Cold Granite by Stuart MacBride Page B

the DC, not bothering to straighten up, or put his cigarette out.
    'Shitty weather, eh?' He wasn't a local lad: his accent was pure Newcastle.
    'You get used to it.' Logan stepped out onto the back step next to the DC to do as much passive smoking as he could.
    The constable took the cigarette out of his mouth and stuck a finger in, working a nail up and down between his back teeth. 'Don't see how. I mean I'm used to rain like, but Jesus this place takes the fucking biscuit.' He found whatever it was he was digging for and flicked it away into the downpour. 'Think it's going to keep up til the weekend?'
    Logan looked out at the low, dark-grey clouds. 'The weekend?' He shook his head and took in another scarred lungful of second-hand smoke. 'This is Aberdeen: it won't stop raining til March.'
    'Bol ocks!' The voice was deep, authoritative and coming from directly behind them.

    Logan twisted his head round to see DI Insch standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets.
    'Don't you listen to DS McRae, he's pul ing your leg.' Insch stepped out onto the already crowded top step, forcing Logan and the DC to shuffle precariously sideways.
    'Won't stop raining til March?' Insch popped a fruit sherbet into his mouth. 'March?
    Don't lie to the poor constable: this is Aberdeen.' He sighed and stuck his hands back in his pockets. 'It never stops fuckin' raining.'
    They stood in silence, watching the rain do what rain does.
    'Wel , I've got a bit of good news for you, sir,' said Logan at last. 'Mr Moir-Farquharson is receiving death threats.'
    Insch grinned. 'Hope so. I've written enough of them.'
    'He's representing Gerald Cleaver.'
    Insch sighed again. 'Why doesn't that surprise me? Stil that's DI Steel's problem. Mine is: where's Richard Erskine?'
    7
    They found the body in the council tip at Nigg, just south of the city. A two-minute drive from Richard Erskine's house. A party of school children had been out on a field trip: 'Recycling and Green Issues'. They arrived by minibus at three twenty-six and proceeded to don little white breathing masks, the kind with the elastic band holding them on, and heavy-duty rubber gloves.
    Everyone wore waterproofed jackets and Wel ington boots. They signed in at the Portacabin office next to the skips at three thirty-seven, before squelching their way into the tip. Walking through a landscape of discarded nappies, broken bottles, kitchen waste and everything else chucked out by hundreds of thousands of Aberdonians every day.
    It was Rebecca Johnston, eight, who spotted it. A left foot, sticking up out of a pile of shredded black plastic bags. The sky was ful of seagul s - huge, fat bloated things that swooped and screamed at each other in a jagged bal et. One was tugging away at a bloodstained toe. This was what first grabbed Rebecca's attention.
    And at four o'clock, on the dot, they cal ed the police.
    The smel was unbelievable, even on a wet and windy day like today. Up here on Doonies Hil the rain was bitterly cold. It hammered against the car, gusts of wind rocking the rusty Vauxhal , making Logan shiver even though the heater was going ful pelt.

    Both he and WPC Watson were soaked to the skin. The rain had paid no attention to their police-issue 'waterproof jackets, saturated their trousers and seeped into their shoes.
    Along with Christ knew what else. The car windows were opaque, the blowers making little headway.
    The Identification Bureau hadn't turned up yet, so Logan and Watson had built a makeshift tent of fresh bin-bags and wheelie-bins over the body. It looked as if it was going to fly apart at any moment, torn to pieces by the howling wind, but it kept the worst of the rain off.
    'Where the hel are they?' Logan cleared a porthole in the fogged-up windscreen. His mood had swiftly deteriorated as they'd struggled with whipping black plastic bags and uncooperative bins. The painkil er he'd taken at lunchtime was wearing off, leaving him sore every time he moved. Grumbling, he