Stuart Macbride - Cold granite

Jackie's thumbs traced Logan's number on the phone's keypad and she did the same drop-and-wriggle routine she'd tried on the Emergency Services. Come on, come on! Pick up!

Click.

'Logan.'

She screamed, the rag in her mouth smothering the noise until all that came out was a squeak.

'Hello? Who is this?'

No! Not again! He had to hear her!

'Miller? Is that you?'

She screamed again, obscenities this time, cursing him for being so bloody stupid.

Martin Strichen's shadow fell across the kitchen. He still had the iron in one hand, thick red splashes coating the polished metal surface. Greasy, curled hairs stuck to the clots.

Her eyes darted from the iron to Martin's face. Scarlet freckles covered the right-hand side of his broad, pockmarked features. He looked down at her with sorrow, then picked up the phone, held it to his ear and listened for a second to Logan demanding to know who was calling his mobile. Then, calmly, he pressed the red button and ended the call.

The scissors came from the top drawer, under the kettle, their blades glinting in the cold overhead light. He smiled down at Jackie.

Snip, snip, snip.

'Time to do it properly…' Logan stared at the phone in his hand and cursed. As if he didn't have enough to worry about without prank phone calls! He punched the button that brought up the last number that had called. It was local, but he didn't recognize it. Scowling, he hit 'call back' and listened as the phone automatically bleeped and beeped its way through the number that had called him, returning the favour.

It rang and rang and rang. No answer. Right, he decided, there were two ways to skin a cat. He scribbled the number down and called Control, asking them to put an address to the telephone number. It took the man on the other end of the phone almost five minutes, but he finally came back with: 'Mrs Agnes Stricken, 25 Howesbank Avenue, Aberdeen…'

Logan didn't wait for the postcode, just shouted, 'Fuck!' and floored the accelerator. The car slithered snakelike out onto the road. 'Listen to me,' he told Control, whipping the rusty Vauxhall through the snow and ice, 'DI Insch has two cars in Middlefield. I want them at that address now!' By the time Logan got there, the two cars were already slewed across the road outside the front of number 25. The wind was dying away and fat flakes drifted down from the dirty orange sky. The air tasted of pepper.

Loganslammed on the brakes and the car skidded on the snow-covered tarmac and only came to a halt when it bounced off the kerb. He scrambled out of the car, slipping and sliding his way up the stairs and into the house Martin Strichen shared with his mother.

Mrs Strichen was in the lounge, lying on her front, the back of her head caved in, thick red lines circling her throat. The sound of angry voices came from the small kitchen and Logan burst through to see two uniformed policemen, one bending over a crumpled figure on the floor, the other on his radio: 'Repeat we have an officer down!'

Logan's eyes darted around the cramped room, coming to rest on a pile of fabric in the corner next to the bin.

A third uniform exploded into the room, breathing hard. 'We've been all over the house: no sign of anyone.'

Logan prodded the pile of cloth. It had been a pair of black trousers at one time. And there, underneath it were the remains of a black jumper and a white blouse. The kind with loops on the shoulders, specially designed to incorporate police epaulettes. He looked over his shoulder as the fourth of DI Insch's watchdogs screeched to a halt in the hall, behind his partner. 'Where is she?'

'There's no one in the house, sir.'

'Damn it!' Logan jumped to his feet. 'You and you-' he pointed at the two latecomers, who'd been searching the house, '-out front! He's got WPC Watson. Search every street, every open door, everything you can find!'

They stood for a moment, looking down at the crumpled figure of PC Simon Rennie on the kitchen floor.

'Move it!' Logan yelled.

They scrambled away.

'How is he?' he asked, stepping over the body and opening the back door, letting a wall of cold air collapse into the room.

'Taken a nasty blow to the back of the head. He's breathin' but he's no lookin' too good.'

Logan nodded. 'Stay with him.' He jabbed a finger at the last PC. 'You, come with me!'

In the back garden the snow was up to their knees. It had drifted against the walls of the building, ramping up to just under the windows, but there was an easily discernible path leading away into the darkness.

'Damn it.'

Gritting his teeth, Logan waded into the snow.

It wasn't much more than a shack. A concrete lean-to off the quarry road. This was where he had played as a child. No, not played. Hidden. Hidden from his father. Hidden from the world.

The granite-grey bowl of the quarry wall was only visible as a shadow through the drifting snow. They had cut straight into the rock, making a cliff, then turned their attention on the deposit underground, leaving behind a deep, treacherous lake. Even in the height of summer the water was cold and dark, its depths snarled with binding forests of weed and shopping trolleys near the shore, dropping off to a bottomless pit further in. No one swam in the quarry lake. Not since two boys had disappeared in the late fifties.

This was a haunted place. A place for the dead. It suited him just fine.

The police weren't supposed to be at the house! That wasn't right. They shouldn't have been there… He crunched his way through the ankle-deep snow towards the quarry cabin, breathing hard. They were heavy, making his shoulders ache. But it was all going to be worth it. She was a good girl. Didn't struggle. Martin had only kicked her in the head once, and after that she was good as gold. All quiet and peaceful as he snipped off her clothes.

His hands had trembled at the feel of her skin: cool to the touch and soft as he cut away, leaving just the bra and pants. What they hid scared him. Made him ache…

And then the phone went. Ringing and ringing and ringing as he hefted her over his shoulder, picked up the big holdall, and staggered out of the back door. They were coming for him.

A big brass padlock held the cabin door shut, next to a sign saying 'WARNING: DANGER OF COLLAPSE. ACCESS PROHIBITED.'

Grunting, he took a step back and slammed his foot into the wood, next to the lock. The old door boomed, bouncing under his attack, but the padlock stayed firm. He kicked it again, and once more for luck. The third boom echoed off the quarry walls, covering the sound of cracking wood as the padlock's fixings gave way.

Inside, it was freezing and dark, the smell of rats and mice fading away under years of dust. Grinning nervously, he slid the woman off his shoulder onto the concrete floor. Her pale skin shone against the dark grey and he shivered, trying to pretend it was the cold. But he knew it was her.

The large holdall went next to her. Afterwards, he knew, it would make him sick to his stomach. Make him sick until there was nothing left but bile and shame. But that was for later. For now his blood roared in his ears.

With numb fingers he tugged down the zip.

'Hello?' he said.

Inside the bag, little Jamie McCreath opened his eyes and began to scream. The footprints were disappearing fast, thick white flakes of snow filling them up, making everything smooth and featureless. Logan slithered to a halt, his eyes scanning the landscape. The trail had led directly away from the house, right out into the darkness. And now the trail was gone.

He swore bitterly.

The PC he'd dragged along puffed to a halt behind him. 'What now, sir?' he asked, panting for breath.

Logan looked about him, trying to guess which way Martin Strichen had gone, taking WPC Watson with him. Damn it! He'd told Insch it was a bad idea to leave just two of them at the house! 'Split up,' he said at last. 'We need to cover as much ground as we can.'