Read Online Cold Granite by Stuart MacBride - Free Book Online
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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pul ed out the bottle and shook one into his hand, swal owing it down dry.
At long last an almost-white, unmarked van slithered its way slowly along the rubbish road, its headlights blazing. The Identification Bureau had arrived.
'About bloody time!' said WPC Watson.
They clambered out of the car and stood in the driving rain.
Behind the approaching van the North Sea raged, grey and huge, the frigid wind making its first landfal since the Norwegian fjords.
The van slid to a halt and a nervous-looking man peered out through the windshield at the driving rain and festering rubbish.
'You're not going to bloody melt!' shouted Logan. He was sore, cold, damp and in no mood for dicking about.
A troop of four IB men and women grudged their way out of the van into the downpour and swore the SOC tent up over Logan's makeshift fort. The wheelie-bins and black plastic bags were turfed out into the rain and the portable generators set up. With a roar they burst into life, flooding the area with sizzling white light.
No sooner was the crime scene waterproof than 'Doc' Wilson, the duty doctor, turned up.
'Evenin' al ,' he said, turning up the col ar of his coat with one hand and grabbing his medical bag with the other. He took one look at the minefield of crap that lay between the dirt road and the blue plastic marquee and sighed. 'I just bought these bloody shoes. Ah wel ...'
He stomped off towards the tent with Logan and WPC Watson in tow.
An acne-ridden IB officer with a clipboard stopped them at the threshold, keeping them al out in the driving rain until they'd signed in, and then watched them suspiciously until they'd al clambered into white paper boiler suits.
Inside the tent a single human leg rose out of the sea of refuse sacks, from the knee down, like the Lady of the Lake's arm. The only thing missing was Excalibur. The IB video operator was sweeping his way slowly around the remains, filming as the rest of the team careful y col ected rubbish from the bags surrounding the one with the leg in it and stuffed the debris into clear plastic evidence pouches.
'Dees a favour?' said the doctor, handing his medical bag to Watson.
She stood silently while he popped the case open and dug out a pair of latex gloves, snapping them on as if he was a surgeon.
'Give us a bittie room then,' he told the bustling IB people.
They stood back and let him get at the body.
Doc Wilson took hold of the ankle with his fingertips, just below the joint. 'No pulse.
Either this is yer genuine severed limb, or the victim's dead.' He gave the leg an experimental tug, causing the rubbish in the bag to shift and the IB team to hiss in pain. This was their crime scene! 'Nope. I'd say that leg's weil an' truly attached. Consider death declared.'
'Thanks, Doc,' said Logan as the old man straightened himself up and wiped his latex gloves on his trousers.
'Nae problem. You want us tae hang around til the pathologist and the Fiscal get here?'
Logan shook his head. 'No sense in us al freezing our backsides off. Thanks anyway.'
Ten minutes later an Identification Bureau photographer stuck his head round the entrance to the tent. 'Sorry I'm late, some idiot went for a swim in the harbour and forgot to take his kneecaps with him. Jesus, it's bloody freezing out there.'
It wasn't much warmer inside, but at least it was out of the rain.
'Afternoon, Bil y,' said Logan as the bearded photographer unwrapped himself.
The long, red-and-white-striped scarf was stuffed into a jacket pocket, fol owed by a red bobble hat with 'UP T HE D ONS' stitched into it. He was bald underneath.
Logan was stunned. 'What happened to your hair?'
Bil y scowled as he clambered into his white paper rompersuit. 'Don't you bloody start.
Anyway I thought you were dead.'
Logan smiled. 'Aye, but I got better.'
The photographer polished his glasses with a grey handkerchief, and then did the same with the lens of his camera. 'Anybody touched anything?' he asked, spooling a fresh
At long last an almost-white, unmarked van slithered its way slowly along the rubbish road, its headlights blazing. The Identification Bureau had arrived.
'About bloody time!' said WPC Watson.
They clambered out of the car and stood in the driving rain.
Behind the approaching van the North Sea raged, grey and huge, the frigid wind making its first landfal since the Norwegian fjords.
The van slid to a halt and a nervous-looking man peered out through the windshield at the driving rain and festering rubbish.
'You're not going to bloody melt!' shouted Logan. He was sore, cold, damp and in no mood for dicking about.
A troop of four IB men and women grudged their way out of the van into the downpour and swore the SOC tent up over Logan's makeshift fort. The wheelie-bins and black plastic bags were turfed out into the rain and the portable generators set up. With a roar they burst into life, flooding the area with sizzling white light.
No sooner was the crime scene waterproof than 'Doc' Wilson, the duty doctor, turned up.
'Evenin' al ,' he said, turning up the col ar of his coat with one hand and grabbing his medical bag with the other. He took one look at the minefield of crap that lay between the dirt road and the blue plastic marquee and sighed. 'I just bought these bloody shoes. Ah wel ...'
He stomped off towards the tent with Logan and WPC Watson in tow.
An acne-ridden IB officer with a clipboard stopped them at the threshold, keeping them al out in the driving rain until they'd signed in, and then watched them suspiciously until they'd al clambered into white paper boiler suits.
Inside the tent a single human leg rose out of the sea of refuse sacks, from the knee down, like the Lady of the Lake's arm. The only thing missing was Excalibur. The IB video operator was sweeping his way slowly around the remains, filming as the rest of the team careful y col ected rubbish from the bags surrounding the one with the leg in it and stuffed the debris into clear plastic evidence pouches.
'Dees a favour?' said the doctor, handing his medical bag to Watson.
She stood silently while he popped the case open and dug out a pair of latex gloves, snapping them on as if he was a surgeon.
'Give us a bittie room then,' he told the bustling IB people.
They stood back and let him get at the body.
Doc Wilson took hold of the ankle with his fingertips, just below the joint. 'No pulse.
Either this is yer genuine severed limb, or the victim's dead.' He gave the leg an experimental tug, causing the rubbish in the bag to shift and the IB team to hiss in pain. This was their crime scene! 'Nope. I'd say that leg's weil an' truly attached. Consider death declared.'
'Thanks, Doc,' said Logan as the old man straightened himself up and wiped his latex gloves on his trousers.
'Nae problem. You want us tae hang around til the pathologist and the Fiscal get here?'
Logan shook his head. 'No sense in us al freezing our backsides off. Thanks anyway.'
Ten minutes later an Identification Bureau photographer stuck his head round the entrance to the tent. 'Sorry I'm late, some idiot went for a swim in the harbour and forgot to take his kneecaps with him. Jesus, it's bloody freezing out there.'
It wasn't much warmer inside, but at least it was out of the rain.
'Afternoon, Bil y,' said Logan as the bearded photographer unwrapped himself.
The long, red-and-white-striped scarf was stuffed into a jacket pocket, fol owed by a red bobble hat with 'UP T HE D ONS' stitched into it. He was bald underneath.
Logan was stunned. 'What happened to your hair?'
Bil y scowled as he clambered into his white paper rompersuit. 'Don't you bloody start.
Anyway I thought you were dead.'
Logan smiled. 'Aye, but I got better.'
The photographer polished his glasses with a grey handkerchief, and then did the same with the lens of his camera. 'Anybody touched anything?' he asked, spooling a fresh
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