Shatter the Bones (6 page)

Logan came to a halt at the top of the hill, where the road joined onto the tail end of Union Street, and stared across the road. Lodge Walk – the little alley that ran between the Town House and the Sheriff Court – was choked with journalists, photographers, and TV crews. DI Bell was caught in the middle of them, a little hairy island in a sea of bastards, all shouting questions and waving cameras. Poor sod had probably been caught trying to sneak out of Force Headquarters’ secret side door.

Well, he was on his own, because there was no way Logan was wading in to help.

A newsagents lurked on one side of the Mercat Cross, the windows dulled by a thin film of dust. One of those redand-white sandwich boards was parked out on the cobbled pedestrian area in front of the shop: ‘T
ORTURED
J
ENNY
L
OSES
T
OE
– P
OLICE
P
OWERLESS
’ printed in thick black lettering above the
Aberdeen Examiner
logo.

Logan hesitated for a moment, then went in. Every tabloid newspaper in the place had something similar screaming from the front page. The
Sport
had gone for ‘T
OE
H
ORRIBLE
F
OR
W
ORDS
’, the
Press and Journal
–
‘
K
IDNAP
H
ORROR
F
IND
’
,
Evening Express
– ‘“I C
AN
F
IND
J
ENNY
” S
AYS
NE P
SYCHIC
’… He bought an

Examiner
and a P&J, then nipped next door to the bakers for a couple of bacon butties and something for himself.

Steel could get the damn coffees for once.

He dragged his phone out as he trudged along the pavement and made a quick call.

‘What the bloody hell are you
eating
?’ DI Steel had her feet up on the desk, one hand wrapped around a white floury roll with slivers of deep-fried pig sticking out the edges.

‘Fish finger buttie. And I’m only here till twelve, understand?’

‘You’re no’ right in the head, Laz: butties are all about the bacon.’ She took a huge bite, getting a smear of tomato sauce on her cheek. ‘So, come on then – what did you get out of Shaky Jake? He still on the crutches?’

‘I mean it: twelve o’clock on the dot. I’ve got a thing on and I can’t be late, or—’

‘Focus for five minutes, will you? Shaky Jake.’

Logan frowned at her. ‘It’s McPherson’s case.’

‘Humour me.’

‘Yeah, he’s still on the crutches. They had to fuse his ankle-bones into one big lump after Wee Hamish’s lads took a pickaxe to them. Walks like a penguin now. Lucky the hospital didn’t just amputate his feet.’

‘Silly sod shouldn’t have helped himself to the merchandise then, should he? How much gear did you get?’

‘Three bricks of heroin, two of cannabis resin, some E, a big suitcase full of mephedrone, two replica handguns, and some dodgy porno DVDs.’

‘Oh aye?’ Steel sat upright. ‘Anything I should be reviewing?’

‘Already sent them over to Trading Standards.’

She slumped back again. ‘Sod.’ Another bite of buttie. ‘And which one of your daft buggers let Shuggie Webster escape?’

Logan squirted another sachet of tartar sauce onto his fish fingers, not looking the inspector in the eye. ‘It’s all in the report.’

‘“Operational difficulties” my sharny arse – it was that useless bum-crack Ferguson, wasn’t it?’

‘We had to get the social out to—’

‘Aye, Trisha Brown’s wee lad. I do read these things, you know. How was her mum?’

‘How do you think?

‘Pished, rancid, and racist?’ Steel nodded. ‘Her granny was the same. Trisha’s your genuine third-generation drug user. Really makes you hold out hope for her wee boy, doesn’t it? Other kids’ll be showing each other their knickers behind the bike sheds: he’ll be doing crack.’ She sooked a greasy fingertip clean. ‘What else you got on for McPherson?’

‘Not till you tell me why you—’

‘Laz, it always pays to keep an eye on what DI Disaster’s up to: you never know when he’s going to get himself bashed over the head, break a limb, fall down the stairs, be hit by a car, punched in the nose…’ She wrinkled her forehead. ‘Am I missing anything?’

‘He got rabies once.’

‘Exactly. And while he’s off on the sick, who do you think gets lumbered with his caseload? Muggins. Like I don’t have enough on my plate.’ Steel puffed out her cheeks and slumped even further. ‘I’m knackered the whole time; Jasmine won’t stop screaming; Susan’s nerves are in tatters so she’s getting on mine; nobody’s sleeping…’ Sigh. ‘Don’t get me wrong: Jasmine’s a wee darling, but
Jesus
. Now I know why some animals eat their young.’

