A Litter of Bones

by J D Kirk

“How the fu—” he muttered, then he snatched the phone back.

  “Now,” Logan began. “I’ve scratched your back. Who told you about the teddy?”

  Henderson sniffed and shrugged. “One of the local press boys. Works for one of the weeklies. Tom something. The guy who threw the question away outside the Reids. Him.”

  “And where did he hear about it?”

  “Well, I don’t know, do I?” Henderson said. His eyes blazed as he scrutinised Logan’s face. “True then, is it?”

  Logan sighed. “Aye. Aye, it’s true. Looks like we’ve got a copycat.”

  “And you think it’s this Walker fella?”

  “He’s a person of interest,” Logan said. “That’s all at this stage.”

  “How much interest? Scale of one to ten.”

  Logan pulled the door open. “Get out, Henderson. We’re done,” he instructed. “And leave the parents alone, eh? They’ve already suffered enough.”

  “Suffering sells papers, Jack. Not nice, but it’s how it is,” Henderson told him. He followed the DCI out of the cupboard and into the corridor. “Thanks for the information. Very interesting. I’ll see myself out.”

  “Aye, nice try,” Logan told him. He beckoned over to where DS McQuarrie was hovering by the canteen door. “Escort Mr Henderson off the premises, would you? And keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t try to sneak back in.”

  Henderson grinned, showing off his crooked teeth again. “You know me too well, Jack.”

  “Well, we’ve all got our crosses to bear,” Logan replied.

  Along the corridor, Caitlyn scanned her pass and opened the door that led out to the reception area. Henderson shuffled towards it, head down, already tapping out a number on his phone.

  “Oh, Jack?” he said, stopping a pace or two before he reached the door.

  “What now?”

  “The boy. I hope you find him.”

  A flash of surprise registered on Logan’s face.

  “Aye,” he said, once it had passed. “You and me both.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  DI Forde was talking to a couple of shirt-and-ties when Logan returned to the Incident Room. One of them, who had been perched on the edge of the DCI’s desk, jumped up as if an electrical charge had just shot up his arse.

  “DCI Jack Logan, this is DS Boyle and DC Innes,” Ben said, hand-signalling his way through the introductions. “They’re CID. Offered to clue our lot up with the local gen.”

  “Good. That’s good. Thanks,” said Logan, shaking both offered hands in turn. “Don’t suppose you know anywhere to get something decent to eat nearby?”

  DS Boyle sucked air in through his teeth. “Sunday.”

  “There’s J.J.’s along the road,” suggested DC Innes, gesturing off in the direction of the town centre. “They do a good breakfast.”

  Logan’s eyes went to his watch.

  “Aye, an All-Day Breakfast, I mean. Sausage, egg, nice bit of black pudding. Mushrooms, if you like that sort of thing.”

  From the way he said it, and the expression on his face, it was evident that DC Innes very much did not like that sort of thing one little bit.

  “Sounds good,” said Logan.

  “J.J.’s is shut.”

  All eyes went to DS Boyle.

  “Shut?” said Innes. “J.J.’s?”

  “Aye.”

  “What, like shut shut? Or just shut?”

  “Well, no’ shut shut, but no’ just shut. Shut,” said Boyle, with varying degrees of emphasis. “They’re on holiday.”

  “Oh, so shut. Right.” Innes nodded, then turned to Logan. “J.J.’s is shut.”

  “Aye, I picked up on that,” Logan said. “Anywhere else?”

  Both CID detectives gave this some thought.

  “Pizza place in the village,” suggested Innes.

  “Aye! What time is it?” asked Boyle. He checked his watch. “Aye. That’ll be open.”

  Pizza place. Logan remembered the photo on his phone.

  “Want me to ring you something in?” Ben asked.

  “Actually, no. Leave it,” said Logan. “I might go round in a bit. What time does it shut?”

  “Same time Sean Connery gets to Wimbledon, sir,” said Innes.

  Logan and the others all looked at the DC blankly. Their expression remained unchanged when he continued in an utterly dire Sean Connery impression.

  “Tennish.”

