Shatter the Bones (35 page)

Sigh.

He pulled a couple of sheets of toilet paper from the roll, scooped the thing out of the bath and chucked it out into the hall.

By the time he got back to the bedroom there were three messages waiting for him on his phone. One from his mother, one from his brother, and one from Rennie. He listened to them all, then deleted the lot.

Logan dragged his clothes out of the washing machine and hauled them on. Still slightly damp. Everything he now owned was sitting on the dusty worktop: a handful of change, a packet of chewing gum that stank of smoke, his wallet, and his phone.

Shuggie Webster wanted
consequences
, did he? Well he was going to bloody well get them.

He stared at his mobile for a moment. Then picked it up and made a call.

‘You sure you’re OK?’
Rennie’s voice sounded as if he was trying to comfort the dying.
‘I mean, you know, is there anything I can do?’

Logan squinted out into the bright morning. ‘Yeah, you can get another GSM trace authorized.’ He read out the number Shuggie Webster had called from yesterday. ‘Let me know soon as you get anything.’ Keeping his voice flat, calm, and dead.

‘Er… Actually, Sarge, Finnie’s kinda laying down the law on that one.’

He locked the hire car’s door and walked up to the big wrought iron gates. Leaves and sunshine made a writhing freckled pattern on the gravel driveway.

‘Everyone’s been told not to bother you with police stuff. You’re meant to be on compassionate leave.’

That was news to him. ‘Then pretend Steel told you to do it.’

‘Yeah, that’s cool. It’s all her fault.’

There was one of those buzzer entry security things mounted on the high stone wall. Logan pressed the button.

‘Listen, I was onto the fi re brigade this morning – they’re saying the fl at’s not safe for the IB to go into yet. But there’s defi nitely signs of an accelerant.’

‘No shit.’

‘…Yeah. OK, so we’re getting together a collection, for Sam. There anything you think we should buy? You know, something she’ll like when she wakes up?’

If she wakes up. ‘Hold on.’ He jabbed the mute button. The security thing was buzzing at him.

Then a broad Aberdonian accent crackled out of the speaker.
‘Fa is it?’

‘Logan McRae to see Mr Mowat.’

‘Hud oan.’
Silence.

Back to Rennie. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Erm, I was thinking – have you sorted out your insurance yet? You know, home and contents?’

Logan ground the heel of one hand into his eye. One more thing to add to the list. ‘All the paperwork was in the flat…’

‘You want me to do it for you? I can phone round, get stuff sorted? You know, if it helps?’

The gates gave a clunk, then swung open. Walk into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.

‘Sarge? You still there? I mean, it’s not much, but—’

‘No, it’s great… Thanks.’ The gravel crunched under his smoke-blackened shoes. ‘Really, I appreciate it.’

‘Hey, no probs – what are mates for, right?’
A cough.
‘And … I’m really sorry about Sam.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry too.’

The gates swung shut behind him. Logan hung up.

‘Will you take a wee dram, Logan?’ Hamish Mowat, AKA Wee Hamish, waved a liver-spotted claw at a display cabinet. A set of crystal decanters and tumblers, were lined up behind the glass. Midday and Wee Hamish was dressed for bed – tartan jammies, grey slippers, a fleecy robe.

‘Not for me, thanks.’

‘Ah, got to keep a clear head. I understand. You’re a man on a mission: have to keep your wits sharp.’ His voice was a raspy mix of Aberdonian and public school, not much louder than a whisper. ‘I’ll have one, if you don’t mind?’ He shuffled over to the window, wheeling a drip stand along for the ride. A clear bag swung on a hook at the top, the IV line disappearing into the plastic shunt taped to the back of his left hand.

Logan opened the cabinet. ‘Glenmorangie, Dalwhinnie, Macallan, or Royal Lochnagar?’

‘Surprise me.’

Logan picked a decanter at random, poured a decent measure, and added a splash of water. Carried it across to where Wee Hamish was surveying his domain.

‘Thank you.’ The old man took it in a trembling hand. ‘
Slainte mhar
.’

The house was huge, a rambling mansion on the south side of the River Dee, perched high enough on a hill to give a panoramic view over Aberdeen. Who said crime didn’t pay? The large garden stretched away to a border of trees, and one of those black-and-yellow ride-on mowers hummed its way across the lawn, like a low-flying bee – a huge scowling man perched on the little seat. He was massive: not just fat, but tall and broad too, his face a web of scar tissue and patchy beard.

