Cold granite

32

The interview room was close and stuffy, the radiator in the far corner belching out heat, the opaque window resolutely refusing to let fresh air in. A smell of cheesy feet and nervous armpits filled the room as Cameron Anderson sat on the other side of the table and lied.

Logan and Insch sat opposite, listening with deadpan faces as Cameron Anderson once more placed the blame for everything on Desperate Doug MacDuff. The dead girl was nothing to do with him.

'So,' said Insch, his heavy arms crossed over his barrel-like chest. 'You're telling us that the old man brought the child with him.'

Cameron tried an ingratiating smile. 'That's right.'

'Desperate Doug MacDuff, a man who has killed dozens of people, a man who hurts people for a living, took a four-year-old girl with him when he turned up to drag your brother away and hack his kneecaps off? What was it: Take Your Granddaughter To Work Week?'

Cameron licked his cracked lips and said, 'I can only tell you what happened,' for about the twentieth time. He was doing surprisingly well. Like this wasn't his first police interview. As if he'd been through it all before. Only there was no record of him ever having been arrested.

'That's funny,' said Insch, pulling out a packet of jelly babies. He offered one to Logan, took one himself and then stuffed the packet back in his pocket. 'You see, Doug says that you were in the bedroom with the girl when he arrived. He says that you were wearing nothing under your dressing gown. He says you were screwing her.'

'Douglas MacDuff is lying.'

'So if he's lying, how did the girl end up dead?'

'He pushed her and she fell against the fireplace.'

It was about the only bit of Cameron's story that matched what Desperate Doug had told Logan.

'And how did she end up in your neighbour's bin-bag?'

'The old man wrapped her in packing tape and hid her body in the bag.'

'He says you did it.'

'He's lying.'

'Really…' Insch sat back and sucked at his teeth, letting the silence grow. He'd tried it a couple of times already, but Cameron wasn't as stupid as he looked. He kept his mouth shut.

Insch leaned over the table, staring Cameron Anderson down. 'You really expect us to believe Desperate Doug got rid of the girl's body? A man who's quite happy to hack off your brother's kneecaps with a machete can't dismember a little girl's corpse?'

Cameron shuddered, but didn't say anything.

'You see, we know you tried to cut up the body, but you couldn't, could you? It made you sick. So you puked. Only you got some in the cut.' Insch smiled like a shark. 'Did you know we can get DNA from vomit, Mr Anderson? We've already had it analysed. All we need to do is match it to yours and you're screwed.'

Suddenly Cameron's composure cracked. 'I…I…' His eyes darted round the room, looking for a way out, looking for inspiration. And then calm returned. 'I…I was not completely honest with you earlier,' he said, under control once more.

'That's a shock.'

Cameron chose to ignore the sarcasm. 'I was trying to protect my brother's reputation.'

Insch smiled. 'His reputation? What as: a violent wee scumbag?'

Cameron carried on regardless. 'Geordie turned up at my door a fortnight ago. Said he was in town on business and needed a place to stay. He had a little girl with him, said she was his girlfriend's child. He was looking after the kid while she was in Ibiza on holiday. I didn't know anything was going on, but the night Geordie was killed I came home to find him and the girl naked in bed together. We had a fight, I wanted him out of my house. Told him I was going to call the police.' Cameron glanced down at his hands, as if seeing the story written there. 'But that was when the old man came to the door. Said he had a message for Geordie. I let him in and went to check that the little girl was OK. That Geordie hadn't hurt her…There's this big crash from the lounge and I run through to see Geordie curled up on the floor. And the old man's kicking him and punching him and Geordie's crying and I try to make him stop, but the old man's like an animal! Then…then the little girl comes through from the bedroom and grabs the old man. He…' Cameron's voice caught in his throat. 'He pushed her away and she fell against the fireplace. I went to help, pick her up, but she was already dead. The old man started in on me.' He shivered. 'He…He had a knife. He wanted me to cut her up. Said if I didn't he'd cut me up…I couldn't do it. I tried, but I couldn't.' Cameron hung his head before telling them how Dougie had beaten him up again. Made him wrap the little girl's body up in parcel tape and hide her in a bin-bag. Only there were none in the flat. But it was bin-day the next day and there was an almost-empty bin-bag on the upstairs landing, outside Norman Chalmers's flat. Anderson had taken it, put the body inside and carried it down to the communal bin parked outside the front of the building. It was very late at night, dark, and there was no one about. He put the girl in the bin and covered it up with other bags. Then the old man told him he was an accessory now and that if he told anyone what had happened the police would lock him away.

