Shatter the Bones

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘I’m sure he’s coping fine.’

  ‘Good. Good.’ A pause. ‘What with the McGregor case and everything…?’

  ‘Fine. Couldn’t be better. Doing a great job.’

  Another pause.

  ‘Well, then I’ll let you get back to your sex offenders.’

  Dodgy Pete’s wasn’t exactly what you’d call a watering hole for the bright young things. More a hospice: palliative care for alcoholics on their way to a booze-soaked oblivion. But it was a two-minute walk from the Munro House Hotel, and that was good enough for Steel.

  The scuffed linoleum made sticky noises, trying to hold onto the soles of Logan’s shoes as he followed her over to the bar. It was busy in here for a change: a dozen people scattered in pairs about the low room, staring up at a widescreen TV mounted on the wall. The Aberdeen versus VfB Stuttgart live from Germany: two–nil to the home team.

  The barman was huddled at the far end of the long hard-wood bar, holding a muttered conversation with a thin girl in cargo pants and a camouflage hoodie. There was something laid out on the surface between them, but Logan didn’t have time to see what it was before she snatched it up and stuffed it into the black rucksack at her feet.

  Steel thumped her hand down on the bar and clambered onto a stool – the red vinyl held together with grey duct tape. ‘Hoy, Pete, stop perving up that young sex-pot and make with the drinkies.’

  The huge man sniffed. Then turned and lumbered over, a red Aberdeen University sweatshirt stretched to ripping point over his belly. Pete ran a hand through his Santa-on-an-off-day beard, and squinted at the three of them. ‘Usual?’

  Steel nodded. ‘And a couple brace of Grouse too.’

  ‘You paying for these?’

  The inspector stuck out her bottom lip. ‘Pete, I’m shocked. Are you suggesting Grampian’s finest come in here looking for freebies?’

  ‘Bloody right I am.’ He grabbed a couple of pint glasses from under the counter, stuck one under the Stella tap, the other under the Deuchar’s IPA. Then sniffed in Rennie’s direction. ‘What about the sunburnt wee loon?’

  The constable stuck out his chest. ‘I’ll have a pint of—’

  ‘He’ll have a Diet Coke.’ Steel pulled out her fake cigarette. ‘Driving, remember?’

  ‘But Guv—’

  ‘Give him a packet of prawn cocktail too.’

  Dodgy Pete stuck the pint of IPA onto a curling cardboard coaster, then picked up a couple of short glasses and clunked a double shot in each from the Grouse whisky optic, making a great show of waiting till the little plastic container filled all the way up each time. ‘Anything else?’

  The girl in the camouflage hoodie grabbed her rucksack and slipped quietly out of the pub.

  Steel turned and stared after her. ‘You’re no’ up to anything dodgy, are you Pete?’

  ‘My daughter. Not that it’s any of your business.’ He rapped a knuckle on the sticky bar. ‘Now are you paying for these or not?’

  ‘Lighten up, eh, Pete? No’ my fault the Shop Cops did you for serving short measures, is it?’

  They took their drinks through to the snug – pretty much a walk-in cupboard with two bench seats and a table wedged into it. Steel crumpled down, sighed, then took a huge gulp out of her pint. ‘Can’t hang about tonight, boys, I’m on a promise.’

  Logan pulled the reports out of his pocket and stuck them on the table. ‘Ninety-six RSOs interviewed today… So far we’ve got three with possible access to veterinary surgeries. No hospitals – turns out the NHS frowns on registered sex offenders creeping about the wards.’

  Steel had a scratch. ‘Who’s doing the vets?’

  The whisky tasted like a peat fire, burning its way across Logan’s tongue, making his gums tingle. Dodgy Pete must’ve stopped watering the booze down too. ‘DI Evans. No one’s reported any thiopental sodium missing.’

  Rennie crammed in a mouthful of crisps. ‘What if they bought it off the internet?’

  Steel stared at him. ‘Drink your Diet Coke. Things are sodding complicated enough as it is.’ Then back to Logan. ‘You sure about the hospitals?’

  ‘McPherson says—’

  ‘God’s sake, he’s no’ doing that as well is he? Talk about abandon-bloody-ship. I’ll have a word with Finnie, see if we can’t get someone else to…’ She creased her face up. ‘Marmiteflavoured arseholes. He’s no’ speaking to me any more.’

  Logan frowned. ‘Yeah, about that – why were we winding Maguire up? He’s not on the register, I checked.’

