Cold Granite (2 page)

Number fifteen was near the start of a winding cul-de-sac, the gardens stil too new to be much more than rectangles of grass with stumpy bushes round the edges. Many of the plants stil sported tags from the garden centre. The downstairs lights were on, shining through the closed Venetian blinds, even though it was nearly two in the morning.

DS Logan McRae sat in the passenger seat of the CID pool car and sighed. Like it or not, he was currently the senior investigating officer and that meant he had to tel David Reid's mother that her son was dead. But he'd brought along a Family Liaison Officer and a spare WPC

to help shoulder the load. At least he wouldn't have to do this on his own.

'Come on then,' he said at last. 'No point putting it off any longer.'

The front door was opened by a heavy-set man in his mid-fifties with a brick-red face, moustache and hostile, bloodshot, eyes. He took one look at WPC Watson's uniform and said,

' Bout bloody time you bastards showed up!' Arms crossed, not moving.

Logan closed his mouth. This wasn't what he'd been expecting. 'I need to speak to Miss Reid.'

'Aye? Wel you're too bloody late! The bloody papers were on fifteen minutes ago looking for a bloody quote!' His voice rose with each word until he was bel owing in Logan's face. 'You should have told us first!' He slammed a fist against his own chest. 'We're his bloody family!'

Logan winced. How the hel had the media found out that David Reid's body had been discovered? As if the family wasn't in enough pain.

'I'm sorry, Mr...?'

'Reid. Charles Reid.' The man re-crossed his arms and inflated himself even further. 'Her dad.'

'Mr Reid, I don't know how the press found out about this. But I promise you: whoever's responsible is going to get their backside kicked from here to Stonehaven.' Logan paused. 'And I know that doesn't make everything OK, but right now I need to speak to David's mother.'

Her father glowered down at Logan from the top step. Final y he stepped aside and Logan could see through a glazed door into a smal lounge, painted a cheerful yel ow. In the middle of a bright-red sofa were two women: one looking like a floral-print battleship, the other like a zombie.

The younger woman didn't look up as the police walked into the living room. Just sat staring blankly at the television, watching Dumbo being tormented by the clowns. Logan looked expectantly at the Family Liaison Officer, but she was doing her damnedest not to make any sort of eye-contact with him.

Logan took a deep breath. 'Miss Reid?'

No reaction.

Logan sank down on his haunches in front of the sofa, blocking her view of the television. She stared right through him as if he wasn't even there.

'Miss Reid? Alice?'

She didn't move, but the older woman scowled and bared her teeth. Her eyes were puffy and red, tears glistening on her round cheeks and jowls. 'How dare you!' she snarled. 'You useless bunch of sh--'

'Sheila!' The older man stepped forward and she shut up.

Logan turned his attention back to the comatose figure on the couch. 'Alice,' he said,

'we've found David.'

At the sound of her son's name there was a flicker of life in her eyes. 'David?' Her mouth barely moved, the word more breathed than spoken.

'I'm sorry, Alice. He's dead.'

'David...'

'He was murdered.'

There was a moment's silence and then her father exploded. 'Fuckin' bastard! Fuckin', fuckin' bastard! He was three!'

'I'm sorry.' It was al Logan could think of to say.

'You're sorry? You're sorry?' Mr Reid rounded on him, his face scarlet. 'If you bunch of useless bastards had got your fingers out of your arses and found him when he went missing, he'd no be dead! Three months!'

The Family Liaison Officer made flapping, placatory gestures, but Mr Reid ignored her.

He was trembling with rage, tears sparking in his eyes. 'Three! Bloody! Months!'

Logan raised his hands.

'Look, Mr Reid, calm down, OK? I know you're upset--'

The punch shouldn't have caught Logan by surprise, but it did. A fist like a breezeblock slammed into his stomach, tearing at the scar tissue, making fire rip through his innards. He opened his mouth to scream, but there was no breath left in his lungs.

Logan's knees buckled. A rough hand grabbed the front of his jacket, pul ing him forward, keeping him on his feet as another fist was drawn back, ready to turn him into a bloody pulp.

WPC Watson shouted something, but Logan wasn't listening. There was a crashing sound and the hand holding him let go. Logan col apsed onto the carpet, curling into a bal around his burning stomach. An angry shout, fol owed by WPC Watson yel ing that she was going to break Mr Reid's arm if he didn't calm down.

