22 Dead Little Bodies (A Logan and Steel short novel)

by Stuart MacBride

  Mrs Black’s mouth pursed at that last one. She looked out across the gardens. ‘He tried to kill me.’

  ‘Thought so: they never get rid of the shoes.’ Steel turned the smile on Robson. ‘And did you, Justin Robson, attempt to stab Mrs Black to death?’

  Pink rushed up his cheeks. He stared down at his bare feet. ‘She trashed my car, I was … only trying to … Was carving the Sunday roast when I saw what she did.’ A shrug. ‘Forgot I was holding the knife…’

  ‘And does anyone here present have any just reason why I shouldn’t throw the book at you pair of silly sods and let the courts decide?’ Steel made a gun out of her fingers and shot Mrs Black in the face. ‘Criminal damage.’ Then did the same to Robson. ‘Aggravated assault. Minimum eight months apiece. That what you want?’

  Neither of them said anything.

  ‘Because if I hear so much as a whisper that you’ve been sodding about like this again, I’m going to bury the Great Leather Shoe of God in both your arses.’

  Silence.

  She shot Robson again. ‘Do you understand?’

  He shifted his feet. Turned his head to the side. ‘I do.’

  Mrs Black got another finger bullet. ‘You?’

  A pause. Then she lowered her eyes and nodded. ‘Yes. Fine. No more fighting.’

  Steel raised her arms, as if delivering a benediction. ‘Then by the powers vested in me by the High Heid Yins of Police Scotland, I hereby declare this feud over.’

  — they never get rid of the shoes —

  9

  Stoney eased into the room, a folder balanced on the palm of one hand acting as a tray for a mound of tinfoil-wrapped packages. ‘Three bacon, one sausage, and one booby-trapped. Get them while they’re hot.’

  The rest of the team swarmed him, snatching up their butties, then retreating to their seats to unwrap them. The air filled with the meaty smoky scents.

  Early morning light oozed through the dirty office window, turning it nearly opaque, hiding the pre-rush-hour calm of a slowly waking Aberdeen.

  Logan checked his watch: five past seven. Time to get going. He ripped a bite of sausage buttie and pointed at the whiteboard. ‘Guthrie?’

  At least he didn’t look quite so much like an extra from Night of the Living Dead this morning.

  ‘Mrs Skinner’s boyfriend was a Brian Williams. Twenty-two. Engineer with TransWell Subsea Systems in Portlethen. Steel’s MIT took over the investigation, but I still had to deliver the sodding death message to his fiancée. She wasn’t too chuffed.’

  Wheezy Doug picked at his teeth. ‘There’s a shock.’

  ‘Here’s a bigger one – the MIT are taking all the credit.’

  DS Baird frowned at the whiteboard for a moment, then wiped a smear of tomato sauce from her cheek. ‘Got a good write-up in the paper, though.’ She picked a copy of the Aberdeen Examiner from her desk and held it up.

  The front page had a more formal photograph than the one Logan and Guthrie had been showing around yesterday. A posed family portrait with a marbly background. Everyone in their Sunday best, hair combed, teeth shiny. ‘FAMILY FEARS FOR MISSING CHILDREN’.

  Baird cleared her throat and turned the paper back to face herself. ‘“It wasn’t as if the Skinner family didn’t have enough tragedy to deal with. On Saturday, John Skinner – thirty-five – jumped to his death, and on Sunday, his wife of eight years, Emma Skinner – twenty-seven – was found stabbed to death in a family home in the Bridge of Don. But what hurts most, say John and Emma’s parents, is that Heidi – seven – and Toby – six – are missing…”’ Baird wrinkled her top lip. ‘Why are the papers obsessed with how old people are? What’s the point?’

  Wheezy stuffed down another bite of buttie, talking with his mouth full. ‘They say anything about us?’

  She skimmed the front page, lips moving silently as she went. ‘Nope. “Detective Chief Inspector Roberta Steel…” See they haven’t got her age. “…told a press conference yesterday that Police Scotland was very concerned for the children’s safety. ‘We will leave no stone unturned in our quest to find Heidi and Toby…’” Blah, blah, blah. Nothing about you, or the Guvnor.’

  ‘Typical.’

  A little yellow trail of yolk was making its way down Guthrie’s chin. ‘Guv, are you still interested in Gordy Taylor?’

  ‘Wasn’t interested in him in the first place.’

