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

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СКАЧАТЬ downhill from there. Miller had done a first-rate hatchet job on DI Insch. He’d made a well-respected senior police officer look like a callous bastard. There was even a quote from the Chief Superintendent saying that this was ‘a very serious matter that would be thoroughly investigated’.

      ‘Oh God.’

      ‘COUNCIL WORKER ATTACKED BY CONCERNED PARENTS’ barely made it onto page two.

      Insch was in a foul mood at the morning briefing and everyone did their damnedest to make sure they didn’t do or say anything to set him off. Today was not a good day to screw up.

      As soon as the briefing was over Logan scurried away to his little incident room, doing his best not to look guilty. He only had one WPC today: the one womanning the phones. Every other available officer was going to spend today looking for little Peter Lumley. Someone had stuck a rocket up Insch’s backside and he was determined to share the experience. So it would be just Logan, the WPC, and the list of possible names.

      The team he’d had working their way through Social Services’ ‘at risk’ register had turned up exactly nothing. All the little girls were right where they should have been. Some of them had ‘walked into the door’ and one had ‘fallen down the stairs after burning herself on the iron’, but they were all still alive. A couple of the parents were now facing charges.

      But that wasn’t the only thing Logan had to worry about now. Helping DI Steel on the Geordie Stephenson inquiry seemed to consist of DI Steel smoking lots of cigarettes while Logan did all the work.

      There was a new map of Aberdeen pinned to the wall, this one covered with little blue-and-green pins marking every bookmaker in town. The blue ones were ‘safe’ – not the kind of place that took your kneecaps if you failed to pay up. The green ones were kneecap territory. The Turf ’n Track was marked in red. So was the harbour where they dragged the body out of the water. And next to it was a post mortem head-and-shoulders photo of Geordie Stephenson.

      He wasn’t much to look at. Not now he was dead anyway. The bouffant hairstyle was all flattened to his head and the porn-star moustache stood out, heavy and black, against the waxy skin. It was odd, but seeing the dead man’s photograph Logan got the feeling he’d seen him somewhere before.

      According to the information Lothian and Borders Police had sent up, Geordie Stephenson had been quite a character in his youth. Assault mostly. A bit of collecting for small loan sharks. Breaking and entering. It wasn’t until he started working for Malk the Knife that he stopped getting caught. Malk was very particular about his employees staying out of prison.

      ‘How’d you get on then?’ It was DI Steel, hands rammed deep in the pockets of her grey trouser suit. Yesterday’s ash-coated blouse was gone, replaced by something shimmery in gold. The bags under her eyes were a deep, saggy purple.

      ‘Not too great,’ Logan plonked himself down on the desk and offered the inspector a chair. She sank into it with a sigh and a small fart. Logan pretended not to hear.

      ‘Go on then.’

      ‘OK.’ Logan pointed at the map. ‘We went through all the bookies marked in green. The only one that looks likely is this one—’ he poked the red pin, ‘Turf ’n Track—’

      ‘Simon and Colin McLeod. Lovely pair of lads.’

      ‘Not as lovely as their clientele. We got to meet one of their regulars: Dougie MacDuff.’

      ‘Shite! You’re fucking kidding me!’ She pulled out a battered pack of cigarettes. They looked as if she’d sat on them. ‘Dirty Doug, Dougie the Dog. . .’ she excavated a slightly flattened fag from the pack. ‘What else did they use to call him?’

      ‘Desperate Doug?’

      ‘Right. Desperate Doug. After he choked that guy with a rolled-up copy of the Dandy. You’d’ve still been in nappies.’ She shook her head. ‘Fuck me. Those were the days. I thought he was dead.’

      ‘Got out of Barlinnie three months ago. Four years for crippling a builder’s merchant with a ratchet screwdriver.’

      ‘At his age? Good old Desperate Doug.’ She popped the cigarette in her mouth, and was at the point of lighting it when the WPC on the phones gave a meaningful cough and pointed at the ‘NO SMOKING’ sign. Steel shrugged and stuffed the offending fag in her top pocket. ‘So how’s he looking these days?’

      ‘Like a wrinkly old man.’

      ‘Aye? Shame. He was fucking tasty in his day. Quite the lady-killer. But we couldn’t prove it.’ She drifted off into silence, her eyes focused on the past. Eventually she sighed and came back to the here and now. ‘So you think the McLeod brothers are our likely lads?’

      Logan nodded. He’d read their files again. Hacking off someone’s kneecaps with a machete was right up their street. The McLeods had always been hands-on when it came to debt control. ‘Problem’s going to be proving it. There’s no way in hell either of them’s going to admit killing Geordie and dumping him in the harbour. We need a witness, or some forensic evidence.’

      Steel dragged herself out of the chair and gave an expansive yawn. ‘Up all night shagging, you know,’ she said with a conspiratorial wink. ‘Get on to Forensics: have them run every bloody test they’ve got. And it wouldn’t hurt to take another look at the body. It’s still in the morgue.’

      Logan stiffened. That meant having to speak to Isobel again.

      DI Steel must have seen him flinch, because she laid a nicotine-stained hand on his shoulder. ‘I know it’s not going to be easy. Not now she’s got herself a bit of rough. But to fuck with her! You’ve got a job to do.’

      Logan opened and closed his mouth. He didn’t know she was seeing someone else. Not already. Not when he was still on his own.

      The inspector stuffed her hands back in her trouser pockets, clasping the squashed packet of cigarettes. ‘Got to go. Fucking bursting for a fag. Oh, and if you see DI Insch: tell him I liked his picture in the papers this morning.’ Another wink. ‘Very sexy.’

      Detective Inspector Insch didn’t look very sexy when Logan saw him next. He was riding the elevator down from the top floor. And that meant a meeting with the Chief Constable. Insch’s nice new suit was stained darker grey under the arms and down the back.

      ‘Sir,’ said Logan. Trying not to make eye contact.

      ‘They want me to give up the pantomime.’ His voice was low and flat.

      Guilt stampeded up Logan’s back until it sat on top of his head, like a big sign saying: ‘I DID IT! IT WAS ME!!!’

      ‘The Chief Constable thinks it’s not conducive to the image Grampian Police wants to portray. Says they can’t afford to have that kind of negative publicity associated with a major murder enquiry. . . Either the panto goes, or I do.’ He looked as if someone had pulled the stopper out, leaving him to slowly deflate. This was not the DI Insch Logan knew. And it was all his fault. ‘How long have I been doing Christmas panto for? Twelve, thirteen years? Never been a bloody problem before. . .’

      ‘Maybe they’ll forget all about it?’ tried Logan. ‘You know, when it all blows over. This time next year no one will remember a thing.’

      Insch nodded, but he didn’t СКАЧАТЬ