Logan McRae Series Bundle (1,2,3,) Read Online Free PDF Page A

said. ‘You goin’ to arrest him?’
    Logan slipped his identification back in his pocket. ‘Wasn’t intending to, but I’m starting to think about it. Why?’
    The old reporter hitched up his trousers and beamed innocently at Logan. ‘No reason.’
    Pause, two, three, four. . .
    ‘OK,’ said Logan, ‘so where is he?’
    The old man winked at him, jerking his head towards the toilets. ‘I have no idea where he is, officer,’ he said slowly, one innuendo-laden word after another. He finished off with another couple of significant glances towards the gents and a grin.
    Logan nodded. ‘Thanks, you’ve been a great help.’
    ‘No I haven’t,’ said the reporter. ‘I’ve been “vague and rambling” like the “senile old fart” I am.’
    As he ambled off back to his desk, Logan and WPC Watson made a beeline for the toilets. To Logan’s surprise Watson stormed straight into the gents. Shaking his head, he followed her into the black-and-white-tiled interior.
    Her shout of ‘Colin Miller?’ produced assorted journalistic shrieks as full-grown men scrabbled at their flies and scurried out of the toilets. Finally only one man was left: short, heavily-built, wearing an expensive-looking dark-grey suit. Broad-shouldered, with a pristine haircut, he whistled tunelessly at the urinals, rocking back and forth.
    Watson looked him up and down. ‘Colin Miller?’ she asked.
    He glanced over his shoulder, a nonchalant smile on his lips. ‘You want tae help me shake this?’ he asked with a wink, Glaswegian accent ringing out loud and proud. ‘Ma doctor says I’m no’ to lift anythin’ heavy. . .’
    She scowled and told him exactly what he could do with his offer.
    Logan stepped between them before Watson could demonstrate why she was called ‘Ball Breaker’.
    The reporter winked, shoogled about a little, then turned from the urinal, zipping himself up, gold signet rings sparkling on almost every finger. A gold chain hung around his neck, lying over the silk shirt and tie.
    ‘Mr Miller?’ asked Logan.
    ‘Aye, you wantin’ an autograph?’ He strutted his way to the sink, hitching up his sleeves slightly as he did so, exposing something chunky and gold on his right wrist and a watch big enough to sleep four on the left. It wasn’t surprising the man was well-muscled: he had to be to cart about all that jewellery.
    ‘We want to talk to you about David Reid, the three-year-old who—’
    ‘I know who he is,’ said Miller, turning on the taps. ‘I did a front page spread on the poor wee sod.’ He grinned and pumped soap into his hands. ‘Three thousand words of pure journalistic gold. Tell ya, kiddie murders: pure gold, so they are. Sick bastard kills some poor kid and suddenly everyone’s dyin’ tae read about the wee dead body over their cornflakes. Fuckin’ unbelievable.’
    Logan resisted the urge to grab Miller by the scruff of the neck and smash his face into a urinal. ‘You called the family last night,’ he said instead, fists jammed deep in his pockets. ‘Who told you we’d found him?’
    Miller smiled at Logan’s reflection in the mirror above the sink. ‘Didn’t take a genius, Inspector. . . ?’
    ‘Sergeant,’ said Logan. ‘Detective Sergeant McRae.’
    The journalist shrugged and wriggled his hands under the hand-drier. ‘Only a DS, eh?’ he had to shout over the roar of warm air. ‘Never mind. You help me catch this sick bastard and I’ll see you make DI.’
    ‘Help “you” catch. . .’ Logan screwed his eyes shut and was assailed by visions of Miller’s broken nose bleeding into urinal cakes. ‘Who told you we’d found David Reid?’ he asked through gritted teeth.
    Click
. The drier fell silent.
    ‘Told you: didn’t take a genius. You found a wee dead kiddie, who else could it have been?’
    ‘We didn’t tell anyone the body was a child!’
    ‘No? Ah well, must’ve been a coincidence then.’
    Logan scowled. ‘Who told you?’
    Miller smiled and shot his