Free Logan McRae Series Bundle (1,2,3,) by Stuart MacBride Page A

the inspector back as soon as they’d heard anything when WPC Watson shouted: ‘Hold it!’ She darted forward, grabbing a crumpled-up piece of paper from the rubbish that had spilled out onto the plastic sheeting.
    It was a till receipt.
    Logan asked Insch to wait while Watson unfolded the grimy scrap. It was from the big Tesco in Danestone. Someone had bought half a dozen free-range eggs, a carton of crème fraîche, two bottles of cabernet sauvignon, and a pack of avocadoes. And paid for it with cash.
    Watson groaned. ‘Damn.’ She handed the receipt to Logan. ‘I thought he’d’ve paid by credit card, or Switch.’
    ‘No way we could be that lucky.’ He turned the scrap of paper over in his hands. Eggs, wine, posh cream and avocadoes. . . The line under the last item caught Logan’s eye and a smile began to blossom.
    ‘What?’ Watson looked annoyed. ‘What’s so funny?’
    Logan held the receipt aloft and beamed at her. ‘Sir,’ he said into the phone, ‘WPC Watson’s found a supermarket receipt in the bag with the body. . . No, sir, he paid cash.’ If Logan’s smile were any wider the top of his head would have fallen off. ‘But he did collect his Clubcard points.’
    South Anderson Drive was a bastard at this time of day, but North Anderson Drive was even worse. The traffic was nose to tail all the way across the city. Rush hour.
    The Procurator Fiscal had finally turned up, bustled about the crime scene, demanded an update on the investigation, complained that this was the second dead child to be discovered in as many days, implied that it was all Logan’s fault, and sodded off again.
    Logan waited until he and WPC Watson were safely cocooned within the fogged-up car before expressing what he’d like to do to the Fiscal with a cactus and a tube of Ralgex.
    It took them well over an hour to get from the tip at Nigg to the huge Tesco at Danestone. The store was situated in a prime spot: not far from the swollen River Don, within spitting distance of the old sewage works, the Grove Cemetery and the Grampian Country Chickens slaughterhouse; and close to where they’d found little David Reid’s bloated corpse.
    The store was busy, all the office workers from the nearby Science and Technology Park picking up booze and ready-meals for another night at home in front of the telly.
    There was a customer service desk just inside the entrance, manned by a young-looking man with a long blond ponytail. Logan asked him to get the manager.
    Two minutes later a small, balding man with a pair of half-moon glasses arrived. He was wearing the same uniform-blue sweater as the rest of the staff, but his name badge said: ‘C OLIN B RANAGAN, M ANAGER ’.
    ‘Can I help you?’
    Logan pulled out his warrant card and handed it over for inspection. ‘Mr Branagan, we need to get some information on someone who was shopping here last Wednesday.’ He pulled out the receipt, now safely encased in a clear-plastic evidence wallet. ‘He paid cash, but he used his Clubcard. Can you give me his name and address from the card number?’
    The manager took the see-through envelope and bit his lip. ‘Ah, well I don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘You see we’ve got to abide by the Data Protection Act. I can’t just go giving out our shoppers’ personal details. We’d be liable.’ He shrugged. ‘Sorry.’
    Logan dropped his voice to a near-whisper. ‘It’s important, Mr Branagan: we’re investigating an extremely serious crime.’
    The manager ran a hand over the shiny top of his head. ‘I don’t know. . . I’ll have to ask Head Office. . .’
    ‘Fine. Let’s go do that.’
    Head Office said sorry, but no: if he wanted access to their customers’ records he’d have to make a formal request in writing or get a court order. They had to abide by the Data Protection Act. There could be no exceptions.
    Logan told them about the little girl’s body in the bin-bag.
    Head Office changed their minds.
    Five minutes