Read Online Logan McRae Series Bundle (1,2,3,) by Stuart MacBride - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stuart MacBride
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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 carefully collected 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 till the pathologist and the Fiscal get here?’
Logan shook his head. ‘No sense in us all 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, Billy,’ said Logan as the bearded photographer unwrapped himself.
The long, red-and-white-striped scarf was stuffed into a jacket pocket, followed by a red bobble hat with ‘U P THE D ONS ’ stitched into it. He was bald underneath.
Logan was stunned. ‘What happened to your hair?’
Billy 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 reel of film into place.
‘Doc Wilson gave the leg a tug, but other than that it’s fresh.’
Billy snapped a huge flashgun onto the top of the camera, smacking it with the side of his hand until it emitted a high-pitched whine. ‘OK, back up ladies and gentlemen. . .’
Hard, blue-white light crackled in the confined space, followed by the clatter-whirr of the camera and the whine of the flash. Again and again and again. . .
Billy was almost finished when Logan’s phone went off. Cursing, he dragged it out of his pocket. It was Insch, looking for an update.
‘Sorry, sir.’ Logan had to raise his voice over the battering rain on the tent’s roof. ‘The pathologist isn’t here yet. I can’t get a formal identification without moving the body.’
Insch swore, but Logan could barely hear him.
‘We’ve just had an anonymous call. Someone saw a child matching Richard Erskine’s description getting into a dark red hatchback this morning.’
Logan looked down at the pale blue, naked leg sticking up out of the garbage. The information had come too late to save the five-year-old.
‘Let me know as soon as the pathologist gets there.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Isobel MacAlister turned up looking as if she’d just stepped off a catwalk: long Burberry raincoat, dark-green trouser suit, cream high-collared blouse, delicate pearl earrings, her short hair artistically tousled. Wellington boots three sizes too big for her. . . She looked so good it hurt.
Isobel froze as soon as she was inside, her eyes fixed on Logan dripping away in the corner. She almost smiled. Placing her medical case down on
‘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 till the pathologist and the Fiscal get here?’
Logan shook his head. ‘No sense in us all 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, Billy,’ said Logan as the bearded photographer unwrapped himself.
The long, red-and-white-striped scarf was stuffed into a jacket pocket, followed by a red bobble hat with ‘U P THE D ONS ’ stitched into it. He was bald underneath.
Logan was stunned. ‘What happened to your hair?’
Billy 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 reel of film into place.
‘Doc Wilson gave the leg a tug, but other than that it’s fresh.’
Billy snapped a huge flashgun onto the top of the camera, smacking it with the side of his hand until it emitted a high-pitched whine. ‘OK, back up ladies and gentlemen. . .’
Hard, blue-white light crackled in the confined space, followed by the clatter-whirr of the camera and the whine of the flash. Again and again and again. . .
Billy was almost finished when Logan’s phone went off. Cursing, he dragged it out of his pocket. It was Insch, looking for an update.
‘Sorry, sir.’ Logan had to raise his voice over the battering rain on the tent’s roof. ‘The pathologist isn’t here yet. I can’t get a formal identification without moving the body.’
Insch swore, but Logan could barely hear him.
‘We’ve just had an anonymous call. Someone saw a child matching Richard Erskine’s description getting into a dark red hatchback this morning.’
Logan looked down at the pale blue, naked leg sticking up out of the garbage. The information had come too late to save the five-year-old.
‘Let me know as soon as the pathologist gets there.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Isobel MacAlister turned up looking as if she’d just stepped off a catwalk: long Burberry raincoat, dark-green trouser suit, cream high-collared blouse, delicate pearl earrings, her short hair artistically tousled. Wellington boots three sizes too big for her. . . She looked so good it hurt.
Isobel froze as soon as she was inside, her eyes fixed on Logan dripping away in the corner. She almost smiled. Placing her medical case down on
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