A Litter of Bones

by J D Kirk

Clearing his throat, Logan picked up the folder. “Mrs Reid, you’re probably wondering why I asked you to come in and see us. First up, let me assure you, you’re not in any kind of trouble at the moment.”

  “Trouble?” Catriona echoed. She frowned. “What do you mean trouble?”

  The tail-end of the sentence hit home.

  “What do you mean at the moment?”

  “What can you tell us about Edward Walker?” Logan asked.

  Across the table, Catriona sat up straight, practically squaring her shoulders. “What? What do you…?”

  The effort became too much. She sagged, and as she did all the fight went out of her.

  “It wasn’t him,” she said. “I should’ve told you. But it wasn’t him.”

  Logan opened the folder and placed the photograph between them. It had been taken in what looked like some kind of American Diner, judging by the food on the table, and what could be made out of the background.

  Catriona and Ed Walker were sitting on the same side of the table, close together, him with his arm around her. They were both smiling, although Walker looked a touch more relaxed about it than Catriona did.

  The photograph seemed to come almost as a relief to her now. Her face attempted something that wasn’t quite a smile but was headed in that general direction.

  “I never actually saw that picture before,” she said. “It was in Inverness. We’d arranged to meet up.”

  “This was taken around eight years ago. Does that sound about right?”

  A jerk of Catriona’s head confirmed it. “A few months before Connor was born. I’d been seeing him occasionally. We were just sort of… getting to know each other, I suppose.”

  Catriona took another tissue and blew her nose. “I never told him. I was going to, but then Ed just disappeared. Prison, I eventually found out, but…” She shook her head. “No, I never told him.”

  “This is going to be a difficult question, Mrs Reid, but it’s important you answer truthfully,” Logan said. He watched for something in her eyes that told him she understood, and continued once he’d seen it. “Is Ed Walker Connor’s father?”

  Catriona’s eyes widened. Her voice, once she found it, was incredulous with disgust. “What? No! Of course not! Is that what you think? That I’d…? No! No!”

  “Could he believe he’s Connor’s father?”

  “No! Of course he couldn’t,” Catriona insisted.

  “So—and, again, apologies for the bluntness of this question, Mrs Reid—you’re saying you never slept with him?”

  “Slept with him? What are you talking about? Of course I didn’t sleep with him!”

  Catriona’s voice was becoming higher, her emotions betraying her and making a mockery of her attempts to rein them in. “He’s not Connor’s father. Of course he isn’t Connor’s father,” she said.

  “He’s mine.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Logan stood in the foyer of the station, watching DC Neish’s car pull out of the car park. He caught a glimpse of Catriona Reid in the front passenger seat as the car turned onto the road, but then a streetlight reflected off the glass, hiding her, and the car rolled off into the night.

  “Didn’t see that coming,” said DS McQuarrie.

  “No. Nor me,” Logan admitted. “Should’ve, though.”

  Catriona Reid’s story had seemed legitimate enough, once she’d explained it.

  Growing up, she’d never known much about her father, other than the constant reminders from her mother that he was a no-good waster who’d had his wicked way, then cleared out at the first sign of a belly bump.

  She’d been trained to hate him by rote, and had always insisted to her then fiancé, Duncan, that she had no interest in ever finding out where he was, what he was doing, or why he had turned his back on her all those years ago.

  And then, he’d found her through Facebook, and all that had gone out the window.

  She hadn’t told anyone about their meetings. It would’ve killed her mother, and after her claiming complete disinterest in the man for years, Duncan wouldn’t have understood.

  But she’d met him. She felt she should hear him out. And, more importantly, that he should hear her out. She had a lot of questions, and the opportunity to get some answers had been something she couldn’t bring herself to pass up.

  To her surprise, he’d answered them all honestly. He’d messed up. He wasn’t ready. He let her down. He’d thought about her every night for years, wondered where she was, what she was doing. All that stuff.

  To her amazement, she’d found herself warming to him. They’d arranged to meet again. And again. And again. Each time they did, she found herself enjoying his company more. He was funny. Smart. Kind. So far removed from everything her mother had told her.