  ‘Only the girl who gave him a kicking’s up before the Sheriff at twenty past nine.’

  ‘Pleading guilty?’

  ‘Blaming it on PMS and starting university.’

  Baird shuddered. ‘Hate women who do that. “Oh, I can’t act rationally, because I’m a weak and feeble woman at the mercy of my hormonal uterus.” Puts the whole cause back a hundred years.’

  Logan held up his hand. ‘Right, soon as everyone’s finished their buttie, I want—’ His phone blared out the anonymous ringtone that signalled an unknown caller. ‘Give us a minute.’ He pulled it out and hit the button. ‘DI McRae.’

  Screaming battered out of the earpiece and he flinched back.

  Then tried again. ‘Hello? Who is this?’

  The screaming broke into jagged words, roughened by sobs. ‘He’s killed them all!’

  ‘There! Look what he did. LOOK AT THEM!’ Mrs Black’s trembling finger came up and pointed at the back fence.

  The back garden stank of ammonia. It turned every breath into a struggle, caught the back of the throat, made the air taste of sour vinegar and dirt. Logan blinked tears from his stinging eyes.

  Cages ran down one side of the long garden, backing onto the massive leylandii hedge between this side and Justin Robson’s house on the other. Wooden frames with metal mesh inserts, full of perches and floored with sawdust and droppings. Every single door hung open.

  But they weren’t what Mrs Black was pointing at.

  About twenty little bodies were frozen against the back fence – wings out. Most were blue with white faces, but some were green-and-yellow instead. And each one had a large nail hammered through its breast, pinning it to the wood. As if a butterfly collector had decided his hobby just wasn’t creepy enough and it was time to upgrade to something bigger.

  Blood made spattered patterns on the fence behind and beneath them.

  Mrs Black sobbed, tears coating her cheeks, gulping down air only to cry it out again. ‘My babies…’

  ‘OK.’ A nod. ‘Is Mr Black—’

  ‘Don’t you … don’t you dare mention … mention that bastard’s name.’ She ground the heel of her hand into her eye sockets. ‘He walked out on me. On ME! Packed his bags like I was the one being unreasonable.’ She threw her arms out. ‘LOOK AT IT! LOOK WHAT HAPPENED!’ The arms drooped by her sides. ‘My babies…’

  Logan puffed out a breath. Then patted Wheezy Doug on the shoulder. ‘Constable Andrews, maybe you should get Mrs Black inside and make a cup of tea, or something. I’m going next door.’

  Justin Robson folded his arms and leaned back against the kitchen counter. ‘Nope. Nothing to do with me.’ His face was pale with greeny-purple bags under the eyes, his breath stale and bitter. Hair slicked back and wet. Dark-blue dressing gown.

  Behind him, the garden was in darkness, the early morning sunshine murdered by Mrs Black’s spite hedge. A curl of smoke twisted up into the gloom.

  Logan pulled out his notebook. ‘Come off it: she trashes your car, and you decide to turn the other cheek? Really?’

  ‘Wasn’t even here: out all night at a friend’s house. You can check if you like.’

  ‘Oh we will.’ The pen hovered over the pad. ‘Name?’

  ‘Can do you better than that. Hold on, I’ll call him.’ Robson picked the phone out of its cradle and fiddled with the buttons. The sound of ringing blared out of the speaker.

  Then, click. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Bobby? It’s Justin. Sorry to call so early, but can you tell this guy where I was last night?’ He held out the phone.

  ‘What? Yeah, J
ustin came round about six-ish? We watched a couple of films. Had a bit too much wine and a moan about girls till about three in the morning. Justin was so blootered he could barely stand.’

  ‘Cheeky sod. No I wasn’t.’

  ‘Were. So I put him in the spare room. Set the alarm. And went to bed.’

  Logan wrote it all down. At least that explained the pallor and the smell. ‘And he didn’t leave the house?’

  ‘No way Justin could’ve got out without deactivating the alarm and he doesn’t know the code. Didn’t go home till about half an hour ago? Forty-five minutes? Something like that? Told him he should cop a sicky and crash here all morning, but blah-blah work etc.’

  A nice tight alibi. Very convenient. ‘OK, I’m going to need your full name and address.’

  Wheezy Doug snapped off his blue nitrile gloves and stuffed them into a carrier bag. ‘What kind of dick does that to harmless wee birds?’

