Red blossomed in the middle of ROGER’s chest.
52
Logan eased the gun out of Alison’s hands.
‘He was going to hurt my little girl …’
Jenny was sitting on the floor by the window, knees drawn up to her chest, bandaged feet scrabbling on the blood-slicked floorboards. Screaming.
Rennie scooped her up, backing off into the middle of the room. ROGER lay crumpled on the floor. The semi-transparent plastic of his mask darkened, speckles of red spraying out around the voice modifier with every breath. His purple-gloved fingers twitched above the hole in his chest. Blood seeped through his SOC suit. ‘Gachhhh …’
‘Rennie, get her out of here.’ Logan glanced down at Green. ‘And take that with you.’ He pulled out his phone as the constable hauled Green to his feet.
‘MUMMY!’ Jenny reached out, but Rennie held on tight and carried her out through the door, Green limping and snivelling and moaning along behind him.
‘I need an ambulance here ASAP – kidnapper has gunshot wound to the chest.’
Alison McGregor raised her chin. ‘I did what any mother would’ve done to protect her baby.’
Fit aboot Alison and Jenny, they OK?’
‘Just get the bloody ambulance sorted!’ Logan gave him the address then hung up.
ROGER twitched and spasmed. ‘Oh fuck …’ The words came out in a gurgle of red. ‘We were … going to stick the money in … in a charity fund … siphon … siphon it off …’
Logan stared at Alison. ‘You told someone to set fire to my flat?’
‘He’s lying.’ She wrapped her arms around her chest. ‘He’d say anything to save himself.’
ROGER’s left foot banged against the wooden floor, beating out a tattoo. ‘Gaaaach …’
Logan knelt beside the trembling man and eased off the plastic mask.
It wasn’t Craig Peterson.
‘Any news?’ Dr Goulding closed the door.
Logan looked over his shoulder, then back out of the window of his makeshift incident room. ‘Still in surgery.’
‘Well, look on the bright side – if he does survive, how long do you think he’ll last in prison?’
Logan just shrugged, watching the crowds outside the front of FHQ. There had to be at least five hundred people out there, all clutching their ‘WE LOVE YOU JENNY!’ ‘WE NEVER GAVE UP!’ banners, or just waving their mobile phones about, as if it was some kind of rock concert. The TV people must be loving this.
‘So,’ Goulding patted him on the shoulder, ‘why aren’t you down there, enjoying all the glory and adulation? This is your moment in the sun.’
‘They found Craig Peterson.’
‘Did they now?’
‘Sitting in his Renault; hose from the exhaust in through the driver’s window. Bob said the whole car reeked of whisky. There was a text message in his phone for his mum, telling her he was sorry for letting her down. Never sent it.’
‘Hmm … Did you notice how the deaths are all about being unable to breathe? Bruce Sangster with a plastic bag over his head, Davina Pearce with a belt around her neck, Craig Peterson with the exhaust fumes? I really hope Gordon Maguire survives, it’s going to be fascinating finding out what it means to him.’ A frown. ‘I wonder if it’s a common fantasy for television producers …’
‘He was losing his business, investors waiting for him to go bankrupt so they could buy up the assets.’ Logan rested his head against the window. ‘Maguire said it was all Alison’s idea. That she came up with the whole thing.’
How could anyone be that manipulative? So completely callous and amoral that they’d mutilate their own daughter just to become a little bit more famous?
The psychologist ran the tips of his fingers across the glass. ‘I always thought there was something funny about the toes. Why amputate two little toes, when one big toe would’ve been much easier?’ He smiled. ‘Did you know some women in the US have their pinkie toes removed so they can wear expensive high heels? Looked at a certain way, what happened to Jenny isn’t so much a disfigurement as a cosmetic enhancement.’
‘How am I supposed to prove it? It’s his word against hers, if he lives. Everyone else in the gang’s dead: no witnesses, no forensics. There’s sod all to tie her to …’ He picked up the dusty blue folder he’d got Guthrie to dig out of the archives. A house fire in Kincorth six and a half years ago. Two fatalities – Doddy McGregor’s parents. ‘Maybe that’s why her house was so tidy – she knew she was going to be abducted. Didn’t want us to take crime scene photos of the place looking like a pigsty.’
The crowd on the Front Podium roared and cheered. Must be Alison McGregor making her triumphant exit from the station. Logan scowled. ‘And nine point four million’s peanuts compared to what she’s going to rake in from sponsorship, movie, and publishing deals.’
