Cold Granite. Stuart MacBride

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СКАЧАТЬ and pumped soap into his hands. ‘Three thousand words of pure journalistic gold. Tell ya, kiddie murders: pure gold, so they are. Sick bastard kills some poor kid and suddenly everyone’s dyin’ tae read about the wee dead body over their cornflakes. Fuckin’ unbelievable.’

      Logan resisted the urge to grab Miller by the scruff of the neck and smash his face into a urinal. ‘You called the family last night,’ he said instead, fists jammed deep in his pockets. ‘Who told you we’d found him?’

      Miller smiled at Logan’s reflection in the mirror above the sink. ‘Didn’t take a genius, Inspector …?’

      ‘Sergeant,’ said Logan. ‘Detective Sergeant McRae.’

      The journalist shrugged and wriggled his hands under the hand-drier. ‘Only a DS, eh?’ he had to shout over the roar of warm air. ‘Never mind. You help me catch this sick bastard and I’ll see you make DI.’

      ‘Help “you” catch …’ Logan screwed his eyes shut and was assailed by visions of Miller’s broken nose bleeding into urinal cakes. ‘Who told you we’d found David Reid?’ he asked through gritted teeth.

      Click. The drier fell silent.

      ‘Told you: didn’t take a genius. You found a wee dead kiddie, who else could it have been?’

      ‘We didn’t tell anyone the body was a child!’

      ‘No? Ah well, must’ve been a coincidence then.’

      Logan scowled. ‘Who told you?’

      Miller smiled and shot his cuffs, making sure there was a fashionable inch of starched white visible at the end of both sleeves.

      ‘You never heard of journalistic immunity? I don’t have tae reveal my sources. And you can’t make me!’ He paused. ‘Mind you, if the tasty WPC wants tae do a Mata Hari I might be persuaded … Gotta love a woman in uniform!’

      Watson snarled and pulled out her collapsible truncheon.

      The door to the gents burst open, breaking the moment. A large woman with lots of curly dark-brown hair stormed into the toilets, hands on hips and fire in her eyes. ‘What the hell is going on here?’ she said, glowering at Logan and Watson. ‘I’ve got half the news desk out there with piss all down the front of their trousers.’ She rounded on Miller before anyone could respond. ‘And what the hell do you think you’re still doing here? They’re giving a press conference on the dead kid in half an hour! The tabloids are going to be all over the damn thing. This is our bloody story and I want it to stay that way!’

      ‘Mr Miller is assisting us with our enquiries,’ said Logan. ‘I want to know who told him we’d found—’

      ‘You arresting him?’

      Logan only paused for a second, but it was long enough.

      ‘Didn’t think so.’ She stabbed a finger at Miller. ‘You! Get your arse in gear. I’m not paying you to chat up WPCs in the bogs!’

      Miller smiled and saluted the glowering woman. ‘You got it, chief!’ he said and winked at Logan. ‘Gotta go. Duty calls and all that.’

      He took a step towards the door, but WPC Watson barred his path. ‘Sir?’ She fingered her truncheon, desperate for an excuse to use it on Miller’s head.

      Logan looked from the smug journalist to Watson and back again. ‘Let him go,’ he said at last. ‘We’ll talk later, Mr Miller.’

      The journalist grinned. ‘Count on it.’ He made his right hand into a gun and fired it at WPC Watson. ‘Catch ya later, investigator.’

      Thankfully she didn’t reply.

      Back in the car park, WPC Watson stomped through the rain to their Vauxhall, wrenched the car’s door open, hurled her hat in the back seat, thudded in behind the steering wheel, slammed the door shut again, and swore.

      Logan had to admit she had a point. There was no way Miller was going to volunteer his source. And his editor, the curly-haired harridan, had made it perfectly clear, in a ten-minute tirade, that there was no way in hell she was going to order him to do so. There was about as much chance of that happening as Aberdeen Football Club winning the Premier League.

      A knock on the passenger window made Logan jump and a large, smiling face beamed in at him from the rain, a copy of the Evening Express held over his head to keep his thin comb-over dry. It was the reporter who ‘hadn’t’ told them the repulsive Mr Miller was hiding in the men’s toilets.

      ‘You’re Logan McRae!’ said the man. ‘See? I knew I recognized you!’

      ‘Oh aye?’ Logan shrank back in his seat.

      The man in the saggy, faded-brown corduroys nodded happily. ‘I did a story, what wis it: a year ago? “Police Hero Stabbed in Showdown with Mastrick Monster!”’ He grinned. ‘Shite, that wis a damn good story. Nice headline too. Shame “Police Hero” didn’t alliterate …’ A shrug. Then he stuck his hand in through the open car window. ‘Martin Leslie, Features Desk.’

      Logan shook it, feeling more and more uncomfortable with every second.

      ‘Jesus, Logan McRae …’ said the reporter. ‘You a DI yet?’

      Logan said no, he was still a DS, and the older man looked outraged. ‘You’re kidding! Bastards! You deserved it! That Angus Robertson was one sick bastard … You hear he got himself a DIY appendectomy in Peterhead?’ He lowered his voice. ‘Sharpened screwdriver, right in the stomach. Has to crap in a wee bag now …’

      Logan didn’t say anything, and the reporter leaned on the open window, poking his head in out of the rain.

      ‘So what you workin’ on now?’ he asked.

      Logan stared straight ahead, through the windscreen at the dismal grey length of the Lang Stracht. ‘Er …’ he said. ‘I, ehmmm …’

      ‘If you’re interested in Colin the Cunt,’ the older man started in a near-whisper. He stopped, slapped a hand over his mouth and mumbled to WPC Watson, ‘Sorry love, no offence.’

      Watson shrugged: after all, she’d been calling Miller much worse just minutes ago.

      Leslie gave her an embarrassed smile. ‘Aye, well, the wee shite swans up here from the Scottish Sun thinkin’ he’s God’s fuckin’ gift … Got kicked off the paper from what I hear.’ His face darkened. ‘Some of us still believe in the rules! You don’t screw your colleagues. You don’t phone up a dead kid’s mum until you know the police have broken the news. But the little bastard thinks he can get away with murder, just as long as there’s a story at the end of it.’ There was a bitter pause. ‘And his spellin’s bollocks.’

      Logan gave him a thoughtful look. ‘You have any idea who told him we’d found David Reid?’

      The old reporter shook his head. ‘No idea, but if I find out you’ll be the first to know! Be a pleasure to screw him over for a change.’

      Logan nodded. ‘Right, that’s great …’ he forced a smile. ‘Well, we’re going to have to get going СКАЧАТЬ