Cold Granite Part 32

'After what I did? What you talking about? I've no' put the boot into your pantomime dame for ages! I did your d.a.m.n puff-piece! What the h.e.l.l more do you want?'

The light finally went green and the truck pulled away, leaving Logan and the pool car behind.

'You told everyone we'd found Peter Lumley's body.'

'So? You did find it, what-'

'He was going to come back. The killer. He was going to come back and we were going to catch him!'

'What?'

'He'd hidden the body. He was going to come back to it. But because you splurged your story all over the front b.l.o.o.d.y page he knows. He won't go back. He's still out there and you just screwed up the best chance we had of catching the b.a.s.t.a.r.d! The next kid that goes missing is your fault, understand? We could have caught him!'

Another silence. When Miller finally spoke his voice was low, barely audible over the car's blowers. 'Jesus, Laz, I didn't know. If I'd known I'd've never published a word! I'm sorry.'

And the thing was he genuinely sounded sorry. Logan took a deep breath and slid the car into gear. 'You have to tell me who your source is-'

'You know I can't do that, Laz. I can't.'

Sighing, Logan pulled away from the lights, heading back into town.

'Listen, Laz, I'm about done here, you want to meet up for a drink? There's still places open down the docks... I'm buying?'

Logan said he didn't think so and hung up.

Traffic was light all the way across town. He abandoned his car outside his flat and slouched up the stairs. The place was cold, so he cranked up the heating and sat in the dark, watching the lights twinkling outside the windows, feeling sorry for himself. Trying not to think about the knife.

The little red light on his answering machine was flashing at him, but it was just more messages from Miller. Nothing from WPC Watson saying she was waiting up for him with a bottle of champagne and a negligee. And maybe some toast?

Logan's stomach gave a low growl. It was coming up for one o'clock in the morning and he'd not eaten a thing since breakfast except a handful of Maltesers and some painkillers.

There was a packet of biscuits and a bottle of red wine in the kitchen and Logan opened them both. He poured himself a big gla.s.s of shiraz and stuffed a chocolate Hob n.o.b into his mouth then went back to sulking and slouching in the lounge.

'Not to be taken with alcohol,' he said, toasting his reflection in the lounge window.

He was halfway through his second gla.s.s when the doorbell went. Swearing, he pulled himself out of his chair and over to the window, peering out to see a familiar flash motor squeezed in across the road.

Colin Miller.

The reporter was standing on the doorstep with a contrite expression and two large carrier bags.

'What do you want?' asked Logan.

'Aye, look, I know you're p.i.s.sed off, OK? But I didn't do it on purpose. If I'd known I would've kept ma mouth shut. I'm really, really sorry...' With an apologetic smile he hoisted the carrier bags. 'Peace offerin'?'

They settled into the kitchen, Logan's bottle of shiraz joined by Miller's chilled chardonnay and an array of plastic dishes, each one exuding the heady, spicy smell of Thai takeaway. 'I know the owner,' said Miller, spooning green-curried tiger prawns onto a plate. 'Did him some favours when he lived in Glasgow. And he's open h.e.l.l of a late.'

Logan had to admit that the food was good. Much better than chocolate biscuits and red wine. 'So did you come all this way, in the snow, just to bring me takeaway?'

'Well, funny you should mention that.' Miller heaped fried noodles onto his plate. 'You see I've got this moral dilemma, kinda thing.'

Logan froze, fork halfway to his mouth, a glistening strip of chicken awaiting his attention. 'I knew it!'

'Whoa there, tiger,' Miller smiled. 'The moral dilemma is this: I've got this killer story, only it's a shoe-in to wreck someone's career.'

Logan raised an eyebrow. 'Considering what you did to DI Insch, I'm surprised you even paused for thought.'

'Aye, fair enough. Problem is, I kinda like the guy this'll ruin.'

Logan stuffed spicy chicken into his face mumbling, 'So? What's the story?' as he chewed.

'Local Police Hero Batters OAP To Death.'

30.

Logan tried not to make eye contact with anyone as he went into work on Tuesday morning. No one said a word to him, but he could feel their eyes on his back, feel the gossip as it followed him through the building and into DI Insch's morning briefing. He'd slept badly, the dreams full of tower blocks, burning skies and flashing knives. Angus Robertson's face, twisted and grinning as he carved up Logan's stomach.

The inspector was in his customary place, leaning one round b.u.t.tock on the edge of the desk, the strip lighting gleaming off his bald head. He didn't look at Logan, just kept his attention on a sherbet double dip. Eating with care, trying not to get red-and-orange powder all down the front of his black suit.

With his face slowly turning red, Logan took his usual place at the front of the room.

DI Insch made no mention at all of that morning's article in the P&J. The one spread all over the front page, with an extra-long editorial on page twelve. Instead he told everyone about Roadkill being attacked. And how the search teams had come up with nothing more than heavy colds. Then he handed out the day's duties and called the meeting to a close.

