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

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      ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

      Insch tried a brave smile. ‘Don’t be, Logan. It’s not your fault. It’s that bastard Colin Miller.’ The forced smile turned into a scowl. ‘Next time you see him you tell him I’m going to rip his bloody head off and crap down his neck.’

      The morgue was quiet, just the hum of the air conditioning breaking the silence. All the dead bodies had been tidied away, the dissecting tables lying empty and sparkling beneath the overhead lights. Not only were there no dead people in here, there were no living ones either.

      Gingerly, Logan made his way across to the wall of refrigerated drawers. One by one he read the name cards on the drawer doors, looking for George Stephenson. He stopped when he reached the one marked ‘UNKNOWN FEMALE CAUCASIAN CHILD: APPROX 4 YEARS OLD’, one hand on the cool metal drawer handle. The poor wee sod was lying in there, cold and dead without even a name.

      ‘Sorry.’ It was all he could think of to say.

      He worked his way along the row. There was no sign of a George Stephenson, but there was an ‘UNKNOWN MALE CAUCASIAN: APPROX 35 YEARS’. DI Steel hadn’t told the morgue they’d IDed the body yet. Something else for Logan to do. He unlatched the drawer and pulled it open.

      Lying on the flat steel surface of the drawer was a large, dead man, in a white plastic body-bag. Gritting his teeth, Logan pulled on the zip.

      The head and shoulders that appeared from the bag were the same as the photo pinned up on Logan’s incident room wall. Only the real thing had a wrinklier look to it, as if someone had peeled the face down from the top of the head so they could open the skull with a bone-saw and extract the brain. The skin was waxy and pallid, deep purple bruises marking where the blood had pooled and congealed after death. There was another bruise on the left temple. In the photograph Logan always thought it was just a shadow.

      The main attraction was still hidden.

      He pulled the zip all the way down, exposing a naked body that had been past its prime even when it was alive. According to Lothian and Borders Police, Geordie had been a keep-fit fanatic in his younger days. Someone who took a lot of pride in his appearance. The man on the slab had a beer belly, his thick forearms and shoulders more fat than muscle. Even without the pallor of death he would have been pasty white. Milk-bottle skin, with moles and a faint scarlet rash.

      And no kneecaps. Both hairy legs had ragged holes in them where a normal person would keep their knees. The flesh was torn and tattered around the joint, yellow bone poking through the mess of hacked-up tissue. Whoever had done this hadn’t been bothered about making a tidy job of it. This was unelective surgery by enthusiasm rather than skill.

      Logan’s eyes moved past the gore. There were distinct ligature marks around both ankles. The wrists too. Angry bruises, torn skin. The signs of a struggle. He winced. From the look of things Geordie had been tied up and awake while one of the McLeod boys took his kneecaps off. Hack after hack. And George Stephenson had been a big lad. He would’ve put up one hell of a fight. So it was both McLeods: Colin and Simon. One to hold him down, the other to wield the machete.

      There were other marks too. Contusions, scrapes, damage from floating about in the harbour all night. What looked like teeth-marks.

      Logan hadn’t read the post mortem report yet, but he recognized bite-marks when he saw them. He squatted down beside the body and peered at the indentations. Dark purple weals in the pale skin. Slightly irregular, as if a few teeth were missing. He didn’t think of the McLeods as being biters. Not Simon anyway. Colin? There always was something not right about that boy, from the moment he’d jammed a live cat onto the railings surrounding Union Terrace Gardens to the time he’d been caught taking a crap on his grandmother’s tombstone. Not right. And he didn’t have a full set of choppers, due to a bottle fight in a karaoke bar. He’d have to get Forensics to make a cast of the bite. See if they couldn’t match it up to Colin McLeod’s dental records.

      The door banged behind him and he straightened up to see Isobel deep in conversation with her assistant, Brian, who finished saying something and made a big, expansive gesture with his hands. Isobel threw back her head and laughed.

      Oh Brian, you’re so damn funny with your floppy girl’s hair and your massive nose. Was this the bit of rough DI Steel was talking about? Even with his stomach full of stitches Logan could kick the shite out of him in two minutes flat. How was that for rough?

      Isobel stopped laughing as soon as she saw him standing there over the naked body of Geordie Stephenson. ‘Hello?’ she said, flushing slightly.

      ‘I have an ID for this gentleman.’ Logan’s voice was slightly less warm than the corpse.

      ‘Ah, right. . .’ She looked at him, then at the body laid out on the slab. She gestured to her assistant. ‘Well . . . Brian will be able to help you.’ She flashed a brittle smile, and then she was gone.

      Brian took down George Stephenson’s details, scribbling them down in a little pad. Logan was finding it very difficult to keep his voice polite and even. Was this little shite of a man screwing Isobel? Did she make those small mewing noises for him?

      Brian spiked the last full stop with a flourish and popped the pad back in his jacket. ‘Oh, and before you go I’ve got something for you. . .’ he said.

      Logan had the sudden feeling he was going to pull a pair of Isobel’s panties out of his pocket but instead Brian crossed the room and picked a large manila envelope out of the internal mail tray.

      ‘Bloodwork on your unknown four-year-old girl. Some interesting stuff in there.’ He handed the envelope over then busied himself zipping up Geordie’s body-bag and tidying the corpse away while Logan flipped through the report.

      Brian wasn’t kidding. It was very interesting.

      In the canteen at lunchtime there was only one topic of conversation: was DI Insch for the chop? Logan ate in silence at a table as far away from everyone else as possible. The lasagne tasted like damp newspaper to him.

      A wave of silence went through the room and Logan looked up to see DI Insch walking up to the counter for his usual: scotch broth, macaroni cheese and chips, jam sponge and custard.

      ‘Please God,’ said Logan under his breath, ‘let him sit somewhere else. . .’

      But Insch took one look round the canteen, fixed his eyes on Logan and made a beeline for his table.

      ‘Afternoon, sir.’ Logan pushed the half-eaten lasagne away.

      To his immense relief DI Insch just grunted a hello and started in on his soup. And when that was all gone he launched himself at the macaroni, drowning the chips in salt and vinegar, smothering the cheesy pasta with black pepper. Munch, munch, munch.

      Logan felt daft, just sitting there, watching the inspector eat. So he poked at his lasagne with a fork. Breaking down the layers into a big homogeneous mush. ‘Got the bloodwork back on the little dead girl,’ he said at last. ‘She was pumped full of painkillers. Temazepam mostly.’

      Insch’s eyebrow shot up.

      ‘It wasn’t enough to kill her. Not an overdose or anything, but it looked like she’d been on them for a while. The lab thinks it would have kept her spaced out. Docile.’

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