  Logan nodded back towards the house with the decorated cherry tree. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Mangled. Says that after her husband stormed out, she hit the vodka. Staggered off to bed about eleven after checking the birds were all fine. Gets up at seven this morning and finds that.’ Wheezy puffed out his cheeks. ‘Poor wee things. I had to lever them off the fence with a claw-hammer. That’s why some are a bit squashed.’ He pulled out a pen and printed the evidence label for twenty parakeets, all sharing a big evidence pouch. Each one individually zip-locked into its own tiny plastic bag. ‘What about laughing boy?’

  ‘Says he had nothing to do with it. Got himself an alibi.’

  ‘That’s convenient.’ Wheezy closed the pool car’s boot.

  ‘Exactly what I thought.’ Logan led the way back to the house.

  Robson had moved through to the lounge, a bowl of Rice Krispies in his lap. Breakfast News burbled away on the widescreen telly as he tied a tie around his pale neck. He’d swapped the dressing gown for trainers, jeans, and a pale-yellow shirt.

  ‘… double murder in Aberdeen yesterday have been identified as Emma Skinner and Brian Williams…’

  He straightened his tie, then dipped a spoon into his cereal. ‘You forget something?’

  ‘… committed suicide on Saturday.’ The screen filled with amateur mobile-phone video of John Skinner preparing to jump.

  Logan stepped between Robson and the TV as the anchor handed over to Carol for the weather. ‘You do understand that we can take DNA from the parakeets, don’t you? Whoever killed them will have left their DNA on their feathers. We’ll get it from the nails too. And fingerprints.’

  ‘Isn’t science marvellous.’

  ‘We can match contact traces of metal between the nail-heads and a specific hammer. We can match the nails with ones from the same batch.’

  ‘OK.’ He killed the TV, then put his breakfast on the coffee table. ‘Tell you what, if you don’t believe I was with Bobby all night, why don’t you search the house again? Do the garden too. You can even try the shed.’

  Little sod was either innocent, or arrogant enough to believe he could get away with it.

  Wheezy Doug tucked his hands into his pockets and nodded at Robson’s feet. The trainers were bright white, without so much as a scuff on them. ‘They’re nice. Look new.’

  ‘Cool, aren’t they? Fresh on today.’

  ‘Where are the old ones?’

  He smiled. ‘Yeah, they were getting all stinky and dirty. Plus, someone might have been sick on them last night. So I got rid of them.’

  What a surprise. Nothing quite so incriminating as a pair of bloodstained Nikes.

  Logan took out his notebook. ‘And where, exactly, are these sick-drenched shoes now? In the bin?’

  ‘Ah…’ Robson bared his top teeth in a rabbit grin. ‘I burned them soon as I got home. Was doing some garden rubbish anyway.’ He stood and walked through to the kitchen. Pointed out through the window to a stainless-steel bin, hidden away in the shadows at the bottom of the garden. The thing had holes in its sides and a chimney lid. Coils of smoke drifted away into the morning sky. ‘Never had one before, but it’s really efficient. Burns everything.’

  Definitely arrogant. And probably right.

  Robson frowned. ‘You know, now I think about it, if I’d been nailing live parakeets to a fence, I’d be all covered with scratches and pecks, wouldn’t I?’ He held up his hands. Not a single mark on them. ‘I mean, they’re going to put up a fight, aren’t they?’

  Logan stepped in close. ‘This stops and it stops here. No more. Understand?’

  The smile didn’t slip an inch. ‘Nothing to do with me. You’d have to speak to the bitch next door.’

  Yeah, there was no way this was over.

  ‘We’ll be watching you, Mr Robson.’ Logan turned and marched from the room, down the hall and out the front door.

  Wheezy Doug hurried after him. Unlocked the pool car and slipped in behind the wheel. ‘He did it, didn’t he?’

  ‘Course he did. He doesn’t have scratches on his hands, because he wore gloves. And then he burned them. So no fingerprints on the nails or the birds. And odds on he’d wear a facemask too.’

  ‘So no DNA, or good as.’

  ‘Bet he even burned the hammer.’ Logan stared back at the house.

  Robson was standing in the living room, smiling through the window. He gave them a wave.

  Logan didn’t wave back. ‘This is going to get worse before it gets better.’