Logan was the first to his feet, ready to run for it, but Insch wasn't letting him get away that easily. 'Sergeant,' he said in a voice like treacle. 'A moment if you'd be so kind.'

So Logan had to stand there like an idiot as everyone filed past, looking anywhere but at him. Even WPC Watson wouldn't meet his eyes. It was probably just as well: he felt bad enough already.

When the last PC was gone, and the door to the briefing room closed, Insch produced a copy of that morning's paper and slapped it down on the table. 'Lazarus came back from the dead, didn't he?' asked the inspector. 'Well, I'm not a religious man, Sergeant, but your career seems to have performed the same trick.' He poked the headline: 'KILLER OAP ARRESTED: LOCAL POLICE HERO FIGHTS FOR HIS LIFE!' And below that a picture of Desperate Doug when he was being sent down for crippling a builder's merchant with a ratchet screwdriver. With the milky-white eye, the snarl and the flaming tattoos he didn't look like anyone's granddad.

Miller had called in every favour he had at the paper to get the new front page in place. Not that it wasn't a d.a.m.n sight more newsworthy than 'TILLYDRONE FUNDRAISER GETS OFF TO A FLYING START!'

'Inspector Napier is spitting nails.' A smile broke across Insch's face. 'So, as you're no longer going to be fired, DI Steel says you can get your a.r.s.e over to the hospital and take Desperate Doug's statement.'

'Me? Doesn't she want to do it?' Detective sergeants didn't usually get to interview murder suspects without a DI there to hold their hand.

'No she does not. Something about "keeping a dog and barking yourself". Now hop it.'

Logan commandeered another in a long line of rusty Vauxhalls and WPC Watson. She didn't say anything to him as she pulled the car out of the car park. She waited until they were nowhere near Force Headquarters before bursting out laughing.

'It's not funny.'

The laughter subsided into a smirk. 'Sorry, sir.'

Silence.

Watson took them up through Rosemount. The break in the weather was holding, beautiful blue skies sailing above the sparkling grey granite.

'Sir,' she said, stopped, cleared her throat and started again. 'Sir, about that message I left on your phone last night.'

Logan's pulse began to quicken.

'Well,' said Watson, joining a queue of traffic behind a bus. 'It wasn't till later I thought about it. You know, about how it might have been misconstrued. I mean, when you didn't call back I thought I might have offended you. Or something.' It all came out in one breath.

The smile froze on Logan's face. She was backing out of it. Pretending it was all a big misunderstanding. 'I was in the hospital. They don't allow mobile phones. I didn't get your message until after midnight. I tried, but your mobile was off...'

'Oh,' she said.

'Yeah,' he said.

And then they both said nothing for a while.

The sun beat down through the windscreen, warming the inside of the car, turning it into a four-wheeled microwave. At the next junction the bus went left and Watson went right. The houses here were all done up for Christmas: trees in the windows, lights round the doors, wreaths and festive gnomes. One even had a plastic reindeer with an electric nose that blinked red. Very tasteful.

Logan sat, watching the snow-covered houses slip past, staring at the decorations, thinking of his own, bare apartment. There wasn't even a single card up. Maybe he should get a tree? Last year he hadn't needed one. He'd spent Christmas at Isobel's huge home, with its two real trees, both dripping with all the most fashionable tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs. No family, just the two of them. Roast goose bought in from Marks and Spencer. Isobel didn't believe in all that peeling and chopping. They'd made love all morning.

And this year he was probably going to have to go to his parents for Christmas. Who'd have the whole family round. Arguments, bitterness, drinking, forced smiles, b.l.o.o.d.y Monopoly...

A figure up ahead broke his train of thought. It was a man, head down, trudging along through the snow. Jim Lumley: Peter's stepfather.

'Pull over a minute, OK?' said Logan and Watson drew up at the kerb.

He stepped out into the December air and crunched along after the trudging figure. 'Mr Lumley?' Logan reached out and tapped the man on the shoulder.

Lumley turned, his eyes as red as his nose. His chin was covered with grubby stubble, his hair unkempt and wild. For a moment he just stared at Logan and then something clicked inside him. 'He's dead,' he said. 'He's dead and it's my fault.'

'Mr Lumley, it's not your fault. Are you OK?' It was a stupid b.l.o.o.d.y question, but Logan couldn't help asking it. Of course the man wasn't OK: his child had been s.n.a.t.c.hed, killed and raped by a paedophile. He was dying inside. 'Can we give you a lift home?'

Something that had once been a smile clambered across the man's unshaven face. 'I like to walk.' He raised a hand and swept it around him, indicating the snowy pavements and slushy roads. 'Looking for Peter.' Tears welled up in his eyes, spilling down red cheeks. 'You let him go!'

'Let who...' It took Logan a moment to realize he was talking about Roadkill. 'Mr Lumley, he-'

'I have to go.' Lumley turned and ran, slipping and sliding on the icy snow.