Wee Hamish sighed. ‘It pains me to think of you two at each other’s throats. I do wish the pair of you would bury the hatchet.’

Yes, well, there’d be no prizes for guessing where Reuben would want to bury it.

‘I don’t think he’s the forgive and forget type.’

When the old man nodded, it set the saggy droop of skin beneath his chin wobbling. ‘I suppose you’re probably right.

But I’m not going to be around forever, Logan, and if you two can’t sort out your differences, it’s only going to end one way…’ He rested the tips of his fingers against the window. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about that kind of thing lately. What my legacy’s going to be.’

Wee Hamish licked his pale purple lips. ‘So I fund community projects, I set up bursaries so underprivileged children can go to university, I sponsor families in Africa…’ He took another sip of whisky, not taking his eyes off the garden and its angry mechanical bee. ‘You know, much though I love him, Reuben’s apt to be a bit … impulsive. Don’t get me wrong, he’s ferociously loyal, a great man to have on your side, someone who’ll do whatever it takes to get the job done, but a good leader has to weigh up his options. Make unpalatable decisions. Compromise sometimes. Not just go charging in with a sawn-off shotgun.’

Wee Hamish turned and tapped Logan on the forehead with a curved finger, the skin dry like parchment. ‘Head first.’ The finger prodded Logan in the chest. ‘
Then
heart.’ The old man curled his fingers into a loose clump. ‘And fists last of all.’ He shook his head, sending that sag of skin wobbling again. ‘Reuben, bless him, is all fists.’

‘Mr Mowat, I—’

‘Of course, that’s the problem, isn’t it? Who do I hand everything over to, when I go?’ He touched the glass again. ‘I had a son once. Lovely lad, but not … temperamentally suited to this line of work. It was a motorbike accident that took him, he was eighteen. And by then it was too late for Juliette and me to try again. Too old the pair of us. No heart left in it.’

‘Actually, I—’

‘I was sorry to hear about your young lady. I sent some flowers, I hope you don’t mind. A hospital is such an ugly place, don’t you think? It’s a wonder anyone gets better at all.’

How the hell did Wee Hamish know about Samantha? It wasn’t even in the papers yet.

‘Thank you.’

‘And if there’s anything you need…’ Wee Hamish chuckled, a wet, rattling sound. ‘Of course there’s something you need. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. You want whoever set fire to your home. You want revenge.’

Logan looked away, cleared his throat.

Wee Hamish put a hand on his arm. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m not offended. Why else would you come to visit a sick old man, eh?’

‘Shuggie Webster. I want to know where he is.’

‘I see. Yes, well I dare say we can organize something along those lines for you.’

‘I… I need you to understand something – if you do this, it doesn’t mean you own me.’

Another chuckle. ‘Logan, trust me when I say that I have no desire to “own” anyone. Oh, I keep a couple of your colleagues on the payroll, but I don’t “own” them; they’re valued members of the team. Simply think of this as a favour, and if you ever decide police work is no longer the career for you… Well, as I said, it would be nice to know that my legacy was in good hands.’ He gave Logan’s arm a squeeze. ‘Now, when we deliver Mr Webster, would you like a gun as well?’

Logan swallowed. ‘A gun?’

‘Something Russian: clean, untraceable, never been used.’

‘I…’

‘Well, you don’t have to decide right now.’ He drained the last of the whisky. ‘Tell me, are you any closer to catching the animals who kidnapped Alison and Jenny McGregor?’

‘Not really. Well, we’ve got a couple of leads.’ Shrug. ‘Don’t know if they’ll come to anything.’

‘The whole situation … discomforts me, Logan. The media crawling all over the city like flies on a dung pile, giving everyone the impression that we live in a horrible, dangerous place. It’s not good for local businesses if people think our city’s not safe.’ He tilted his tumbler from side to side, rolling the last oily smear of whisky around the sides. ‘I’ve made a few enquiries of my own, but no one seems to know anything about these people. That discomforts me too.’

‘This thing with Shuggie Webster—’

‘Oh, don’t worry, we shall be very discreet. No one will even know that you have him. And if you need a hand disposing of him afterwards, I’m just a phone call away.’

A cordon of blue-and-white ‘P
OLICE
’ tape stretched all the way across Marischal Street. A patrol car was parked at the side of the road, along with the Identification Bureau’s grubby Transit van, and a white Fiat with the Grampian Fire Brigade crest on the side.

