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

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      ‘Darren!’ came the woman’s voice again. ‘What we going to do?’

      The young man’s shoulders sagged. ‘It’s OK, Mum,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you put the kettle on?’ He stood back and let Logan and the WPC in.

      There was a pile of shopping bags in the middle of the lounge floor. Logan opened one and found brand new clothes for a small child inside.

      A woman in her late forties emerged from the kitchen clutching a tea towel to her chest, working it through her fingers like a set of rosary beads. ‘Darren?’ she asked.

      ‘It’s OK, Mum. It’s too late.’ He slumped down on the horrible green settee. ‘You’re going to take him away aren’t you?’

      Logan motioned for the WPC to block the lounge door.

      ‘Where is he?’ he asked.

      ‘It’s not fair!’ Darren’s mother shook the tea towel in Logan’s face. It had little dancing sheep on it. ‘Why can’t I see my grandson? Why can’t he stay with his father?’

      ‘Mrs Caldwell—’ Logan started, but she hadn’t finished yet.

      ‘That rotten little cow took him away and won’t let us see him! He’s my grandson and I’m not allowed to see him! What kind of mother does that? What kind of mother doesn’t let a child see his own father? She doesn’t deserve to have him!’

      ‘Where is he?’ asked Logan.

      ‘Don’t you tell him anything, Darren!’

      Darren pointed towards the smaller of the two bedrooms, just visible over the WPC’s shoulder. ‘He’s just gone to sleep,’ he said so quietly Logan could barely hear him.

      The WPC jerked her head in the direction of the bedroom and Logan nodded. She returned with a sleepy-looking little boy in blue and yellow tartan pyjamas. He yawned and stared blearily at all the people in the living room.

      ‘Come on, Richard,’ said Logan. ‘It’s time to go home.’

       15

      A patrol car sat outside the front door of Darren Caldwell’s house, the lights off, the engine slowly ticking over. Inside, one of Logan’s commandeered PCs was reading the young man his rights while his mother collapsed in tears on the lime-green sofa. And little Richard Erskine was fast asleep.

      Sighing, Logan stepped out into the misty drizzle. It was getting stuffy in there and he was beginning to feel sorry for Darren. He was little more than a kid. All he’d wanted to do was see his son. Maybe have him to stay for a bit. Watch him growing up. Instead he was going to end up with a criminal record, and probably a restraining order too.

      Logan’s breath curled away in wisps of white fog. It was getting colder. He hadn’t decided what to do about the owner of the Broadstane Garage. Supplying a false alibi: perverting the course of justice. Not that it mattered now they had the kid. Alibi or not, Darren had been caught red-handed.

      Still, perverting the course of justice was a serious offence. . .

      He stuck his hands deep in his pockets and stared out at the street. Silent houses, drawn curtains, the occasional twitch as some nosy neighbour tried to figure out what the police were doing at the Caldwell household.

      Warning, or press charges?

      He shivered and turned to go back into the house, his eyes sliding over the small garden with its border of dying roses to the pale blue Volvo. He pulled out his mobile phone and dialled Broadstane Garage’s number from memory.

      Five minutes later he was standing in the small kitchen with Darren Caldwell, the other officers dispatched to the lounge with a cup of tea and puzzled expressions. Darren slumped against the sink, shoulders hunched, staring through his reflection into the dark garden. ‘I’m going to go to prison, aren’t I?’ The question little more than a whisper.

      ‘Are you sure you don’t want to change your statement, Darren?’

      The face in the darkened glass bit its lip and shook its head. ‘No. No, I did it.’ He wiped a sleeve over his eyes and sniffed again. ‘I took him.’

      Logan settled back against the worktop.

      ‘No you didn’t.’

      ‘I did!’

      ‘You were at work. The Volvo you were re-wiring was your mother’s. I called the garage back and checked the registration number. You lent her your car. She was the one who grabbed Richard Erskine. Not you.’

      ‘It was me! I told you it was me!’

      Logan didn’t reply, letting the silence grow. In the lounge someone turned on the television: muffled voices and canned laughter.

      ‘You sure you want to do this, Darren?’

      Darren was.

      They drove back to Force Headquarters in silence, Darren Caldwell staring out of the window at the shining streets. Logan handed him over to the custody sergeant, watching as the contents of Darren’s pockets were stacked in a little blue tray, all signed and accounted for, along with his belt and shoelaces. Nervous sweat sparkled on his face, and his eyes were pink and watery. Logan tried not to feel guilty.

      The building was quiet as he made his way up to the main reception area. Big Gary was on the front desk, a phone to his ear and a gleeful expression on his face. ‘No, sir, no. . . aye. I’m sure that must have been a terrible shock. . . All over the front of your trousers. . . Yes, yes I’m taking this all down. . .’ No he wasn’t: he was drawing a picture of a man in a suit being squashed by a smiling man in a police car. The man doing the squashing looked like Big Gary and the squashee bore a striking resemblance to everyone’s favourite lawyer.

      A grin broke over Logan’s face. Settling on the edge of the desk, he lugged into Big Gary’s end of the conversation.

      ‘Oh, yes. I agree. Dreadful, dreadful. . . No, I don’t think so, sir.’ He scrawled the words ‘POMPOUS WEE SHITEBAG’ across the notepad and then punctuated it with lots of little arrows pointing at the squashed figure.

      ‘Yes, sir, I’ll make sure all the area cars are looking for the perpetrator. It’ll be our top priority.’ He slipped the phone back in its cradle before finishing with, ‘Soon as the Lord Provost walks in here and starts giving out free blowjobs.’

      Logan picked the doodle-covered pad off the table and examined the happy tableau. ‘Didn’t know you had an artistic bent, Gary.’

      Gary grinned. ‘Slippery Sandy: someone threw a bucket of blood all over him. Called him a “rapist lovin’ bastard” and fucked off.’

      ‘My heart bleeds.’

      ‘You got some messages by the way: a Mr Lumley. Called about six times in the last two hours. Wanting to know if we’ve found his son. Poor sod sounds desperate.’

      Logan sighed. The search СКАЧАТЬ