Cold Granite. Stuart MacBride
Logan pretended not to hear him.
The briefing room smelled of strong coffee, stale beer and hangovers. The turn-out was one hundred percent, which surprised Logan. Even the vomiting, stripping Constable Steve was sitting up at the back, looking decidedly unwell.
Logan, clutching a stack of photocopied posters of the dead girl, found a seat as close to the front as he could and sat waiting for DI Insch to start things off. The Inspector had asked him to stand up this morning and tell everyone exactly how little they knew about the four-year-old child discovered at the Nigg tip yesterday.
He looked up from his photocopies to see WPC Watson – Jackie – smiling at him. He smiled back. Now that he’d had a bit of time to work the panic out of his system he was beginning to like the idea. It had been four months since he and Isobel had gone their separate ways. It would be nice to start seeing someone again. Soon as the briefing was over he was going to ask DI Insch to assign him a different bodyguard. Surely no one could complain about him seeing her if they weren’t working together.
He smiled over at WPC Jackie Watson, her lovely legs hidden beneath a pair of regulation black trousers. She smiled back. All was well with the world.
Logan suddenly became aware that everyone was smiling at him, not just WPC Jackie Watson.
‘In your own time, Sergeant.’
He snapped his head around to see DI Insch staring at him. ‘Er, yes. Thank you, sir.’ He pulled himself out of his seat and over to the desk Insch was sitting on, hoping he didn’t look as embarrassed as he felt.
‘Yesterday at four p.m. one Andrea Murray, head of Social Studies at Kincorth Academy, called 999 to report the discovery of a human foot sticking out of a bin-bag at the Nigg tip. The foot belongs to an unidentified four-year-old girl: Caucasian, long blonde hair, blue eyes.’ He handed a wad of photocopied sheets to the nearest person and told them to take one and pass it on. Each sheet was the same: a photograph from the morgue, full face, eyes closed, her cheeks lined where the packing tape had been. ‘Our killer tried to hack up the body for disposal, but didn’t have the stomach to go through with it.’
There were rumblings of disgust from the men and women filling the briefing room.
‘That means …’ Logan had to raise his voice. ‘That means this was probably his first time. If he’d killed before it wouldn’t have been a problem.’
Silence settled back in and Insch nodded approvingly.
Logan handed out a second set of copies. ‘This is the statement of Norman Chalmers. We arrested him last night on suspicion of murder after WPC Watson found evidence linking him to the bin-bag the body was dumped in.’
Someone slapped her on the shoulder and WPC Jackie Watson smiled.
‘However,’ continued Logan, ‘we have a problem. Forensics found no sign of the girl ever having been in Chalmers’s house. If he didn’t take her there, where did he take her?
‘I want one team to go through Mr Chalmers’s dealings with a fine-tooth comb. Does he rent a garage? Is he housesitting for anyone? Does he have any relatives, recently taken into care, who’ve left him in charge of the family home? Does he work somewhere he could stash a body without arousing attention?’
There were nods all round the room.
‘Next team: door-to-door all over Rosemount. Who was she? How did Chalmers get hold of her?’ A hand was raised and Logan pointed at its owner. ‘Yes?’
‘How come the kid’s no’ been reported missing yet?’
Logan nodded. ‘Good question. A four-year-old girl, missing for at least twenty-four hours, and no one bothers to call the police? That’s not right. This,’ he said, handing around the last set of photocopied sheets, ‘is a list from Social Services of all families on the register in Aberdeen, with a child matching the age and sex of our victim. Team three: this is your job. I want each and every family on this list questioned. Make sure you see the kid. We’re not taking anyone’s word for anything. OK?’
Silence.
‘OK. Teams.’ Logan set up three four-man teams and sent them off to get started. The rest of the room shifted in their seats, chatting as the ‘volunteers’ shuffled out.
‘Listen up,’ said Insch. He didn’t have to raise his voice: as soon as he opened his mouth everyone shut up. ‘We’ve had a sighting of a child matching Richard’s description getting into a dark red hatchback. Other witnesses claim to have seen a similar car hanging about the neighbourhood over the last few months. Chances are our pervert was staking out the area.’ He stopped to look round the room, making sure he made eye contact with every person there. ‘Richard Erskine has now been missing for twenty-two hours. Even if some scumbag hasn’t grabbed him, it was pissing down and close to freezing last night. His chances aren’t good. That means we have to look harder and faster. We will turn this whole bloody city upside down if we need to, but we will find him.’
You could almost smell the determination in the room, just under the cloying funk of hungover constables.
Insch read out the search team rosters and settled back on the desk as they exited the room. As Logan hung back for his instructions he saw the inspector call Steve the Naked Drunkard over, holding him back until everyone else was gone. Then he began to talk in a voice so low Logan couldn’t hear a word of it, but he could guess what was being said. The young constable’s face started out flushed and swiftly turned a frightened shade of grey.
‘Right,’ said Insch at last, nodding his large, bald head at the trembling constable. ‘You go wait outside.’
Steve the Stripper trudged out, head down, looking as if he’d been slapped.
When the door closed, Insch beckoned Logan over. ‘I’ve got a Noddy job for you this morning,’ he said, pulling a family-sized bag of chocolate-covered raisins out of his suit pocket. He fumbled about trying to open it before giving up and using his teeth. ‘Bloody glue these things shut …’ Insch spat out a corner of plastic and poked a finger into the hole he’d made. ‘We’ve been asked to provide police support for the council’s environmental health team.’
Logan tried not to groan. ‘You’re kidding me?’
‘Nope. They need to serve notice and the bloke doing it is a nervous wee shite. He’s convinced he’s going to get murdered if we’re not there to hold his hand. The Chief Constable wants us to be accessible. That means we have to be seen to be giving the council all the support it needs.’ He pointed the hole in the top of the chocolate raisins in Logan’s direction.
‘But, sir,’ said Logan, politely refusing – the things looked too much like huge rat droppings for his hungover stomach, ‘couldn’t uniform do this?’
Insch nodded and Logan could have sworn he saw an evil glint in the older man’s eye. ‘Yes indeed. In fact a uniform is going to do this. You’re going along to supervise.’ He shook a mound of droppings into the palm of his hand and tossed them back. ‘That’s one of the privileges of rank: you supervise those further down the tree.’
There was a meaningful pause that completely passed Logan by.
‘Well,’ said Insch, shooing him towards the door. ‘Off you go.’
Still wondering what that had been about, Logan left the briefing room. DI Insch sat on the desk, grinning like a maniac. It wouldn’t take long before the penny dropped.
A worried-looking Constable Steve was waiting in the corridor. His face had regained a little bit of its colour and was now an unhealthy reddish-green rather than pale grey; but he still looked dreadful. His eyes were pink with bloodshot veins, his breath reeked of extra strong mints, but it wasn’t enough to disguise the alcohol oozing out of his pores.
‘Sir,’ he said, giving a sickly, nervous smile. ‘I don’t think I should drive, sir.’ He hung his head. ‘Sorry, sir.’