A Litter of Bones

by J D Kirk

  “You’re good at that,” said DC Khaled, watching her over the top of his computer.

  “We sent her on a course,” said Ben. “Two days of sticking things to a wall. Taxpayers money well spent.”

  “It wasn’t just sticking things to a wall, sir,” Caitlyn protested. “I mean, aye, it was mostly that, but they gave us lunch, too.”

  Once the Big Board had been fully updated, Logan and the others took a few moments to study it. There was more information on it this morning than there had been the night before—no question about that. It was just that Logan had his doubts as to whether any of the information was useful, or if the board was essentially just a collage of meaningless bullshit that told them very little.

  “Preliminary forensics on Walker’s house and the boat came in around half-seven,” Ben said.

  “Anything?” Logan asked.

  “Not a sausage. Nothing to suggest Connor was anywhere near the place.”

  “What about the loft?” Logan asked. “Walker was pretty insistent that he hadn’t been up there.”

  “Nothing back on that yet,” Ben said. “I’ll get them chased up.”

  “They’ll give us it when they have it,” Logan said, taking a sip of his tea. He considered Walker’s mugshot over the rim of his cup. “I hate to say it, but I don’t think it was him.”

  “The loft?”

  “Any of it,” said Logan. “Duncan Reid said the work in the loft was done before Walker moved in. Could’ve been someone else.”

  “Walker’s our best lead at the minute,” Ben pointed out.

  “Best? He’s our only bloody lead,” Logan replied. “But I still don’t think it was him. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t think he knew about the teddy bear, and I can’t figure out how he’d know about what was written on the envelope in the original case.”

  “He had been inside,” DS McQuarrie reminded everyone. “Some of the lags talking, maybe?”

  “Unless he was locked up with Owen Petrie in Carstairs, nobody should’ve known about that envelope,” Logan said. His eyes glazed over a little, a memory taking over. “And the way it was laid out. The spacing, or whatever. It was spot on. I mean, like, spot on. He couldn’t have heard about it, he’d have to have seen it. And how could he have seen it?”

  The others had to admit that they had no idea.

  “We’ll keep him in for now, we’ve got a few hours left before we have to decide if we’re going to charge him,” Logan reasoned.

  “We’ll be charging him for the head injury, I assume?” Ben said. “If nothing else.”

  Logan appeared momentarily surprised, then brushed his fingertips across the neat stitches. “No. Aye. Maybe. We’ll see if we need an excuse to hold onto him.”

  A silence fell over the Incident Room as they all went back to studying the Big Board. Sinead stood at the rear of the group, her arms wrapped across her middle. She wasn’t quite sure what she was meant to be looking at, exactly, but she was looking damn hard at it, regardless.

  It was Tyler who eventually asked the question most of them were thinking.

  “So, if Walker doesn’t have the kid, who does?”

  “Not important,” said Logan. He finished his tea and set the mug down on his desk with a thunk.

  “Sir?”

  “The who can wait. It’s the where we need to worry about,” the DCI continued. “If the kidnapper is determined to replicate the Petrie case—and he’s been doing a bang-up job of it so far—then Connor has less than twenty-four hours left.”

  Logan looked across their faces. “I’ll say that again. Connor Reid has less than twenty-four hours left to live, unless we get our fingers out and find him.”

  He gave that some time to sink in. But not much. They couldn’t spare much.

  “So, does anyone have anything? Anything at all?”

  “Email in from the forensics guys,” said Hamza, as his computer gave a ping. “They’re loading everything they’ve got so far onto HOLMES. We should start seeing it in ten minutes.”

  “That’s something,” Logan said.

  “I might have something else, too, sir,” Hamza continued. “But it’s a stretch.”

  “I’d rather be stretching than sitting here scratching my arse. What is it?” Logan said. He gave Hamza a quick once-over, noting the slightly rumbled appearance, and the fact he was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. “Have you been at it all night?”

  “Aye, sir. Fell down a bit of a rabbit hole with a lead.”

  Hamza took a Sharpie from the pen pot on his desk and approached the Big Board. “You know I said I had a long shot I wanted to look into?” the DC began. “It might be something.”

