Cold Granite by Stuart MacBride Page A
Authors: Stuart MacBride
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Crime, Mystery Fiction, Police, Hard-Boiled, Police Procedural, Children, Children - Crimes against, Aberdeen (Scotland), Police - Scotland - Aberdeen, Serial murders - New York (State) - New York - Fiction
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the machine's face, glittering and bleeping and dinging away. A half-drunk bottle of Budweiser was clutched in her other hand as she stabbed the flickering buttons, sending the tumblers whizzing round again.
'You look happy,' said Logan as two lemons and a castle appeared on the display.
She didn't even look round. 'Not enough bloody evidence!' Watson hammered the nudge button, getting an anchor for her troubles.
'Have to keep looking,' said Logan, taking a swig, enjoying the warm fuzzy feeling spreading out from the middle of his head. 'Forensics didn't find anything at the flat--'
'Forensics couldn't find shite in a septic tank. What about the bloody receipt?' She stuffed another couple of pounds in the slot and smacked her fist down on the Go button.
Logan shrugged and Watson snarled at the pictures: anchor, lemon, bar of gold.
'We al know he's guilty!' she said, sending the tumblers spinning again.
'And now we've got to prove it. But we wouldn't even have him in custody if it wasn't for you.' Logan had a bit of difficulty with the word 'custody', but WPC Watson didn't seem to notice. He leaned forward and poked her gently in the shoulder. 'That receipt was a damn clever catch.'
He could have sworn she almost smiled as she fed another pound into the machine.
'I didn't spot the Clubcard points. You did that.' She didn't take her eyes off the flashing lights.
'And I wouldn't have if you hadn't found the receipt in the first place.' He beamed at her and took another drink.
She took her eyes off the machine's flashing lights to watch him sway slightly, almost in time with the music. 'What happened to "one four times a day, not to be taken with alcohol"?'
Logan winked. 'I won't tel anyone if you don't.'
She smiled at him. 'Babysitting you is going to be a ful time job, isn't it?'
Logan clinked his pint glass against her bottle of beer. 'I'l drink to that!'
10
Six o'clock and the alarm's insistent bleeping dragged Logan out of his bed and into a blistering hangover. He slumped at the side of the bed, holding his head in his hands, feeling the contents swel and throb. His stomach was gurgling and churning with lurching certainty. He was going to be sick. With a grunt he staggered to the bedroom door and out into the hal , making for the toilet.
Why did he have so much to drink? The pil s said quite clearly they were not to be taken with alcohol...
Afterwards, he leant on the edge of the sink and let his head droop forward to touch the cool surface of the tiles, the acid tang of bile stil burning his nostrils.
He slid one eye open, just far enough to make out the pint glass sitting on top of the cistern. There was stil half a bottle of the painkil ers he'd been given the first time he'd come out of the hospital, when the scars were stil fresh. Logan pulled them out with a trembling hand, struggling with the childproof lid. He fil ed the glass with water, knocked back a couple of the pebble-sized capsules, and slouched into the shower.
He wasn't feeling that much better by the time he was finished, but at least he didn't smel like a cross between a brewery and an ashtray any more. He was halfway across the hal , rubbing a towel through his hair, when he heard a polite cough.
Logan spun around, heart suddenly racing, his hands bal ing into fists.
WPC Watson was standing in the kitchen doorway, wearing one of his old T-shirts and waggling a plastic fish slice at him. Her hair, released from its tight regulation bun, fel over her shoulders in dark brown curls. A pair of bare legs stuck out of the bottom of the T-shirt and they were very nice legs indeed.
'Cold, is it?' asked Watson with a smile and Logan suddenly realized he was standing there in the nip, with everything on show.
He clutched the towel swiftly over his exposed nether regions and a furnacelike blush worked its way from the soles of his feet al the way up to the top of his head.
Her smile slipped a bit and WPC Watson frowned, a smal crease
'You look happy,' said Logan as two lemons and a castle appeared on the display.
She didn't even look round. 'Not enough bloody evidence!' Watson hammered the nudge button, getting an anchor for her troubles.
'Have to keep looking,' said Logan, taking a swig, enjoying the warm fuzzy feeling spreading out from the middle of his head. 'Forensics didn't find anything at the flat--'
'Forensics couldn't find shite in a septic tank. What about the bloody receipt?' She stuffed another couple of pounds in the slot and smacked her fist down on the Go button.
Logan shrugged and Watson snarled at the pictures: anchor, lemon, bar of gold.
'We al know he's guilty!' she said, sending the tumblers spinning again.
'And now we've got to prove it. But we wouldn't even have him in custody if it wasn't for you.' Logan had a bit of difficulty with the word 'custody', but WPC Watson didn't seem to notice. He leaned forward and poked her gently in the shoulder. 'That receipt was a damn clever catch.'
He could have sworn she almost smiled as she fed another pound into the machine.
'I didn't spot the Clubcard points. You did that.' She didn't take her eyes off the flashing lights.
'And I wouldn't have if you hadn't found the receipt in the first place.' He beamed at her and took another drink.
She took her eyes off the machine's flashing lights to watch him sway slightly, almost in time with the music. 'What happened to "one four times a day, not to be taken with alcohol"?'
Logan winked. 'I won't tel anyone if you don't.'
She smiled at him. 'Babysitting you is going to be a ful time job, isn't it?'
Logan clinked his pint glass against her bottle of beer. 'I'l drink to that!'
10
Six o'clock and the alarm's insistent bleeping dragged Logan out of his bed and into a blistering hangover. He slumped at the side of the bed, holding his head in his hands, feeling the contents swel and throb. His stomach was gurgling and churning with lurching certainty. He was going to be sick. With a grunt he staggered to the bedroom door and out into the hal , making for the toilet.
Why did he have so much to drink? The pil s said quite clearly they were not to be taken with alcohol...
Afterwards, he leant on the edge of the sink and let his head droop forward to touch the cool surface of the tiles, the acid tang of bile stil burning his nostrils.
He slid one eye open, just far enough to make out the pint glass sitting on top of the cistern. There was stil half a bottle of the painkil ers he'd been given the first time he'd come out of the hospital, when the scars were stil fresh. Logan pulled them out with a trembling hand, struggling with the childproof lid. He fil ed the glass with water, knocked back a couple of the pebble-sized capsules, and slouched into the shower.
He wasn't feeling that much better by the time he was finished, but at least he didn't smel like a cross between a brewery and an ashtray any more. He was halfway across the hal , rubbing a towel through his hair, when he heard a polite cough.
Logan spun around, heart suddenly racing, his hands bal ing into fists.
WPC Watson was standing in the kitchen doorway, wearing one of his old T-shirts and waggling a plastic fish slice at him. Her hair, released from its tight regulation bun, fel over her shoulders in dark brown curls. A pair of bare legs stuck out of the bottom of the T-shirt and they were very nice legs indeed.
'Cold, is it?' asked Watson with a smile and Logan suddenly realized he was standing there in the nip, with everything on show.
He clutched the towel swiftly over his exposed nether regions and a furnacelike blush worked its way from the soles of his feet al the way up to the top of his head.
Her smile slipped a bit and WPC Watson frowned, a smal crease
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