Cold Granite Part 28

'Look how far the broken ribs are off the ground,' Logan said again.

Nothing.

'Car,' said Logan, moving the X-rays like a macabre shadow puppet. 'The first point of impact is the hip.' He twisted the image around the waist, lifting it as he turned the top half clockwise. 'The ribs. .h.i.t the top edge of the radiator.' He moved the X-ray girl again, bending the head hard right. 'Left hand side of the skull smacks into the bonnet. Car slams on the brakes.' He pulled the X-ray upright and rotated it back towards the morgue's floor. 'She hits the tarmac, the right leg snaps. Back of her head caves in as it hits the deck.' He laid the X-rays on the floor at his feet.

His audience looked on in silence for a full minute before Insch said, 'So how come she ends up in Roadkill's house of horrors then?'

'Bernard Duncan Philips, AKA Roadkill, comes along with his shovel and his wheelie-cart and does what he always does.'

Insch looked at him as if he'd just plucked the dead child's rotting corpse from its refrigerated drawer and proceeded to do the Dashing White Sergeant round the room with it. 'It's a dead girl! Not a b.l.o.o.d.y rabbit!'

'It's all the same to him.' Logan looked down at the contents of the drawer, feeling a heavy weight pressing down between his ribs. 'Just another dead thing sc.r.a.ped off the road. She was in steading number two. He'd already filled one building.'

Insch opened his mouth. Looked at Logan. Looked at Isobel. And back to the X-rays lying on the floor. 'b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' he said at last.

Isobel stood in silence, her hands thrust deep into the pockets of her bright orange fleece, an unhappy expression on her face.

'Well?' Logan asked.

She drew herself up to her full height and, with a voice like frozen bleach, agreed that the injuries were consistent with the scenario described. That it was impossible to tell what order the injuries occurred in, because of the state of decay. That the injuries had looked consistent with a severe beating. That she'd made the best call she could, based on the state of the body. That she couldn't be expected to be clairvoyant.

'b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' said Insch again.

'He didn't kill her.' Logan slid the refrigerated door shut, the dull clang echoing off the cold, white tiles. 'We're back to square one.'

Bernard Duncan Philips' 'appropriate adult' turned up after an hour and a half of frantic telephone calls, looking like something the cat dragged in. It was the ex-schoolteacher, Lloyd Turner, again, smelling strongly of mint, as if he'd been drinking alone and didn't want anyone to know about it. Ten o'clock shadow blurring the edges of his thin moustache. He fussed with his papers as Logan went through the standard details for the tape.

'We want you,' said DI Insch, now dressed in his spare suit, 'to tell us about the dead girl, Bernard.'

Roadkill's eyes darted round the room and the ex-teacher gave a long-suffering sigh.

'We have been over this already, Inspector.' His voice was old and tired. 'Bernard's not well. He needs help, not incarceration.'

Insch screwed his face up. 'Bernard,' said Insch with careful deliberation, 'you found her, didn't you?'

Lloyd Turner's eyebrows shot up his head. 'Found her?' he asked, looking at the stinking, tatty figure sitting next to him with barely concealed surprise. 'Did you find her, Bernard?'

Roadkill shifted in his seat and stared down at his hands. Small, burgundy clots covered his fingers like parasites. The skin was raw around the fingernails where he'd been picking and chewing his hands into submission. He didn't even look up, and his voice was small and broken. 'Road. Found her on the road. Three hedgehogs, two crows, one seagull, one tabby cat, two long-haired cats, black-and-white, one girl, nine rabbits, one roe deer...' His eyes misted up, his voice becoming rough, 'My beautiful dead things...' A sparkling tear escaped his eye, clearing the long eyelashes, to run down the weathered skin of his cheek and into his beard.

Insch folded his arms and settled back in his seat. 'So you took the little girl back to your "collection".'

'Always take them home. Always.' Sniff. 'Can't just throw them out like garbage. Not dead things. Not things that used to be alive inside.'

And with that Logan was forced to remember a single leg sticking out of a bin-bag in the middle of the council tip. 'Did you see anything else?' he asked. 'When you picked her up. Did you see anything: a car, or a lorry or anything like that?'