  He studied the map for a moment, then drew a circle around a spot about three miles north of where Connor Reid went missing.

  At first glance, there was nothing in the circle but trees and a section of track. It was only as Logan looked closer that he saw a tiny black rectangle there, slap-bang in the middle.

  “What’s that? A house?”

  “Aye. Well, kind of, sir. It was a croft. Ravenwood, it’s called. Derelict now, from what I can tell on Google Maps. Been no one living there for decades. There’s a few places like this dotted all over the area, so I thought I’d have a check through the Land Registry and see if any of them were interesting.”

  “And this one was?” asked Ben.

  “It was, sir. Aye. It changed hands about twenty-two years ago. Current owner’s some Indian company who probably just bought it for the land, but never did anything with it,” Hamza said.

  “You and me have a very different definition of ‘interesting,’ mate,” said Tyler. He grinned at Sinead, started to wink, then caught the daggers Logan was shooting in his direction and turned his attention back to Hamza.

  “That’s not the interesting bit,” Hamza concluded. “It’s the previous owners. Limited company. Shell company, basically, but one of the directors of that company was another limited company.”

  Something tickled down the length of Logan’s neck. Somehow, he knew. Even before Hamza said the words, he knew.

  “Petrie Construction.”

  DC Khaled tapped his pen against the little black rectangle. “Owen Petrie used to own that house.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  He hadn’t known. How could he not have known?

  Years back, Logan had combed through every file, every document, every damn scrap of paper connected to Owen Petrie, building the case that would keep him inside for the rest of his life.

  He’d had access to bank accounts, tax returns, bloody Primary School reports. He’d turned the man’s whole life inside out and upside down, and compiled a report on everything he’d found.

  For a while, he could recite Petrie’s assets from memory, including those of his construction company. There was a point when he could’ve told the court how many teaspoons the bastard owned, and fairly accurately described their condition.

  But he had a house. Another house, tucked away in the Highlands.

  And Logan had known nothing about it.

  “When was he there?” Logan demanded.

  Hamza puffed out his cheeks. “Hard to say, sir. Not sure he was ever actually there. Looks like it was bought by the company with a view to developing, but it never happened. But the company owned it between…”

  He consulted a Post-It note he’d left stuck to his computer monitor.

  “1992 and 2001,” Hamza concluded.

  Logan reeled. “Jesus Christ.”

  He stepped in closer to the map and stared intently at the black rectangle, like he could somehow see through the roof and into the building below. “Dylan Muir,” he murmured.

  “What’s that, Jack?” asked Ben.

  Logan tore his eyes from the map and turned. “Dylan Muir went missing in 1999. The bodies of Petrie’s other victims were found in or around properties he owned. We never found Dylan. We found his clothes, and Petrie admitted to killing him, bu
t he’s never told us where to find the body.”

  “Isn’t he brain damaged now though, sir?” Tyler asked.

  “Allegedly, aye,” said Logan.

  “You think Connor could be being held there now?” asked DS McQuarrie.

  “Connor? No. That wouldn’t make any sense,” Logan said. He looked across their faces. “Petrie didn’t do this. You do understand that, yes? Petrie’s not involved.”

  “Is it possible that Petrie wasn’t responsible for—” Sinead began, then an urgent shake of DI Forde’s head cut her off before she could finish.

  The warning came too late, however. Logan’s face darkened. “No, Constable, it’s not possible that he wasn’t responsible for killing those boys. I know, because I was there. I saw what he’d done. Alright? Owen Petrie is guilty. And Owen Petrie is safely under lock and key a hundred-and-fifty miles away.”

  “Right, sir. Sorry, sir,” Sinead said, her cheeks burning. DS McQuarrie caught her eye, and offered a reassuring smile. Or possibly one of condolences.

  “Do I think we’ll find Connor Reid at that house?” asked Logan, addressing the room as a whole. “No. No, I don’t. Of course not. Do I think we’ll find Dylan Muir?”

  He glanced back over his shoulder at the map. “Aye. Maybe.”