'Fascinating,' said Insch dryly.

'He then threatened to kill me if I told anyone what had happened. And that was the last time I saw him, or my brother, or the little girl.'

When Cameron had finished they sat in silence, only the gentle whirring of the tape recorder intruding on the quiet.

'If you're Geordie's brother,' said Logan, 'how come you've got different last names?'

Cameron shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 'Different mothers. He was from my father's first marriage. They got divorced so Geordie was brought up with her maiden name, Stephenson. Dad got married again and I was born six years later.'

Silence fell. It was Logan who broke it. 'What if I told you we found seminal fluid in the girl's mouth?'

Cameron blanched.

'How much do you want to bet it matches the DNA sample we took from you? How are you going to pin that on Desperate Doug?'

Cameron looked as stunned as DI Insch. He sat on the other side of the table, mouth working up and down like a dying fish. Silence.

'Sergeant,' said Insch at last, 'can I have a word with you outside, please?'

They suspended the interview and Logan joined Insch in the corridor, leaving Cameron under the watchful eye of the silent PC.

A frown creased Insch's face, turning the corners of his mouth into an ugly snarl. 'Why did no one tell me we'd found semen in the girl's mouth?' he asked, his voice dangerously neutral.

'Because we didn't.' Logan smiled. 'But he doesn't know that.'

'You're a dirty cheating bastard, DS McRae,' said Insch, the frown turning into a smile of paternal pride. 'Did you see his face when you said it? Looked like he'd shat himself.'

Logan was about to expand upon the theme when a worried-looking WPC trotted up the corridor and told them about Roadkill. A doctor at the hospital had made a 999 call. Someone had put Bernard Duncan Philips out of his misery.

Insch swore and ran a large hand over his face. 'He's supposed to be in protective custody! But he still manages to get himself beaten up, hospitalized and killed.' The inspector sagged against the wall. 'Give us five minutes,' he told the WPC before heading back into the interview room. They took DI Insch's filthy Range Rover, the windows smudged and streaky where his spaniel had rubbed its nose against the glass. Insch drove them up through Rosemount's snow-lined streets.

Looking morosely out of the window, Logan watched the granite terraces drift by, his mind half on Roadkill and half on the strained conversation he'd had with WPC Jackie Watson as they drove along this very road.

As Insch pulled the car round the corner, making for the hospital, something tugged at Logan's mind. He stared out at the houses on this side of the road. A plastic reindeer, all lit up, complete with neon-red, flashing nose, jogged his memory. This was where they'd seen Peter Lumley's dad. Still wandering the streets looking for his missing child. Even though he knew his stepson was dead…

'You've got a face like a pig's arse,' Insch told him, indicating to turn up Westburn Road. 'What's up?'

Logan shrugged, still seeing that wretched figure, tromping through the snow with his head down, the legs of his overalls damp with snow and slush. 'Not sure…maybe nothing.'

Inside the hospital it was too hot, the heating cranked up to combat the winter's chill, leaving the whole place in a sub-tropical, antiseptic fug. The room Bernard Duncan Philips, AKA Roadkill, had shared was no different, only more crowded – Identification Bureau personnel, a photographer, DI Insch and Logan all dressed in identical white paper coveralls as if they were some sort of conceptual dance troupe.

The room's other bed was empty; a tearful nurse in her late forties told Logan the man sharing with Roadkill had died of liver failure that afternoon.