  ‘Because…’ She turned and looked at Rennie. Then dug out a handful of change. ‘Here, go get yourself some more crisps.’

  ‘But I don’t—’

  ‘Then go play on the bandit, something.’ Pause. ‘Bugger off for five minutes.’

  Rennie picked a couple of pound coins from the pile, then scooped up his crisps and drink. ‘Be like that, then.’

  She waited till he’d left the little room. ‘We gave Mr Baldy a hard time because Acting DI MacDonald was in charge of that bit of the investigation. And I don’t trust him. OK?’ She held up a hand. ‘It’s no’ that he’s dodgy, it’s just that he’s completely fucking hopelessly out of his depth. And I know Finnie thinks the same, or he’d no’ have been there holding his hand at the church.’

  ‘I see…’

  ‘Laz, I know you lot in the Wee Hoose are thick as thieves, but there’s a wee girl’s life at stake. I’m no sodding about with this one.’

  Fair point. ‘So what about McPherson?’

  Steel pulled a face, then took a swig of whisky. ‘You leave Disaster to me, we’ll—’

  The rest was drowned out by cheering coming through from the main bar. ‘GO ON MY SON!’, ‘RUN YOU WEE BUGGER!’, ‘GO ON, GO ON!’

  The volume on the telly was cranked up – the roar of the crowd booming out of the speakers. ‘And it’s Hansson to Paton. Up the outside … and he crosses to Gibson… Gibson shoots and—’

  Sudden silence.

  ‘AWWW! FUCK’S SAKE! NO’ NOW!’, ‘PETE! FIX THE FUCKING TELLY!’, ‘DID HE SCORE?’

  Logan’s phone rang – he dragged it out and checked the caller display: Colin Miller.

  ‘Colin?’

  The TV blared into life again: ‘Interrupt your programming to bring you a news bulletin…’

  DI Steel’s phone was ringing too. ‘Can a girl no’ have a wee drinkie in peace?’

  ‘…believe that?’ Colin’s voice was almost inaudible over all the racket.

  Logan stuck his finger in his other ear. ‘Hello? Colin?’

  ‘I said, they’ve sent another package, aye: to the BBC! Mate of mine works there, he’s just called.’

  Crap. ‘What is it? What did they send?’

  ‘I mean, why didn’t they send it here? They always send stuff here fi rst.’

  ‘Colin: what – did – they – send?’

  Steel was on her feet. ‘Shite…’ She stuck her phone against her chest. ‘They’ve sent more toes to the BBC.’

  Rennie crashed back into the snug. ‘You got to come see what’s on the telly!’

  ‘Have I no’ done everythin’ they’ve asked for? How’s that fair?’ Everyone in Dodgy Pete’s stared up at the big TV, where a straight-backed reporter was doing a bit to camera. ‘…just five minutes ago.’ There was a perfectly framed shot of two tiny toes in high-definition. Pale pink digits with swollen ends, the edges of the cut dark and discoloured. Unlike the big toe sitting on ice in the mortuary, these had definitely been cut from a living person.

  Colin: ‘Laz? Laz, you still there?’

  ‘Shut up a minute.’

  ‘The toes were delivered to BBC Scotland offi ces in Aberdeen, along with a DVD and instructions to play it on air. The following footage contains graphic scenes and may distress some viewers…’

  Steel had her phone to her ear again. ‘Aye, we’re watching it.’ The screen went black, then faded up on a graffiti-covered room, bare floorboards, sunlight stream
ing in through the chinks in a pair of boarded up windows. The whole image swung around, the autofocus taking a moment to catch up. A pair of tiny feet, stained orange-brown around the sides. Chipped pink nail varnish.

  The two little toes were missing, the stumps where they should have been puffy and red, the skin stitched together over the holes with black thread. The knots looked like spiders, bursting out of the angry flesh.

  ‘Holy fuck…’ Someone in the bar dropped their pint. A crash of splintered glass.

  The camera swung upwards. There was no mistaking the wee girl lying on her back, on what looked like a swathe of white plastic sheeting. Blonde curls, that long straight nose, the apple cheeks. Eyes half shut, a sheen of drool streaking down from the corner of her open mouth. An IV line was taped to the inside of her left wrist.

  She groaned and twitched.

  A purple-gloved hand moved into shot, holding a copy of the Edinburgh Evening Post. ‘TOE NOT JENNY’S BUT POLICE STILL DENY HOAX’. The camera zoomed in on the date. It was today’s edition.