  “I’d like to go check it out, sir,” Hamza volunteered.

  “You need to get to your bed,” Logan told him. “You’ve done enough. That was good polis work, Hamza, but this has waited twenty years. It can wait another few days.”

  Hamza gave a grateful nod. “Thanks. But, I’d really like to see it through, sir. I could take a quick drive up that way on the way to the hotel. It’ll only take twenty minutes.”

  “Fine. Swing by and take a look. But don’t go trampling around the place. We’ll have to arrange a full search. Is there a ground radar team locally?”

  Logan shook his head.

  “What am I saying? Of course not. We’ll have to get one brought in. Forensic archaeologists, too.”

  “You want to take Tyler with you?” DI Forde asked Hamza.

  “No. We need him here,” said Logan. “We can’t spare the resources.”

  “Could be dangerous, Jack,” Ben said.

  Logan shook his head. “You’re at it, too. Owen Petrie does not have Connor. He can’t. Hamza, if you want to take a look, feel free, just be careful. Phone in when you’re done, then go get some rest.”

  “Will do, sir. Thank you.”

  “You might want to go out the side door, mate,” Tyler told him.

  “Eh? How come?” Hamza asked.

  “You mean, you don’t know?”

  “Know what?” Logan asked.

  Tyler looked from Hamza to the DCI and back again. “You haven’t been outside?”

  The penny dropped for DCI Logan. “Aw, bollocks. Press?”

  “Aye, sir,” confirmed Tyler. “You can say that again.”

  Logan and Ben Forde stood at an upstairs window, gazing down at the scrum below. Four uniforms were in the process of trying to corral twenty-two parasitic bastards into a makeshift holding pen they’d put together using a couple of plastic barriers they’d borrowed from the building site across the road.

  The journos were firing out questions. Logan couldn’t hear them, but he could guess the sort of thing—wildly insensitive, massively speculative, and occasionally stomach-turning. The officers down there almost certainly hadn’t had to deal with this sort of thing before, but from what Logan could tell, they were handling it admirably, with just the right balance of politeness and utter contempt.

  Ben eyed the crowd of reporters. He didn’t despise them to the extent that Logan did, but then he didn’t have as many reasons to.

  They all pushed forward behind the barriers, arms stretching, mouths moving. A zombie horde.

  “You’ll have to give them something,” he said.

  “A bloody good hiding would be my preferred option,” Logan grunted.

  He scanned the crowd, expecting to see Ken Henderson somewhere near the front. But no. For once, Henderson wasn’t in amongst it.

  Small mercies, Logan thought.

  Although, if Henderson wasn’t making an arsehole of himself here that just meant he would be making an arsehole of himself somewhere else.

  “We should get onto the liaison. Check the Reids are alright. If this lot are here, it’ll be worse over there.”

  Ben nodded his agreement. “I’ll get someone on that.”

  He took a breath, then shot the DCI a sideways look. “You seen the headlines yet?”

  “No. But I can guess. ‘Mister Whisper Returns!’ is it?”

  “Pretty much, aye. Just the Scottish papers for now, but a couple of the UK-wides have put it on their websites. The Gozer’s coming up the road to handle the press conference later today. Caitlyn’s preparing a report for him now.”

  “The Gozer? How come he’s coming up? I thought someone from up north would handle it?”

  “Assistant Chief Constable’s request, apparently,” Ben replied. “She’s very keen he should do it. Can’t imagine he’s thrilled at the prospect.”

  “You can say that again. Suits me, though. Means I don’t have to talk to this lot,” Logan said. He cast a look to the mostly clear blue sky and sighed. “The one day you want it to be raining.”

  “Aye. Where’s a bloody great downpour when you really need one?” Ben agreed.

  There was a knock at the door. It opened without waiting to be told, and DC Neish appeared in the doorway. “Boss?” he said, although it wasn’t clear which of them he was directly addressing. “Update on HOLMES.”

  Tyler gave a backwards tilt of his head, indicating for the other two men to follow. “I think we’ve got something.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Logan stood by Tyler’s desk, face to face with a mugshot on the computer screen.

