Cold Granite. Stuart MacBride

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      The river had already broken its banks in a dozen places upstream, flooding the surrounding countryside, turning fields into lakes. Down here it was less than a mile to the North Sea and the water was moving fast.

      On the other side of the river the tower blocks of Hayton rose behind a screen of bare trees. Five featureless rectangles punctuated with cold-yellow lights, sheets of rain making them swim in and out of view. It was a horrible night.

      A hastily cobbled-together search team was picking its way carefully along the riverbank by torchlight, working out in both directions, even though it was far too dark to find anything. It would look good on the morning news.

      Sniffing, Logan dug his hands deeper into his pockets and turned to look up the hill, towards the blistering white television camera lights. They’d gathered not long after Logan had arrived, hungry for a glimpse of dead meat. To begin with it had just been the local press, shouting questions at anyone in a police uniform; then the big boys had arrived. The BBC and ITV, with their cameras and serious-faced presenters.

      Grampian Police had issued the standard holding statement, which had been completely devoid of any detail whatsoever. So God only knew what they were finding to talk about up there.

      Logan turned his back on them and watched the bobbing torches of the search party as they struggled along in the dark.

      This shouldn’t have been his case. Not on his first day back. But the rest of Aberdeen’s CID were either off on a training course or off getting pissed at someone’s retirement bash. There wasn’t even a detective inspector on the scene! DI McPherson, who was supposed to be easing Logan back into the swing of things, was busy getting his head stitched back together after someone had tried to take it off with a kitchen knife. So here was Detective Sergeant Logan McRae, heading up a major murder enquiry and praying to God he didn’t screw it up before he could hand it over to someone else. Welcome back.

      The green-faced PC lurched out of the SOC tent and joined Logan under the twisted tree, squelching all the way. He looked like Logan felt. Only worse.

      ‘Jesus.’ The PC shivered and jammed a cigarette in his face as if it was the only thing keeping his head from unravelling. After a moment’s thought he offered one to the DS standing next to him, but Logan declined.

      The PC shrugged and fumbled a lighter out of the breast pocket of his uniform, setting the cigarette glowing like a hot coal in the darkness. ‘Some fuckin’ sight for your first day back, eh, sir?’

      A plume of white smoke blossomed into the night and Logan took a deep breath, dragging it into his scarred lungs before the wind could whip it away.

      ‘What’s Iso …’ He stopped himself. ‘What’s Dr MacAlister saying?’

      The SOC tent flashed again, the shadow puppets caught in frozen motion.

      ‘No much more than the duty doc, sir. Poor wee bastard was strangled with somethin’. She says the other stuff probably happened later.’

      Logan closed his eyes and tried not to picture the child’s swollen body.

      ‘Aye.’ The PC nodded wisely, the red-hot tip of his fag bobbing up and down in the darkness. ‘At least he was dead when it happened. That’s something to be grateful for.’

      Fifteen Concraig Circle was in one of the newer sections of Kingswells, a suburb just five minutes outside Aberdeen proper, and creeping closer every year. The houses here were billed as ‘individually-crafted executive villas’, but they looked as if they’d been thrown together by someone with a job lot of yellow brick and no imagination.

      Number fifteen was near the start of a winding cul-de-sac, the gardens still too new to be much more than rectangles of grass with stumpy bushes round the edges. Many of the plants still sported tags from the garden centre. The downstairs lights were on, shining through the closed Venetian blinds, even though it was nearly two in the morning.

      DS Logan McRae sat in the passenger seat of the CID pool car and sighed. Like it or not, he was currently the senior investigating officer and that meant he had to tell David Reid’s mother that her son was dead. But he’d brought along a Family Liaison Officer and a spare WPC to help shoulder the load. At least he wouldn’t have to do this on his own.

      ‘Come on then,’ he said at last. ‘No point putting it off any longer.’

      The front door was opened by a heavy-set man in his mid-fifties with a brick-red face, moustache and hostile, bloodshot, eyes. He took one look at WPC Watson’s uniform and said, ‘’Bout bloody time you bastards showed up!’ Arms crossed, not moving.

      Logan closed his mouth. This wasn’t what he’d been expecting. ‘I need to speak to Miss Reid.’

      ‘Aye? Well you’re too bloody late! The bloody papers were on fifteen minutes ago looking for a bloody quote!’ His voice rose with each word until he was bellowing in Logan’s face. ‘You should have told us first!’ He slammed a fist against his own chest. ‘We’re his bloody family!’

      Logan winced. How the hell had the media found out that David Reid’s body had been discovered? As if the family wasn’t in enough pain.

      ‘I’m sorry, Mr …?’

      ‘Reid. Charles Reid.’ The man re-crossed his arms and inflated himself even further. ‘Her dad.’

      ‘Mr Reid, I don’t know how the press found out about this. But I promise you: whoever’s responsible is going to get their backside kicked from here to Stonehaven.’ Logan paused. ‘And I know that doesn’t make everything OK, but right now I need to speak to David’s mother.’

      Her father glowered down at Logan from the top step. Finally he stepped aside and Logan could see through a glazed door into a small lounge, painted a cheerful yellow. In the middle of a bright-red sofa were two women: one looking like a floral-print battleship, the other like a zombie.

      The younger woman didn’t look up as the police walked into the living room. Just sat staring blankly at the television, watching Dumbo being tormented by the clowns. Logan looked expectantly at the Family Liaison Officer, but she was doing her damnedest not to make any sort of eye-contact with him.

      Logan took a deep breath. ‘Miss Reid?’

      No reaction.

      Logan sank down on his haunches in front of the sofa, blocking her view of the television. She stared right through him as if he wasn’t even there.

      ‘Miss Reid? Alice?’

      She didn’t move, but the older woman scowled and bared her teeth. Her eyes were puffy and red, tears glistening on her round cheeks and jowls. ‘How dare you!’ she snarled. ‘You useless bunch of sh—’

      ‘Sheila!’ The older man stepped forward and she shut up.

      Logan turned his attention back to the comatose figure on the couch. ‘Alice,’ he said, ‘we’ve found David.’

      At the sound of her son’s name there was a flicker of life in her eyes. ‘David?’ Her mouth barely moved, the word more breathed than spoken.

      ‘I’m sorry, Alice. He’s dead.’

      ‘David СКАЧАТЬ