  The picture faded to black, then the familiar artificial voice burst out into the silent bar.

  ‘This is not a hoax. You have four days left. If you raise enough money, they will live. If you do not, they will die. Do not let Jenny and Alison down.’

  A pause, then the newsreader appeared back on the screen. ‘Harrowing footage there. We go live now to Grampian Police Headquarters and our correspondent Sarah Williamson. Sarah, what can you tell us?’

  Chapter 21

  ‘…man’s a complete prick.’ Biohazard Bob wrinkled his nose. The Wee Hoose’s door was closed, muting the noise from the main CID room: phones ringing; constables and support staff running about, trying to cope with the sudden barrage of calls from people who’d seen the broadcast. ‘You’ll never believe what he said to me yesterday: gave me this big monologue about the McGregor case and then—’

  ‘“One thing’s for certain”,’ Rennie struck a pose, ‘“We’re dealing with no ordinary kidnappers!” Like he thinks he’s on TV.’

  Bob raised his big hairy eyebrow. ‘You too?’

  Logan nodded. ‘And me.’

  DS Doreen Taylor sighed. ‘And there I was, thinking I was special.’

  The sound of phones and borderline panic got louder as the door swung open. DI Steel slouched into the room. ‘Right, listen up, ’cos I can’t be arsed saying this twice.’ She nudged the door shut with her heel, then stared at Rennie. ‘Well? Move it!’

  The constable stood, and perched himself on the edge of Bob’s desk instead.

  Steel groaned her way into the vacated chair. ‘In light of recent developments we’re having a wee reorganization. McPherson’s trying to track down the dead kid the first toe came from; Acting DI MacDonald’s taking over the hospital enquiries; Evans has the vets, and I’m sticking with the sex offenders.’

  Rennie held up his hand. ‘Does this mean—’

  ‘I’m no’ telling you again.’

  He put his hand down. ‘The media’s going mental. The Chief Constable’s arse is knitting buttons. SOCA’s rubbing its grubby wee hands. And Bain’s decided to give Superintendent Green a “more active role in the investigation”.’

  Here we go. ‘Apparently he’s got experience with kidnap cases.’

  Every bloody time. ‘So,’ Steel dug a hand into her armpit and rummaged, ‘we need someone to “facilitate” Green’s “interactions”, whatever the hell that means. Logan—’

  ‘Why? Why does it always have to be me? Why do I have to babysit every tosser that comes up to Aberdeen?’

  ‘If you’d shut up moaning for ten sodding seconds and let me fi nish… Logan: you’re excused from Mongtown – with Bell doing the back shift we’re nearly through them anyway. As of now you’re on arse-covering duty. Go over everything we’ve done so far: victim profile, door-to-doors, everything, make sure there’s nothing a public enquiry can do us for screwing up. Get yourself a minion.’ She gave up on the armpit and started hauling at her bra instead. ‘Doreen: Superintendent Green has chosen you to hold his hand. Try an no’ get carried away, eh? We know what you horny divorcees are like.’

  Bob reached over and patted Doreen on the shoulder. ‘See, you are “special” after all.’ Then he grinned at the Inspector. ‘What about me, Guv?’

  Steel sniffed. ‘You found Stinky Tam yet?’

  ‘Well… Not as such…’

  ‘Then you’d better get your finger out, hadn’t you?’

  Logan paused the video. Swore. Hauled out his ringing phone and cut Lydia The Tattooed Lady off short. ‘Sam?’

  Her voice nipped from the earpiece. ‘Forget something did we?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I’m coming home in a minute.’

  ‘Where are you, like I need to ask?’

  He looked around the gloomy room. It was a scruffy admin office on the fourth floor, one of the ones slated for refurbish ment, which was the only reason he’d been able to commandeer it. Half the ceiling tiles were missing, loops of grey cabling snaking between the concrete supports for the floor above. A little oasis of dirty green carpet tiles clung to one patch of grey floor, and that was where Logan had set up the desk he’d conned from Building Services.

  One desk. One chair. One laptop. And two heavy brown cardboard boxes full of files.

  ‘I’ll be home soon, OK?’

  ‘Half-seven, McRae – I’m holding you to it. Oh, and I’ve got a box of Stella and a couple of Markies’ lasagnes in. We can make a night of it.’

  ‘Soon, I promise.’ Pause. ‘Look, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Half-seven, remember?’

