Shatter the Bones (12 page)

He frowned. ‘
Sergeant
? Thought Doddy was just a squaddie?’

‘Come on, read it out.’

‘Get your eyes tested and you can read it yourself.’ Logan dropped the sheets of paper back on the bed. ‘What sort of person signs a love letter with their full name and a fake rank?’

‘Ah, you’re no fun.’ She slumped back until she was lying flat out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Logan abandoned her, going across the hall to Jenny’s bedroom instead. The window was coated in that familiar film of Amido Black, making the back garden look dim and grey.

Pink wallpaper. Fluffy animals piled up on the toy box. Every breeze-block-sized book in the Harry Potter series.

The horse on the duvet cover was actually a unicorn… He stopped. Frowned. Tried to remember the video footage. There’d been something on the end of the bed. A teddy bear? It wasn’t there any more. Wasn’t lying on the bedroom floor either.

Maybe they’d let her take it with her? Maybe it’d offered a bit of comfort while they shot her full of morphine and thiopental sodium, so they could hack off her toe.

Maybe they’d even buried it with her. Out in the middle of nowhere, wrapped in a black plastic bag. Mouldering away in a shallow grave. Keeping her company as she rotted.

Christ, there was a cheery thought. ‘You look like you’ve eaten a cold jobbie.’ Steel: standing in the doorway.

Logan turned his back on the room. ‘There’s nothing here.’ Just a dead girl’s bedroom in an empty house.

A thin slice of sunlight lies on the bare wooden floorboards, little binks of dust glittering like fairies just above it. Everything’s blurry. And it smells. She wipes her pyjama sleeve across her eyes. Shifts her bum along the floor a bit so she’s sitting closer to the sun.

It smells of old people in here. Old people like Mrs McInnes next door, with her hairy mole and thick glasses, and breath like a sausage that’s been left in the fridge too long.

She wipes the sleeve across her face again, getting Winnie the Pooh all soggy with tears. Tries to wriggle closer, but the chain around her chest and neck pulls tight. They used to keep Sooty on a chain in the back garden, fixed to a big metal spike so he could run round and round. Till he had to go to heaven.

Only she’s not a dog, chained to a spike in the back garden. She’s a little girl, chained to a bed in a dark, dusty old house.

She reaches out a pale little foot, and wiggles her toes in that tiny line of sunshine. Not making any noise.

The monsters will come back if she does.

A groan behind her.

She turns, the chain cold against her chin. Mummy’s talking in her sleep again.

‘No… You can’t… I don’t want to…’ Then her mouth twitches, opens and closes with little smacking noises. Mummy turns over onto her side. The chain around her ankle rattles against the metal bed. ‘No…’ Then her breathing goes in and out slow and steady.

Teddy Gordon’s eyes sparkle in the gloomy room. He’s lying on the bed, on his side like Mummy, staring.

She snaps her head back to the front. Not looking at him. Not looking into those shiny eyes. One time, she’d watched a crow eating a squished rabbit in a lay-by, while Daddy was having a wee behind a tree. The crow had eyes like Teddy Gordon’s: black and shiny and horrible.

Look straight ahead. Don’t move. Don’t make any noise. Be a Good Little Girl.

There’s a clunk and she flinches, a tiny squeak pops out between her lips.

A thump.

Coming from the shadows where the door’s hiding.

A rattle.

Eyes front. No moving. Biting her lip hard enough to make it sting and taste of shiny new pennies.

Clump. Clump. Clump.

A shadow blocks out the little slice of sunlight, killing the sparkly fairies.

The monster’s voice is all metal and buzzy, like a robot. ‘Hey sweetcheeks…’

She closes her eyes.

‘—memorial service tomorrow at noon. Sarah Williamson is at the church now. Any change, Sarah?’

The TV picture jumped to a woman in a black overcoat.
‘So far, all we know is that the memorial service
will
be open for the public to come and show their respects for Jenny. I
can
tell you that Robbie Williams will be attending, along with Katie Melua and a host of other celebrities, before heading back down to London for a special live tribute episode of Britain’s Next Big Star.’

‘Ooh…’ Samantha sat forward on the couch. ‘Have to set the recorder.’

Logan took another mouthful of wine, washing down the last of the pasta they’d had for tea. ‘Why do we have to clog the machine up with that shite?’

There was a small pause. ‘You’re such a bloody telly snob.’

‘I’m
not
a snob.’

‘Just because you don’t like it, doesn’t mean it’s shite.’