Roadkill shook his head. 'Nothing. Just the dead girl, lying at the side of the road. All broken and bleeding and still warm.'

The hairs went up on the back of Logan's neck. 'Was she alive? Bernard, was she still alive when you found her?'

The ratty figure sank down against the table, resting his head in his arms on the chipped Formica top. 'Sometimes the things get hit and they don't die right away. Sometimes they wait for me to come and watch over them.'

'Oh Christ.'

They put Roadkill back in his cell and reconvened in the interview room: Logan, Insch and Roadkill's appropriate adult.

'You do know you're going to have to release him, don't you?' said Mr Turner.

Logan raised an eyebrow, but Insch said: 'Your a.r.s.e I will.'

The ex-schoolteacher sighed and settled back into one of the uncomfortable plastic seats. 'The most you have on him is failing to report an accident and the illegal disposal of a body.' He rubbed at his face. 'And we all know the Crown Prosecution Service isn't going to take this for criminal trial. One good psychiatric report and the whole thing goes nowhere. He hasn't done anything wrong. Not by his reckoning anyway. The girl was just another dead thing found at the side of the road. He was doing his job.'

Logan tried not to nod his head in agreement. Insch wouldn't have appreciated it.

The inspector ground his teeth and stared at Mr Turner, who shrugged. 'I'm sorry, but he's not guilty. If you don't release him I'm going to go to the press. There are still enough cameras out there to get this all over the morning news.'

'We can't let him go,' said Insch. 'Someone will rip his head off if we do.'

'So you admit that he's done nothing wrong then?' There was something distinctly patronizing about the way Turner said it, as if he was back in the cla.s.sroom again and DI Insch had just been caught behind the bike sheds.

The inspector scowled. 'Listen, sunshine: I ask the leading questions in here, not you.' He rummaged in his pockets for something sweet and came up empty-handed. 'With Cleaver going free, the great, good and stupid of the community are on the lookout for anyone even slightly dodgy. Your boy had a dead girl in his shed. He's going to be top of their list.'

'Then you'll have to provide him with protective custody. We'll speak to the press: get them to understand that Bernard is innocent. That you've decided to drop all the charges.'

Logan cut in. 'No we haven't! He's still guilty of hiding the body!'

'Sergeant,' said Mr Turner with condescending patience, 'you have to understand how this works. If you try to take any of this to court, you're going to end up losing. The Procurator Fiscal won't stand for another c.o.c.k-up. He's got enough egg on his face with the Cleaver fiasco. Mr Philips will go free. Question is: how much tax payers' money do you want to waste getting there?'

Logan and DI Insch stood in the empty incident room, looking down at the growing bustle of activity in the car park. Mr Turner had been as good as his word. He was standing in front of the cameras, enjoying his moment in the spotlight. Telling the world that Bernard Duncan Philips had been absolved of all charges, that the system worked.

The ex-teacher had been right: the Procurator Fiscal didn't want to touch the case with a stick. And the Chief Constable wasn't that happy about it either. So Roadkill was off to stay at a safe house somewhere in Summerhill.

'What do you think?' asked Logan, watching as yet another camera crew joined the throng. It was almost eleven o'clock, but still they came.

Insch glowered down at the a.s.sembled press. 'I'm screwed, that's what I think. First the b.l.o.o.d.y panto thing, then Cleaver gets away with twelve years of systematic child abuse, and now Roadkill's back on the streets. How long did we have him banged up? Forty-eight hours? Maybe sixty at a push. They're going to eat me alive...'

'How about we go to the media too? I could have a word with Miller. See if he can put our side across?'

Insch gave a sad laugh. 'Small-town Journalist Saves Police Inspector's Career from the Toilet?' He shook his head. 'Don't see it coming off, do you?'

'Worth a shot though.'

In the end, Insch had to admit he had nothing to lose.

'After all,' said Logan, 'we've just prevented a serious miscarriage of justice. Surely that's got to count for something?'

'Aye. It should.' The inspector's shoulders sagged. 'But if it wasn't Roadkill and it wasn't Nicholson, then we've still got a killer out there, picking off children. And we haven't got a b.l.o.o.d.y clue who it is.'