  And she was gone.

  Logan pressed play again.

  On the laptop screen, Alison McGregor was being bundled down the stairs, kicking and struggling, trying to head-butt the guy in the SOC suit carrying her. Through the hallway into the kitchen. The guy was wearing one of those stick-on name badges they handed out at conventions. It was nearly impossible to read, but the BBC’s Crimewatch had chucked a pile of licence-fee-payers’ money at a digital imaging house to pull out the word, ‘TOM’.

  A little girl in Winnie the Pooh pyjamas was huddled in the corner by the fridge – a pillowcase or something over her head. Hands fastened in front of her. Trembling.

  Alison McGregor froze, then exploded. Legs flying, kicking out at random, bucking, writhing. Eyes bugging out above her duct-tape gag.

  The guy holding her finally gave up: slammed her into the fridge, then bent her over the working surface and fastened her ankles together with thick black cable-ties. A bag over her head. Then someone stepped into frame and brained her with a cosh, or something similar.

  Alison went limp.

  All done in total silence.

  Whoever hit her, bent and hauled her up into a fireman’s carry. For a whole two frames his name badge was perfectly clear: ‘DAVID’. Fifteen seconds later they were out through the kitchen door and into the darkness of the back garden.

  Fade to black.

  Then the artificial voice: ‘You will raise money for the safe return of Alison and Jenny McGregor. You have fourteen days, or they will be killed. You will tell the police. You will tell the television stations. You will tell the public. Or they will be killed. If you raise enough money within fourteen days, Jenny and Alison will be released. If not, they will be killed.’

  ‘You still here?’

  Logan turned. DI Bell stood in the doorway, a slice of toast in one hand, a mug of something in the other. A warm, meaty smell drifting out of it. ‘Just heading off, Guv.’

  Bell stepped into the room, wandered over to the window, stuck the toast in his mouth – like a rectangular duck’s beak – and peeked through the blinds.

  Logan powered down the laptop. ‘Thought you were in charge of back shift interviews?’

  The inspector let go of the blind, took the toast from his mouth. Chewed. ‘Got a call from Trisha Brown’s mum – nine, nine, nine. Completely off her face: say
s someone was round there with a cricket bat smashing her prized heirlooms to smithereens.’ Another bite of toast. ‘Wasn’t you, was it?’

  ‘Very funny, sir.’

  ‘Who says I’m being funny?’

  Logan just stared at him.

  DI Bell shrugged. ‘Anyway, when McHardy and Butler got there the place was even more of a craphole than normal. She’d been given a going over too.’

  ‘Drugs?’ Logan clunked the laptop shut and slipped it into its carrying case.

  ‘Poor old Helen probably tried to buy them off with a freebie, but being clean-living and sensible sorts, they beat the shite out of her instead. And the answer to your next question is no: your girlfriend Trisha wasn’t there.’

  He hefted the laptop bag over his shoulder. ‘Anyone found Shuggie yet?’

  ‘If the bugger’s got any brains he’ll be lying low in Dundee or Glasgow by now. Blending in with the scheemie smack-heads till the heat dies down.’

  Logan stood. ‘That’s me off.’

  ‘Right… Right.’ Bell finished off the last chunk of toast, washing it down with whatever was in the mug. ‘I’m not going to have to give you another call at three in the morning, am I?’

  ‘Christ, I hope not.’

  Logan stuck his head through the open door to the main incident room. It was a bit swankier than the one he’d commandeered on the fourth floor: Finnie had a complete set of carpet tiles for a start. It was lined with whiteboards and flipcharts, full of desks – seating for about thirty officers – its own photocopier, and a small glass-walled office in one corner so the Chief Inspector could keep an eye on his troops.

  They’d set up a screen on the wall furthest from the door, a roof-mounted projector flickering away in the darkened room. Playing the latest video from Jenny and Alison’s kidnappers.

  Finnie, Superintendent Green, Doreen, and a handful of officers were watching as the camera panned across to Jenny’s feet.

  Green held up a hand. ‘Stop it there. Go back a bit…’

  The picture lurched into reverse. ‘OK, freeze.’ He stood and walked to the screen, took a chunky pen out of his pocket and pointed at the image. Click, and a little red dot appeared on the wall of the graffiti-covered squat, tracing around the timestamp in the bottom right corner. ‘Eleven thirty-two. Now look at the patterns of light on the floor.’