Cold Granite (39 page)

Logan had fil ed in al the forms, explaining why he'd put an old age pensioner in the hospital. Had spent a happy hour and a half while Inspector Napier scowled at him, asked leading questions and left him in no doubt about what was going to happen next. Now there was nothing left to do but sit back and wait to be told he was suspended. One week back on the job and already his career was down the tubes. And it wasn't even his fault!

Sighing, he looked up at Geordie Stephenson's dead face. Worst of al Desperate Doug was going to be that much harder to convict now. The jury would see a poor old man, beaten by the police, fitted up for the murder of an Edinburgh hoodlum. How could that old man murder anyone? He was so frail! The Procurator Fiscal wouldn't touch it with a bargepole.

Logan let his head sink forward until it clunked off the pile of papers. 'Shit.' He banged his forehead on the table, in time with the words: 'Shit, shit, shit, shit...'

He was interrupted by the blaring tune from his mobile phone. Sighing, he pul ed the thing out, and stuck it to his ear. 'Logan,' he said, without enthusiasm.

'DS McRae? This is Alice Kel y, we met yesterday? At the safe house? We were looking after Mr Philips?'

Logan had the sudden image of a frumpy, plain-clothes policewoman with too many rings. 'Hel o...' He stopped and sat up. 'What do you mean: you "were" looking after him?

Where is he?'

'Ah, yes. You see that's the thing.' Embarrassed pause. 'DC Harris went out to the shops for a pint of milk and some crisps while I was in the shower--'

'Don't tel me you've lost him!'

'We didn't real y lose him. I'm sure he's just gone out for a walk. He'l be back as soon as it gets dark...'

Logan looked at his watch. It was three-thirty. It was already dark. 'Have you looked for him?'

'DC Harris's out there now. I'm staying here, in case he comes back.'

Logan banged his head off the table again.

'Hel o? Hel o? Is something wrong?'

'He's not coming back.' The words came out through gritted teeth. 'Have you told Control he's missing?'

Another embarrassed pause.

'Oh for God's sake,' said Logan. 'I'l let them know.'

'What do you want me to do?'

Logan was a gentleman and didn't tel her.

Ten minutes later every patrol car in Aberdeen knew to keep an eye out for Roadkil wandering the streets. Not that Logan needed psychic powers to know where he would be going. He'd be making for the farm and its buildings ful of dead things.

It was a fair walk to Cults from Summerhil , especial y in the driving snow, but Roadkil was used to long walks. Pushing his own portable morgue along the highways and byways of the city. Col ecting dead animals along the way.

But Bernard Duncan Philips didn't get that far. He was found three and a half hours later, lying in a pool of slowly freezing blood, in Hazlehead Woods.

The woods were fairytale black and white, old twisted trees frosted with ice, blanketed in snow. A single-track road twisted its way through the centre of the park and Logan crept his pool car along it, keeping the speed down trying to keep the thing from sliding off the road and into a tree.

A mile and a half into the woods there was a rough car park, no tarmac, just dirt compacted over years and years of use, hidden beneath the snow. A single, large beech tree sat in the middle, bedecked in winter and surrounded by policemen mil ing about with no real obvious purpose, breath pluming out into the bitter air. Freezing their nuts off.

Logan pulled up next to the grubby IB van, kil ed the engine and clambered out into the slippery, hard-packed snow. The cold air was like a slap in the face. He shivered his way to the crime scene tent, hoping to God it would be warmer inside. It wasn't. Blood was spattered out from the middle of the tent, where a big pool of dark red was thickening with ice crystals, making the surface glitter. There were footprints everywhere and a man-shaped depression, straddling the pool of blood. Roadkil had been lying on his side. Bleeding his life out into the snow.

Logan grabbed the photographer. It was Bil y: the balding AFC fan who'd taken photos at the tip. He was stil wearing the same red-and-white bobble hat.

'Where's the body?'

'A&-E.'

'What?'

'He's no dead.' The photographer looked down at the crimson stain and then at Logan.

'No yet anyway.'

Which was how Logan ended up back at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary for the second time that day. Bernard Duncan Philips had been admitted with a fractured skul , broken ribs, broken arms, one broken leg, fractured fingers and internal injuries consistent with someone repeatedly stamping on his stomach. He'd been taken straight into surgery, but the mob had done a thorough job this time. Roadkil wasn't expected to survive.

Logan waited at the hospital, because there wasn't real y anywhere else for him to go.

He wasn't going to go back to FHQ and wait for his suspension to become official. At least if he was out here, with his phone switched off, he could pretend it wasn't going to happen.