‘—special guests performing the songs that Jenny and her mother—’

‘It
is
shite. It’s just more cheap reality TV bollocks where halfwits humiliate themselves just so they can get on the bloody telly.’

‘Here we go again.’ She pulled her knees up to her chest, black leather jeans squeaking against the couch. ‘Like what
you
watch is so damn intellectual.’

‘—charity single tipped to hit number one, we spoke to Gordon Maguire, chairman of Blue-Fish-Two-Fish Productions—’

‘At least I—’

‘
The Simpsons
isn’t bloody Panorama, is it?’

A middle-aged man in a T-shirt and suit jacket appeared on the screen. He had trendy sideburns with bits cut out of them, a soul patch, a Dundee accent, and a bald head. ‘
—bear in mind that the kidnappers still have Alison and we all have to make sure—’

‘I’m just saying it’s exploitative, OK? It’s—’

‘Have you even watched it?’

‘
—have to keep raising money while there’s still a chance we can bring her home safely.’

‘What? I don’t
need
to watch—’

‘See!’ She poked the arm of the couch with a black-painted fingernail. ‘You have sod-all idea what you’re talking about!’

‘—thank you. And now over to Gail with the weather.’

Logan slumped further into the couch. ‘Can we not—’

‘Apart from anything else, this is
why
Jenny and Alison got kidnapped. If they weren’t on TV, they wouldn’t be famous. And if they weren’t famous, they wouldn’t have been grabbed.’ Samantha stopped poking the couch’s arm, and poked Logan’s instead. ‘So you’ve got no business being a snobby cock, this is directly related to your case.’

‘—mass of Arctic air coming in will hit the north east of Scotland, so we can expect some unseasonably cold weather over the next couple of days—’

Logan finished his wine in a single gulp. ‘OK, OK: fine. I’ll set the machine.’

She didn’t look around, just stared straight at the TV, where the map of Scotland was a mess of blue and grey. ‘Thank you.’ Clipped.

He levered himself to his feet. Tried to force a smile into his voice. ‘You want some more wine?’

Silence. ‘Sam?’

‘How’s your arm?’

Logan looked down at the sleeve of his shirt, all bulked out by the bandages. ‘It’s OK.’ No it wasn’t. It throbbed and stung every time he brushed against anything. Bloody Steel punching it hadn’t helped.

Sam sneaked a glance at him. ‘You’re a terrible liar.’ Then back to the telly. ‘And we’re watching
Britain’s Next Big Star
tomorrow, whether you like it or not.’

‘Fffff?’ Logan sat straight up in bed, blinked a couple of times, then breathed out again. Squinted at the alarm clock. Quarter past two.

He collapsed back into the pillow. Who the hell called at quarter past
two
?

Lying next to him, Samantha made mumbling noises.

The phone kept ringing.

Logan rolled out of bed, grabbed his mobile, and hit the button. ‘This better be important!’

‘Hullo? Hullo?’
A broad Doric accent, not one he recognized.
‘That DS McRae?’

‘Who’s this?’ Rubbing his eyes with the heel of one hand.
‘PC Gilbert, doon the station? Anyway, got a wifie in here screamin’ blue murder. Keeps sayin’ she’s been raped.’

Another yawn.
‘Hello? Sarge?’

‘Gilbert, I’m going to call you a very rude name, then I’m going to hang up. Then you can go get someone who’s on bloody duty to deal with it! I’m on day-shift, you—’

‘Hud oan, DI Bell wants a word…’

The constable’s voice disappeared, there was some muffled talk, then DI Bell’s voice grated in Logan’s ear.
‘McRae? Get your arse up here.’

‘It’s quarter past two in the—’

‘I don’t care if it’s the second coming, I’ve got a mental cow up here trying to castrate people, and she’s got your name on her.’

‘No offence, sir, but—’

‘I mean literally. She’s
literally
got your name on her. In black marker pen. And if you’re not wanting a visit from Professional Standards fi rst bloody thing, you’ll do as you’re sodding well told!’

Half-two on a Saturday morning and the streets were in their usual post-pub haze. By now most of the chucking-out-time violence had settled down. It would only to flare up again when the nightclubs kicked their crop of boozed-up idiots out onto the streets. Men and women, barely dressed, bashing the crap out of each other for a place in the taxi rank, or kebab shop queue, ‘Are you lookin’ at my bird?’

