Stuart Macbride - Cold granite

Insch worked his way through the events of the previous night, eliciting more applause at the appropriate moment. And then it was business as usual: search teams, research, door-to-doors…

When everyone else had filtered out Logan was left alone with DI Insch.

'So,' said the fat man, settling back on the desk and pulling out a pristine packet of fruit pastilles. 'How you feeling?'

'Other than the brass band kicking seven shades of shite out of my brain? Not bad.'

'Good.' Insch paused and picked at the wrapping. 'Divers found Martin Strichen's body at six-fifteen this morning. Caught in the weeds under the ice.'

Logan didn't even bother trying to smile. 'Right.'

'Just so you know, you're going to get a commendation for last night.'

He couldn't meet the inspector's eyes. 'But Strichen died.'

Insch sighed. 'Aye, he did. And so did his mum. But Jamie McCreath didn't, and neither did WPC Watson. And no other kid's going to either.' He laid a bear-like hand on Logan's shoulder. 'You did good.' The press conference was a cattle market: journalists shouting, cameras flashing, television pundits grinning…Logan bore it with the best grace he could.

Colin Miller was waiting for him when the conference was over, hanging around at the back of the room looking uncomfortable. He told Logan what a great job he'd done in finding the kid. How everyone was proud of him. He handed him a copy of that morning's paper with the headline: 'POLICE HERO FOILS CHILD KILLER!!! JAMIE RETURNED SAFE TO HIS MOTHER! PICTURES PAGES 3 To 6…'. He bit his lip, took a deep breath and said, 'Now what?'

Logan knew Miller wasn't talking about the case. He'd been asking himself the same question all morning. Ever since he'd walked into Force Headquarters and didn't go straight to see Inspector Napier and the rest of his Professional Standards goons. If he turned Isobel in she was ruined. But if he kept his mouth shut it could happen again: another investigation could be compromised, another chance wasted to catch a killer before he killed again. Logan sighed. There was only really one thing he could do. 'You clear everything she tells you through me. Before you print it. If you don't: I go straight to the Procurator Fiscal and she gets dragged through the mud. Criminal prosecution. Jail time. The whole thing. OK?'

Miller's face went blank, his eyes locked on Logan's. 'OK,' he said at last. 'OK. It's a deal.' He shrugged. 'From what she said, I kinda thought you'd throw the book at her if you found out. Said you'd jump at the chance to get rid of her.'

Logan's smile was as forced as his words. 'Yeah, well she was wrong. I hope you guys are going to be happy.' He couldn't look Miller in the eyes.

When the reporter had gone Logan wandered down to the reception area, staring out of the large glass doors at the gently falling snow. Thankful of the respite, he sank down on one of the uncomfortable purple seats and leaned his head back against the glass.

Jackie was going to be OK. And he was going to see her this afternoon, armed with a mound of grapes, a box of chocolates, and an invitation to dinner. Who knew, maybe this would be the start of something good?

Smiling, he stretched in his seat, yawning happily, as a heavy-set man pushed through the front doors, brushing the snow off his coat. The man was in his mid-fifties, with a carefully-sculpted beard which was now more salt than pepper. He marched purposefully towards the reception desk. 'Hello,' he said, twitching as if he had fleas. 'I need to speak to the detective with the biblical name.'

The desk sergeant pointed at Logan. 'Biblical hero, right over there.'

The man walked resolutely across the linoleum floor, his step only slightly loosened by however many whiskies he'd had to get his courage up this far. 'Are you the Biblical Detective?' he asked, his voice reedy and a little slurred.

Against his better judgment, Logan admitted that he was.

The man stood up straight as a stair rod, chest out, chin in the air. 'I killed her,' he said, the words coming out as if they were fired from a machinegun. 'I killed her and I'm here to take the consequences…'

Logan rubbed a hand over his forehead. The last thing he needed was another case to worry about. 'Who?' he said, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. And failing.

'The girl. The one they found in the steading…' His voice cracked and for the first time Logan saw that his eyes were cherry-red, his cheeks and nose scarlet from crying. 'I'd been drinking.' He shivered, locked in the past. 'I didn't see her…I thought…all that time…When you arrested that man, I thought it would all go away. But he was killed, wasn't he? He was killed because of me…' He wiped the back of an arm over his eyes and dissolved into tears.

So this was the man who'd killed Lorna Henderson. The man Bernard Duncan Philips had died for. The man Nurse Henderson had killed for.

Sighing, Logan pulled himself out of his seat.

Another case solved. Another life ruined.

This book is make-believe. What few facts there are come from people who answered a whole raft of daft questions. So, thanks to: Sgt. Jacky Davidson and Sgt. Matt MacKay of Grampian Police for help on police procedure in Aberdeen; Dr Ishbel Hunter, senior anatomical pathology technician at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary's department of pathology, for her graphic advice on post mortems; Brian Dickson, head of security at the Press and Journal for the guided tour.

Special thanks have to go to my agent Philip Patterson for sweet-talking the lovely Jane Johnson and Sarah Hodgson at HarperCollins into publishing this book. And to the magnificent Lucy Vanderbilt, Andrea Joyce and the rest of the team for doing such a spectacular job on the international rights. And to Andrea Best, Kelly Ragland and Saskia van Iperen for taking it on board.

Thanks to James Oswald for early input, and to Mark Hayward, my first agent at Marjacq before he left to become a tax inspector, who suggested I stop writing all that SF rubbish and try a serial killer novel instead. Most of all, thanks to my naughty wife, Fiona: cups of tea, grammatical pointers, spelling, refusing to read the book in case she didn't like it, and putting up with me all these years. And finally: Aberdeen's really not as bad as it sounds. Trust me…

Dying Light due for publication in May 2006

They will scream… they will burn… and they will die…

He stood in the shadows, on the opposite side of the dark street, watching as they entered the boarded-up building: scruffy wee shites in their tatty jeans and hooded tops. Three men and two women, nearly identical with their long hair, pierced ears, pierced noses and pierced God knew what else. Everything about them screamed 'Kill Me!'

He smiled. They would be screaming soon enough.

The squat was halfway down a terrace of abandoned two-storey buildings – dirty granite walls barely lit by the dull streetlights, windows covered with thick plywood. Except for one on the upper floor, where a thin, sick-looking light oozed out through dirty glass. The street was deserted, abandoned, condemned like its inhabitants, not a soul to be seen. No one about to watch him work.

Half past eleven and the music got even louder; a pounding rhythm that would easily cover any noise he made. He worked his way round the doorframe, twisting the screwdriver in time with the beat, then stepped back to admire his handiwork – six-inch galvanised woodscrews all the way round the door, holding it solid against the frame, making sure it stayed irrevocably shut. A grin split his face. This would be good. This would be the best one yet.

He slipped the screwdriver back into his pocket, pausing for a moment to stroke the cold, hard shaft. He was hard too, the front of his trousers bulging with barely concealed joy. He always loved this bit, just before the fire started, when everything was in place, when there was no way for them to escape. When death was on its way.