Shatter the Bones lm-7

by Stuart MacBride

  Maguire took off his trendy glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Listen, OK? Yeah, the pre-orders for the album are huge, but if I don’t have Alison and Jenny, I can’t finish recording the bloody thing. We’ve got about half the tracks in the can and I’ve only got three weeks to get it done.’

  ‘Don’t-’

  ‘Three weeks — after that the bank call in my overdraft. We’ve sunk everything we’ve got into making Britain’s Next Big Star. Orchestras, backing choirs, classical scores, performance rights payments, cameras, crew, sets… The costs are suffo cating. But we can’t cut corners because we’re up against the X-Factor and Britain’s Got Talent, and the Search for Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Next Whateverthefuck. If we pull it off, we make a sodding mint, but right now the whole production company’s sliding down a razorblade into liquidation using its ball-sack as a brake.’

  Maguire ran a hand across his bald head. ‘And you’d think my investors would be rubbing their hands at all the publicity, wouldn’t you? But no, the thieving wankers are waiting for us to go under so they can step in and take a hundred percent, get some cheap-arsed Lithuanian company in to make the next series, and pocket the difference. You lot are lucky — there’s honour amongst thieves. TV companies are all bastards.’

  Steel fiddled with her e-cigarette. ‘So you’re no’ the one who sent us a severed toe?’

  He closed his eyes. ‘No. I didn’t send you a toe. Where the fuck would I get a toe from?’

  ‘You’ve done worse for a wee bit of publicity: like them tampons-’

  ‘It wasn’t even real blood! We dipped them in some fake stuff we got off the internet, OK? We’re a small company, we do everything we can to create a buzz. Alison and Jenny don’t need it — they’re going to win Britain’s Next Big Star… They were going to win. Fuck knows what’s going to happen now.’ He pinched his nose again. ‘Look, I want them back. If they come back, the ratings go through the roof, we finish the record, Blue-Fish-Two-Fish doesn’t have to go into receiver-ship, everyone makes a shit-pile of money, and we all live happily ever after.’

  Steel scowled at him. ‘Aye, well, you know what I think? I think-’

  The door banged open.

  DCI Finnie stepped into the little room. Behind him, Logan could see Superintendent Green and Acting DI Mark MacDonald filling the corridor.

  ‘Inspector Steel,’ Finnie’s rubbery face pulled itself into something that wasn’t quite a smile, ‘I thought you were supposed to be tracking down a paedophile ring. Did I imagine that? Or have you somehow manage to miraculously work your way through every sex offender in Grampian in time for a jolly into town? Hmmm?’

  Chapter 19

  ‘Afternoon, Guv. If you’re here for Kylie Minogue’s autograph you’re too late — she’s buggered off home. Took the hump when I wouldn’t give her a seeing to.’

  ‘Do I really have to remind you, Inspector, that one little girl is already dead, and we’ve only got five more days to stop Alison and Jenny McGregor joining her?’

  They stood staring at one another.

  Steel sniffed, then stuck the e-cigarette back in her pocket. ‘I’m done with Mr Maguire anyway.’

  ‘Acting DI MacDonald.’ Finnie turned his fake smile in Mark’s direction. ‘Why don’t you do me a favour and escort Mr Maguire back to the station?’

  ‘Oh, come on!’ The producer threw his hands in the air. ‘I’ve got a bloody plane to catch! We’re shooting a live TV tribute in-’

  ‘After all, I’m sure he wouldn’t like anyone to think he wasn’t cooperating with the police at this delicate time. Would you, Mr Maguire?’

  ‘Bloody… OK, OK.’ He barged past into the corridor. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Finnie gave Logan the once over, top lip curled. ‘If you don’t mind, Sergeant, I’d like to speak to DI Steel in

  private. Perhaps you could use the time to pop past Professional Standards? I hear they’d love a little chat with you about some rape allegations.’

  Shite. So much for plan A. ‘Yes, right.’ Logan squeezed out of the room, and Finnie closed the door.

  A muffled argument.

  Standing out in the corridor, Superintendent Green nodded: as if they’d just agreed on something. ‘So, Detective Sergeant…?’

  ‘McRae. Logan. Sir.’

  Another nod. ‘I see.’ He tilted his head on one side, staring, a little crease between his eyebrows. ‘Rape?’

  ‘Just a junkie making stuff up. Thinks she can blackmail me into giving back the drugs we seized off her boyfriend.’

  ‘I see… And have you ever investigated a kidnapping before, Sergeant? I mean a real one, not just drug dealers grabbing each other off the street: ransom notes, body parts in the post, that kind of thing?’

  No, but you have, haven’t you, you smug bastard. ‘Not really, sir. Kidnapping’s not that common in the north-east.’

  More nodding. Then Green patted him on the shoulder. ‘Walk with me, Sergeant.’

  The Superintendent turned and marched out into the afternoon. The graveyard was slowly emptying — now the TV cameras were turned off and all the celebrities had gone, the crowd would all be scurrying away home to check their DVD recorders. See if they’d managed to get on the telly.