  And then, out of nowhere, he’d stopped contacting her. All efforts to get in touch with him had failed. He’d vanished. He’d left her, all over again. And, she hadn’t even got a chance to tell him he was going to be a grandfather.

  Eight years later, he turned up. He contacted her online, explained he’d been in prison. She’d resisted at first, but it had been her who had eventually suggested the house next door. Although, to be fair, she’d expected him to rent it, not just move himself in.

  “But he didn’t take Connor,” Catriona had insisted when Logan had suggested it. “I went round there on Friday night. I asked him. I even searched the place. He didn’t know anything. I could tell. He didn’t know anything about it.”

  Logan turned from the window, yawning. His eyes went to the clock on the wall. After one. Jesus, when did that happen?

  “Still think Walker took him, sir?” Caitlyn asked.

  Logan grunted. “I wish I did. Be easy, then.”

  “Where are we if it wasn’t him?”

  “Back to square one,” Logan admitted.

  Caitlyn clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth. “Aye. I was afraid you might say that.”

  “We’ll have to talk to Walker again, but it can wait until the morning. My instinct is that he’s not a kidnapper, just a bloody idiot,” Logan told her. “Mind you, have the forensic boys been over the house and the boat yet?”

  “They have, sir. Still waiting on the report.”

  She looked at the clock, then double-checked on her watch. “Probably be the morning now.”

  “Aye. Probably. You should get some sleep in the meantime. Not a lot we can do right now,” Logan said. “Did you get a hotel sorted?”

  “I did, sir. Premier Inn. You?”

  Logan shook his head. “No. I’m fine.”

  “There’s an empty office upstairs. The CID guys sometimes use it if they’re pulling an all-nighter. You should try to sleep.”

  “Hmm? Oh. No.”

  “You said yourself, sir. Not a lot we can do right now,” Caitlyn reminded him.

  “Thanks for your concern, Detective Sergeant. But I’m alright. Honest.”

  “Bollocks you are.”

  The voice crackled from a speaker above the reception desk. Officially, the station was shut down for the night, and there was nobody manning the counter.

  Even with the echo and slight hiss of static, Logan recognized the voice as that of Detective Inspector Ben Forde. He searched the corners of the room for a camera, then gazed up into its single eye.

  “I’m up and about, Jack,” Ben said. “I’ll keep a watch on things. You go get some rest. And, for God’s sake, get yourself cleaned up, man.”

  Logan looked down at himself, and the dirt and blood that stained his clothes. Jesus, what must Catriona Reid have been thinking?

  It wouldn’t hurt to get an hour or two, Logan supposed. It had been a long day, and it was going to happen all over again tomorrow, but with the potential to be much, much worse. There was certainly an argument to be made for getting some kip.

  “Right, well just make sure—”

  “Aye. Don’t worry. I’ll wake you if anything happens,” Ben told him. “Now
go. You’re no use to anyone if you’re dead on your feet.”

  Logan nodded reluctantly, then turned to DS McQuarrie. “Back here at eight, alright?”

  “Yes, sir,” Caitlyn said. “See you then.”

  “Aye, see you then,” Logan told her. “Oh, and Caitlyn,” he added, as she headed for the door.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Bring some more of them Caramel Wafers when you’re coming back in.”

  Caitlyn smiled grimly. “Yes, sir,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  There was a baton in his hand. Cool. Rigid. Logan couldn’t see it, exactly, but he could sense it. He knew it was there. Poised. Ready.

  Useless.

  The door to the flat was locked, like always. No time for formalities. Never any time to waste. It flew open with a kick—flew away, maybe—and a rush of warm, putrid air rushed past him like the breath of a dragon.

  Or the contents of Pandora’s Box.

  He was inside the flat now. The smell wrapped around him, its flickering fingers of green the only visible thing in the otherwise empty void. He could feel it, hear it, taste it all around him. The mulchy stink of rot, and decay, and of things long dead.