27.

By the time Logan climbed out of bed and into the shower, Sunday was tearing at the windows of his flat with wintry fingers. Snow, coming down in small icy flakes, whipped back and forth in the gusting wind. It was cold, it was dark, and it was no longer the day of rest he'd been promised.

Struggling into a grey suit, with matching expression, Logan doddered around his warm home, trying to put off the moment when he'd have to step out into the b.l.o.o.d.y awful weather. And then the phone went: the inimitable Colin Miller looking for his exclusive.

Logan grumbled his way down the communal stairs to the building's front door. Half a ton of flying ice tried to get in as he struggled his way out into the frigid morning. The snow attacked him like frozen razorblades, slashing at his exposed face and hands, making his cheeks and ears sting.

The day was dark as a lawyer's soul.

Miller's flash motor was waiting for him at the kerb, the interior lights on, something cla.s.sical blaring out through the gla.s.s as the reporter hunched over a broadsheet newspaper. Logan slammed the apartment door shut, not caring if he woke his neighbours. Why the h.e.l.l should he be the only one up and about on a c.r.a.ppy day like this? He slipped and slithered his way around the car to the pa.s.senger seat, bringing a flurry of icy, white flakes with him.

'Watch the leather!' Miller had to shout over the opera blaring from the car's stereo. He cranked down the volume a bit as the thin crust of snow slowly defrosted on Logan's heavy overcoat.

'What, no rowies today?' asked Logan, wiping ice out of his hair before it could turn into a frigid trickle down the back of his neck.

'Think I'm goin' tae let you spill greasy crumbs all over my nice new motor? This interview goes well an' I'll buy yous an Egg Mcm.u.f.fin. OK?'

Logan told him he'd sooner eat a deep-fried t.u.r.d. 'And how come you can afford a flash car like this? Thought all you reporters lived in penury.'

'Aye, well,' Miller shrugged and pulled away from the kerb. 'I did this bloke a favour once. Didn't publish a story...'

Logan raised an eyebrow, but Miller wouldn't say any more.

Traffic was light at this time on a Sunday morning, but the weather slowed what little there was down to a crawl. Miller slotted his car in behind a once-white truck, the top covered with a foot of icy snow, the rest of it covered with three inches of dirt. Some wag had scrawled the usual 'I WISH MY WIFE WAS THIS DIRTY' and 'WASH ME' in the grime. The writing glowed in Miller's headlights as they slowly made their way across town to Summerhill.

The safe house didn't look any different to the others in the street: just another concrete box with a small garden out front, buried under a growing blanket of white. A sagging willow tree stood forlorn in the middle, bent under the weight of snow and ice.

'Right,' said Miller, parking behind a battered Renault. 'Let's go get us an exclusive.' The reporter's att.i.tude towards Roadkill had changed dramatically since Logan told him about the road accident. Bernard Duncan Philips was no longer to be strung up by his b.a.l.l.s until they popped. Now he was a victim of society's disposable culture, in which the mentally ill could be thrown out into the community to fend for themselves.

Bernard Duncan Philips was roused from his bed by a large, plainclothes policewoman and prodded downstairs to perform for the reporter. Miller's questioning technique was good, making Roadkill feel relaxed and important, while a snazzy digital recorder whirled silently in the middle of a coffee table that had seen better days. They went over his glittering academic career, ruined by his mother's ill health, then delicately tiptoed around the descent into mental illness and the death of Mrs Roadkill Senior, G.o.d rest her soul. There was nothing there Logan hadn't got from the files, so he spent his time drinking over-strong tea, poured from a cracked brown pot. And counting the roses on the wallpaper. And the blue silk bows. Between the pink stripes.

It wasn't until Miller got onto the subject of Lorna Henderson, the dead girl in steading number two, that Logan started paying attention again.

But, good though he was, Miller wasn't getting that much more out of his subject than DI Insch had. The whole topic made Roadkill twitchy. Agitated.

It wasn't right. They were his dead things. They were taking them away.