Logan yawned again. ‘At least you didn’t get dragged out of your bed after an hour, by a grumpy—’

‘Oh boo bloody hoo. For your own good, remember?’ The inspector polished off the last of her buttie, swilling it down with another mouthful of coffee. ‘Dying for a shag too. Bloody Susan’s still no’ up for it – they had to stitch her bits back together, and you know it—’

Logan held up a hand. ‘I’m
eating
.’

‘—like a doner kebab. If I don’t get my end away soon I’m going to… Morning, Guv.’

Logan scrunched around in his seat. DCI Finnie was standing in the doorway, his face crumpled down at the edges. As if it needed a good iron.

‘Inspector,’ the head of CID held up a manila folder, ‘why are there
still
no suspects in the Douglas Ewan case?’

Steel sniffed. ‘You told me the McGregors took precedence. Remember?’

‘I see…’ Finnie’s rubbery mouth became a thin-lipped line. ‘Well, I’m
sorry
if I gave you the
impression
that you could drop everything and sit in here having a wee tea party instead. But perhaps, if it’s not
too
much trouble, you wouldn’t mind solving something?’

She put her mug down. ‘It’s no’ that I haven’t got any suspects for the Ewan case: I’ve got too bloody many. Dougy Ewan is a nasty raping wee bastard: half that bloody estate’s got reason to kick the shite out of him. Interviewed fifty-two people so far, and they
all
think whoever did it deserves a knighthood. So coming in here “motivating” me’s no’ as helpful as you think.’

Finnie stiffened. ‘I don’t appreciate your—’

‘Fuck’s sake, Andy, I know you’ve got SOCA dancing on your bollocks with clogs on, but it’s no’ my fault, OK? We’re doing our best here.’

Silence.

‘And you…’ The DCI turned on Logan. ‘Tell me, Sergeant, did I imagine it, or did you swear to me that you could do a
much
better job on that drug bust than DI McPherson? Yet what do I find when I get in this morning? A matching set of signed
confessions
? A stack of seized drugs in the evidence stores?’

Logan shifted in his seat. ‘Actually, sir—’

‘No: I find half the evidence has been
fl ushed
down some junkie’s toilet, and you let the ringleader get away!’

‘It was … erm … we were—’

‘Operational difficulties, Guv.’ Steel tapped a fingernail against her mug. ‘McRae was just debriefing me on the incident. Nothing he could’ve done without a firearms team: dirty big dog like that. It’s remarkable he got the result he did, really. McPherson would’ve come back with half the team dead.’

Finnie’s scowl slipped a bit. ‘I see.’ He looked at Logan in silence for a moment, raised an eyebrow, then back to Steel. ‘We need to have a briefing for Superintendent Green.’

‘Oh aye, and how is our friendly neighbourhood clog dancer?’

‘Make sure the core team is in the boardroom at half eleven. And for God’s sake send the no-hopers off somewhere. It
might
be nice if the Serious Organized Crime Agency didn’t get the impression Grampian Police was
entirely
populated with morons, don’t you think?’ He turned back to Logan. ‘And
you
can go chase up Lothian and Borders. I want that pathologist on the first flight to Aberdeen,
not
when they think it’s convenient. Understand?’

‘Actually, sir—’

‘No: I don’t want excuses, I want a bloody pathologist, and I want him here now!’

‘But I—’

‘Now!’

Someone out in the corridor cleared their throat.

Logan peered over Finnie’s shoulder to see a bald man in a threadbare cardigan. The newcomer blinked watery grey eyes, then grinned: making the tufts of hair growing out of his bulbous nose bristle. ‘Morning all. Sergeant McRae tells me you’ve got a wee girl’s remains that need examining?’

Doc Fraser pulled a tartan hanky from his cardigan pocket, polished a pair of half-moon spectacles and slipped them on. The mortuary was cool and dark, the overhead lights blinking and buzzing as they warmed up. Something classical oozed out from the speakers of a new stereo unit, a black iPhone plugged into it. Violins and cellos casting dark and sombre sounds to echo back from the pristine white tiles.

The Anatomical Pathology Technician handed Logan a set of white Tyvec coveralls, then waved her creepy-spider fingers in the direction of a box of purple nitrile gloves. ‘Please avail yourself of our … facilities.’

Doc Fraser slipped his feet out of his shoes, dropped his trousers, took off his cardigan and shirt, then clambered into his own SOC suit, getting the APT to help him with the zip. Hiding his baggy grey Y-fronts and string vest. ‘Thanks, Sheila.’

A small bow. ‘Shall I fetch … the
remains
?’