Four hours later a serious-looking nurse appeared and escorted Logan through the maze of corridors to intensive care. The doctor who'd dealt with Desperate Doug was standing at Roadkil 's bed, reading a chart.

'How is he?'

The doctor looked up from his clipboard. 'You back again?'

Logan looked at the battered, bandaged figure. 'Is it as bad as it looks?'

'Wel ...' There was a sigh. 'He's suffered some brain damage. We won't know how much for a while yet. He's stable for now.'

They stood watching Roadkil 's shallow breaths.

'Is there any chance?'

The doctor shrugged. 'I think we caught the internal bleeding in time. I can tel you one thing for sure though: he's not going to have any more children. Both testicles ruptured. But he'l live.'

Logan winced. 'What about the man I came in with earlier? Mr MacDuff?'

'Not good.' He shook his head. 'Not good at al .'

'Is he going to be OK?'

'I'm afraid I can't discuss that. Patient confidentiality. You'd have to ask Mr MacDuff.'

'OK I'l do that.'

The doctor shook his head again. 'Not tonight. He's an old man; he's been through a lot today. It's nearly midnight. Let him sleep.' He raised sad eyes to Logan's face. 'Trust me: he's not going anywhere.'

Outside, the snow had stopped and the sky was clearing: a bowl of inky-black, the stars blurred by the city's lights. Logan walked out of A&-E and into the icy night.

An ambulance careful y pulled up to the entrance, its lights flashing away.

Turning his back on the scene, Logan climbed into his pool car, his breath instantly fogging up the windscreen, dug out his mobile phone and switched it back on. Might as wel face the music, now that it was too late for anyone to be cal ing him.

He had five messages. Four of them were from Colin Mil er, desperate to know what had happened to Roadkil . But one was from WPC Jackie Watson asking if he didn't have anything better to do that is, if he would, but it was OK if he didn't, like to maybe go see a film, or maybe not a film, maybe just have a drink, because it had been a rough day...And if he did want to, you know, do something, then he could maybe give her a cal back? The message was left at eight. Right about when Logan was sitting down to wait for Roadkil to come out of surgery.

He stabbed her number into the phone. It was late: after midnight, but maybe not too late...

It rang and rang and rang. At last a tinny, metal ic voice told him that the number he had cal ed was not available, please try again later.

For the second time that day he punctuated a list of obscenities by banging his head on something. The steering wheel made little boinging noises as he bounced his forehead against the plastic.

It had not been a good day.

When the windscreen final y cleared Logan revved the engine, spinning the car out of the hospital car park in a foul mood. With his teeth gritted he slammed on the brakes as the car sailed up to the junction, taking grim pleasure as the car's back end decided it wanted to overtake the front. He floored the accelerator and steered into the skid, whipping the car back in line as it drifted round the corner and on to the main road. There was a truck stopped at the lights up ahead and Logan had the sudden desire to put his foot down and plough right into the back of it.

But he didn't. Instead he swore quietly to himself and slowed the car down to a crawl.

The sound of his mobile screeching in his jacket pocket made him jump. It was Jackie, WPC Watson cal ing back! Grinning, he scrabbled the phone out and up to his ear. 'Hel o?' he said, sounding as upbeat as he could.

'Laz? That you?' It was Colin Mil er. 'Laz, I've been trying to get hold of ye for hours, man!'

Logan sat with the phone against his ear, watching the traffic lights change from red to amber. 'I know. I got your messages.'

'They beat the shit out of Roadkil . Did you hear? What happened? Spil the beans!'

Logan said no.

'What? Come on, Laz, I thought you and me was friends here?'

Logan scowled out at the cold, empty night. 'After what you did? You're no bloody friend of mine!'

There was a stunned silence.

'After what I did? What you talking about? I've no put the boot into your pantomime dame for ages! I did your damn puff-piece! What the hel more do you want?'

The light final y went green and the truck pul ed 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 al over the front bloody page he knows. He won't go back. He's stil out there and you just screwed up the best chance we had of catching the bastard! The next kid that goes missing is your fault, understand? We could have caught him!'

Another silence. When Mil er final y 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 tel 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 stil places open down the docks...I'm buying?'

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

Traffic was light al 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 Mil er. 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 painkil ers.

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 glass of shiraz and stuffed a chocolate Hob Nob 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 glass when the doorbel 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 Mil er.

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 pissed off, OK? But I didn't do it on purpose. If I'd known I would've kept ma mouth shut. I'm real y, real y sorry...' With an apologetic smile he hoisted the carrier bags. 'Peace offerin'?'

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

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

'Wel , funny you should mention that.' Mil er 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,' Mil er smiled. 'The moral dilemma is this: I've got this kil er 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'l 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 fol owed 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 buttock 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 al down the front of his black suit.