Stuart Macbride - Cold granite

It was too late to go back to bed, so Logan grumbled his way into the shower and then up the road to Force Headquarters. The street was like a sheet of glass, the council having done its usual sterling job of not gritting the streets and pavements. But at least it wasn't raining any more. Above his head the clouds were purple and dark grey, the rising sun still more than two hours away.

Headquarters was like a grave as he pushed through the main doors. There was no sign of the media army that had been camped there the night before. All that was left was a pile of crumpled fag ends, lying in the gutter like frozen worms.

Big Gary shouted a friendly 'Mornin', Lazarus!' as Logan made for the lifts.

'Morning, Gary,' said Logan, really not in the mood for another barrage of bonhomie.

'Here,' called Gary, after making sure there was no one else about. 'Did you hear? DI Steel's bagged someone else's wife. Again!'

Logan paused, despite himself. 'Whose is it this time?'

'Andy Thompson in Accounts.'

Logan winced. 'Ouch. That's rough.'

Big Gary raised his eyebrows. 'You think so? I always thought his wife was kinda tasty meself.'

A balding head with a wide moustache poked itself out from behind the mirrored partition that separated the front desk from the small admin area around the back, and locked eyes on Logan. 'Sergeant,' said Eric – the other half of the Big Gary and Eric Show – without a great deal of warmth in his voice. 'Could I have a word with you in my office, please?'

Puzzled, Logan followed him around behind the two-way mirror. The admin area was a jumble of filing cabinets, computers and boxes of crap, piled against the walls, opposite a long, chipped Formica table covered with in-trays and piles of paper. Logan got the feeling something nasty was about to happen. 'What's up, Eric?' he asked, parking himself on the edge of the table: just like DI Insch.

'Duncan Nicholson,' said the desk sergeant, folding his arms. 'That's what's up.' Logan looked at him blankly and Eric let out an exasperated sigh. 'You had a couple of uniform bring him in for questioning?' No reaction. 'He found the dead kid down the Bridge of Don!'

'Oh,' said Logan. 'Him.'

'Yes, him. He's been in the holding cells since Monday afternoon.' Eric checked his watch. 'Forty-three hours! You have to charge him or let him go!'

Logan closed his eyes and swore. He'd forgotten all about the man. 'Forty-three hours?' The legal limit was six!

'Forty-three hours.'

Eric crossed his arms and let Logan stew for a while. Today was turning into an utter bastard.

'I released him Monday evening,' said Eric when he thought Logan had suffered enough. 'We couldn't hold him any longer. As it was we had him far longer than we should have.'

'Monday?' That was two days ago! 'Why didn't you call me?'

'We did! About a dozen times. You turned off your phone. Tried again last night too. If you're going to have people picked up you have to deal with them. You can't just abandon them here and leave us to sort it out. We're not your mother!'

Logan swore again. He'd switched off his mobile while he was in the little girl's post mortem. 'Sorry, Eric'

The desk sergeant nodded. 'Aye, well. I've made sure there's no sign of anything wrong in the logbook. As far as everyone's concerned: nothing happened. He came in on a voly, he was held for a bit, he was released. Just don't let it happen again, OK?'

Logan nodded. 'Thanks, Eric'

Logan slouched his way along the corridor to the small office he'd commandeered the day before, grabbing a plastic cup of coffee on the way. The building was beginning to stir as the early birds drifted into work. Closing the door behind him, Logan sank into the chair behind the desk and stared at the map pinned to the wall, not really seeing the streets and the rivers.

Duncan Nicholson. He'd forgotten all about leaving him in the cells to sweat. He let his head sink forward until it was resting on top of the stack of statements. 'Bastard,' he said into the pile of paper. 'Bastard, bastard, bastard…'

There was a knock at the door and he snapped upright. The statement on top of the pile fluttered to the floor. He was wincing down to pick it up when the door opened and WPC Watson peered in.

'Morning, sir,' she said and then caught the expression on his face. 'You OK?'

Logan forced a smile and sat back down. 'Never better,' he lied. 'You're in early.'

WPC Watson nodded. 'Yeah, I've got court this morning: caught a bloke yesterday afternoon playing with himself in the ladies' changing rooms at Hazlehead swimming pool.'

'Sounds classy.'

She smiled and Logan found himself feeling a lot better.

'Can't wait for him to meet my mum,' she said. 'Look, I got to run: he's giving evidence in this Gerald Cleaver sex abuse thing and I'm not to let him out of my sight. But I wanted to tell you we're all dead impressed you found that kid.'

Logan smiled back. 'It was a team effort,' he said.

'Bollocks it was. We're all going out tonight again, not a big sesh, just a quiet drink. If you want to join us…?'

Logan couldn't think of anything he'd like more. He was feeling a lot better about himself as he walked down the corridor to the incident room and DI Insch's morning briefing. WPC Jackie Watson wanted to go out with him again tonight. Or at least she wanted him to join her and her colleagues for a drink after work. Which was kind of the same thing. Sort of…They still hadn't talked about what had happened the night before last.

And she still called him 'sir'.

But then he still called her 'Constable'. Not the most romantic of pet names.

He opened the door to the incident room and was met by a thunderous round of applause. Blushing, Logan made his way to a seat at the front, settling down in the chair as his face went beetroot red.

'OK, OK,' said DI Insch, holding up a hand for silence. Slowly the clapping faded to a halt. 'Ladies and gentlemen,' he went on when it was quiet once more. 'As you all know, last night Detective Sergeant Logan McRae returned Richard Erskine to his mother, after discovering the child at his grandmother's house.' He stopped and beamed at Logan. 'Come on: stand up.'

Blushing even harder, Logan pulled himself out of his seat and the clapping started again.

'That,' said Insch, pointing at the embarrassed DS, 'is what a real policeman looks like.' He had to call for silence again and Logan sank back into his seat, feeling thrilled, delighted and horrified all at the same time. 'We've found Richard Erskine.' Insch pulled a manila folder from the desktop and pulled out an eight-by-six photograph of a red-haired boy with freckles and a gap-toothed smile. 'But Peter Lumley is still missing. Chances are we're not going to find him kipping at his grandma's: the father can't be arsed with the kid. But I want it checked out anyway.'

Insch took another picture from his folder. This one wasn't so palatable: a blistered, swollen face, black and speckled with mould, the mouth open in a tortured scream. A post mortem photograph of David Reid.

'This is what Peter Lumley is going to end up looking like if we don't get him back soon. I want the search area widened. Three teams: Hazlehead golf course, riding stables, park. Every bush, every bunker, every pile of manure. I want them searched.' He started rattling off names.

When Insch was finished and everyone had gone, Logan brought him up to date on the dead girl they'd found in a rubbish bag. It didn't take long.

'So what do you suggest?' asked Insch, settling back on the desk and rummaging through his suit pockets for something sweet.

Logan did his best not to shrug. 'We can't put on a reconstruction. We've got no idea what she was wearing before she went into the bin-bag and they won't let us re-enact dumping a body. Her picture's gone into all the papers. We might get something out of that.' The only good thing about Aberdeen being the 'dead kiddie capital of Scotland' right now was that the national tabloids and broadsheets were more than happy to parade the dead girl's photo for their readers.