  Wheezy pulled away from the kerb. ‘And last time we were here, I distinctly remember DCI Steel making a big thing of how no one ever gets rid of their shoes. The wee turd listened and learned.’

  Logan took his Airwave handset from his jacket pocket. ‘Should’ve arrested them both when we had probable cause.’ Too late for that now though, it’d been no-crimed. He pressed the talk button. ‘DI McRae to Control. I need a Wildlife Crime Officer, or whatever it is we’re calling them these days.’

  Twenty dead parakeets.

  Yeah, this was definitely going to get a lot worse.

  10

  Baird dipped into the big evidence bag and came out with a wee, individually wrapped, dead parakeet. Wrinkled her nose. ‘Poor thing.’

  Logan’s office was warmer than it had any right to be. He cracked open the window, letting in a waft of stale air tainted by cigarette smoke. ‘Killed all twenty of them.’

  She placed it back in the bag with the others. ‘Twenty dead little bodies.’

  ‘If you were Mrs Black, what would you do?’

  ‘Me?’ Baird scrunched her lips into a duck pout. ‘If I was a total nutjob, what would I do? Cut his knackers off. No, not cut, I’d hack them off. With a rusty spoon.’

  Logan sank into his seat. ‘That’s what worries me.’ He pointed at the big bag. ‘Get it off to the labs. I want anything they can get linking the birds to Justin Robson before this goes any further. At least if one of them’s banged up they can’t kill each other.’

  ‘Guv.’ She picked it up. ‘What about the Skinner kids?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Seems a shame, doesn’t it? Wasn’t their fault their mum was screwing around.’

  ‘Never is.’ Logan pulled his keyboard over. ‘If the lab gives you stick about analysing a bunch of parakeets, tell them I’ll be round to insert a size nine up their jacksy next time I’ve got a minute. It’s—’

  A knock on the door and there was Guthrie, face all pink and shiny, out of breath as if he’d been running. ‘Guv … It’s … It’s…’ He folded over and grabbed his knees for a bit. ‘Argh … God…’

  Baird patted him on the back. ‘That’s what you get for eating so much cheese, Sunshine.’

  He shook her off and had another go. ‘Guv, it’s … Gordy Taylor…’

  Logan groaned. ‘What’s he done now?’

  ‘Dead…’

  Baird dumped the evidence bag back on Logan’s desk. ‘I’ll get a pool car.’

  Baird tucked her hair into the SOC suit’s hood, then p
ulled the zip up all the way to her chin. Grabbed a handful of material around the waist and hoiked it up, setting the white Tyvek rustling. ‘You ready?’

  Behind her, a double line of blue-and-white ‘Police’ tape cut off a chunk of Harlaw Road, tied between trees on opposite sides of the street, casting a snaking shadow. A crime scene dappled with light falling through the leaves.

  The houses on the opposite side of the street didn’t look all that fancy – detached granite bungalows with attic conversions and dormer windows – but they overlooked the green expanse of the playing fields, so probably cost an absolute fortune.

  Logan snapped a second set of blue nitrile gloves on over the first. ‘Might as well.’

  They ducked under the outer cordon and rustled their way across the tarmac to the inner boundary of yellow-and-black – ‘CRIME SCENE – DO NOT CROSS’ – where a spotty uniform with huge eyes demanded to see their ID then wrote their names in the log before letting them past.

  Two large council bins were lined up against the kerb, and behind them someone in the full Smurf outfit was squatting beside the body. He had a bony wrist in one hand, turning it over, letting the attached filthy hand flop one way, then the other.

  Logan sank down next to him, blinking at the stench of alcohol and baked sewage. ‘Doc.’

  The figure looked up and nodded – more or less anonymous behind the facemask and safety goggles. ‘Well, it’s official: this gentleman’s definitely dead.’

  He let go of the wrist and shuffled back, letting them get a proper look at the body.

  Gordon Taylor lay curled up on his side; knees drawn up to his chest; one arm thrown back, the hand dangling against his spine; the other reaching out in front. Head twisted back, mouth open. Eyes glazed. Beard and hair matted with twigs and vomit.

  A bluebottle landed on Gordon’s cheek, and the Duty Doctor wafted it away. ‘Well, there’s no sign of serious trauma. He’s not been stabbed, or bludgeoned to death. The only sign of blood is that…’ The doctor pointed at the grubby bandage wrapped around Gordon’s right hand. It was stained with dark-scarlet blobs.