Shatter the Bones

by Stuart MacBride

  Buchan hunched his shoulders. ‘And she’s there for about a minute, then they argue or something. Then suddenly, for no reason, he punches her in the face, really hard, you know? She tried to get out of the car, but he dragged her back in. Hit her a couple more times. Then drove off…’

  Logan stared at him. ‘And you didn’t report it?’

  He sniffed. ‘Linda thought we could, you know, if we sent in a ransom demand before anyone else did… I got made redundant last year, and ever since—’

  ‘The note had blood on it.’

  ‘It was on the road, after he drove off. Must’ve been when she tried to get out of the car. I … sort of rubbed the paper in it.’

  ‘You saw a woman being assaulted and abducted, and instead of trying to help her, or calling the police, you sat down and figured out a way to make money out of it?’ Logan curled his top lip. You nasty, opportunistic, crappy excuse for a human being. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘I can’t really—’

  ‘What kind of car did he drive?’

  ‘It was a sort of blue saloon thing, but I don’t—’

  ‘WHEN DID IT HAPPEN!’

  Buchan flinched. ‘It wasn’t my fault, OK? She was a nightmare – her and her bloody mother, always nicking things so they could buy drugs. Lurching about pissed or stoned out of their brains. Shouting at people, swearing. They shouldn’t be allowed to live near decent people!’

  PC Caldwell grabbed the handcuffs and hauled Buchan to his feet. ‘You’re not decent people. Because of you her wee boy had to sleep on his own in a bloody wardrobe, in an empty house! She might be dead!’ Caldwell gave the handcuffs another haul. ‘Now answer the bloody question: when?’

  ‘Ow! You’re hurting me! Saturday, it was Saturday evening, after that tribute show for Alison and Jenny.’ He stared at the carpet and its bloodspatter of beans. ‘That’s… That’s sort of where we got the idea from.’

  Logan couldn’t look at him any more. ‘Get him out of here.’ PC Caldwell shoved the trembling man towards the living room door. ‘Edward Albert Buchan, I’m arresting you for attempting to pervert the course of justice…’

  ‘Sarge?’ Rennie let his MP5 dangle on the end of its strap. ‘Might still be Shuggie, then? Maybe she wasn’t cool with the plan so he smacked her about a bit. Wouldn’t be the first time.’ He paused, head on one side. ‘Or maybe it was all staged, you know? Make sure there’s a couple of witnesses and put on a show. They call the police, and that way when the papers get the ransom note it all looks legit!’

  Logan looked down at the mess on the living room floor. Alison McGregor’s face stared back at him from the cover of a glossy magazine. ‘WHY I’M BACKING THE “HOPE FOR HEROES” CAMPAIGN.’

  ‘There hasn’t been a ransom note, remember? It was all that tosser Buchan.’

  ‘Oh … right.’

  ‘Saddle the troops. One body stays to watch the house, one takes the Buchans back to the station – I want an e-fit of whoever grabbed Trisha Brown. Everyone else back in the van. Let’s go see what Shuggie Webster has to say for himself.’

  The unmarked van shuddered to a halt. Then a thump came from the thin metal wall dividing the driver’s compartment from the rows of seats hidden in the back. They’d arrived.

  ‘OK,’ Logan checked his MP5 again – all the bullets were still there, ‘same drill as last time: no shooting anyone, no getting shot. Webster used to have a huge Rottweiler, but that’s dead.

  This doesn’t mean he doesn’t have another dog – so be careful. If you fancy a few days’ holiday resting up in A&E do me a favour and slip in the shower tomorrow morning.’

  PC Ferguson stuck his hand up. ‘We sure this is the right address, Sarge? I mean, I thought those GSM traces only gave you a hundred-foot radius?’

  ‘We went over this already, Greg.’ Logan fastened the Velcro on his bulletproof vest. ‘We’ve got a known associate of Shuggie’s bang in the middle of the area they traced his phone to. Try and pay attention.’

  Silence. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

  ‘We ready?’

  Nods. ‘Then let’s do it.’

  Tillydrone baked in the light of the evening sun. The housing block was a huge U-shaped canyon made up of harled concrete – four storeys tall on all three sides, arranged around some yellowy grass and a car park: the tarmac bleached to a pockmarked grey. A handful of trees tried to make the barren space look a bit more presentable, their branches groaning with blossom.

