What sounded like a dog eating a cactus, but was probably meant to be singing, oozed from somewhere down the hall – a TV tuned to some awful talent show.
Steel paused at the living-room door and stuck her head in. ‘Sooz? Laz is here. You want a drink?’
Click – the noise from the TV died, and Susan appeared. At least ten years younger than Steel, she was the spitting image of a Cary Grant-era Doris Day, only chunkier and with longer blonde hair, wearing a blue summer dress. She smiled, making little wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. ‘Hello, stranger, it’s been ages.’
He bent down and kissed her on the cheek. ‘You look great.’
‘Pfff … I wish. Two and a half years and I still can’t shift the baby weight. You want to see Jasmine? She’s asleep, but you could peek in?’
Steel grabbed a handful of Susan’s arse and jiggled it. ‘Don’t know what you’re worrying about. I like a woman with a bit of padding, just means there’s more of you to love. Now,’ she gave the handful a slap, ‘you show Laz upstairs and I’ll get the drinks in …’
Jasmine lay flat on her back, arms and legs splayed out like a drunken starfish wearing stripy black-and-white pyjamas, little toes and fingers twitching as she snored.
Susan sighed, crept into the room, and pulled the blanket over her. Then came back to the doorway and put a hand on Logan’s arm, her voice a whisper. ‘It’s been so long, we were worried you didn’t want to see her.’
Great: guilt. ‘It’s just been a bit of a sod at work. And with Samantha and everything …’
‘You know you’re always welcome here. You’re not just a donor, you’re a member of the family. And it’s good for Jasmine to see her dad from time to time.’
‘I know, I know. I’ll try harder. I promise.’
‘Good.’ Susan gave him a little hug. ‘Now let’s go get that drink.’
Steel added an obscenely hefty measure to her own glass, then put the bottle of whisky down on the breakfast bar. A couple of plates sat next to it, arranged with olives, cheese, slices of salami and cured ham. She helped herself to a slice of prosciutto, stuffing it into her mouth, then chasing it down with a sip of Isle of Jura while Susan went off to fetch the crisps.
Logan rolled his tumbler from side to side between his hands. ‘Erm …’ He cleared his throat. ‘You remember that money you inherited?’
Steel sniffed. ‘If you’re looking for a sub, you’re out of luck. Every penny’s going on Jasmine’s school fees. Well, when she’s old enough.’
‘I didn’t—’
‘You got any idea how much these places charge? Three or four grand, aye, and that’s not a year, that’s every sodding term!’
He helped himself to a chunk of brie. ‘I’m not after a loan, I want to know how you … you know, decided to take the cash?’
‘Hrmmmph …’ Steel narrowed her eyes. Then jerked a thumb at him as Susan came back from the pantry with a multipack of Monster Munch. ‘Sooz: the boy here wants to know why we took Desperate Doug’s cash. How come we didn’t tell his lawyers to sod off, then go round and piss on his grave?’
Susan dug into the pack and came out with a bag of pickled onion. ‘We do that every year, on the anniversary of his death.’ She popped the bag open. ‘I was thoroughly ashamed the first time, but now we make a picnic of it, don’t we?’
‘Which reminds me—’ Steel hopped down off her stool and crossed to the corner of the room – ‘time to empty Mr Rumpole’s litter tray.’
Logan had an olive while she grabbed hold of the plastic tray by the patio doors and shoogled it until dark poopy monsters rose from the deep. ‘You know what I mean: just because someone leaves you money in their will, it doesn’t mean you’ve got to take it. You hated—’
‘Desperate Doug MacDuff was a nasty, murdering, raping, wee shite.’ Steel scooped the lumps out with a plastic trowel and tipped them into the bin. ‘We took his cash so Jasmine could get a better education. The old bugger was dead, anyway.’ She opened the cupboard under the sink and pulled out a brass urn from between the Flash and Cillit BANG. Gave it a shake. Pursed her lips and frowned. ‘Think he’s beginning to run a bit low.’
Logan tried his whisky. Warm and dark. ‘So you don’t … regret taking the money?’
She unscrewed the lid from the urn, then dug a teaspoon into the opening. ‘He’s dead. Fuck him.’ Steel sprinkled the ashes onto the cat litter. Then she paused, and squinted at him. ‘Why the sudden interest?’
