Cold Granite Part 42

Finally Logan worked his way through the crowd to a relative haven of calm. He located the expansive bulk of Detective Inspector Insch and plonked himself down on an empty stool next to him. Insch looked up, a broad smile split his face and he slapped Logan on the back with a huge hand. On the other side of the table Logan saw the Edinburgh contingent. The DI and his sergeants looking rosy and pleased, calling out congratulations, but the clinical psychologist looked as if the smile he was wearing might cause him permanent damage.

'The CC said tonight's on him!' beamed Insch, pounding Logan on the back again. 'Flash your warrant card at the bar and it's free!' He leaned back and downed half a pint of dark beer in one go.

Logan looked round at the a.s.sembled horde: Grampian's finest. Tonight was going to cost the Chief Constable a fortune.

40.

Thursday morning at Grampian Police Force Headquarters was a sombre affair. Largely because ninety-five percent of the staff were heavily hungover. No one knew what the final tab for last night's revelry had been, but it had to be huge. After the beers, lagers, vodka and red bulls, the whole place descended into tequila shooters. The bar should, technically, have closed three hours before the last partygoer staggered off into the snow. But who was going to do the pub for breaching their liquor licence? Three-quarters of Aberdeen's police force were in there screaming for more limes and salt.

Logan winced his way into work, having breakfasted on Irn-Bru and painkillers. He couldn't face solids. The morning had brought blue skies and a crisp wind that coated the previous night's snow with frosted ice.

There was a press conference at half-nine and Logan was dreading it. Someone had climbed inside his head and was trying to push the contents out of his ears. His eyes, normally a reasonable crystal blue, looked like something out of The Brides of Dracula.

When he entered the briefing room there was another rather quiet round of applause, accompanied by a lot of wincing from the partic.i.p.ants. He waved them a greeting and slumped down into his usual seat.

DI Insch shushed everyone into silence and then launched into the briefing. Flying in the face of nature, the inspector was remarkably chirpy. Even though he'd been the one calling for flaming Drambuies at two o'clock in the morning. There was no justice.

Insch worked his way through the events of the previous night, eliciting more applause at the appropriate moment. And then it was business as usual: search teams, research, door-to-doors...

When everyone else had filtered out Logan was left alone with DI Insch.

'So,' said the fat man, settling back on the desk and pulling out a pristine packet of fruit pastilles. 'How you feeling?'

'Other than the bra.s.s band kicking seven shades of s.h.i.te out of my brain? Not bad.'

'Good.' Insch paused and picked at the wrapping. 'Divers found Martin Strichen's body at six-fifteen this morning. Caught in the weeds under the ice.'

Logan didn't even bother trying to smile. 'Right.'

'Just so you know, you're going to get a commendation for last night.'

He couldn't meet the inspector's eyes. 'But Strichen died.'

Insch sighed. 'Aye, he did. And so did his mum. But Jamie McCreath didn't, and neither did WPC Watson. And no other kid's going to either.' He laid a bear-like hand on Logan's shoulder. 'You did good.'

The press conference was a cattle market: journalists shouting, cameras flashing, television pundits grinning... Logan bore it with the best grace he could.

Colin Miller was waiting for him when the conference was over, hanging around at the back of the room looking uncomfortable. He told Logan what a great job he'd done in finding the kid. How everyone was proud of him. He handed him a copy of that morning's paper with the headline: 'POLICE HERO FOILS CHILD KILLER!!! JAMIE RETURNED SAFE TO HIS MOTHER! PICTURES PAGES 3 TO 6...'. He bit his lip, took a deep breath and said, 'Now what?'

Logan knew Miller wasn't talking about the case. He'd been asking himself the same question all morning. Ever since he'd walked into Force Headquarters and didn't go straight to see Inspector Napier and the rest of his Professional Standards goons. If he turned Isobel in she was ruined. But if he kept his mouth shut it could happen again: another investigation could be compromised, another chance wasted to catch a killer before he killed again. Logan sighed. There was only really one thing he could do. 'You clear everything she tells you through me. Before you print it. If you don't: I go straight to the Procurator Fiscal and she gets dragged through the mud. Criminal prosecution. Jail time. The whole thing. OK?'

Miller's face went blank, his eyes locked on Logan's. 'OK,' he said at last. 'OK. It's a deal.' He shrugged. 'From what she said, I kinda thought you'd throw the book at her if you found out. Said you'd jump at the chance to get rid of her.'