  From the look on their faces, it was obvious that nobody was impressed. Innes wilted, his cheeks burning. Logan decided to gloss right over it and pretend it had never happened. He turned his attention to DS Boyle, instead.

  “Ed Walker. Next door to the Reids. Anyone talk to him?”

  “Not sure. I’ll check. Probably, if he was in,” Boyle said. “I’ll find out.”

  “Thanks. And Tom… something. He’s been blabbing about the teddy bear. I want to know how he knew about it. He’s a reporter for one of the local papers.”

  “There’s just the one,” said Boyle.

  “Reporter?”

  “Paper. Don’t know him, though. We’ll see what we can find out.”

  Boyle put a hand on DC Innes’s shoulder and guided him towards the door. “If there’s anything else, just shout. We all want to see the wee lad home safe.”

  Logan nodded. “Thanks.”

  “And try the pizza place. It’s good. Well, not good, but… good.”

  “Will do,” said Logan.

  He watched the DS manhandle the junior officer out into the corridor, and caught a hissed, “Fucking ‘tennish,’” before the door clunked closed behind them.

  “They’re a good bunch,” Ben said. “You’d think they’ve probably got it a bit easy up here, but they know their stuff. Made some big drugs collars. Like, major.”

  “Good to know,” Logan said.

  He looked across to Hamza’s desk, where the DC was still hunched over the laptop, his blue-gloved fingers tapping away at the keys.

  “Getting anywhere?”

  “Well, I’m in, so aye. Getting somewhere. Nowhere exciting, mind. There’s not a lot on it.”

  “Shite.” Logan groaned. “Still, good job on getting in. That was quick.”

  Hamza shrugged. “His password was ‘12345.’ It wasn’t exactly rocket science, sir.”

  “Keep looking. See if anything turns up.”

  The door to the Incident Room flew open, and Tyler came rushing in clutching a bundle of printouts.

  “What have you got?” Logan asked.

  “Ed Walker, sir. He’s got previous,” Tyler announced, waving the bundle. “Just out of a stretch at the Big Hoose.”

  “Barlinnie? What for?”

  “Possession of a Class A, and assaulting a police officer,” Tyler replied. He thrust the folder of paperwork into the DCI’s waiting hands. “Shocking beard, an’ all, although I suppose that’s not technically a crime.”

  Logan flipped open the folder, then whistled quietly through his teeth when he saw the mugshot within. Walker glared sheer contempt back up at him.

  “Jesus,” Logan muttered. “That is a shocker, isn’t it?”

  He skimmed through the first couple of pages, then handed the folder to Ben. “We should put it up on the board.”

  DI Forde opened the folder. “God. You’re right. That is a shite beard.”

  “Any word on his whereabouts?” Logan asked.

  Tyler shook his head. “Not yet, boss.”

  “Keep an eye on the house and start knocking doors,” Logan instructed. “Find out if anyone’s seen him coming and going since Friday.”

  “It’s getting late,” Tyler pointed out, glancing at the clock.

  “Good, then we might actually catch some of them at home,” Logan replied. “Check if there’s any family or known associates in the area. And get his photo and description out in circulation. We need to find him and find him fast. CID said they’ll help. Hold them to that.”

  “Yes, boss.”

&nb
sp; Logan glowered at him.

  “Oh, you want me to… Now? Right.”

  Tyler scuttled off. Logan pulled the swivel chair out from beneath the desk he had claimed as his own and flopped into it.

  He sagged for a moment, tiredness slackening his muscles and dragging him down into the cracked leather of the seat.

  A headache had been making itself at home in his skull for the past couple of hours, and felt like it was settling in for the long haul. Hunger wasn’t yet gnawing at him, exactly, but it was certainly making its presence felt.

  It had been hours since Tyler had brought him that biscuit. Even then, it had only been a Rich Tea, and man could not get by on mere Rich Teas alone.

  Well, he probably could, but it’d be a fucking miserable existence.

  “You alright?” Ben asked him.

  Logan sat up and nodded. “Aye. Aye. Just a long day.”

  “Looks like your hunch might be right,” Ben said. “Ed Walker, I mean.”