  His grip tightened on the baton.

  From the darkness, he heard a voice. Two voices. Three.

  Boys. Children.

  Victims.

  They clawed at him, tearing at his skin with their scratchy sobs, exposing the flesh beneath.

  “Why didn’t you save us?”

  “Why didn’t you come?”

  “Why? Why? Why?”

  The scene shifted. Elsewhere in the flat now. Lights on. Stench stronger than ever.

  A cupboard. A door. A hand, reaching for a handle. His hand, he thought, although he wasn’t in control of it. He was a passenger. An observer. A bystander, nothing more.

  The handle turned. The door opened. Three dead boys cried somewhere behind him.

  And from the cupboard came the nightmares. From the cupboard came the sorrow.

  From the cupboard came the bones.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  There was a face hanging over him, looking down. Logan had it by the throat before he was fully awake, forcing it back from him, keeping it at bay.

  His brain caught up a moment later, and quickly persuaded his hand to release its grip.

  “Shite, sorry. Sorry,” he said, wincing and raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “You alright?”

  “My fault,” said Sinead, rubbing her throat just above the collar of her uniform. “I shouldn’t have startled you. You weren’t waking up.”

  “No. Wasn’t your fault, it was absolutely…”

  He blinked in the glow of the sunlight streaming through the blinds. “Wait, what time is it?”

  “Just after eight, sir.”

  “Eight?” Logan gasped. “In the morning? Jesus. Why did no one wake me?”

  “Maybe worried about being throttled, sir,” Sinead ventured.

  Logan gave a little snort. “Aye. Aye, that might be it. Sorry again. But, Jesus Christ. Eight.”

  “Chief Inspector Pickering said you wanted to see me. I reported in, and DI Forde told me to come wake you,” Sinead explained.

  “Right. Good. What else did Jinkies tell you?”

  “Not a lot, sir,” Sinead replied. “Just that you wanted to see me.”

  It pleased Logan immensely to know that the rank-and-file were fully up to speed on Pickering’s nickname. There hadn’t been so much as a flicker of confusion on Sinead’s face, either, suggesting the name was old news to her.

  Excellent.

  “Did I do something wrong?” Sinead asked.

  “No. Nothing like that. The opposite, actually,” said Logan. He started to stretch, but then caught a whiff of his armpit and hastily aborted. “You did good. I want you working with the MIT on this. You’ve got local knowledge, and you seem to know your stuff.”

  Sinead looked flabbergasted, but it only lasted a moment. She’d processed the shock quickly, and was now moving on. Always a good sign.

  “Thank you, sir. I don’t know what to say. I won’t let you down.”

  “I’m sure you won’t, Constable,” Logan said. He yawned into his hand, then gave himself a shake. “Now, let’s go talk to DI Forde and find out the latest.”

  Sinead looked him up and down in one swift flick of the eyes. “You think you should maybe…?” she began, then she pointed over her shoulder. “I think there’s some spare shirts next door.”

  Logan regarded his own shirt. It had been in a pretty shocking state the night before, and a few hours spent tossing and turning in an office chair hadn’t done it any favours.

  “Aye, good call,” Logan said. “And, if you happen to stumble upon a can of deodorant anywhere, I wouldn’t say no.”

  “Sleeping Beauty awakes,” said Ben, grinning at Logan as he and PC Bell entered the Incident Room. “I was starting to think you’d died up there.”

  “Aye, you wish,” Logan replied, fastened his tie and adjusting it as best he could by touch alone.

  Ben gave a tut, then stepped in and fixed it properly, before straightening the DCI’s collar. “I’ll be wiping your arse for you next.”

  “Again, you wish,” Logan said.

  Ben’s nostrils flared, his face becoming a mask of revulsion as he looked Logan up and down.

  “No, I don’t actually know why I said that,” Logan admitted. “Sorry. Probably best we don’t ever speak of it again.”

  “Aye,” said Ben. “You wish. That’ll be going in the staff newsletter.”