  Rennie took point, scuttling across to a brown door, ducked inside, then held it open for everyone else to charge through. A gloomy corridor, the window at the far end blocked off with cardboard and brown parcel tape. Rennie charged up the stairs, Logan doing his best to keep up – the scabs on his ankle complaining with every step. First floor. Second floor…

  ‘Here, watch where you’re going!’ An old lady stooped on the landing, a squeegee mop making dark wet streaks on the concrete. ‘I just cleaned that!’

  Rennie pulled the black scarf down away from his mouth. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘So you bloody should be! Do you think I’ve got nothing better to do than clean up after your size nine jackboots?’

  ‘Sorry, sorry…’ He crept past on tiptoes, then ran up the next flight of stairs.

  Behind him, Logan shrugged. ‘We’ll try to be quick, but maybe you should go get yourself a cup of tea or something?’

  She shook the mop at him, sending droplets of pine-scented water spattering over his bulletproof vest. ‘Don’t you tell me what to do, you bloody fascist! I’m eighty-three… You come back here!’

  Logan hurried up the stairs after Rennie, hearing a procession of ‘Sorry,’ and ‘Excuse me,’ and ‘You’re doing a lovely job,’ behind him.

  Third floor. Rennie was flattened against the wall outside a blue door with a brass number five on it. The constable shifted his submachine gun into position. ‘Big Red Door Key?’

  ‘It’s a third floor flat, where’s he going to go?’ Logan reached out and pressed the doorbell.

  A dull buzz came from inside.

  A minute later, someone shouted, ‘Hold on, I’m naked…’ Finally the door clunked open and man stood in the gloomy hallway, a short, threadbare green dressing gown clutched about his middle. He ran a hand over the stubble covering his lopsided head, looked Logan up and down, then stuck his head out into the corridor. Saw the rest of the firearms team. Grunted. ‘Suppose you’d better come in then.’

  Zack Aitken slumped back in his seat, knees twitching open and closed, as if he was working a set of bellows between them. The room had the unmistakable funky-sweat odour of cannabis and dirty bong water.

  PC Caldwell grimaced. ‘Any chance you can sit with your knees together or something? Or at least put on some underwear. It’s like watching two mangy hamsters fighting over a cocktail sausage.’

  ‘All right, enough.’ Logan unfastened his helmet and dropped it on the couch. ‘Where is he, Zack?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who – Shuggie Webster. We tracked his mobile here.’

  ‘Wee bastard…’ A pained smile. ‘Well, you see, he kinda asked if he could borrow my phone to make a call, and I thought, yeah, why not – what are friends for, right?’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Wh—’

  ‘If you say “what” I swear to God I’m going to drag you down the station and get a doctor with the biggest hands I can find to give you a full body cavity search.’

  ‘Aye, OK. On top of the telly. And before you ask, I got the receipt somewhere.’

  Rennie picked it up and threw it across. Logan went through the menus till he got to the call log. And there it was – a two-minute call made at two forty-five that morning to Logan’s mobile.

  ‘Where is he?’

  A huge shrug, his arms coming level with his shoulders which made his dressing gown ride up even further. ‘No idea. Shuggie wanted to borrow a phone and a bit of folding, you know? I didn’t ask any question
s.’ Aitkin’s smile was full of squint little teeth. ‘Like I said, I’m a good mate.’

  Logan peeled off his gloves and dumped them in the upturned helmet. ‘You know he’s screwed, don’t you?’

  The smile narrowed. ‘He’s got some problems, yeah.’

  ‘Witness says Trisha Brown was snatched off the streets Saturday evening. Someone beat the crap out of her. Blue saloon car.’

  The smile disappeared completely. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Yes, “fuck”. Fuck is exactly right. Shuggie Webster is well and truly fucked. Now, if you’re really such a “good mate” you’ll help me help him.’

  ‘Seriously, I have no sodding idea. He turned up at my door last night, looking like shite and wanting a place to crash. Made a couple of phone calls, got stoned, ate all the Coco Pops, fell asleep, woke up, ate all the bread, left with five hundred quid in his pocket.’

  Logan stared at him. ‘That it?’

  ‘That, and I know he seriously hates the shite out of you.’ Shock, horror.

