Cold granite

36

Every patrol car in the city was out looking for Martin Strichen, all of them armed with the details of his scabby Ford Fiesta. Forensics had found blood on the secateurs, wedged into the hinge; it was the same type as David Reid's. If Strichen was out there they were damned well going to find him.

Four and three-quarter hours, and counting.

Back at Force Headquarters, DI Insch and DS McRae were wasting time. The big boys from Edinburgh had arrived. Two detective sergeants, both dressed in smart dark blue suits, with toning shirts and ties, one detective inspector with a face like the underside of an ashtray, and a clinical psychologist who insisted that everyone call him 'Doctor' Bushel.

The DI had run two serial killer cases, both times getting his man. The first after six strangled students had been found on Carlton Hill, overlooking the east end of Princes Street. The second after a prolonged siege in the old town. No survivors. Three members of the public and one police officer had lost their lives that time. It was not, Logan thought, a great track record.

The new inspector listened with cold hard eyes as Insch took the visiting muscle through the case to date. The DI asked some pretty searching questions along the way. He wasn't an idiot: that was clear enough. And he was impressed that Insch and Logan had managed to identify their killer after only two bodies.

Dr Bushel was so smug it was unbearable. Martin Strichen fitted the profile he'd provided perfectly – the one which said their child killer would have 'mental health problems'. He didn't seem to grasp the fact that it had been bugger all use in identifying Strichen.

'And that's where we are now,' said Insch when he'd finished, making a 'ta-da!' gesture, indicating the contents of the incident room.

The DI nodded. 'Sounds like you don't need any help from us,' he said, the words coming out low and gravely, just laced with a hint of Southern Fife. 'You know your man, you've got the search teams out. All you've got to do now is wait. He'll turn up sooner or later.'

Sooner or later wasn't good enough for Insch. Sooner or later would mean Jamie McCreath had joined the ranks of the dead.

The doctor got to his hind legs and peered at the crime scene photographs, pinned to the wall, making cryptic 'Hmmm…' and 'I see…' noises.

'Doctor?' said the DI. 'You got any idea where he's going to turn up?'

The psychologist turned, the light flashing artfully off his round glasses. He flashed a smile to go along with it. 'Your man isn't going to rush this thing,' he said. 'He wants to take his time. After all, this is something that he's been planning for a long time.'

Logan shared an oh-my-God look with Insch. 'Er…' he said, treading carefully. 'Do you not think this is more of a knee-jerk reaction?'

Dr Bushel looked at Logan as if he was an errant child, but one he was willing to indulge. 'Explain?'

'He was abused by Gerald Cleaver when he was eleven. Cleaver was found not guilty on Saturday. On Sunday we found the Lumley child before Strichen could get back and mutilate him. Today there are adverts all over the telly: Cleaver's sold his story to the papers. Strichen can't cope with it all. It's sent him over the edge.'

The doctor smiled indulgently. 'An interesting theory,' he said. 'The layperson often confuses the signs. You see, there are patterns here that only a trained eye can discern. Strichen is a highly organized offender. He takes great care to make sure his victims' remains are not discovered. He has a highly ritualized fantasy world and those rituals mean he has to abide by his own internal set of rules. If he doesn't do that then he has become nothing more than a monster preying on small children. You see, he's ashamed of what he does-' Dr Bushel pointed at a post mortem photograph of David Reid's groin. 'Pretending the child isn't male, by removing the genitalia. Telling himself his crime is less heinous, because it's not little boys he's violating.' He took off his glasses and polished them on the end of his tie. 'No, Martin Strichen must be able to justify his actions, if only to himself. He has his rituals. He will want to take his time.'

Logan didn't say another word until Insch had shown the visitors the canteen and they were alone, back in the incident room again. 'What a sack of shite!'

Insch nodded and rummaged through his pockets for the umpteenth time that afternoon. 'Aye. But that wee sack of shite has helped catch four repeat offenders, three of them murderers. He's got all the people skills of diphtheria, but he's experienced.'

Logan sighed. 'So what do we do now?'

Insch gave up on the sweetie hunt, sticking his large hands desolately into the trouser pockets of his suit. 'Now,' he said. 'Now we sit back and hope we get lucky.' In summer the rear windows would look out across rolling tufts of scrub grass, gilded with golden sun, the view stretching out to the horizon. Bucksburn's grey sprawl would be hidden by the steep hill down from the quarries. On a good day, when the paper mills weren't belching out cumulus clouds of strange-smelling steam, the hillsides, farmland and woods on the other side of the River Don would shine like emeralds. A bucolic haven, insulated from the droning traffic on the dual carriageway below.