'Come on now, Bernard,' said the plainclothes WPC, womanning the teapot again. 'There's no need to get excited, is there?'

'My things. They're stealing my things!' He jumped to his feet, sending a plate of chocolate digestives clattering to the ground. A pair of wild eyes darted at Logan. 'You're a policeman! They're stealing my things!'

Logan tried not to sigh. 'They have to take them away, Bernard. You remember we came round with the man from the council? They were making people sick. Like your mum. Remember?'

Roadkill screwed up his eyes tight. Teeth gritted. Fists pressed hard against his forehead. 'I want to go home! They're my things!'

The large policewoman put down the teapot and made soothing noises, as if the grubby, ranting man was a small child with a skinned knee. 'Shoosh, shoosh,' she said, stroking Roadkill's arm with a plump hand covered in rings. 'It's all right. Everything will be all right. You'll be safe here with us. We won't let anything happen to you.'

Slowly, uncertainly, Bernard Duncan Philips sat back down on the edge of his seat, his left foot crunching a chocolate digestive to crumbs on the carpet.

But the interview went downhill from there. No matter how clever, or careful, Miller's questions were they still managed to upset Roadkill. And he just kept coming back to the same thing, time and time again: he wanted to go home: they were stealing his things.

Aberdeen beach was desolate and freezing. The North Sea raged, dark grey, between the whipping curtains of snow. The boom of granite-coloured waves smashing into the concrete beachfront punctuated the howling storm, sending spray twenty feet into the air, where the wind threw it against the shopfronts.

Most of the businesses hadn't bothered opening this morning. It wasn't as if there was going to be a lot of pa.s.sing trade for the tourist shops, amus.e.m.e.nt arcades and ice-cream parlours. But Miller and Logan were ensconced at a window table in the Inversnecky Cafe, wolfing down smoky bacon b.u.t.ties and drinking strong coffee.

'Well that was a waste of b.l.o.o.d.y time,' said Miller, picking a rubber band of bacon fat from his roll. 'You should be buyin' me breakfast after that. No' the other way around.'

'You must've got something!'

Miller shrugged and curled the fat into the unused ashtray. 'Aye: he's off his friggin' trolley. I got that loud and b.l.o.o.d.y clear. Mind you, no' exactly news, is it?'

'I'm not looking for much,' said Logan. 'Just something that lets everyone know he didn't kill that little girl. He didn't do it so we had to let him go.'

The reporter wrapped himself around a large bite, chewing thoughtfully. 'Your bosses must be bricking it if they've asked you to come beggin' for a puff piece.'

Logan opened and shut his mouth.

Miller winked at him. 'It's OK, Laz, I can run with this. Give it the patented Colin Miller Midas Touch. We slap a copy of the X-rays on the front cover. Get the graphics department to knock us up some "kiddie gets smacked by Volvo" pictures. Bob's your uncle. But that's no' going to come out till Monday. You see the telly this mornin'? They're havin' a field day. Your pantomime dame's going to be out of a job by then. Letting Roadkill go. Twice.'

'He didn't kill that kid.'

'That's no' the point, Laz. The public sees all these nasty things happenin': dead boys in ditches, dead la.s.sies in bin-bags, children abducted left, right and centre. Cleaver goes free, even though we all know he did it. And now Roadkill's out too.' He ripped another bite from his b.u.t.tie. 'As far as they're concerned he's guilty.'

'But he didn't do it!'

'No one gives a toss about the truth any more. You know that, Laz.'

Gloomily Logan had to admit that he did. They sat and ate in silence.

'So how's your other story coming?' he asked at last.

'Which one?'

'When you told me you were backing off Geordie No-Knees you said you had safer fish to fry.'

The reporter took a slurp of coffee. 'Oh aye. That.' Miller paused, gazing out through the window at the snow and the waves and the battling sea. 'No' that well.' He lapsed into silence.

Logan let the pause go on for long enough to make sure the details weren't going to come out of their own accord. 'Well? What was it?'

'Hmm?' Miller dragged his attention back into the cafe. 'Oh right. There's this rumour that there's a bloke in the market for somethin' special. Somethin' no many people sell.'

'Drugs?'