Stuart Macbride - Cold granite

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 finally 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 calling back! Grinning, he scrabbled the phone out and up to his ear. 'Hello?' he said, sounding as upbeat as he could.

'Laz? That you?' It was Colin Miller. '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 Roadkill. Did you hear? What happened? Spill 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 hell more do you want?'

The light finally went green and the truck pulled 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 all over the front bloody page he knows. He won't go back. He's still 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 Miller finally 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 tell 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 still places open down the docks…I'm buying?'

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

Traffic was light all 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 Miller. 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 painkillers.

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 doorbell 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 Miller.

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 really, really sorry…' With an apologetic smile he hoisted the carrier bags. 'Peace offerin'?'

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

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

'Well, funny you should mention that.' Miller 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,' Miller smiled. 'The moral dilemma is this: I've got this killer 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'll ruin.'

Logan stuffed spicy chicken into his face mumbling, 'So? What's the story?' as he chewed.

'Local Police Hero Batters OAP To Death.'

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 followed 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 all down the front of his black suit.

With his face slowly turning red, Logan took his usual place at the front of the room.

DI Insch made no mention at all of that morning's article in the P amp;-J. The one spread all over the front page, with an extra-long editorial on page twelve. Instead he told everyone about Roadkill being attacked. And how the search teams had come up with nothing more than heavy colds. Then he handed out the day's duties and called the meeting to a close.

Logan was the first to his feet, ready to run for it, but Insch wasn't letting him get away that easily. 'Sergeant,' he said in a voice like treacle. 'Amoment if you'd be so kind.'

So Logan had to stand there like an idiot as everyone filed past, looking anywhere but at him. Even WPC Watson wouldn't meet his eyes. It was probably just as well: he felt bad enough already.

When the last PC was gone, and the door to the briefing room closed, Insch produced a copy of that morning's paper and slapped it down on the table. 'Lazarus came back from the dead, didn't he?' asked the inspector. 'Well, I'm not a religious man, Sergeant, but your career seems to have performed the same trick.' He poked the headline: 'KILLER OAP ARRESTED: LOCAL POLICE HERO FIGHTS FOR HIS LIFE!' And below that a picture of Desperate Doug when he was being sent down for crippling a builder's merchant with a ratchet screwdriver. With the milky-white eye, the snarl and the flaming tattoos he didn't look like anyone's granddad.