Sighing, Logan watched him go, before clambering back into the car.

'Friend of yours?' asked Watson, pulling back into the traffic.

'The boy we found in the toilets. That was his father.'

'Jesus, poor sod.'

Logan didn't answer.

They abandoned the car in a s.p.a.ce marked 'HOSPITAL STAFF ONLY' and went in to the main reception area. The lobby was wide, s.p.a.cious and open plan, the hospital's coat of arms picked out on the floor. A huge, curved wooden reception desk sprawled in one corner. Logan asked politely where he could find Mr Douglas MacDuff and two minutes later they were clacking their way down a long, linoleum corridor.

Desperate Doug was in a private room, guarded by a young PC reading a book. With a guilty jump he stuffed the Ian Rankin under his seat.

'It's OK, Constable,' said Logan. 'I won't tell anyone. Get us three coffees and you can go back to your tales of police derring-do.'

Relieved, the PC scuttled off.

It was hot in Desperate Doug's room, sun streaming through the window, dust motes drifting lazily in the early December sun. A television, high up on the wall opposite the bed, flickering away soundlessly to itself. The room's occupant was propped up on the bed, looking dreadful. Bruises ran rampant all over the right hand side of his face and his milky white eye was swollen almost shut; but even with the swelling, Desperate Doug looked gaunt. It was hard to believe this was the man who had almost killed him yesterday with his bare hands.

'Morning, Dougie,' said Logan, dragging the visitor's chair out of the corner and plonking himself down at the end of the bed.

The patient didn't even acknowledge his presence. He just lay there staring up at the silent, iridescent screen. Logan glanced over his head and then at WPC Watson. She picked the remote off the bedside cabinet and clicked the telly off.

A slow, rattling sigh escaped the old man in the bed. 'I was watchin' that.' The words came out loose and sibilant and for the first time Logan noticed the set of teeth floating in a gla.s.s at the side of the bed.

'Urrgh, put your teeth in, Doug, for G.o.d's sake! You look like a turtle!'

'f.u.c.k you,' said Doug, but his heart didn't seem to be in it.

Logan smiled. 'Well, now that we've got the pleasantries out of the way, why not get down to business? You killed George "Geordie" Stephenson.'

'b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.'

'Come on, Doug. We've got all the forensic evidence we need! Your dog's teeth match the bite-marks on his legs. His kneecaps were hacked off with a machete! That's got Doug MacDuff written all over it. What happened? The McLeod boys hold him down while you hacked away?'

Doug snorted.

'Come on, Dougie, you're not telling me you could hold a great big bruiser like that down on your own? While you de-kneed him? You're what: ninety?' Logan settled into the seat, resting a foot on the end of the bed. 'Let me tell you how I think it went down, OK? Just jump in if I get anything wrong.'

Standing quietly in the corner WPC Watson was taking notes, keeping a low profile.

'Geordie Stephenson comes up from Edinburgh all full of himself, looking to do a bit of business. While he's up he fancies a bit of a flutter. So he does the rounds of the bookies, losing big time. Only he can't cover his debts. And they don't take kindly to that at the Turf 'n Track.' Logan paused. 'How much did they slip you to do him, Doug? More than a week's pension? Two weeks'? A month's? Hope it was a lot, Dougie, because Geordie Stephenson worked for Malk the Knife. And when he finds out that you've snuffed one of his men, he's going to skin you alive.'

A smile played round Doug's toothless mouth. 'You are so full of s.h.i.te.'

'You think? h.e.l.l, Dougie, I've seen some of the things left behind after Malkie's boys have finished with somebody. Arms, legs, w.i.l.l.i.e.s... You don't stand a chance.' Logan gave a friendly wink. 'But tell you what: you tell us all about Simon and Colin McLeod and their debt collection methods, and I'll make sure you get locked away somewhere Malkie can't get at you.'

And at this Doug actually started laughing.

Logan frowned. 'What?'

'You haven't-' The word was interrupted by a cough, a dry wheeze that shook the old man's frame. 'Haven't got-' Another cough, this one deeper, working its way slowly into his chest. 'Got a-' Again. 'Got a f.u.c.kin' clue-' This time the whole bed rattled as Doug racked back and forth, a shaking, thin hand almost covering his mouth. Finally he slumped back into his pillows, wiping his hand down the front of his pyjamas. It left a black and red smear. 'Have you, Mr Pig?'

'Do you want me to get a doctor?' Logan asked.

The old man laughed bitterly, the laugh dissolving into yet more coughing. 'No point,' he wheezed, the breaths coming ragged and fast. 'Saw one of the b.u.g.g.e.rs this mornin'. I told you Mr Pig: I got me the cancer. Only it's no' a year or two any more. Doctor says now it's a month.' He thumped his chest with a bloodstained hand. 'One big tumour.'