  “Hm.”

  Ben rolled another chair over and took a seat. “What’s ‘Hm’?” he asked. “You don’t think it’s him?”

  “I think we need to talk to him,” Logan said. He waved a hand. “It probably is. I mean, it’s looking like it.”

  “But…?”

  “But how would he know about the envelope? The writing on the front? That’s the bit I don’t get.”

  Ben flipped idly through the paperwork. “He’d have to have come into contact with someone who knew. Someone from the original case?”

  “Aye. Who, though?”

  “Petrie?” Ben hazarded.

  “Petrie’s a cabbage. Or, so he wants us to believe. He’s got a cushy wee number in Carstairs. Compared to where he should be, I mean. He wouldn’t risk giving the game away by blabbing to some scrote he didn’t know,” Logan reasoned.

  “Unless he did know him,” said Ben.

  Logan’s eyes narrowed, but he looked unconvinced. “What is Walker? Fifties?”

  Ben flicked back a few pages. “Forty-three,” he said. He studied the photo again. “Bloody Hell. The years have not been kind.”

  “We could look for a link between him and Petrie, but I doubt we’ll find one. Still, worth a try. Get DS McQuarrie on it,” Logan said. “And check for any connection with the original families, too. But discreetly.”

  Logan’s headache stabbed at him. The families. Shite. The arrival of the teddy was going to catapult the story to the front page of every newspaper in the country. It had been twenty years since Mister Whisper had taken Dylan Muir. His parents—not to mention the parents of Lewis Briggs and Matthew Dennison—were about to have it raked up all over again.

  He’d have to phone the Gozer, ask him to send officers round to help prepare them for the media shitestorm. Probably too late tonight, but first thing in the morning. The last thing they needed was the polis hammering on their doors in the wee small hours. Not again.

  “We need to get forensics into Walker’s house,” Logan said.

  “Going to take time to get a warrant.”

  “Not necessarily. I’m pretty sure he’s squatting there. Find out who owns it, then we can go in.”

  Ben nodded and reached for the phone.

  “Hamza? Get anything yet?”

  “A lot of porn, sir. Aye, I mean a lot of porn,” Hamza said. He tilted his head a little, frowned like an art critic trying to work out the meaning of a masterpiece, then his eyes widened and he quickly clicked the trackpad. “Didn’t need to see that,” he muttered.

  “Anything dodgy?”

  “Pretty standard stuff, sir. It’s more the quantity rather than the content that’s worth noting.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Actually, aye. This is interesting. He did a couple of searches on DNA markers and how DNA evidence gets processed on…”

  Hamza tapped at the trackpad.

  “Wednesday. Well, no, early hours of Thursday.”

  Logan and Ben exchanged glances.

  “Still have your doubts?” Ben asked.

  Logan stood up. “We need to find this bastard, Ben,” he said. He flicked his eyes from the DI to Hamza. “We all know what we’re doing?”

  Ben nodded and punched a series of numbers on the phone. DC Khaled looked up from the laptop.

  “Just got a few more folders to go through, sir,” he said. “Then, if it’s alright with you, there’s a couple of things I want to check out on the map.”

  “We need all hands on deck.”

  “It won’t take long, sir. Just a hunch, but… It might be something.”

  “Fine. Do it. Then, get yourself a coffee,” Logan told him. “I can’t see any of us getting any sleep tonight.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Darkness.

  It surrounded him. Smothered him. Claimed him for its own.

  He’d always hated the darkness, hated the feelings it conjured up inside him, feelings that burned bright and clear, but which he didn’t yet have the vocabulary to put a name to. ‘Fear,’ yes, but it was something more than that, something deeper, more pure.

  The ties were cutting into his wrists. The gag tasted bad in his mouth. Oily. Sour. Foul. A shiny film of snot coated the outside of it, glistening like the trail of a slug.

  He snorted in some air. Gulped it down. Tried to breathe. The gag made it difficult. Impossible, sometimes, and his chest held more panic than breath.

  He wanted to sob, to scream, to make himself heard. To make the whole world know where he was.

