A Litter of Bones

by J D Kirk

  A Litter of Bones

  A DCI Jack Logan Thriller

  J.D. Kirk

  Zertex Crime

  Copyright © 2019 by J.D. Kirk

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  1

  Published by Zertex Crime, an imprint of Zertex Media Ltd

  For Tommy

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Thicker than Water - Chapter One

  Acknowledgments

  Go Behind the Scenes

  Chapter One

  The total collapse of Duncan Reid’s life began with a gate in the arse-end of nowhere.

  There was a trick to opening this particular gate, Duncan knew. The arm of the metal slider had been buckled for years, and if you tried hauling it in the direction the bend suggested it should go you were doomed to failure. The trick was to twist and jiggle, creaking the slider loose of its mooring, allowing the whole thing to eventually swing free.

  Or, if you were a seven-year-old with more energy than sense, you could clamber up the metal spars, jump down, and stand triumphantly on the other side waiting for your dad to get a move on.

  “I win,” cheered Connor. He broke into a little dance. The Floss, he called it. All the rage, apparently.

  Down at Duncan’s feet, their Golden Retriever wriggled impatiently, the entirety of her copper-coloured backend wagging, her front feet pawing at the ground with barely contained excitement.

  “Alright, Meg. Give us a minute,” Duncan told the animal.

  The slider clunked free. The gate had barely swung six inches towards him when Meg nosed it open and squeezed through. Connor dodged aside as the dog went haring past him. She bulleted ahead, running for no other reason than the sheer unbridled joy of being out of the car and off the lead.

  “Someone’s in a hurry,” Duncan remarked.

  They watched as she detoured off into the trees that lined the track on the right, quickly vanishing from sight beneath the moss-covered trunks.

  “Meg!” Connor called after her. “Come back.”

  “She’ll be fine,” Duncan said. He pulled the gate closed behind them, wiggling the slider just enough to jam it shut, but not so far that he’d have to go through the whole process again when they left. “She’s been exploring round here since before you were born.”

  Connor didn’t look convinced but fell into step beside his dad as they set off along the track.

  Living up here, they were spoiled for choice when it came to dog-walking routes. Granted, it was pretty much the only thing they were spoiled for choice for, but it was something. But, of all the routes available to them, this one stood out as a favourite.

  The only downside was getting to it. The drive along the main Fort William to Spean Bridge road could be a nightmare in the summer. At this time of year, though, before the campervans piloted by overly cautious tourists had started to clog everything up, it flew by.

  After that, it was just a turn up the Leanachan Forest road, a mile or so along a single-track lane with the fingers crossed that no-one was coming the other way, and then the usual wrestling match with the gate.

  And then… bliss. Miles of forestry track, cracking views, and rarely another living soul in sight. In all the years that Duncan had been making the same walk, he’d met maybe twenty walkers, half a dozen cyclists, and one guy on stilts.

  That one had caught him off guard and had sent Meg into a frenzy of panicked barking. It was a sponsored hike for charity, it turned out. Cancer, or something. Duncan had been too busy trying to get ahold of the dog and quieten her down to really pay too much attention.

  Once he’d got her by the collar, he’d chucked a couple of quid into the collection tin and kept hold of Meg until the guy had teetered off around the corner, out of sight.

  Today was looking like it’d be free of interruptions, and Duncan felt physically lighter as he let himself relax. Meg was a good dog, for the most part, but didn’t handle strangers well, so the lack of life signs always came as a relief.

  Sure, someone might come around one of the bends further down the track and set her off, but that was a problem for later. For now, the coast was clear.

  Far off on the left, across a graveyard of tree stumps, the A82 curved ahead to the Commando Memorial, and onwards to Inverness. An irregular stream of traffic meandered up it, paintwork glinting in the uncharacteristically bright April sunshine.

  At this distance, the traffic was whisper quiet. The only sounds to be heard were the chirping of the birds, and the faint crunch of the stony ground beneath Duncan’s boots.

  Up ahead, Meg exploded from within a crop of trees, ploughed through a mud puddle that painted her brown from halfway down her legs, then stopped in the middle of the path. She watched them for a while, tongue hanging out and chest heaving as she checked that they were still headed in the same direction.

  When she was sure they weren’t about to turn around and head for the car, she returned to the trees, getting back to whatever business she’d left unattended in there.

  “See, told you she’d be fine,” Duncan said, giving his son a playful nudge. “Filthy, I’ll give you, but fine.”

  “Did you see how much mud is on her?”

  “I did.”

  “She’s covered!”

  “She is. And guess who’s cleaning her up when we get home,” Duncan said.

