Stuart Macbride - Cold granite

He wasn't much to look at. Not now he was dead anyway. The bouffant hairstyle was all flattened to his head and the porn-star moustache stood out, heavy and black, against the waxy skin. It was odd, but seeing the dead man's photograph Logan got the feeling he'd seen him somewhere before.

According to the information Lothian and Borders Police had sent up, Geordie Stephenson had been quite a character in his youth. Assault mostly. A bit of collecting for small loan sharks. Breaking and entering. It wasn't until he started working for Malk the Knife that he stopped getting caught. Malk was very particular about his employees staying out of prison.

'How'd you get on then?' It was DI Steel, hands rammed deep in the pockets of her grey trouser suit. Yesterday's ash-coated blouse was gone, replaced by something shimmery in gold. The bags under her eyes were a deep, saggy purple.

'Not too great,' Logan plonked himself down on the desk and offered the inspector a chair. She sank into it with a sigh and a small fart. Logan pretended not to hear.

'Go on then.'

'OK.' Logan pointed at the map. 'We went through all the bookies marked in green. The only one that looks likely is this one-' he poked the red pin, 'Turf 'n Track-'

'Simon and Colin McLeod. Lovely pair of lads.'

'Not as lovely as their clientele. We got to meet one of their regulars: Dougie MacDuff.'

'Shite! You're fucking kidding me!' She pulled out a battered pack of cigarettes. They looked as if she'd sat on them. 'Dirty Doug, Dougie the Dog…' she excavated a slightly flattened fag from the pack. 'What else did they use to call him?'

'Desperate Doug?'

'Right. Desperate Doug. After he choked that guy with a rolled-up copy of the Dandy. You'd've still been in nappies.' She shook her head. 'Fuck me. Those were the days. I thought he was dead.'

'Got out of Barlinnie three months ago. Four years for crippling a builder's merchant with a ratchet screwdriver.'

'At his age? Good old Desperate Doug.' She popped the cigarette in her mouth, and was at the point of lighting it when the WPC on the phones gave a meaningful cough and pointed at the 'No Smoking' sign. Steel shrugged and stuffed the offending fag in her top pocket. 'So how's he looking these days?'

'Like a wrinkly old man.'

'Aye? Shame. He was fucking tasty in his day. Quite the lady-killer. But we couldn't prove it.' She drifted off into silence, her eyes focused on the past. Eventually she sighed and came back to the here and now. 'So you think the McLeod brothers are our likely lads?'

Logan nodded. He'd read their files again. Hacking off someone's kneecaps with a machete was right up their street. The McLeods had always been hands-on when it came to debt control. 'Problem's going to be proving it. There's no way in hell either of them's going to admit killing Geordie and dumping him in the harbour. We need a witness, or some forensic evidence.'

Steel dragged herself out of the chair and gave an expansive yawn. 'Up all night shagging, you know,' she said with a conspiratorial wink. 'Get on to Forensics: have them run every bloody test they've got. And it wouldn't hurt to take another look at the body. It's still in the morgue.'

Logan stiffened. That meant having to speak to Isobel again.

DI Steel must have seen him flinch, because she laid a nicotine-stained hand on his shoulder. 'I know it's not going to be easy. Not now she's got herself a bit of rough. But to fuck with her! You've got a job to do.'

Logan opened and closed his mouth. He didn't know she was seeing someone else. Not already. Not when he was still on his own.

The inspector stuffed her hands back in her trouser pockets, clasping the squashed packet of cigarettes. 'Got to go. Fucking bursting for a fag. Oh, and if you see DI Insch: tell him I liked his picture in the papers this morning.' Another wink. 'Very sexy.' Detective Inspector Insch didn't look very sexy when Logan saw him next. He was riding the elevator down from the top floor. And that meant a meeting with the Chief Constable. Insch's nice new suit was stained darker grey under the arms and down the back.

'Sir,' said Logan. Trying not to make eye contact.

'They want me to give up the pantomime.' His voice was low and flat.

Guilt stampeded up Logan's back until it sat on top of his head, like a big sign saying: 'I DID IT! IT WAS ME!!!'

'The Chief Constable thinks it's not conducive to the image Grampian Police wants to portray. Says they can't afford to have that kind of negative publicity associated with a major murder enquiry…Either the panto goes, or I do.' He looked as if someone had pulled the stopper out, leaving him to slowly deflate. This was not the DI Insch Logan knew. And it was all his fault. 'How long have I been doing Christmas panto for? Twelve, thirteen years? Never been a bloody problem before…'

'Maybe they'll forget all about it?' tried Logan. 'You know, when it all blows over. This time next year no one will remember a thing.'

Insch nodded, but he didn't sound convinced. 'Perhaps.' He mashed his features round in a circle with his podgy hands. 'God, I'm going to have to tell Annie I can't go on tonight.'

'I'm sorry, sir.'

Insch tried a brave smile. 'Don't be, Logan. It's not your fault. It's that bastard Colin Miller.' The forced smile turned into a scowl. 'Next time you see him you tell him I'm going to rip his bloody head off and crap down his neck.' The morgue was quiet, just the hum of the air conditioning breaking the silence. All the dead bodies had been tidied away, the dissecting tables lying empty and sparkling beneath the overhead lights. Not only were there no dead people in here, there were no living ones either.

Gingerly, Logan made his way across to the wall of refrigerated drawers. One by one he read the name cards on the drawer doors, looking for George Stephenson. He stopped when he reached the one marked 'UNKNOWN FEMALE CAUCASIAN CHILD: APPROX 4 YEARS OLD', one hand on the cool metal drawer handle. The poor wee sod was lying in there, cold and dead without even a name.

'Sorry.' It was all he could think of to say.

He worked his way along the row. There was no sign of a George Stephenson, but there was an 'UNKNOWN MALE CAUCASIAN: APPROX 35 YEARS'. DI Steel hadn't told the morgue they'd IDed the body yet. Something else for Logan to do. He unlatched the drawer and pulled it open.

Lying on the flat steel surface of the drawer was a large, dead man, in a white plastic body-bag. Gritting his teeth, Logan pulled on the zip.

The head and shoulders that appeared from the bag were the same as the photo pinned up on Logan's incident room wall. Only the real thing had a wrinklier look to it, as if someone had peeled the face down from the top of the head so they could open the skull with a bone-saw and extract the brain. The skin was waxy and pallid, deep purple bruises marking where the blood had pooled and congealed after death. There was another bruise on the left temple. In the photograph Logan always thought it was just a shadow.

The main attraction was still hidden.

He pulled the zip all the way down, exposing a naked body that had been past its prime even when it was alive. According to Lothian and Borders Police, Geordie had been a keep-fit fanatic in his younger days. Someone who took a lot of pride in his appearance. The man on the slab had a beer belly, his thick forearms and shoulders more fat than muscle. Even without the pallor of death he would have been pasty white. Milk-bottle skin, with moles and a faint scarlet rash.

And no kneecaps. Both hairy legs had ragged holes in them where a normal person would keep their knees. The flesh was torn and tattered around the joint, yellow bone poking through the mess of hacked-up tissue. Whoever had done this hadn't been bothered about making a tidy job of it. This was unelective surgery by enthusiasm rather than skill.