In between the high-pitched whine and clack of the photographer's flash, Logan was treated to the sight of Roadkill's battered body. He was sprawled across the bed, one plastered arm hanging out over the linoleum, blood drips slowly clotting on the tips of pale fingers. The bandages on his head were bright red around the eyes and mouth, the ones on his chest so saturated with blood they were almost black.

'What the hell happened to the PC watching him?' Insch was in a foul mood.

A sheepish-looking constable held up his hand and explained that there had been some trouble in A amp;-E. Two drunks and a bouncer, trading blows. He'd been summoned by the nurses to help break it up.

Insch creased his face and counted to ten. 'I suppose death's been declared?' he asked when he got to the end.

A WPC said that it hadn't, eliciting a barrage of swearing from the inspector.

'It's a hospital! The place is filthy with bloody doctors! Go get one of the lazy bastards to officially declare death!'

While they waited, Insch and Logan examined the body as best they could without actually touching it.

'Stabbed,' said Insch, peering closely at the small, rectangular puncture marks in the bandages. 'That look like a knife to you?'

'Something with a chisel point. Could be a screwdriver? Stiletto? Pair of scissors?'

Insch squatted down, searching under the bed for a discarded knife. All he found was more blood.

While the inspector was looking for a murder weapon, Logan worked his way carefully along the body. The stab-marks were all exactly the same, no more than fifteen millimetres long, two millimetres wide, all radiating out from the left side of the body. The killer had been frenzied, the stab wounds multiple and furious. He closed his eyes and pictured the scene: Roadkill unconscious, killer standing on the left side of the bed, the side furthest away from the door. Stabbing rapidly, again and again.

Logan opened his eyes and stepped back, feeling slightly nauseous. There was blood everywhere. Not only on the body and the bed, but up the wall too. He craned his neck back to see little red flecks splattered on the off-white ceiling tiles. Whoever did this would have looked like something from a horror film by the time they'd finished. Not someone you'd forget seeing in a hurry.

This wasn't random violence. Nor was it the violence of a self-righteous mob. This was revenge.

'What is the meaning of this? Why have I been dragged down here?'

The voice was stressed and irritable, just like its owner: a well-built female doctor in a white coat, complete with stethoscope around her neck.

Logan raised his hands in submission and backed away from the body. 'We need you to declare death before we can move the body.'

She scowled at him. 'Of course he's bloody dead. You see this?' She pointed at her name badge. 'It says "doctor". That means I know a dead body when I see one!'

Inspector Insch stood up on the other side of the bed and pulled out his warrant card. 'You see this?' he said, holding it under her nose. 'It says "Detective Inspector". That means I expect you to behave like a grown up and not take whatever your problem is out on my officers. OK?'

She glowered at him, but didn't say anything. Slowly her face softened. 'Sorry,' she said at last. 'It's been a long, shitty day.'

Insch nodded. 'If it's any consolation I know how you feel.' He stepped back and pointed at Roadkill's pincushion corpse. 'Care to hazard a guess at the time of death?'

'Easy: some time between quarter to nine and quarter past ten.'

Insch was impressed. 'Not often we get an estimated time of death within half an hour.'

The doctor actually smiled at him. 'That's when the last shift was through. The beds get checked regularly. He wasn't dead at quarter to nine. Quarter past ten, he was.'

DI Insch thanked her and she was about to say something else when the pager at her hip let out a series of bleeps. She grabbed it, read the message, cursed, apologized, and ran from the room.

Logan stared down at the bloody remains of Bernard Duncan Philips and tried to figure out what was nagging him about all this. And then it hit him. 'Lumley,' he said.

'What?' Insch looked at him as if he'd grown an extra head.

'Peter Lumley's stepdad. Remember him? He walks round this area of town the whole time. Last time I saw him he was walking away from the hospital. He blamed Roadkill for his son's death.'

'So?'

Logan gazed down at the blood-soaked body lying on the bed. 'Looks like he's got his own back.'