  Connor grinned up at him. “You!”

  “Me? No way! You!” Duncan said.

  “Nuh-uh!”

  “Yuh-huh! I’ll give you a scrubbing brush and a bucket,” Duncan said. He gave a little gasp as an idea hit him. “You can do the car when you’re at it. Two birds with one stone.”

  Connor shook his head emphatically.

  “Fine. You can hold her while I hose her down.”

  Connor had no real objection to that, but it had become a game now, and so he continued to resist.

  “Nope!”

  Duncan stroked his chin, his finger and thumb rasping against his stubble. “OK, she can hold you, and I’ll hose you down.” He made a sound like skooshing water, and mimed blasting the boy with it. “How about that?”

  Connor giggled. “I had a bath this morning.”

  “You did? God, is it April already?” Duncan teased.

  Connor didn’t quite get the
dig but giggled again, regardless.

  They walked on for several minutes, rounding the gentle curve of the track, passing the little quarry on the left-hand side, where two diggers had sat mostly motionless for the past year or so. Rarely, when Duncan came up this way, they’d have moved a few feet, or the angle of the buckets would have shifted. He’d never seen any sign of anyone sat behind the controls, though, much less doing any actual digging.

  It had been a while since Connor had said anything, and although Duncan was enjoying the peace and quiet, it wasn’t normal. Friday was swimming day at school, and the boy would normally be full of stories about who was proving to be the best at backstroke, and which of his classmates had come closest to drowning.

  Today, though, he’d barely spoken a word that Duncan hadn’t teased out of him first.

  “You alright, Con?”

  “Yeah, fine,” Connor said, not looking up. He had found a stick that was almost the height of himself, and was walking with it like a wizard with a staff.

  “If Meg sees you with that, she’ll be away with it,” Duncan warned.

  Connor nodded, but said nothing.

  “How was swimming?”

  “Good.”

  “Everyone survive?”

  Connor nodded. “Yep.”

  They continued on in silence for a while longer. A bird of prey circled in the air above them. A buzzard, Duncan guessed, although he had no idea. It might’ve been an eagle. It could’ve been a big pigeon. He’d lived his life in the Highlands, but the particulars of its wildlife were lost on him.

  Similarly, the trees lining the tracks beside them. He had no idea what those were, either. Pine? Maybe. Beech? Very possibly. Oak? He didn’t think so, but he had no idea what he was basing that on. They were trees. That was about as specific as he could get.

  “Dad?” Connor said, after a few more steps. His eyes were still fixed on the ground, his voice quiet. “You know Ed?”

  Duncan ran through his mental checklist of the kids in Connor’s class. He couldn’t place an Ed.

  “Which one is he? The one with the orange mum?”

  Connor glanced up at him, brow furrowed in confusion. “Next door Ed.”

  “Oh, next door Ed. Yes. Sorry. I thought you meant someone in your class.”

  “There’s no-one in my class called Ed,” Connor replied.

  “No, I know. I was…” Duncan gave his head a little shake. “Next door Ed. Aye. What about him?”

  Connor seemed to wrestle briefly with his next question. “Do you like him?”

  Duncan puffed out his cheeks. “Do I like him? Next door Ed?” He shrugged. “Suppose. I mean, I don’t really know him. He seems nice enough. I think he’s settling in alright. Why?”

  Connor tapped the ground with the bottom of his stick as they walked, drumming out a little beat.

  “Does Mum like him?”

  Duncan stopped. “I don’t know. Why, what makes you ask that?”

  Connor walked on a few paces, then he stopped, too. He stood there, chewing his lip, twisting the staff in his hand. “Nothing. I was just wondering.”

  Duncan cocked his head a little, regarding his son quizzically. “That’s a weird thing to just start wondering.”

  Connor’s cheeks blushed red.

  “Con?”

  “Where’s Meg?” the boy suddenly asked, his eyes darting to the tree line.

  “She’s in there. She’ll be fine,” Duncan said, shooting the forest the most fleeting of glances. “She’ll come back when we call her. Why were you asking about—?”

  “Meg!” Connor shouted. “Meg, where are you?”

  He put his fingers in his mouth and attempted a whistle. All he managed was a blast of damp-sounding air.

  Duncan sighed, then formed a C-shape with thumb and forefinger and jammed them in his mouth. His whistle was shrill and loud. It cut off the birdsong, instantly reducing it to an indignant sort of silence.

  “Where is she?” Connor asked, scanning the trees. “Why isn’t she coming back?”

  “She’ll be fine,” Duncan assured him, but he gave another whistle and followed with a shout. “Meg! Come on, Meg!”