  PC Ferguson knocked on the doorframe. ‘Sorry, Sarge: been through the whole place, no sign of Shuggie. Even took the front panel off the bath like you said.’

  ‘Attic?’

  ‘Communal; access off the next floor up – nothing but cardboard boxes, some wine-making kit, and spiders.’

  ‘Well, sorry I couldn’t be more help, officers, but I really need to jump in the shower.’ Zack gave PC Caldwell a wink. ‘You want to stay and shampoo my back? I like a big girl when she’s all soapy.’

  ‘You manky little—‘

  Rennie and Ferguson grabbed Caldwell and dragged her away before she could kill him.

  Logan picked his helmet off the couch. ‘One more thing. These dealers he’s in trouble with?’

  ‘Ah … yeah. Robert and Jacob. Yardies. Now normally I’ve got no trouble with our proud Jamaican brothers, but these two are a right pair of cunts. You see what they did to Shuggie’s hand?’ A shudder. ‘He was fucking mental to get involved with that pair. And you know what?’ Zack pointed towards the front door. ‘I’m not going to make the same mistake.’

  Chapter 34

  ‘Pub?’ Rennie waggled his hand in the universal sign-language for pint.

  Caldwell nodded. ‘Pub.’

  Ferguson: ‘Pub.’

  Then everyone was at it, all seven members of the firearms team: ‘Pub.’

  ‘After you’ve written up your incident reports.’ Logan smiled. ‘And as no one got shot, it’s my round.’

  It was like watching small children discover there was a Father Christmas after all.

  ‘Right,’ Caldwell sniffed her own armpit, ‘quick shower, then Archies?’

  ‘Not again!’

  ‘Last time I was in, so were three blokes I did for nicking cars. Kept spitting in my pint when I wasn’t looking.’

  ‘How about the Athenaeum?’

  ‘Illicit Still?’

  That was the thing about Aberdeen – you were never more than five minutes from at least half a dozen pubs.

  Logan pushed through the door to the locker room. ‘What about Blackfriars? We could…’

  Sergeant Big Gary McCormack was standing right in front of him, blocking most of the room. Mug of coffee in one hand, Tunnock’s Caramel Wafer in the other. ‘The sainted Sergeant McRae, as I live and breathe. How gracious of you to bless us with your exalted presence. Where’s my pool car?’

  ‘It’s evidence, you can have it back when the IB are finished with it.’ Logan pushed past him. ‘We’re off to the pub in about half an hour, if you’re—’

  ‘Oh, no, no, no!’ Big Gary jammed the last chunk of chocolate into his mouth and masticated it to death. ‘You’re not going anywhere. You have guests.’

  Logan opened his mouth, but the huge sergeant held up a hand.

  ‘Reception: soon as you’re ready.’

  ‘Hmm…’ Dr ‘Call me Dave’ Goulding peered at the little TV monitor in the Downstream Observation Suite. On the screen, a young woman – little more than a girl, really – was sitting at the interview room table, in the chair that was bolted to the floor. Both hands clasped in front of her, thumbnails worrying at the skin on her right forefinger.

  ‘I can’t say I remember her at all.’ The psychologist frowned. ‘But then, I only lecture final year students, so…’ He flipped through the file Logan had given him – all the interview transcripts, the university’s comments, the stuff from the PNC. ‘Hmm… A history of stalking, and a shrine in her room to Alison and Jenny McGregor—’

  ‘No, just Alison.’ Logan passed over the photographs of her room, taken by the constables who’d gone to pick her up: Beatrice Eastbrook’s bedroom wall, in all its Silence of the Lambs glory. ‘Well, Jenny’s in the painting, and a couple of the photos, but mostly it’s just Alison. She’s the only one who gets a halo.’

  ‘Now that is interesting…’ A small smile. ‘The religious iconography isn’t what I’d have expected, given her background. Normally your stalker types are more fetishistic in their devotions.’ He stroked the screen with his fingertip, tracing the outline of Beatrice’s face. ‘Is she under arrest?’

  ‘She’s in on a volly. It’s not illegal to be a bit creepy.’

  ‘Well, in that case…’ He handed the file back. ‘Let’s not keep the young lady waiting.’

  It took about five minutes for Logan to become completely and utterly lost.