  But that would bring the man back. He didn’t like it when the man came back. Hated it, in fact. Hated the way he looked at him, hated the way he smiled, hated the way his voice came as a breathless whisper in the half-dark.

  He couldn’t scream anyway, even if he tried. There was another gag somewhere deep down in his throat—a slab of solid fear preventing everything but the occasional whimper from escaping.

  During his more rational moments—those times when he calmed down enough to think straight—he thought he was in a cupboard. The walls felt close and oppressive, his cheeps and whimpers rebounding inside the narrow space. It stank of stale and damp. Foosty, his mum would’ve said.

  He thought of his mum, and sobbed silently in the darkness.

  The stench of his own urine had permeated everything in the confined space, but the warmth of it had long since become a cloying coldness around his thighs. His cheeks burned with shame when he thought about it.

  The man had seemed annoyed when it had happened. The boy with him had laughed and laughed and laughed until the man had closed the door.

  He didn’t like the man.

  But, he liked the boy even less.

  Chapter Seventeen

  DS McQuarrie stepped back from the Big Board and admired her handiwork. Walker’s mugshot had been stuck up, shocking beard and all, and she’d added a few key details about what they knew so far. She’d connected some of it together with lengths of red wool. There weren’t many strands, but those there were all led back to Walker.

  DCI Logan had handed her another folder full of paperwork to add to the board but had then decided against it and taken it back. It sat on his desk now, open slightly, teasing her with its contents.

  It had been over an hour since the shout had gone out about Walker. The forensic team were on their way down the road from Inverness, and extra uniforms had been drafted in from the surrounding areas to help with the search. Fort William was in the process of being turned upside down, but so far there was no sign of the bastard.

  “Done, boss,” Caitlyn announced. “Anything I’ve missed?”

  Ben Forde twisted in his chair and looked back at the board over his shoulder. “Nothing jumping out. Good work. Jack?”

  Logan looked up from a typed-up copy of the notes Sinead had made back at the Reids’. She’d dropped them in at the station on the way home, surmising that Logan probably hadn’t had her write everything down for a laugh.

  She was going
to go far, that one.

  He scanned the board. “Shoes.”

  Caitlyn frowned. “Sir?”

  “Shoes. Trainers. He had size tens in the cupboard under the stairs,” Logan told her. “And he’s knocked a hole through the loft wall into the Reids’ loft next door.”

  “When did he do that?” Ben wondered. “Wouldn’t they have heard?”

  “They did. The husband, what’s his name? Duncan. He thought Walker was doing a loft conversion.”

  Logan stood up. “Is the liaison still round there? Ask her to find out when they heard it. And has anyone told them about Walker yet?”

  “Not that I know of. We were waiting until you gave the word.”

  “Good. I want to tell them myself,” Logan said. He pulled on his coat. “But first, is anyone else hungry?”

  “I could eat, sir, aye,” said Caitlyn.

  “Hamza?”

  Across at his desk, DS Khaled looked up from the laptop. What he’d thought were just a few more folders to check had led to dozens more, and he was still clicking through, hunting for anything that might help them figure out Walker’s motive, whereabouts, current state of mind, or anything else that might prove useful.

  “Sir?”

  “Hungry?”

  “Eh, aye. Pretty famished, actually. Want me to get something?”

  “I’ll get it. It’s fine. Ben? Pizza?”

  DI Forde shook his head. “I’ve got a packed lunch in the fridge.”

  Logan hesitated, his coat halfway on. “Packed lunch?”

  Ben patted his ample stomach. “Wife’s orders.”

  “Wife’s no’ here.”

  Ben looked torn, but it only lasted for a moment. “Go on then. Something meaty. And maybe some of them cheese bite things.”

  Satisfied, Logan pulled his coat on the rest of the way. “Right.”

  “And double chips.”

  “Jesus. I’m no’ the Sultan of Brunei.”

  Ben reached for his wallet.

  “Shut up, I’m kidding,” Logan told him.

  He crossed to the Big Board, took out his phone, and snapped a close-up of Walker’s mugshot.

  “Anyone else got any particular preference, or will I just get a mix of meat and veggie?”