Logan's smile was as forced as his words. 'Yeah, well she was wrong. I hope you guys are going to be happy.' He couldn't look Miller in the eyes.

When the reporter had gone Logan wandered down to the reception area, staring out of the large gla.s.s doors at the gently falling snow. Thankful of the respite, he sank down on one of the uncomfortable purple seats and leaned his head back against the gla.s.s.

Jackie was going to be OK. And he was going to see her this afternoon, armed with a mound of grapes, a box of chocolates, and an invitation to dinner. Who knew, maybe this would be the start of something good?

Smiling, he stretched in his seat, yawning happily, as a heavy-set man pushed through the front doors, brushing the snow off his coat. The man was in his mid-fifties, with a carefully-sculpted beard which was now more salt than pepper. He marched purposefully towards the reception desk. 'h.e.l.lo,' he said, twitching as if he had fleas. 'I need to speak to the detective with the biblical name.'

The desk sergeant pointed at Logan. 'Biblical hero, right over there.'

The man walked resolutely across the linoleum floor, his step only slightly loosened by however many whiskies he'd had to get his courage up this far. 'Are you the Biblical Detective?' he asked, his voice reedy and a little slurred.

Against his better judgment, Logan admitted that he was.

The man stood up straight as a stair rod, chest out, chin in the air. 'I killed her,' he said, the words coming out as if they were fired from a machinegun. 'I killed her and I'm here to take the consequences...'

Logan rubbed a hand over his forehead. The last thing he needed was another case to worry about. 'Who?' he said, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. And failing.

'The girl. The one they found in the steading...' His voice cracked and for the first time Logan saw that his eyes were cherry-red, his cheeks and nose scarlet from crying. 'I'd been drinking.' He shivered, locked in the past. 'I didn't see her... I thought ... all that time... When you arrested that man, I thought it would all go away. But he was killed, wasn't he? He was killed because of me...' He wiped the back of an arm over his eyes and dissolved into tears.

So this was the man who'd killed Lorna Henderson. The man Bernard Duncan Philips had died for. The man Nurse Henderson had killed for.

Sighing, Logan pulled himself out of his seat.

Another case solved. Another life ruined.

Acknowledgements.

This book is make-believe. What few facts there are come from people who answered a whole raft of daft questions. So, thanks to: Sgt. Jacky Davidson and Sgt. Matt MacKay of Grampian Police for help on police procedure in Aberdeen; Dr Ishbel Hunter, senior anatomical pathology technician at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary's department of pathology, for her graphic advice on post mortems; Brian d.i.c.kson, head of security at the Press and Journal for the guided tour.

Special thanks have to go to my agent Philip Patterson for sweet-talking the lovely Jane Johnson and Sarah Hodgson at HarperCollins into publishing this book. And to the magnificent Lucy Vanderbilt, Andrea Joyce and the rest of the team for doing such a spectacular job on the international rights. And to Andrea Best, Kelly Ragland and Saskia van Iperen for taking it on board.

Thanks to James Oswald for early input, and to Mark Hayward, my first agent at Marjacq before he left to become a tax inspector, who suggested I stop writing all that SF rubbish and try a serial killer novel instead.

Most of all, thanks to my naughty wife, Fiona: cups of tea, grammatical pointers, spelling, refusing to read the book in case she didn't like it, and putting up with me all these years.

And finally: Aberdeen's really not as bad as it sounds. Trust me...

About the Author.

Stuart MacBride is the No.1 bestselling author of the DS Logan McRae series and Birthdays for the Dead.

His novels have won him the CWA's Dagger in the Library, the Barry Award for Best Debut Novel, and Best Breakthrough Author at the ITV3 Crime Thriller awards.

Stuart's other works include Halfhead, a near-future thriller, Sawbones, a novella aimed at adult emergent readers, and several short stories.

He lives in the north-east of Scotland with his wife, Fiona, and cat, Grendel.

For more information visit StuartMacBride.com.

By Stuart MacBride.

The Logan McRae Novels.

Cold Granite.

Dying Light Broken Skin.

Flesh House Blind Eye.

Dark Blood Shatter the Bones Other Works.

Birthdays for the Dead.

Sawbones a novella 12 Days of Winter (short stories).

Writing as Stuart B. MacBride.

Halfhead.

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