  He was an ugly bugger, whoever he was. Scrawny, dirty, and with all the hallmarks of a long standing heroin habit. One side of his face drooped like he’d had a stroke, and his mouth was a graveyard of worn brown stumps.

  “Who am I looking at?” Logan asked.

  “He’s…” Tyler began, but then he stepped aside and motioned to PC Bell like a compere welcoming a new act to the stage.

  “Forbes Bamber, sir,” Sinead said. “Local scrote. Harmless enough, but got a string of shoplifting charges, and various drugs-related stuff. He’s a pain in the arse, but I wouldn’t peg him for something like this.”

  “Then why have we?” Logan asked. “What’s come up?”

  “Fingerprint,” said Tyler. “From the envelope that was delivered with the teddy to the Reids.”

  Logan perked up. “Now you’re talking. Delivery man, maybe. He might be able to ID whoever gave it to him.”

  “I wouldn’t hold my breath, sir,” Sinead said. “He’s usually pretty wasted.”

  “Well, here’s hoping,” Logan said. He turned back to DC Neish. “Anything else come through?”

  Tyler Alt-Tabbed to another window on his desktop. “Nothing yet, sir. Shouldn’t be long.”

  “OK. Fine. Go back to the junkie.”

  Tyler clicked the mouse. Bamber’s face flashed up like a prop in a Ghost Train.

  “You’ve dealt with him before?” Logan asked Sinead.

  “God, aye. We all have. No saying he’ll remember me, though.”

  “Well, let’s go see if we can jog his memory,” Logan said, grabbing his coat. “Tyler, keep an eye on HOLMES. If anything new comes in, text me.”

  “Gotcha, boss.”

  Pulling on his coat, Logan took a look around the Incident Room. DS McQuarrie was typing up the report for the Gozer, her fingers darting impressively across the keys in stark contrast to Logan’s usual single-digit prodding.

  “Hamza left?”

  “Aye. He’s going to swing by that croft, then go get some kip. We’ve to phone him if we need him,” said Ben.

  “He’ll check in though, aye?�
�

  “Aye. Once he’d had a look he’s going to give us a ring and let us know he’s clear.”

  “Good. Right. Then, I’ll leave everything in your capable hands,” Logan said. He turned to Sinead. “My car’s out front, and I don’t fancy walking past that shower of bastards. Am I right in thinking all the polis vehicles are out back?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sinead confirmed.

  “Good. We’ll take one of those. You can drive.”

  Logan stood in front of DI Forde and held his hands out at his sides. “Tidy enough?”

  Ben flicked a crumb from the DCI’s lapel. “I suppose you’ll do.”

  “Right, then,” Logan said. His coat swished behind him as he turned and stalked towards the door. “Let’s go pay Mr Bamber a visit.”

  “Bloody hell,” Hamza muttered as a front tyre hit another pothole, bouncing his car violently around on the narrow track.

  He was crawling along, but the holes were too frequent to avoid, and deep enough that there wasn’t much he could do when he hit one except grit his teeth, grip the wheel, and try not to bite off his tongue.

  His phone was mounted in its holder on the dashboard, Google Maps open and tracking him. Or trying to track him, at least. It was currently accusing him of being several hundred yards away from the closest road, and seemed to be under the impression that he was driving through a stream.

  Occasionally, the little triangle representing his car would randomly teleport to another location nearby, spin in clueless circles for a few seconds, then snap back to its original position.

  The phone signal was patchy, and the upcoming section of map hadn’t downloaded. As a result, Hamza was about to drive into a perfectly square beige-coloured void, with no idea what awaited him.

  So much for bloody technology.

  He was reaching into the glove box for the map when a sheep launched a Kamikaze run. It bounded out onto the track directly ahead of him, bleating furiously and stamping its feet like some self-appointed Guardian of Sweet-Fuck-All.

  Hamza hammered the brake, churning up the shale beneath the car’s wheels. He cursed as the back end spun into a skid, all his police driving training going completely out the window as he wrestled frantically with the wheel.