From his commandeered office, Logan watched her wave and glad-hand her way into the throng. She could’ve sneaked out the back in an unmarked car if she’d wanted to, but no: she wanted to bask in the love of her fans.
Oh – my – God! She’s here, she’s finally here. God she looks great, she’s so brave.
Beatrice Eastbrook gives herself a quick once-over. Hair: going a little frizzy with all the FUCKING drizzle, but other than that, OK. Make-up: good. Outfit: perfect. It’s the one Alison helped her pick out on what was, swear to God, the greatest day of her whole life.
Alison stands in the middle of the crowd, surrounded by microphones and cameras. ‘I just want to thank you all for never stopping believing!’
A cheer.
‘And, if it’s OK with you guys, we’re going to put the Freedom Fund to good use – setting up a charity to support the families of our brave troops. To show them that we’ll never stop believing either!’
Another cheer.
Alison’s got a couple of minders with her, big ugly blokes in black suits. They clear a path in front of her, moving really slowly so she can talk to all her fans. All the people who love her.
But not the way Beatrice loves her. No one loves Alison McGregor like she does.
She’s getting closer. It’s just like in her dreams. Beatrice has prayed every night for two whole weeks that the bastards who took Alison away from her would die horrible deaths. That’s the kind of friend she is. The kind that doesn’t give up on someone.
Here she is – so close, so close …
Beatrice elbows her way to the front. Don’t these bastards know who she is? She’s Alison’s best friend!
Alison looks right at her and smiles.
Beatrice’s heart almost stops. Right then and there. Bang. Dead. Killed with a smile.
She steps forward and wraps her arms around Alison. ‘God, I’m so glad you’re safe!’
Beatrice holds her tight. Never let go. Best friends forever.
And then Alison leans forward and whispers something in her ear.
Beatrice blinks. ‘I’ve got a present for you …’
Thump, thump, thump, THUMP, THUMP – the blade’s a living thing, flashing and biting and there’s blood everywhere and people are screaming and the two big thugs in their black suits just stand there with their mouths hanging open and Beatrice keeps on going, stabbing and stabbing.
Then someone grabs her by the throat, someone else by the arm, hauling the blade from her hand. They drag her to the ground, kicking and punching as she laughs and laughs and laughs.
53
Eleven o’clock and the hospital sounds were muted. Just that constant humming throb, as if the place was one huge machine designed to chew people up and leave nothing but pale shells behind.
Logan stood beside Helen Brown’s bed, hands behind his back, watching a woman barely older than he was crying quietly because her grandson was going into care and her daughter was going to lose both legs.
‘The doctors say she’s comfortable, and—’
‘Get out. Just …’ Helen Br
own ground her fists into her eye sockets. ‘Just leave me alone …’
‘Daren McInnes will die in prison, I promise he’ll—’
‘YOU SHOULD’VE FOUND HER SOONER! YOU SHOULD’VE FUCKING CARED!’ Her voice echoed around the small ward.
‘All right, Helen, calm down. He’s leaving.’ The big nurse squeaked to a halt on the terrazzo floor, face large and pink. She scowled at Logan. ‘Aren’t you?’
The unformed constable shook Logan’s hand. With the pointy nose and go-faster cheekbones, he looked like a shaved whippet. ‘I know it’s all fucked up and that, sir, but I wanted to tell you: you did a great job.’
Then why did he feel like shit? ‘Mr Webster in?’
‘Shuggie? Aye, he’s not going nowhere till they sort out his hand. Hate to think how much these skin grafts are costing, like he ever paid taxes in his life.’ Constable Whippet shifted his feet. ‘Here, sir, if you’re stopping for a bit, any chance I can nip off for a piss?’
‘Sure.’ Logan stepped into the room and closed the door.
Shuggie was sitting in the chair beside his bed. The bruising hadn’t gone down much, if anything it looked worse – the blues and purples evolving into sickening greens and yellows. His right hand was encased in some sort of cage, probably keeping pressure off the raw meat and bare bones inside.
Logan cleared his throat. ‘How are you feeling?’
Shuggie looked up, then squealed, shrinking back into his chair. ‘I didn’t say anything! I didn’t, I swear to God …’ He held the cage against his chest.
So that was the kind of person Logan was now: the kind people were terrified of.
‘I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. For everything.’
Shuggie kept his eyes on the cage around his hand. ‘I promise I won’t say anything …’
‘Yes, well …’ The nurse curled her top lip, exposing off-white teeth. ‘Don’t worry – she’ll pull through. Bastards like her always do. It’s the good ones who die young.’
On the other side of the glass, Beatrice Eastbrook lay in a private room, hooked up to a bank of monitors. Her head was wrapped in bandages, the few patches of visible skin bruised and scabbed.