  Beatrice leant forward. ‘Actually, my thesis is going to be investigating the role of sublimation and suppression in the intimacy-versus-isolation phase of psychosocial development, with direct reference to the role played by the media’s celebrity bias.’

  Goulding nodded. ‘Erikson and Freud, I like it. Have you considered including Kohlberg’s ideas of self-focused morality?’

  She smiled. ‘Yes, that would make sense. Celebrity culture often portrays examples running contrary to the negative consequences of transgressing the perceived moral law.’

  ‘Glad I could help.’

  The one thing Logan did understand was that the longer Beatrice spoke to Goulding, the more her true Birmingham accent came out in response to his Liverpudlian one. And the less she sounded like the bunny-boiling fruitloop they’d interviewed that afternoon.

  Goulding opened the folder, and pulled out the photos of her room. ‘Now that we’ve established a rapport, Beatrice, I’d like to ask you about these…’ He laid them out on the scarred tabletop.

  She picked at the skin around her finger again. ‘I know you’re probably thinking I’m being obsessive, but it… I think she’s an inspiration. A loving mother, a single, independent woman, and she’s a super-talented singer, and she’s doing a degree…’ Beatrice reached for one of the photographs, a closeup of the watercolour with the tinfoil halo. ‘People believe in the strangest things, don’t you think? Some tribes worship a tree, Scientologists think we’re all descended from aliens. Mormons, Anglicans, Catholics, Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists – all have their own little quirks.’ A shrug. ‘I chose to invest my faith in something human. Does that sound strange, compared to believing there’s an invisible magic man who watches everything we do and can damn us for all eternity?’

  ‘Do you feel it’s a normal response?’

  ‘You think I might be displacing my need for a maternal role model?’

  Goulding smiled. ‘Is that what you think you’re doing?’

  On and on and on and on. Psychologist and psychology student, sounding like a self-help seminar for Martians.

  Logan rapped his knuckles on the table. ‘What did Alison think about you having a shrine to her on your bedroom wall?’

  Beatrice shifted in her seat, hands flattening out the photo on the table in front of her.

  ‘Did she know about it?’

  ‘She … came round this one time to borrow some lecture notes. There was a knock at the door, and I opened it, and there she was. I mean right there – at my door.’ Beatrice nodded, up and down, and up and down, cu
rly bleached blonde hair falling over her eyes like a curtain. ‘I mean, God, can you imagine it? Right there in front of me. And I couldn’t speak. I mean, literally couldn’t speak. And she said, “Hi Beatrice, can I come in?”’

  The student looked up, a huge smile stretching her mouth wide, eyes glittering. ‘She knew my name. Alison McGregor knew my name. And I asked her in and she saw the wall… And she said, and I’ll never forget it, she said, “Wow. That’s a lovely painting, did you do that?”’

  A tear broke free, running down through the foundation on her cheeks. ‘She loved it. She said it was nice to know that someone loved her, like I loved her. That other people didn’t understand. And I ran down to the shop and got us a bottle of Chardonnay and we sat and she told me about Jenny’s mumps and I told her about my mum and it was the best night of my whole entire life.’ Beatrice stroked the photograph. ‘She was just perfect.’

  And the bunny-boiling fruitloop was back. ‘I was worried about her – all those photographers and crazed fans pestering her all the time. So I followed her home on the bus a few times. Just to, you know, make sure she was safe. She never even knew I was there… But I kept her safe.’

  Tell that to Jenny and her missing toes. ‘Did you follow her on Wednesday night – the night she went missing?’

  Beatrice wrapped her arms around herself, as if she was trying to stop herself bursting apart. ‘No… The one time it mattered, and I let her down.’ She stared straight into Logan’s eyes, tears running down her cheeks. ‘It wasn’t my fault. I tried, but she didn’t take the bus, someone pulled up outside the lecture theatre and she got in his car. And they drove away. And I never saw her again.’

  Why did no one ever think about calling the police? Logan sat forward. ‘Did you get a photo of the car? Do you know who was driving? Did she mention meeting anyone?’

  ‘No, I mean yes… I saw him.’

  Silence.

  For God’s sake. Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Bald. And he had a silly little patch of hair on his chin, sideburns with a sort of zigzag cut into them.’ She wrapped her arms even tighter. ‘It was that Gordon Maguire: the TV producer guy who owns the record company.’