But none of it was visible now. The snowstorm had turned into a blizzard and, standing at the master bedroom window, WPC Jackie Watson couldn't make out much beyond the back garden's fence. Sighing, she turned her back on the grey, howling afternoon and stomped back downstairs.

Martin Strichen's mum was hunched in an overstuffed armchair gaily upholstered in roses and poppies. She had a fag dangling from the corner of her mouth, and a graveyard of them sitting in the ashtray beside her. The telly was on: a soap opera. Watson hated soap operas. But the Bastard Simon Rennie loved them. He sat on the floral couch and stared at the screen, slurping away at cup after cup of tea.

The remains of a packet of Jaffa Cakes sat on the coffee table and Watson grabbed the last two on her way past to stand directly in front of the two-bar electric heater, determined to get warm, even if she had to set fire to her trousers in the process. The whole house was freezing. As a special concession to her visitors Mrs Strichen had put the fire on, but not without a great deal of complaining. Electricity wasn't free, you know. And how was she supposed to cope when that little bastard brought no money in? Mrs Duncan down the road, her son was a drug dealer. He brought home lots of money and they went on two foreign holidays every year! Of course he was doing a three-year stretch in Craiginches for possession with intent, but at least he was bloody trying!

When the steam rising from the backs of her trousers became too hot to bear Watson slumped through to the kitchen to put the kettle on, yet again. Endless cups of tea were the only way to keep warm in this sodding fridge of a house.

The kitchen wasn't big, just a square of linoleum with a small table in the middle and work surfaces around the walls, all decorated in nicotine yellow. Watson clattered three mugs off the draining board and onto the worktop, not really caring if she chipped them. Three teabags. Sugar. Boiling water. But only enough milk for two. 'Arse.' There was no way she was going to stay here, in the cold, without even a cup of tea to sustain her. PC Rennie would have to take his black.

She took them through and dumped the two mugs on the coffee table. Mrs Strichen grabbed hers without even a word of thanks. PC Rennie got as far as, 'Ooh, smashing…' before he realized there was no milk in his. He gave Watson his best lost-puppy-dog look.

'Don't bother,' she told him. 'No more milk.'

He turned a disappointed look at the dark liquid in the cup. 'You sure?'

'Not a drop.'

Mrs Strichen scowled at them, sending a stream of smoke hissing between her teeth. 'Do you mind? I'm trying to watch this!'

On the screen a man with a fat head and patchy beard was watching TV and drinking tea. PC Rennie stared down into his tea again. 'I could go get some more milk,' he offered. 'Maybe some biscuits too?' Now that Watson had eaten all the Jaffa Cakes.

'Insch told us to wait here,' she said with a sigh.

'Yea, but we all know Strichen's not coming back here. It'll take me what? Five, ten minutes? There was a wee newsagents on the corner-'

Mrs Strichen even took the cigarette out of her mouth this time. 'Will you please shut up!'

They went out to the hall.

'Look, I'll only be a minute. And it's not like you couldn't kick the shit out of him if he comes back! And there's two cars out there watching the roads.'

'I know, I know.' She looked back through the door to the flickering television and Martin Strichen's venomous mother. 'I just don't like going against the inspector's orders.'

'I won't tell if you won't.' PC Rennie grabbed one of the thick overcoats hanging up in the hallway. It smelled a bit of stale chips, but it would keep the cold out. 'Wanna give me a kiss for luck?' He puckered up.

'Not if you were the last man on earth.' She pushed him towards the door. 'And get some crisps too. Salt and vinegar.'

'Yes, ma'am.' He executed a sloppy salute.

She watched the front door bang shut before heading back into the lounge to sit in front of mindless drivel and drink her tea. It was hard to believe just how many buildings were either maintained or owned by Aberdeen City Council's Parks Department. The list had been faxed through by a grumpy-sounding man, not happy at being called back into the office at a quarter to seven. Each and every building would have to be visited and searched. Dr Bushel was adamant that Strichen would have taken the child to one of them.

Logan didn't bother to point out just how bloody obvious that was.

The chances of picking the correct building to search, from the extensive list, were slim. They weren't going to find him in time. Little Jamie McCreath wasn't going to live to see his fourth birthday.

Trying to whittle it down a bit, Logan had got the grumpy man at the Parks Department to search their records for every place where Strichen had done community service. That list was almost as long as the first. Martin Strichen had been in and out of trouble since he was eleven. Since Gerald Cleaver got his grubby hands on him. Strichen had done his time raking up leaves, pruning bushes, spraying weeds and unblocking toilets in most of the city's parkland.