The nurse cleared her throat. ‘We’ve … Well, someone has to tell Jenny that her mummy’s gone.’ Silence. A cough. ‘You know.’
Logan nodded.
‘Hi.’ He stood at the foot of the hospital bed.
She was tiny, dwarfed by the scratchy sheets and the big metal frame, lying on top of the covers. They’d changed the dressings on her feet – swapping filthy, blood-soaked bandages for fresh white.
Jenny stared at him, her mouth a hard little line.
‘Yes … Anyway …’ Logan reached into the plastic bag the IB had given him, and pulled out a blue teddy bear. ‘We found this in … well, I thought you’d like him back. For company.’ He held the bear out, but she didn’t move. ‘Right. I’ll just put him here.’
He sat it at the bottom of the bed, where she could see it. Something familiar from home. She’d like that. ‘Are you OK?’
She stopped staring at him and stared at the bear instead.
‘There’s a little girl who got knocked down by a car; the doctors had to cut off her leg, and the people who kidnapped you stole it. They sent her big toe to the police, pretending it was yours.’
Logan scratched the fur between the bear’s ears. There’s going to be a ceremony later and the Lord Provost’s going to give it back to her. I think her mum and dad want to bury it … Anyway, the little girl would like to meet you, if you’re free later? Would you like that?’
Silence.
He swallowed. Let out a long breath. Then pulled up a plastic chair. ‘Jenny, the doctors want me to tell you about your mummy …’
‘So, the Chief Constable made an official complaint, and now Green’s buried under a mountain of paperwork, trying to explain why he charged into a hostage situation and let someone shoot someone else with the gun he wasn’t supposed to have.’
No reply.
Logan stared at the ceiling. The caravan still smells like a mouldy tramp, by the way. You should see the size of the spiders – bastards are demanding squatters’ rights …’
He squeezed Samantha’s hand. The skin was cold.
The machine hissed and pinged, breathing for her. Another bleeped, displaying her heartbeat. Everything stank of disinfectant, boiled cauliflower, and despair. Even Wee Hamish Mowat’s huge bunch of flowers couldn’t cover that up.
‘They found out who torched the flat.’ He cleared his throat. ‘When they ran Craig Peterson’s DNA through the system, it matched the stuff on the outside of the flat door. It … That’s why there was no fibres or fingerprints. I picked on him because I thought he needed taking down a notch, and he …’ A deep breath. ‘He must’ve through I was on to them. So he tried to get us out of the way. It was my fault: all of it. All of this…’
Logan bent forward until his forehead rested on the scratchy blanket.
‘I don’t want to be a police officer any more. I don’t fucking deserve to be one any more.’
The machines bleeped and hissed. The building throbbed.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK. Shhhh …’ A hand stroked the back of his neck. ‘It’s OK.’
He looked up and Samantha smiled down at him from her nest of pillows.
‘God, Logan, you make such a fuss about stuff.’
‘I thought you were—’
‘I’m fine. Didn’t think you were going to get rid of me that easily, did you?’ She pulled the wires from her wrist and chest. ‘Come on, let’s blow this corrugated craphole before they decide to stick me in another sodding coma.’ Samantha swung her legs out of bed and hopped down onto the linoleum …
Logan blinked, jerked upright in his seat. Wiped a hand across his mouth, clearing away the drool.
Samantha just lay there, hooked to the machines with tubes and wires, not moving, not saying anything.
Because in real life there were no happy endings – in real life there was just pain and shattered bones.
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental. The only exception to this are the characters Donna Delaney, Allan Guthrie, and Dave Goulding, who have given their express permission to be fictionalized in this volume. All behaviour, history, and character traits assigned to these individuals have been designed to serve the needs of the narrative and do not necessarily bear any resemblance to the real people.
Harper
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
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Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2011
Copyright © Stuart MacBride 2011
Cover photograph © Michael Cevoli/Corbis
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2012
Stuart MacBride asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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arperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Source ISBN: 9780007344215
Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2013 ISBN: 9780007344239
Version: 2015–07–10
STUART MACBRIDE
CLOSE TO THE BONE
Dedication
For Ishbel
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Without Whom …
Saturday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Sunday
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Monday
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Tuesday
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Wednesday
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Thursday
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Copyright
Without Whom …
Books like this would be a nightmare to write without access to a bunch of very clever people who don’t mind me picking their brains and asking stupid questions. As usual, anything I’ve got right is down to them and anything I’ve got wrong is down to me.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8 Page 39