‘Might as well, it’s not…’ He glanced down at the grey socks poking out from the legs of his SOC suit. There was a hole in one. ‘You haven’t still got my PM slippers, have you?’

She nodded, let her fingers creep through the air for a moment, picked up his discarded clothes, then turned and stalked from the room.

Doc Fraser waited until the door clunked shut. ‘Is it just me, or has Ms Dalrymple gone a bit strange since I retired?’

Steel hauled up the hood of her oversuit. ‘She’s got a bet on with Biohazard.’

The pathologist shook his head, then looked around the low room. ‘Can we get started, or are we expecting an audience?’

Logan snapped on a pair of gloves. ‘Just Finnie.’

‘Well, he’ll have to get a shift on: I’ve got a three o’clock tee-time at Meldrum House and if I’m late there’ll be trouble.’ He picked a facemask from a box in the corner, stretched the elastic over his head, and let the mask dangle just under his chin. ‘Can someone get the lights, please? And do something about the music, it’s like a bloody funeral parlour in here.’

The spotlights above the cutting table blazed into life, glaring back from the stainless steel cutting table. The whole place reeked of disinfectant, bleach, and formaldehyde. The bowl of potpourri sitting next to the stereo didn’t even make a dent in it. Logan flicked through the iPod, replacing Barber’s
Adagio for Strings
with Deacon Blue’s
Move Away Jimmy Blue
.

‘That’s better.’ The pathologist pulled at a roll of green plastic mounted on the wall, tearing off a length like a bin-bag and unfurling it into an apron. Putting it on as the door banged open. ‘Ah, about time.’

Finnie bustled into the room and snatched up an SOC suit for himself, and another for the younger man who followed him in. ‘Everyone, this is Superintendent Green from SOCA. He’ll be observing.’

Superintendent Green – wavy blond hair, chiselled jaw, serious blue eyes, broad shoulders, narrow waist. Like something off the television. He gave a tight-lipped smile, a little tilt of the head. ‘I’ll try not to get in the way.’ He even sounded as if he belonged on a cop show – a rich baritone voice with a faint London accent.

Steel leaned over and whispered in Logan’s ear, ‘Sodding hell: I would, wouldn’t you?’

‘No. And you’re married.’

‘Laz, I’m gay, no’ dead…’

The head of CID zipped up his hood, then did the introductions – Steel holding onto Superintendent Green’s hand for way longer than was either necessary or professional. When she finally let go, Finnie pointed across the cutting table. ‘And last, but not least, this is Dr Duncan Fraser. Our forensic pathologist.’

Doc Fraser gave the superintendent a wave. ‘Retired.’ Sniff. ‘Who’s corroborating?’

Finnie pulled on a facemask.

Steel rocked back and forth on her heels.

Logan cleared his throat. ‘You’re it, Doc. Isobel’s off at some conference and the new guy, Hudson’s—’

‘Indisposed.’ Sarah, the APT, glided back into the cutting room, carrying a stainless steel tray with a pair of white plastic clogs on it. The kind with little holes in the top to let your feet breathe. She froze, then turned to stare at the stereo. ‘Tsk…’

Steel nodded. ‘Dose of the killer squits, apparently. Turning himself inside out as we speak.’

The APT rolled her eyes, then placed the clogs on the floor at Doc Fraser’s feet. ‘Most …
unfortunate
.’ She stalked over to the iPod, and five seconds later Barber’s
Adagio
was back.

Doc Fraser rolled his shoulders, an indistinct rustling inside his white paper suit. ‘Ah well, I’m not happy about it, but McRae said it was urgent, so I suppose needs must.’ He drummed his fingers on the cutting table. ‘Sheila, can you fetch the little girl’s remains please? And can we
please
listen to something a bit cheerier? Bad enough as it is.’

The APT nodded at the tray, spotlights sparking off the shiny surface. A small evidence bag sat on one side.

The pathologist looked at her. ‘What?’

She plucked the bag from the tray and lowered it reverently onto the slab. ‘The remains.’

Silence. Just the mournful dirge of violins coming from the stereo.

‘Seriously?’ He opened the bag and tipped Jenny McGregor’s toe out onto his palm. ‘Is this
it
?’

Which probably made him the only person in the country who didn’t know.

Doc Fraser held the digit up to the light, turning it back and forth, round and round. ‘Unbelievable…’

It had been cleaned up since Logan last saw it, all the congealed blood removed for testing, the whole thing gone over with sticky tape to lift any fibres so they could be analysed. Nothing left but flesh, nail, and bone.