Working in reverse chronological order, Logan got the search teams going, starting with the places Strichen had worked in recently. After that they'd work their way backwards through the list. With any luck they'd find the kid before he was violated. But a sinking feeling told Logan that wasn't going to be the case. They'd pick Strichen up in a couple of days, somewhere like Stonehaven, or Dundee. There was no way he was going to hang around Aberdeen. Not with his face on the front page of all the papers, on the television, his name and description on the radio. They'd pick him up and he would, eventually, lead them to the murdered child's body.

'How's it going?'

Logan looked up to see Insch standing in the doorway of his little incident room. The main room had too many clinical psychologists in it for Logan's liking and the peace and quiet had helped him get the search teams organized.

'Search is underway.'

Insch nodded and handed Logan a chipped mug of strong coffee. 'You're not sounding hopeful,' he said, settling onto the edge of Logan's desk and examining the list of possible venues.

Logan admitted that he wasn't. 'There's nothing more to do: the search teams have their orders, everyone knows what buildings they're to do next. That's it. Now they either find him or they don't.'

'You want to be out there?'

'Don't you?'

The inspector gave him a sad smile. 'Aye. But I'm babysitting the big boys…One of those privileges of rank.' Insch pulled himself off the edge of the desk and patted Logan on the shoulder. 'But you're just a lowly DS.' He winked. 'Get your arse out there.'

Logan checked a rusty blue Vauxhall out of the car park. It was dark, going on for seven. The Wednesday night traffic was light, most people going straight home after work. The terrible weather had kept them there. Only the most foolhardy were bustling from pub to pub beneath the Christmas lights.

As the traffic grew scarcer the snow gained a hold on the roads. The black glistening tarmac of the city centre giving way to grey and finally white as Logan worked his way out from Force Headquarters. He didn't have any real destination in mind: he was driving for the sake of doing something. Just another pair of eyes looking for Martin Strichen's car.

He drove up Rosemount and did a tour of Victoria Park and the surrounding streets, never once getting out of the vehicle. With the snow driving in at ninety miles an hour and the temperature sub-zero, there was no way Martin Strichen was going to park miles from where he was going. Not when he had a kidnapped child in tow.

There was no sign of Martin's leprous Ford Fiesta anywhere near Victoria Park, so Logan tried Westburn Park, across the road. It was much bigger, crisscrossed with snow-covered, single-track roads. Logan slowly crunched his car through the blizzard, looking for any nook or cranny Strichen might have hidden his vehicle.

Nothing.

It was going to be a long night. WPC Watson stared out of the kitchen window, watching the snow whip back and forth on the furious wind. PC Rennie had been gone for fifteen minutes and since then her bored resentment had changed to nervous anticipation. It wasn't that she was worried about Martin Strichen coming back – after all, as the Bastard Simon Rennie had said, she could easily kick the shit out of him. All modesty aside, she could kick the shit out of most people. Her nickname had been hard won. No, what worried her was…To be honest: she wasn't sure what was worrying her.

Maybe it was being taken out of the investigation to sit on a long shot? She should have been out there. Doing something. Not stuck here, watching soap operas and drinking tea. Sighing, she clicked off the kitchen light and watched the snow.

The sound, when it came, made her jump. A clicking at the front door.

All the hairs on the back of her head leapt up. He'd come back! The silly bugger had come back home like nothing had happened! A grim smile pulled at her face as she crept out of the kitchen and into the darkened hall.

The door handle creaked down and she tensed. It swung open and she grabbed the figure, pulling him off balance, throwing him down against the plastic carpet protector. Leaping on top of him, her right hand balled into a fist.

The figure screamed and threw his hands over his face. 'Aaaaaaaaaaaaa!'

It was the Bastard Simon Rennie.

'Oh,' she said, dropping the fist and settling back on her haunches. 'Sorry about that.'

'Jesus, Jackie!' He peered out at her from between his fingers. 'If you wanted to jump my bones you only had to ask!'

'Thought you were someone else.' She climbed off Rennie and helped him to his feet. 'You OK?'

'Might have to see if there's a clean pair of boxer shorts upstairs, but other than that I'm fine.'

She apologized again and helped him through into the kitchen with the shopping.

'Got some Pot Noodles as well,' he said, emptying the bags onto the counter top. 'You want chicken and mushroom, beef and tomato, or spicy curry?'

Watson grabbed the chicken, Rennie the curry: the sour-faced Mrs Strichen could have what was left. While the noodles were soaking up a kettle of hot water, PC Rennie filled her in on his trip to the shops. One of Insch's cars was parked down at the entrance to the street opposite the shops and he'd spent a couple of minutes speaking to the occupants. They were from Bucksburn, just down the road and didn't think much of their assignment. It was a complete waste of time! Strichen wasn't coming back. But if he did, they were going to kick seven bells out of him for making them sit out there in the freezing cold.