‘…only a day and a half to go before the kidnappers’ deadline. In other news, Grampian Police have issued a public appeal for a Mr Frank Baker to come forward…’

The lounge window was a black-ringed hole, smoke staining the granite above, dirty water the granite below. The street still had that charred-wood-and-molten-plastic smell. The flat directly below had all its windows open, the curtains flapping in the breeze. Probably trying to dry out after the fire brigade pumped Christ-knew how many gallons of water into the building. So it wouldn’t just be Logan’s insurance getting a hammering.

‘…concerned for Mr Baker’s safety following his disappearance from his Mannofield flat on Sunday evening or Monday morning—’

Logan pulled the keys out of the ignition. Stared up at the place where he used to live. Then climbed into the sunny afternoon. So what if he’d parked on double yellows? The whole street was closed off anyway. If anyone wanted to make an issue of it … he’d quite happily ram their teeth down their throat.

He ducked under the cordon of tape. ‘Oi, you!’ A uniformed constable clambered out of the patrol car. ‘Where do you think you’re…’ He stopped. ‘Sorry, Sarge, thought you were another one of them journalists.’ He looked at his feet for a moment. ‘You OK? Finnie said—’

‘Was anyone else hurt?’

‘Only, we’re not supposed to—’

‘Sergeant McRae!’ Someone in full SOC gear was waving at him from the doorway to his building.

Logan left the constable spluttering to himself, and marched over. The tech peeled back her hood then hauled off her face-mask – Elaine Drever, Samantha’s boss, head of the Identification Bureau, a thickset woman with greying curly hair.

She stuck out a gloved hand for Logan to shake. ‘I want you to know we’re doing everything we can.’

Logan stared up at the building. ‘Thought you didn’t do field work any more?’

‘Sam’s one of ours. Fire brigade just gave us the all-clear to start collecting evidence.’

‘There won’t be much. Condom through the letterbox, filled up with petrol, match dropped in after it.’

She smiled, showing off a gold crown on one of her front teeth. ‘Ah, but he sodded about for too long, let the petrol evaporate.’

The scritching noise – Shuggie struggling to get the matches lit.

Elaine made a ball with both hands, then jerked them apart, fingers spread wide. ‘The vapour ignited like a bomb, blew the front door clean off.’

‘Did the same with the bedroom. Can I see?’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course you can’t. Finnie read the riot act this morning: you’re not allowed anywhere near the investigation.’ She turned and marched back towards the stairwell door. ‘There’s spare suits in the back of the van, just make sure you’ve got a mask on so we can all pretend not to recognize you.’

They’d laid down a walkway of metal tea trays, each one on little metal legs, keeping Logan’s blue plastic booties three inches off the charred, waterlogged carpet. Stopping any evidence from being destroyed.

‘Bloody hell…’

He stared in through the open doorway. The hall was a blackened mess, chunks of ceiling lay on the floor, scorched beams exposed above his head. The roof was still in one piece, but all the things they’d stored up in the attic were gone, strings of vitrified plastic and a small metal half-tank, all that was left of the bread-maker he’d been given years ago and never used.

Logan paused. ‘Is the floor safe?’

Someone – anonymous in a baggy SOC suit, mask, goggles, and gloves – nodded at him. ‘Just don’t go jumping up and down in the kitchen.’

What was left of the flat stank – the peppery reek of blackened wood; the bitter tang of roasted plastic; and the sour, cloying smell of burnt carpet.

He started in the lounge. No need for a crime scene walkway in here – everything that mattered had happened in the hall. The TV was a hollow skeleton of metal struts, the plastic casing melted away, the CRT screen shattered. CDs lay heaped in the corner where the shelving unit had collapsed, grimy silver disks glittering like discarded fish scales. The bay window was just a collection of empty, scorched frames, all the glass long missing.

The kitchen was a mess, all the units stained with soot, the fridge-freezer door cracked and part-melted.

But the bedroom was worse. The mattress was a pile of ash and springs in a sagging metal frame. Chunks of ceiling had come down, and only two sides of the tipped-over wardrobe remained.

Logan wiped a gloved hand across his eyes. Swallowed hard. Then stepped over to the shattered window.

Three floors down, the flat roof still had its dusting of underwear snow, Samantha’s boots, ball gown, and corset lying twisted and empty.