Mr Reid cried out in pain.

The floral battleship screamed, 'Charlie! Stop it for God's sake!'

WPC Watson said something highly unprofessional and after that everyone was silent.

The patrol car flashed across Anderson Drive, siren blaring. Logan sat in the passenger seat, his face grey and clammy, hands wrapped around his stomach, teeth gritted at every bump and pothole.

Mr Charles Reid was strapped in the back, seat-belt done up over his handcuffed wrists.

He looked scared.

'Oh God, I'm sorry! Oh God, I'm so sorry!'

WPC Watson screeched the car to a halt in front of Accident and Emergency. In one of the spots marked 'Ambulances Only'. She helped Logan out of the car as if he was made of glass, pausing only to tel Mr Reid, 'Keep your damn arse in that car til I come back or I'l have your guts for garters!' Just to be safe she plipped on the alarm, locking him in the car.

They made it al the way to the reception area before Logan passed out.

3

Grampian Police Headquarters. The building was grey concrete and glass, a seven-storey tower block, topped by emergency broadcast systems and radio antennas, tucked out of the way at the end of Queen Street, right next door to the Sheriff Court, opposite the grey, granite wedding cake of Marischal Col ege and just around the corner from the Arts Centre, a mock-Roman temple thrown up by the Victorians. Force HQ was a testament to the developer's love of ugly buildings. But it was a stone's throw from the Town House, council chambers and about a dozen pubs.

Pubs, churches and rain. Three things Aberdeen had in abundance.

The sky above was dark and low, the sodium glow of the streetlights giving the early morning a jaundiced feel, as if the streets were unwel . Last night's torrential downpour hadn't let up at al , the heavy raindrops bouncing back off the slick pavements. The drains were already overflowing.

Buses grumbled their way along the road, sending up fountains of spray for anyone daft enough to be out on a day like this.

Cursing, Logan gripped his overcoat closed with one hand and wished a fiery death on al bus-driving bastards. He'd had a bloody awful night: a punch in the guts fol owed by three hours being prodded and poked by doctors at Accident and Emergency. They'd final y turfed him out into the cold, driving rain at quarter past five this morning with a bottle of painkil ers and an elasticated bandage.

He'd managed a whole hour's sleep.

Logan squelched into the Queen Street lobby, and stood dripping at the curved reception desk. His flat was less than two minutes' walk away, but he was stil soaking.

'Good morning, sir,' said a pointy-faced desk sergeant Logan didn't recognize, from behind the glass partition. 'Can I help?' He put on his polite smile and Logan sighed.

'Morning, Sergeant,' he said. 'I was supposed to be working with DI McPherson--'

The polite smile vanished as soon as the desk sergeant realized Logan wasn't a member of the public.

'You'l have a hard job: knife in the head.' He made stabbing motions and Logan tried not to flinch. 'Are you...' He consulted a pad on the desk, flipping the pages back and forward until he found what he was looking for. 'Detective Sergeant McRae?'

Logan admitted that he was, flashing his warrant card to prove it.

'Aye,' said the desk sergeant, his face not moving a muscle. 'Very pretty. You're to report to DI Insch. He's giving a briefing...' He glanced up at the clock. 'Five minutes ago.' The smile flashed again. 'He doesn't like it when people are late.'

Logan was twelve minutes late for the seven-thirty briefing. The room was fil ed with serious-looking police men and women, and al of them snapped around to look at him as he crept around the door, closing it gently behind him. At the front of the room DI Insch - a large, bald man in a brand new suit - stopped in mid-sentence and scowled as Logan limped his way across to an empty seat in the front row.

'As I was saying,' the inspector glowered at Logan, 'the preliminary pathologist's report puts the time of death around three months ago. Three months is a long time for forensic evidence to hang around a crime scene, especial y in the pissing rain. But that doesn't mean we're not going to look for it. Fingertip search: half-mile radius from where the body was found.'

A groan went up from the inspector's audience. It was a lot of ground to cover and there was no chance of them finding anything. Not after three months. And it was stil chucking it down outside. This was going to be a long, wet, shitty job.