'Did they say how the search was going?' she asked, stirring absently at the rehydrating noodles.

'Bugger all. Lots of buildings and no idea which one he's going to be in.'

Watson sighed, staring out the back window again, watching the snow. 'It's going to be a long night.'

'Never mind,' Rennie grinned, 'she's got EastEnders on tape.'

Watson groaned. As if the day could get any worse! There was no sign of Martin Strichen's Ford Fiesta in Westburn Park. Not for the first time Logan wondered if Strichen wouldn't just hit the main road out of Aberdeen. He had to know they were after him by now. Since leaving the station Logan had heard at least a dozen appeals for information on local radio. If he was Martin Strichen he'd be halfway to Dundee by now. Gradually he let the car drift further out.

Now and then a patrol car would pass in the opposite direction, trawling the streets, just as he was. Maybe Hazlehead would be worth a try? Or Mastrick? In the end he knew it didn't really matter where he went. Little Jamie McCreath was surely already dead. Sighing, he turned the car onto North Anderson Drive.

His mobile phone blared out its offensive ring tone and Logan pulled into the side of the road, the car bumping up onto a ridge of icy snow that hid the kerb.

'Logan.'

'Laz, my man! How's it going?'

Bloody Colin Miller.

'What can I do for you, Colin?' he said with a weary sigh.

'Been listenin' to the news, been readin' the press releases. What's goin' on?'

An articulated lorry thundered past, sending a three-foot wave of slush spattering against the side of the car. Logan watched the tail-lights, twin eyes of red, disappear around the roundabout.

'You know bloody well what's going on! You published your bloody story and cost us our best chance at catching this bastard.' Logan knew he was being unfair, that Miller hadn't meant for it to turn out like this, but right now he didn't care. He was tired, frustrated and wanted someone to shout at. 'He's snatched another kid because you had to tell the world we'd found a poor wee dead…' He trailed off into silence as he finally saw what had been staring him in the face all along. 'Fuck!' He slammed his hand on the steering wheel. 'Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!'

'Jesus, man, calm down! What's wrong?'

Logan gritted his teeth and hammered the steering wheel again.

'You havin' a seizure or something?'

'You always know when someone's dead, don't you? You always fucking know when we find a dead body.' Logan scowled out of the car window as another lorry roared past, buffeting the car with its wake.

'Laz?'

'Isobel.'

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

'She's your mole, isn't she? Ferreting about, bringing you titbits. Helping you sell bloody papers!' He was shouting now. 'How much you paying her? How much was Jamie McCreath's life worth?'

'It's no like that! It…I…' There was a pause. And then Miller's voice returned, sounding very small. 'She comes home and tells me about her day sometimes.'

Logan looked at the phone as if it had just farted in his face. 'What?'

A sigh. 'We're…She does a hard shitty job. She needs someone to share stuff with. We didn't know it would end up like this…I swear! We-'

Logan snapped the phone shut without another word. He should have spotted it a mile off. The opera, the flash car, the clothes, the fancy food, the mouth like a sewer. It was Miller. He was Isobel's 'bit of rough'. Sitting on his own, in the car, in the snow, in the dark, Logan closed his eyes and swore. If WPC Watson had to watch one more bloody soap opera she was going to scream. Now Mrs Strichen had started in on the videoed episodes. Miserable people with miserable lives, buggering about in a miserable, pointless parade of misery. God, she was bored. And there wasn't a book in the house either. So all they had was the television and its endless barrage of bloody soap operas.

She stomped back into the kitchen and stuffed her empty pot noodle carton into the bin, without bothering to turn on the light. This was such a waste of time!

'Jackie? Put the kettle on while you're in there!'

Watson sighed. 'What did your last slave die of?'

'Milk and two sugars, eh?'

Grumbling, she filled the kettle back up again and stuck it on to boil. 'I made it last time,' she said, back in the lounge. 'Your turn to make the tea.'

PC Rennie, looked at her aghast. 'But I'll miss the start of Emmerdale!'

'It's on video! How can you miss the start of Emmerdale if it's on video? Pause the damn thing!'

Sitting in her overstuffed armchair, Mrs Strichen ground another dead cigarette into the pile. 'Do you two ever stop bloody fighting?' she said, pulling out her lighter and her fags. 'Like bloody children.'

Watson gritted her teeth. 'You want tea? You make tea.' She turned to head upstairs.

'Where you going?'

'I'm going for a pee. That OK with you?'

PC Rennie held up his hands in self defence. 'OK, OK. I'll make the tea. Sheesh, if it's that big a deal…' He pulled himself out of the sofa and collected the empty mugs.

With a small smile of satisfaction WPC Watson went upstairs.

She didn't hear the back door opening.