  He motioned vaguely in the direction of the reception.

  “Tyler’s bringing bacon rolls in for us. He should be back in a few—”

  The door opened and DC Neish almost walked straight into the back of Sinead.

  “Oh, sorry. Didn’t see you there,” he said.

  “You’re alright,” Sinead said.

  “Tyler,” said the DC, repositioning his stash of white paper bags until he had a hand free. He offered it to Sinead. “I mean, Detective Constable Tyler Neish.”

  “Sinead. Bell. Sinead Bell.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  Sinead smiled back at him, then stepped aside when Logan thrust a hand out in the DC’s direction, palm open. “Hurry up. I’m famished here.”

  “What are you on for, boss? Bacon, square sausage—?”

  “I don’t care,” Logan said.

  Tyler selected a bag at random and deposited it in the DCI’s hand like an offering to the gods.

  “Thank you.”

  “Any time, boss.”

  While Logan stalked off to his desk, Tyler flashed Sinead an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I didn’t know anyone else would be here. You can have mine, if you like.”

  “I’m fine, ta. I ate this morning.”

  “Oh, thank Christ,” said Tyler, visibly relieved.

  He continued past her, opening one of the bags and peering inside. “Hamza. Cheese salad roll, you freak.”

  Hamza, who had been staring intently at the monitor of his PC, Meerkatted up from behind it at the mention of his name.

  “Shut it, ya dick,” he said, placing his hands together and opening them for a pass. He caught the bag, winked theatrically to celebrate his catching prowess, then diverted his attention back to the screen.

  “Detective Sergeant McQuarrie, bacon, link, or square sausage?”

  Caitlyn seemed to wrestle with her conscience for a few seconds, then held a hand out. “I’ll take the link, then, if no-one else wants it.”

  “I’m not fussed,” said Tyler, passing over another bag.

  “Whatever’s going for me,” said Ben.

  “Right you are, sir,” said Tyler, holding out a bag.

  “Just not the square sausage,” Ben added.

  Tyler hesitated for a moment, then swapped bags. “Sorted. Bacon it is.”

  Sinead shifted awkwardly,
watching the others settle down to eat. “Should I make tea, or something?” she asked.

  Logan forced down a lump of his dry roll. The bacon was so crispy it could cut glass, and he was pretty sure it lacerated his throat on the way down.

  “You’re not here to make tea, Constable. You’re a valued and respected part of this team, no’ a skivvy,” the DCI told her. He gestured with the half-eaten roll. “Tyler can make the tea.”

  “What? I got the rolls!”

  Sinead backed towards the door. “It’s not a problem. You’re all eating. I don’t mind. Might as well make myself useful.”

  “I can think of a few ways she could make herself useful,” Tyler muttered, once Sinead had left.

  A lump of diamond-hard bacon pinged off the side of his head.

  “Ow!”

  “DC Neish, if I ever hear you speaking like that again about one of my officers, or anyone else for that matter, then we’re going to have a big problem,” Logan warned. “Is that clear?”

  “No, I didn’t mean…” Tyler began to protest, but there wasn’t really anywhere for him to go with it. “She seems nice, is all I was saying.”

  “That wasn’t what you were saying. But you’re right. She is. Hence why you’re not going to be allowed anywhere near her,” Logan told him.

  He addressed the rest of the group.

  “If anyone hears DC Neish making similar comments again, or witnesses him attempting to ingratiate himself with Constable Bell, you all have my permission to kick the living shite out of him. Everyone clear?”

  The responses were all far too enthusiastic for Tyler’s liking. “It’s not what I meant,” he mumbled, then he filled his mouth with a big bite of roll to stop himself getting into any more trouble.

  The rolls were polished off. The tea arrived. Introductions were made. And then began the process of getting everyone—Sinead in particular—up to speed.

  As all this was taking place, DS McQuarrie worked her magic with the Big Board, scribbling notes on Post-Its and sticking them in place, connecting Walker and Catriona Reid with another length of red wool, and generally reorganising things based on what they now knew.