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

he asked.
    Logan stared straight ahead, through the windscreen at the dismal grey length of the Lang Stracht. ‘Er. . .’ he said. ‘I, ehmmm. . .’
    ‘If you’re interested in Colin the Cunt,’ the older man started in a near-whisper. He stopped, slapped a hand over his mouth and mumbled to WPC Watson, ‘Sorry love, no offence.’
    Watson shrugged: after all, she’d been calling Miller much worse just minutes ago.
    Leslie gave her an embarrassed smile. ‘Aye, well, the wee shite swans up here from the
Scottish Sun
thinkin’ he’s God’s fuckin’ gift. . . Got kicked off the paper from what I hear.’ His face darkened. ‘Some of us still believe in the rules! You don’t screw your colleagues. You don’t phone up a dead kid’s mum until you know the police have broken the news. But the little bastard thinks he can get away with murder, just as long as there’s a story at the end of it.’ There was a bitter pause. ‘And his spellin’s bollocks.’
    Logan gave him a thoughtful look. ‘You have any idea who told him we’d found David Reid?’
    The old reporter shook his head. ‘No idea, but if I find out you’ll be the first to know! Be a pleasure to screw him over for a change.’
    Logan nodded. ‘Right, that’s great. . .’ he forced a smile. ‘Well, we’re going to have to get going. . .’
    WPC Watson pulled the car out of the space, leaving the old reporter standing on his own in the rain.
    ‘They should make you a DI!’ he shouted after the car. ‘A DI!’
    As they drove out past the security gate Logan could feel his face going red.
    ‘Aye, sir,’ said WPC Watson, watching him turn a lovely shade of beetroot. ‘You’re an inspiration to us all.’

5
    Logan was starting to get over his embarrassment by the time they were fighting their way across Anderson Drive, heading back to Force Headquarters. The road had started life as a bypass, but the city had suffered from middle-aged spread and oozed out to fill in the gaps with cold grey granite buildings so that it was more of a belt, stretched across the city and groaning at the seams. It was a nightmare during rush hour.
    The rain was still hammering down and the people of Aberdeen had reacted in their usual way. A minority trudged along, wrapped up in waterproof jackets, hoods up, umbrellas clutched tight against the icy wind. The rest just stomped along getting soaked to the skin.
    Everyone looked murderous and inbred. When the sun shone they would cast off their thick woollens, unscrew their faces, and smile. But in winter the whole city looked like a casting call for
Deliverance
.
    Logan sat staring morosely out of the window, watching the people trudge by. Housewife. Housewife with kids. Bloke in a duffle coat and stupid-looking hat. Roadkill with his shovel and council-issue wheelie-cart full of dead animals. Child with plastic bag. Housewife with pushchair. Man in a mini-kilt. . .
    ‘What the hell goes through his mind of a morning?’ Logan asked as Watson slipped the car into gear and inched forward.
    ‘What, Roadkill?’ she said. ‘Get up, scrape dead things off the road, have lunch, scrape more dead things—’
    ‘No not him.’ Logan’s finger jabbed at the car window. ‘Him. Do you think he gets up and thinks: “I know, I’ll dress so everyone can see my backside in a light breeze”?’
    As if by magic the wind took hold of the mini-kilt and whipped it up, exposing an expanse of white cotton.
    Watson raised an eyebrow. ‘Aye, well,’ she said, nipping past a shiny blue Volvo. ‘At least his pants are clean. His mum won’t have to worry about him getting knocked down by a bus.’
    ‘True.’
    Logan leaned forward and clicked on the car radio, fiddling with the buttons until Northsound, Aberdeen’s commercial radio station, blared out of the speakers.
    WPC Watson winced as an advert for double-glazing was rattled out in broad Aberdonian. They’d somehow managed to cram about seven thousand words and a cheesy