were about to fall off the floor and slam into the ceiling. ‘I didn’t do anything!’

      ‘I don’t believe you, Duncan.’ Insch gave his crocodile smile again. ‘You are a filthy wee shite and I am going to put you away. And when you’re up in Peterhead Prison you’re going to find out what happens to people like you. People who fiddle with kids.’

      ‘I didn’t do anything!’ Tears streamed down Nicholson’s face. ‘I swear I didn’t do anything!’

      A half hour later DI Insch suspended the interview, using the excuse of a ‘comfort break’. They left Duncan Nicholson in the interview room with the soggy WPC and strolled back to the main incident room. Nicholson was a wreck, sobbing, wailing, trembling. Insch had put the fear of God into the man and now wanted him to stew in his own juices.

      Logan and Insch passed the time drinking coffee, eating fizzy jelly shapes and talking about the dead girl they’d dug out of Roadkill’s steading. The teams had been back up there all day, working their way through the piles of dead things, finding nothing.

      Logan opened his folder again, taking out a school photograph of David Reid – a happy-looking lad with slightly squint teeth and a mop of hair that no amount of combing would tame. Nothing like the swollen, dark, rotting face in his post mortem photos. ‘You still think he did it?’ he asked.

      ‘Roadkill?’ Insch shrugged and chewed. ‘Doesn’t look likely any more, does it? Not with laughing boy up there, with his collection of kiddie pics. Mind you, maybe they’ve got some sort of paedophile ring thing going.’ He scowled. ‘That’d be great, wouldn’t it? A whole bunch of the sick bastards out there.’

      ‘None of the kids in Nicholson’s photos are naked, though. Nothing smutty.’

      Insch raised an eyebrow. ‘What, you think they’re just artistic?’

      ‘No. You know what I mean. It’s not kiddie porn, is it? It’s bloody sinister and creepy, but it’s not porn.’

      ‘Maybe Nicholson doesn’t like to look at them that way. Maybe this is just his selection process. Follow some kids, take some pictures, pick a lucky winner for the paedophile sweepstakes.’ He made a gun with his fingers and picked off an imaginary child. ‘Gets his kiddie porn first hand, in the flesh. Real and immediate.’

      Logan wasn’t convinced, but he kept his mouth shut.

      At last a PC stuck his head round the door and told them a Mr Moir-Farquharson wanted to see them. And was going to make himself a pain in everyone’s backside until he had. Insch pursed his lips, thought about it, and finally asked the PC to show Sandy the Snake into a detention room.

      ‘What do you think Hissing Sid wants?’ asked Logan as the PC left.

      Insch grinned. ‘A whinge, a moan. . . Who cares? We get to poke fun at the wee shite while he’s in pain.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Sometimes, Logan my lad, God smiles on us.’

      Sandy Moir-Farquharson was waiting for them in a ground-floor detention room. He didn’t look very happy. There was a thin white plaster crossing the, now squint, bridge of his nose and there were dark circles beneath his eyes. If they were lucky those bags would settle into a pair of beautiful black eyes.

      His briefcase was sat in the middle of the table in front of him and he drummed his fingers impatiently on the leather surface, glowering at Insch and Logan as they entered.

      ‘Mr “Far-Quar-Son”,’ said the inspector. ‘How nice to see you up and about again.’

      Sandy the Snake scowled at him. ‘You let him go,’ he said in a low, threatening voice.

      ‘That’s right. He made a statement and has been bailed to return here on Monday at four.’

      ‘He broke my nose!’ The words were punctuated with a fist, slammed down on the tabletop, making the briefcase jump.

      ‘Oh, it’s not that bad Mr Far-Quar-Son. In fact it lends you a rugged, manly air. Doesn’t it, Sergeant?’

      Logan kept his face straight and said that it did.

      Sandy frowned, but couldn’t tell if they were taking the piss or not. ‘Really?’ he said at last.

      ‘Yes,’ said Insch, poker-faced. ‘Someone should have broken your nose a long time ago.’

      The lawyer’s frown became a scowl. ‘You do know that someone’s been sending me death threats? That someone threw a bucket of blood over me?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And that this Martin Strichen has form for violence?’

      ‘Now, now Mr Far-Quar-Son, Mr Strichen was in police custody when you were attacked with that blood. And we’ve analysed your death threats. There are at least four people sending the letters and none of them were postmarked Craiginches Prison. So it’s probably not Mr Strichen.’ He smiled. ‘But if you like we could take you into protective custody? I have a number of lovely cells downstairs. A couple of throw cushions, some flowers, it’ll be just like home!’

      A silent scowl was the only reply he got.

      Insch beamed. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse us, Mr Far-Quar-Son, we have real police business to attend to.’ He stood and motioned for Logan to do the same. ‘But if anyone makes good on any of those death threats, you make sure and give me a call. DS McRae will show you out.’ His smile widened. ‘Try and keep him from stealing the silverware, Logan: