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

The way that fat bastard goes on, you’d think I lived to put perverts back on the streets.’

      Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘You got Gerald Cleaver off.’

      The lawyer buttoned his coat. ‘No I didn’t.’

      ‘Yes you did! You picked the bloody case to pieces!’

      Moir-Farquharson turned and looked Logan in the eye. ‘If the case had been solid I couldn’t have picked it apart. I didn’t let Cleaver off: you did.’

      ‘But—’

      ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, officer, I have other matters to attend to.’

      Back in the interview room Duncan Nicholson was fidgeting as if someone had stuck a mains cable up his bum. His shirt was drenched with sweat and his eyes roamed the room in perpetual motion, never settling on one thing for more than a moment.

      Logan went back to the seat nearest the tape machine and got the thing ready to start recording again.

      ‘I . . . I want protective custody!’ said Nicholson, before Logan had managed to press the record buttons.

      ‘Craiginches secure enough for you?’ asked Insch. ‘Just till you go to Peterhead of course.’

      ‘No! Like on the films: protective custody. Somewhere safe. . .’ He scrubbed at his sweat-drenched face. ‘They’ll kill me if they find out I’ve talked!’ His bottom lip trembled and for a moment Logan thought he was going to dissolve into tears again.

      Insch dug his packet of fizzy shapes out and stuffed a couple into his mouth. ‘No promises,’ he said around a mouthful of orange-and-strawberry dinosaurs. ‘Start the tape, Sergeant.’

      Nicholson hung his head, staring fixedly at his hands, trembling away on the tabletop in front of him. ‘I . . . I’ve been working for some bookies, moneylenders, you know. . .’ His voice cracked and he had to take a deep breath before he could go on. ‘Kinda like a debt control researcher, you know: I follow people who won’t pay up. Take photographs of them and their families. I . . . I print them out at home and give the pictures to the people they owe money to.’ He drooped even further in his seat. ‘The bookies use the pictures to threaten them. Encourage them to pay up.’

      Insch curled his lip. ‘Your mum and dad must be so proud!’

      A tear ran down Nicholson’s cheek and he wiped it away with the back of his sleeve. ‘It’s no’ illegal to take photos of people! That’s all I did. Nothing else! I didn’t touch any kids!’

      DI Insch snorted. ‘What a load of bollocks!’ He leaned forward in his chair, planting his huge fists on the table. ‘I want to know what you were doing in a ditch in the Bridge of Don with the mutilated body of a three-year-old boy. I want to know why you had an envelope full of cash and jewellery.’ He stood. ‘You’re a dirty wee shite, Nicholson. You deserve to go down for the rest of your miserable little life. You can stay here and lie all you want; I’m going to speak to the Procurator Fiscal. Get him all fired up to nail your arse to the wall. Interview suspended at—’

      ‘I slipped.’ Nicholson was in floods of tears, the panic clear in his eyes. ‘Please! I slipped!’

      Logan sighed. ‘You told us that already. What were you doing there?’

      ‘I . . . I was on a job.’ Nicholson stared into Logan’s eyes, and Logan knew they’d broken him.

      ‘Go on.’

      ‘I was on a job. Little old lady. Widow. Keeps a bit of cash in the house. Some silver. Bit of jewellery?’

      ‘So you ripped her off?’

      Nicholson shook his head, teardrops falling like diamonds to explode against the dirty Formica tabletop. ‘Didn’t get that far. I was out of my face. Way too stoned to do a house. Been keeping the stuff I nicked under a tree on the bank above the river. You know. Keeping it out of the way in case you lot come round and search the house.’ He shrugged, his voice becoming more and more of a mumble. ‘I was rat-arsed. Wanted to count it before I did the old lady’s house. It was pissing with rain. Slipped and fell all the way down the bank. What, twenty foot? In the dark, in the bloody rain. Ripped my jacket, jeans, nearly cracked my head open on a big fuckin’ rock. Ended up in the ditch. Tried to pull myself out with this big dod of chipboard, only it’s loose. It moves and there’s this thing bobbing about in the water.’ He started to sob. ‘First I’m thinking it’s a dog, you know, a bull terrier, or something. . .’Cos . . .’cos it’s all black. So I’m about to get the hell out of there when I see this shiny thing, sparkling in the rain. You know, like a silver chain or something. . .’ He shuddered. ‘I think it’s one of mine. I’m so fuckin’ wrecked I think it’s part of my stash. So I go to pick it up and the thing rolls over. And it’s a dead kid. And I scream and I scream and I scream. . .’

      Logan leaned forward. ‘What happened then?’

      ‘I got the fuck out of there quick as I could. Straight home. Into the shower, try to wash that filthy dead water off me. Called the police.’

      And that’s where I came in, thought Logan. ‘What about the thing?’ he asked.

      ‘Eh?’

      ‘The shiny thing you found on the body. What was it? Where is it?’

      ‘Tin foil. It was just a bloody bit of tin foil.’

      Insch glowered at him. ‘I want the names of all the poor sods you’ve robbed. I want the loot. All of it!’ He looked down at the pile of photographs in their clear plastic wallet. ‘And I want the names of all the bookies you take photos for. And if anyone in these photographs has been hurt, and I don’t care if it’s just falling off their bicycle, I’m going to charge you with conspiracy to commit assault. Understand?’

      Nicholson buried his head in his hands.

      ‘Well,’ said Insch with a generous smile, ‘thank you for assisting us with our enquiries, Mr Nicholson. Logan, be a good lad and escort our guest here to his cell. Something south-facing with a view and a balcony.’

      Nicholson cried all the way.

       26

      The preliminary forensic report came in just after six. It wasn’t good. There was nothing tying Duncan Nicholson to David Reid other than the fact that he’d found the body. And he had a cast iron alibi for the time Peter Lumley went missing. Insch had dispatched two PCs to where Nicholson claimed to be hiding his stash. They came back with their patrol car’s boot full of stolen property. It was beginning to look as if Nicholson was telling the truth.

      So that meant all bets were back on Roadkill. That still didn’t sit well with Logan. He couldn’t see the man as a paedophile killer, even if he did keep a dead girl in one of his outbuildings.

      In the end DI Insch called a halt to proceedings. ‘It’s time to go home,’ he said. ‘We’ve got everyone banged up, they’ll all still be there come Monday morning.’

      ‘Monday?’

      Insch nodded. ‘Yes, Monday. Logan, you have my permission to take Sunday off. Observe the Sabbath. Go watch the footie, drink beer, eat crisps, have some fun.’ He stopped and gave a sly smile. ‘Maybe take a nice WPC to dinner?’

      Logan blushed and kept his gob shut.

      ‘Whatever. I don’t want to see you back here till Monday morning.’

      The rain had stopped by the time Logan left Force Headquarters. The desk sergeant had cornered him with another three messages from Peter Lumley’s stepfather who was still convinced they could find his child. Logan tried to lie to him, tell him it was all going to be all right, but he couldn’t. So he promised to call as soon as he heard anything. There was nothing else he could do.

      The night had turned from chilly to