'I know it's a pain in the arse,' said DI Insch, digging in his pocket for a jel y baby. He examined it, blew the fluff off, and popped it in his mouth. 'But I don't care. This is a three-year-old boy we're talking about. We wil catch the bastard that did it. No fuck-ups. Understand?'

He paused, chal enging the room to say anything to the contrary.

'Good. And while we're on the subject of fucking up: someone tipped off the Press and Journal last night that we'd found David Reid's body.' He held up a copy of that morning's paper.

The headline screamed: 'Murdered Toddler Found!'. The front page was split between a photograph of David Reid's smiling face and one of the SOC tent, lit up from within by the police photographer's flash. The tent's occupants were silhouetted against the plastic walls.

'They cal ed the mother for a quote--' his voice rose and his expression darkened '--before we could tel the poor cow her son was dead!'

Insch slammed the paper down on top of the desk. Angry murmurs came from the crowd.

'You can al expect a visit from Professional Standards over the next couple of days. But believe me,' said DI Insch, slowly and deliberately, 'their witch-hunt is going to look like a teddy bears' picnic compared to mine. When I find out who did this I wil screw them to the ceiling by their testicles!'

He took a moment to scowl at everyone.

'Right, today's assignments.' The inspector perched a buttock on the edge of the desk and read out the names: who was going door-to-door, who was searching the riverbank, who was staying behind to answer the phones. The only name he didn't read out was that of Detective Sergeant Logan McRae.

'And before you go,' said Insch, raising his arms as if he was about to bless his congregation, 'I would like to remind you that tickets for this year's pantomime are now on sale at the front desk. Make sure you buy one!'

The troops shuffled out, those on telephone-answering duty lording it over the poor sods who'd spend the rest of the day trudging through the rain. Logan hovered at the back of the queue, hoping to recognize someone. A year off on the sick and there wasn't a single face he could put a name to.

The inspector spotted him loitering and cal ed him over.

'What happened last night?' he asked as the last PC departed, leaving them alone in the briefing room.

Logan pulled out his notebook and began to read: 'The body was discovered at ten-fifteen p.m., by one Duncan Nicholson--'

'Not what I meant.' DI Insch settled on the edge of the desk and crossed his arms. With his large build, bald head and new suit, he looked like a wel -dressed Buddha. Only not so friendly. 'WPC Watson dropped you off at Accident and Emergency back of two this morning.

Less than twenty-four hours on the job and you've already spent a night in hospital. We've got David Reid's grandfather in a holding cel on an assault charge. And then, to cap it al off, you limp into my briefing. Late.'

Logan shifted uncomfortably. 'Wel , sir, Mr Reid was agitated. It wasn't real y his fault, if the Journal hadn't cal ed he--'

DI Insch cut him off. 'You're supposed to be working for DI McPherson.'

'Err...Yes.'

Insch nodded sagely and dragged another jel y baby out of his pocket, popping it in his mouth, fluff and al , chewing around the words. 'Not any more. While McPherson's getting his head stitched back together, you're mine.'

Logan tried not to let his disappointment show. McPherson had been his boss for two years, before Angus Robertson had made a pincushion out of Logan's innards with a six-inch hunting knife. Logan liked McPherson. Everyone he knew worked for McPherson.

Al he knew about DI Insch was that he didn't suffer idiots gladly. And the inspector thought everyone was an idiot.

Insch settled back on his haunches and looked Logan up and down. 'Are you going to drop down dead on me, Sergeant?'

'Not if I can help it, sir.'

Insch nodded, his large face closed and distant. An uncomfortable silence grew between them. It was one of DI Insch's trademarks. Leave a large enough gap in an interrogation and sooner or later the suspect was going to say something, anything, to fil it. It was amazing the things people let fal out of their mouths. Things they never meant to say. Things they real y, real y didn't want DI Insch to know.

This time Logan kept his mouth shut.

Eventual y the inspector nodded. I've read your file. McPherson thinks you're not an arse-hole, so I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt. But if you end up in A&E like that again, you're out. Understood?'

'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'

'Right. Your acclimatization period is hereby cancel ed. I can't be arsed with al that pussy-footing-around bol ocks. You're either up to the job, or you're not. Post mortem's in fifteen minutes. Be there.'

He levered himself off the desk and patted his pockets, looking for more jel y babies.