A shrug. ‘I just …’ Don’t tell her the truth! ‘I just wondered what I’d do if it was me.’
‘You can either take the money, or you can be a moaning big girl’s blouse. After what that rancid old bastard did, his debt to me’s never going to be paid off. At least this way we got something.’ She dumped the spoon in the dishwasher, then screwed the lid back on the final resting place of Desperate Doug MacDuff.
Logan peeled off his jacket and draped it over the end of the bed, hiding Samantha’s charts, then wriggled out of his tie. ‘It’s like a furnace in here.’
She pulled the duvet up under her arms and settled back into the pillows. ‘Don’t whinge. Did you bring it?’
He leaned forward and dug in the jacket pocket, coming out with Chalmers’s carrier bag. The book went on the bedside cabinet, next to the bottles of Lucozade and tattoo magazines. ‘Chalmers gave me a copy of Witchfire in the pub. I thought she was coming on to me.’
‘Ha!’ Samantha’s voice fell to a featureless monotone: ‘That’s because you’re so damn sexy us women just can’t keep our hands off you. Ooh, you stud you. Etc.’
‘You can be a sarcastic sod at times, you know that, don’t you?’ He went into the other carrier bag – the one stashed underneath his seat – and produced a tin of Stella. Still cold from the off-licence. The ring clicked off. ‘You want one?’
‘Can’t. Medication.’
Fair enough. The beer fizzed and crackled its way down, cutting through the thin layer of grease left behind after the fish and chips. ‘Steel thinks I should take Wee Hamish’s money.’
Samantha tilted her head to one side and stared at him. ‘Have you put on weight? ’Cos you’re looking a bit chunkier than usual.’
‘You know, there are other women out there. Women who might appreciate a thoughtful boyfriend like me.’
‘Why are fat people always so touchy?’ Samantha picked up the copy of Witchfire. ‘So? Are you going to take the cash?’
‘I’m not fat. Steel says it doesn’t really matter where it comes from, what matters is what you do with it.’
‘Kinky.’ Samantha peeled the stickers off the book’s front cover and dotted them onto her face. Now her forehead was ‘SOON TO BE A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE!’ and her left cheek was ‘2 FOR £10!’ She puffed out her cheeks and dumped the book in her lap. ‘I’m bored.’
‘How can I take money that’s come from running protection rackets, drugs, Post Office jobs, prostitution …?’
‘Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored.’
Typical. Might as well be talking to himself. Logan took another sip of beer. ‘What happened to that Stephen King I bought you?’
Samantha’s shoulders slumped. ‘CD player’s knackered.’
‘Then get your arse better and come home.’
She smiled. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’ She flipped Witchfire over in her hands and frowned at the back for a bit. Then cleared her throat.
‘“Belief can get you killed.
Forbes St John is one of the most powerful and feared men in England: leader of the Holy Inquisition, fourth in line to the throne. So what’s he doing lying on his back in a condemned council estate in central Scotland, with his chest ripped open and his heart torn out?
It’s 1999, two and a half centuries since a captured Charles III was beheaded in Edinburgh, bringing an end to the Act of Union. As Scotland’s ruling body – the Kirk – prepares to celebrate the 250th anniversary of H
eadsman’s Day, the last thing it needs is a diplomatic war with its militant Catholic neighbour.
Rowan Knox, one of the Kirk’s elite Fingermen, will have to catch St John’s killer without anyone finding out he’s been murdered. But that might be the least of her problems. Talk of dark magic, demons, and witches is rife in the inner cities, children are disappearing, and the police are powerless to help.
The darkness is gathering, and Rowan is the only one standing in its way. And if she doesn’t move fast, it’ll tear her to shreds.”’
Samantha shrugged. ‘Sounds OK.’ She tossed it into his lap. ‘Read to me.’
‘Do I look like Jackanory?’
‘But I’m bored.’
‘Then you read it.’
She crossed her arms, thumped back into the pillows. ‘Thought the whole point of getting the book was you finding out what Agnes Garfield was up to?’
Sodding hell. ‘Fine.’ He picked the thing up. ‘Acknowledgements. Writing any book is a labour of love, and—’
‘Don’t be a prat, no one reads that bit. Start at the beginning.’
He flipped forward a couple of pages.
‘And do the voices.’