‘Leave it, Tracy, she’s not worth it…’

Logan paused halfway across Union Street, waiting for a battered Toyota with a taxi sign bolted to the roof to grumble past. There were two blokes just inside the entrance to Lodge Walk: the usual short-cut to the back of FHQ. One was keeping himself upright with a hand against the wall, peeing on his own shoes, the other making retching noises.

He took the scenic route instead, round the council buildings and down Queen Street.

Stopped outside the Sheriff and JP Court.

The crowd gathered on the forecourt outside Force Headquarters was a lot smaller – just forty, fifty people? All linking arms and swaying back and forth. They had makeshift lanterns: tea lights in old jam and pickle jars, the captive flames flickering a warm waxy glow that made shadows writhe as they sang.

It took a while for Logan to recognize the tune:
Wind Beneath My Wings
. Of course it was. Only someone had changed the lyrics so it was all about Jenny and Alison McGregor. Christ that was quick.

And touching…? Or creepy. It was hard to decide.

A few uniformed officers hovered on the periphery, some watching the crowd, the rest watching the small knot of drunken idiots lurching about and trying to sing along.

Logan wandered over to the nearest officer – a wee man with thick hairy eyebrows and a baggy face. ‘What’s this?’

Constable Baggy sniffed, then nodded towards the crowd. ‘Candle-lit vigil, Guv. Don’t know what possible bloody good they think it’ll do. Outside the house, or the church where they’re doing that memorial thing,
maybe
, but here?’ He sucked on his teeth for a moment. ‘Whole city’s gone fuckin’ mental.’

The Police Custody and Security Officer puffed out her cheeks and scowled at Logan. A red mark covered half of her chin, slowly purpling itself into a bruise. She pointed along the corridor, mouth barely moving, teeth clamped together. ‘Down there.’

DI Bell was limping up and down outside the little row of cells reserved for female prisoners. He walked like a bear that hadn’t quite got the hang of it yet, thick rounded shoulders rocking from side to side. He stopped, gave Logan his second scowl of the night, then waved him over with a big hairy paw. ‘Where have you been?’ Voice not much louder than a whisper.

‘Thought you were meant to be on back shift? How’d you get on with Steel’s sex offenders, anything—’

‘Want to explain this?’ Bell pointed at the cell in front of him.

Logan checked the name scrawled on the little board beside the door: name, alleged offence, and last time checked. ‘T
RISHA
B
ROWN
∼ O.A.M.H.O. ∼ 02:30’ Which meant she’d probably been done for taking a swing at some poor PC.

‘So?’

DI Bell hauled open the hatch, and Logan peered into the little cell.

Trisha Brown was lying on the blue plastic mattress, with her knees drawn up against her hollow ribs. She was wearing a skimpy halter-neck top, exposing a swathe of sickly-pale skin that almost glowed in the harsh strip-lighting, a couple of bruises, and a tattoo. Bare feet with long toes, like an extra set of fingers.

Logan shrugged. ‘She working tonight?’

The inspector closed the hatch again. ‘Says you raped her.’

‘She…?’ Logan backed off a step. ‘Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t touch her with fucking
Bob’s
never mind mine! She’s lying!’

Bell grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him away to the stairwell. ‘She better be… But soon as she makes the complaint official, you
know
what happens: Professional Standards explore your colon with a searchlight. Something like this, you’re probably looking at gardening leave while they investigate.’

‘But it’s— ‘It doesn’t
matter
if it’s a load of old shite or not – it goes down on your record.’

‘No. Fuck this.’ Logan turned and marched back to the cell, slammed the flat of his hand against the metal door. Bang, bang, bang. He hauled the hatch open. ‘Trisha Brown! WAKEY WAKEY!’

The figure on the mattress stirred, rolled over onto her back, one arm flopping across her eyes. Her hip bones stood proud beneath her sallow skin, sores on her forearms, ribs on show. How the hell could
anyone
think he’d get naked with her?

Bang, bang, bang. ‘TRISHA!’

A muffled voice came from the next cell. ‘Fuckin’ shut it! Some of us trying to sleep here…’

Bang, bang, bang. ‘TRISHA BROWN!’

Another disembodied voice. ‘Christ’s sake, don’t wake her up – daft bitch only just stopped screaming.’

The figure on the bed, moved her legs, sat up. Blinked. Then twisted sideways and sprayed yellow vomit all over the dark-red terrazzo floor, chunks of orange and pink splattering everywhere. She heaved a couple more times, then wiped a trembling hand across her chapped lips. ‘Thirsty…’