  Nothing moved in the trees. The canopy of leaves and branches cast the undergrowth into a gloomy darkness. There was still an hour or so until sunset, but the shadows were growing longer, and the breeze had gained a chillier edge.

  “Stupid bloody dog,” Duncan muttered.

  “What if she’s hurt?” Connor fretted. “What if something’s happened to her?”

  “Nothing will have happened to her. She’s probably just rolling in something. You know what she’s like.”

  Duncan cupped his hands around his mouth and called the dog’s name again.

  “Me-eg!” he shouted, stretching it across two syllables.

  They waited. The trees creaked. The wind whispered through the grass.

  But beyond that, nothing.

  “Bugger it,” Duncan muttered.

  “Dad?” said Connor, his eyes wide with alarm. “Why’s she not coming?”

  “She’ll be fine. She’s always fine,” Duncan said. “But I’ll go in and look for her, if it makes you feel better. You stay here and shout me when she comes back.”

  Connor glanced both ways along the empty track, then nodded. “But what if she doesn’t?”

  “She’ll be back,” Duncan promised.

  “But what if she’s not?”

  “She will.”

  “But—”

  “I won’t stop looking. Alright?” said Duncan, a little irritably. He forced a smile. “She’ll be fine. She’s just being a pain. You wait here.”

  Connor nodded again. “OK. I’ll wait here.”

  “Good lad. And shout when she comes out. Nice and loud, alright?”

  “I will, Dad.”

  Duncan clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “And don’t worry. We’ll get her. She won’t have gone far.”

  “Bastard,” Duncan hissed, clutching his cheek where a thin branch had whipped at him. There was no blood, but he could feel a welt forming, raising a thin red line across his skin.

  The ground was moist and spongy beneath his feet, and a dampness crept up the legs of his jeans, sticking them, cold and clammy, to the tops of his ankles.

  “Any sign, Con?” he called over his shoulder.

  “Not yet!” his son shouted back, his voice muffled by the surrounding woodland.

  Duncan cursed the dog a few times, then just cursed in general as he trudged onwards, his boots snagging in the undergrowth, the branches determined to have one of his eyes out.

  Half a dozen shambling steps later, something moved suddenly on his right, rustling through the tangle of grasses. He turned, startled, almost losing his balance as he searched for the source of the sound.

  A rabbit appeared briefly from a knot of weeds, realised its mistake, then vanished again just as quickly. Duncan didn’t see it again, but heard it scamper off to some hiding place deeper into the forest.

  “Bloody thing,” he grumbled, listening to the fading swish of the rabbit through the grass.

  He was only a couple of minutes’ walk into the trees, but light was already in short supply. Everything was painted in a gloominess that turned the shadows to pools of black and tinted everything else in shades of grey and blue.

  “You got her, Connor?” Duncan shouted.

  He waited for a response from his son.

  “Connor?” he called again, when no answer came. “You got Meg yet?”

  Nothing.

  “Con?”

  The trees groaned around him. The breeze murmured through the undergrowth. Everything else had fallen silent.

  Looking back, Duncan wouldn’t be able to say for sure why he ran. Not really. There was nothing to suggest anything had happened. No one thing he could pinpoint as the reason for his sudden panic. Realistically, Connor simply hadn’t heard him. That was all. It wasn’t unusual for the boy to get distracted. His sel
ective deafness was an ongoing family joke.

  And yet, Duncan ran. He ran, fuelled by fear, pushing his way through the grasping undergrowth and the whipping branches, splashing through the soggy dips, and stumbling over the moss-covered rocks, something hot and urgent gnawing away at his insides.

  “Connor!”

  He hurtled out of the trees, slipped on an unexpected embankment, and slid down it on his arse. The puddle of mud at the bottom cushioned his fall, then schlopped forlornly as it lost its grip on him when he pulled himself free.

  “Con? Connor?”

  He’d emerged from the forest thirty feet or so from where he’d first entered it. He had a clear view of the spot where he’d told Connor to wait, but hurried over to it, anyway, in case he was somehow overlooking something.

  In case he was somehow overlooking his son.

  Where the boy had been was a long, crooked stick, lying on the ground. A staff, abandoned by its wizard.

  “Connor?” Duncan bellowed. His voice echoed in both directions along the empty track, up into the forest, off across the graveyard of stumps, and on towards the distant road. “Connor! Where are you? Con?”

  And then, from behind him, came the sound of movement.

  He sobbed, relief flooding him, lightening his head, slackening muscles he hadn’t felt go tight.

  “Connor, I thought I told you to—?”