So this was what it was like to have small children.
He took another sip of Stella. ‘Chapter one.
“The old woman’s hands left bloody smears across the cloth as she smiled from the kitchen door. The whole place stank of meat and lavender and cats, of rendered fat and fear and rubbing liniment.
She dropped the cloth on the coffee table, amongst the jars and bottles. ‘Now, are you sure he doesn’t want an anaesthetic, dear? It’s—’”’
‘You’re not doing the voices!’
It was going to be a long night.
Logan eased back into the room with a mug of tea from the nurses’ station in one hand and a couple of pilfered custard creams in the other. He settled into his seat. ‘Quarter past ten, and it’s like Night of the Living Dead out there. All oldies shuffling about in their slippers wanting to eat people’s brains.’ He dunked a custard cream then sooked off the rind of mushy biscuit. ‘Where were we?’
‘Mrs Shepherd just necklaced Thomas Leis. Crazy psycho bitch that she is.’
He put his tea and biscuits down on the bedside cabinet and picked up the book again. ‘It’s all a bit … violent, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t be such a wimp. Read.’
‘One more hour, then that’s it. Some of us have work tomorrow.’
The nurse with the thick eyebrows and tufty black moustache checked Samantha’s chart. ‘I think it’s sweet that you’re reading to her. Wish I could get Benny to read to me. He’s like a slug when he gets home, just slithers up onto the couch and that’s him for the night. One day I’m going to snap and tip a whole carton of salt over him.’
Logan stretched the knots out of his back. ‘Well, she can have another couple of chapters, then I’m off. Crime doesn’t solve itself.’
The nurse smiled, kissed him on the cheek – the fine hairs on her top lip tickled – then left them alone.
Samantha rolled her eyes. ‘I know, I know: you’re a stud-muffin.’
‘Do you want more book or not? It’s twenty to twelve, I can just go home.’
No reply.
‘Thought so.’ He picked the book up again, skim-reading to where they’d stopped. ‘Right:
“His screams echoed around the tiny bathroom, each wave building on the last – deafening and harsh.
Rowan took a handful of his collar and forced his face down beneath the filthy water again. It sloshed over the edge of the bath onto the cracked floor tiles as he bucked and wriggled beneath the surface. Panicking. Hands tied behind his back, ankles tied to the rusty taps. The only way he’d be able to escape was drown. And she was far too professional for that.
She hauled him up again and he coughed, spluttered, then retched, making the water even dirtier than before.
He sagged there, his shoulders jerking as he sobbed. ‘It wasn’t me, I didn’t know …’
‘You see, Mr Breull, some people think the trial by water’s the easiest of the three. I mean, what’s a little water compared to trial by blood, or fire?’
He went under again, and she leaned her full weight between his shoulders, pinning him to the bottom of the bath. Counted to twelve. Then pulled him back up.
More coughing, more retching, filthy liquid streamed from his nose.
‘One more time: what did you do with Helen Fraser?’
‘Please … Please, I didn’t have any choice …’
Rowan slammed his head into the bathroom wall, hard enough to crack the tiles and leave a smear of blood. ‘SHE WAS SIX!’
And back under the water he went.”’
Tuesday
23
‘Ow …’ A burning knife sliced its way down his spine, then dug its glowing tip into his hip. Twisting. ‘God …’
Silence.
Then the alarm on his phone warbled again.
Logan jabbed a finger at the screen till it shut up. Sagged in the visitor’s chair, legs still up on the bed.
Cramp chewed at his calves. Gritting his teeth, he levered his feet down from the wrinkled hospital sheets onto the grey terrazzo floor – cool beneath his socks. Scrubbed at his face. His voice came out as a deep gravelly growl. ‘Unngh … Time is it?’
Blink. Took a few goes to get his phone in focus, but eventually 06:30 wobbled into view. ‘Crap.’
Whose bloody clever idea was it to read a dirty big lump of a novel till four in the morning?
Samantha was asleep, lying there with her mouth open. Didn’t matter how many times he told her the spiders were going to sneak in and lay eggs in her head, she always slept like a corpse. Lucky for some.
He winced his way out of the chair and limp-shuffled through into the room’s tiny bathroom. Hauled off his shirt and had a spot-wash in the sink with the bar of institutional soap that smelled like a dentist’s office. Rubbed a finger around his teeth till they were all squeaky. Spat. Stared at the baggy-eyed, tousle-haired wreck in the mirror.
It’d have to do.
Logan hauled his shirt on again, crept back into the room, kissed Sam on the forehead, gathered up his jacket and shoes, and tip-toed out of the door.
The corridor was quiet, just the far off wub-wub-wub of a floor polisher, and the all-pervading hum of the hospital. He found a seat and pulled on his shoes.
Someone tutted. ‘Oh dear …’
He looked up and there was Claire, her blue nurse’s uniform pristine and ironed.
She shook her head. ‘Did you sleep in your clothes again? You look like someone sat on you when you were wet.’
He tied his laces. ‘You’re in early.’
‘Bill’s piles are killing him, and when Bill can’t sleep no one else is allowed to either.’ A sigh. ‘I keep telling him, your haemorrhoids’ existence is conditional on your perception of them, the pain you feel is a result of a priori reasoning based on your construct of self. Of course he says they’re not conditional and his perception of them is derived from experience which makes it a posteriori, not some airy fairy a priori notion outwith the scope of empirical knowledge.’
Logan stared at her. ‘The evenings must be just packed.’
A shrug. ‘For René Descartes it was, “I think, therefore I am.” With Bill it’s, “My arse hurts, so I’ve got piles.”’
He stood. Smiled. ‘Any chance you can keep the metaphysics down to a dull roar today? She was up late last night.’
‘We’ll do our best. Next time, let me know you’re staying over and we’ll get you a wee bed set up.’ She glanced down the corridor towards Sam’s room. Then lowered her voice. ‘So are you still getting that cat, because if you are, I have a source …?’
‘She wants to call it Cthulhu.’
‘That’s … er … distinctive.’ Claire patted him on the arm. ‘Now, do you fan
cy a cuppa before you head off?’
The briefing room was full of cardboard boxes, so they convened in the main CID office instead – the whole of dayshift squeezed in between the desks and partitions, staring at the projection screen behind Steel’s head. The necklacing victim, smoke and flames caught in freeze-frame, mouth open in that tortured silent scream.
She hauled up her trousers and scowled at everyone. ‘Do you really need me to tell you what’s going to happen if those Weegie bawbags get here and we haven’t solved this sodding necklacing thing?’
A wee DC with trophy-handle ears and a squaddie haircut stuck his hand up. ‘Is this still a gangland hit?’
‘Depends, doesn’t it?’
‘Only, you know, it’s pretty much identical to what happens in this book, Witch—’
‘We know. Now—’
‘Well, what if it’s a publicity stunt? You know, the production company are trying to whip up a bit of interest in the media? Get some buzz out about the film …’
Silence.
Logan shifted in his seat. Here we go.
The tips of the constable’s ears went pink. ‘Well, it’s … possible, isn’t it?’
Steel stared at the floor for a moment. ‘Are you seriously suggesting they chained some poor sod to a metal stake, jammed a tyre over his head, and set fire to it, so they could get a wee slot on Lorraine Bloody Kelly?’
Constable Idiot put his hand down.
‘Right, if there’s no one else wants to make an arse of themselves, we’ve had three dead bodies in as many days. I’m no’ having another one, understand? This is it: no more!’
She dug into a plastic carrier bag and pulled out a bottle of Highland Park. Held it above her head. ‘And if anyone catches the bastard before Strathclyde gets here, this is yours.’
Chalmers shifted in her seat. ‘What about the victim from last night? Initial reports say they may have been staked out on the kitchen floor and tortured. Two torture victims in three days: could be related?’
‘We’re no’ ruling it out, but we’re no’ relying on it either.’ Steel clunked the bottle down on the table next to her. ‘Right, people, just in case you’re thinking of running off on your own to play on the swings: chain of command. As these are all high-profile deaths our beloved Assistant Chief Constable is carrying the bucket of jobbies, and I’m in charge of doling them out to whoever’s pissed me off the most that day. For now, DI McRae’s running the necklacing case, Leith’s doing the torture victim, and Bell’s on our skeleton. If they hand you a turd, you thank them kindly and deal with it. ’Cos if I hear you’re shirking jobbie duty, I’ll hunt you down and make sure you’re pooping shoe leather for a week. Understand?’
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8 Page 59