  Green looked down at his feet as they walked along the path from the church — big grey slabs laid in a wide, meander ing walkway. He stopped just in front of a large rectangle of granite. It was a gravestone laid on its back in the middle of the path, the name nearly worn into obscurity by generations of scuffing feet. ‘When I was small, my father would take me to church every Sunday, after Mother…’ Frown. ‘Well, anyway, one day he said, “You see that? That name beneath your feet? We’re walking on dead people.” And I nearly wet myself. I was about five, I think. Had nightmares for months.’ Green took a step, so he was standing right on top of the head-stone. ‘Why does the inspector call you “Laz”?’

  ‘Private joke.’

  Green raised his chin, shoulders back, staring out across the empting graveyard. ‘We’re going to need to pull out all the stops on this one, Sergeant. It’s vital we get Jenny back before anything happens to her.’

  Well, duh. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Normally I’d expect the kidnappers to grab some rich kid, send a ransom note to the parents telling them not to get in touch with the police or the kid dies. A demand for money to be handed over at a clandestine location. All done in complete secrecy.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘But this…’

  He looked as if he expected stirring theme music to swell up at any minute.

  ‘They grab two people in the public eye — people without any family — and instead of conducting their seedy business in the shadows, they send their ransom demands to the newspapers. They want the police involved.’

  Go on, say it… ‘We’re not dealing with ordinary kidnappers here, Logan.’ Dun, dun, daaaaaaaaa! ‘No, sir.’

  As if they hadn’t worked that little gem out for themselves.

  NO! NO! NO! NO! She tries to wriggle free, but the monster in white holds her tight, wraps his papery arms around her, lifting her up off the ground.

  ‘Hold still, you little bitch!’ His voice is all weird: hard and metal like a robot, like the silver monsters on Doctor Who, like a Cyberman.

  Her heel smashes into something soft and squishy.

  A buzz, a crackle. ‘Oh, fuck…’ And the arms let go.

  She tumbles to the bare floorboards. The monster staggers against the wall, one hand on the paint-sprayed wallpaper, the other grabbing his willy.

  She scrambles to her feet and runs for the door. Get back through to Mummy, where the bed is, where-

  Ulp…

  Her feet fly out in front of her as the chain around her neck snaps tight.

  ‘Come back here you little cow.’

  Mummy’s voice, shouting in the other room: ‘Don’t hurt her! You promised you wouldn’t hurt her!’

  ‘Kicked me in the blood
y balls!’

  She’s dragged backwards across the floorboards, arms and legs thrashing.

  ‘MUMMY!’

  ‘YOU PROMISED!’

  Thump. She’s lying on her front, with a heavy weight on her back — warm and rustling. The monster grabs her wrist, wraps something around it and pulls. It makes a Vzzzzwip noise. Then the other wrist, and both her arms are stuck behind her back.

  ‘MUMMY! MUMMY, THEY’RE-’

  A purple hand covers her mouth. It smells like bicycle tyres on a hot day.

  ‘Tom: don’t just bloody stand there!’

  More weight, pinning her legs to the floor.

  Vzzzzwip. Vzzzzwip. And now her ankles are stuck together. A scritchy, ripping noise, then the hand lets go of her mouth and a strip of something sticky is jammed into place. She can’t even open her lips. All she can do is hiss and mumble and cry.

  Then the monsters let go.

  She wriggles as hard as she can, flopping about like a gold-fish on the bathroom floor. That’s what happens to Bad Little Girls…

  ‘Bloody hell. Looks like she’s having a fit.’

  Wriggle. Thrash. Flop … struggle … twitch. Lie panting on the floorboards, tears dripping from her nose.

  Another monster steps into the room and clunks the door shut behind it. ‘Will you two stop pricking about?’ A lady monster — it’s difficult to tell from the Cyberman voice, but she has boobies. She has a name badge stuck to her white crinkly chest, with ‘HELLO MY NAME IS’ at the top, and ‘WILLIAM’

  underneath.

  All the monsters are wearing them. ‘TOM’ and ‘SYLVESTER’ stand back, staring down at Jenny.

  WILLIAM crosses her arms. Every move makes a rustling sound. It’s not skin, not like she thought in her bedroom when they came for her — it’s that stuff the police wear on the television when something bad happens. Sticky purple gloves, blue shower-caps on their feet. Plasticy masks that hide their faces and make them look like robots. It goes with the horrible metal voices. ‘Where’s Colin?’

  TOM shrugs. Then SYLVESTER points over his shoulder, ‘Throwing up.’

  ‘Oh for Christ’s sake.’ She nods. ‘Get him.’

  ‘But-’

  ‘Now!’

  Robots, arguing. ‘OK, OK…’ SYLVESTER hurries out, feet scuffing on the floor.

  ‘Get her on the table.’

  TOM grabs her by the collar and waistband of her jammies and hauls her off the ground. ‘Wriggle and I’ll bloody drop you on your head, understand?’

  She stays very still. ‘Good girl.’

  Good Little Girl.

  Thump — TOM dumps her on the table. Holds her there with a heavy hand in the middle of her back.

  WILLIAM, the lady monster, stands over her. ‘Stop crying. If you behave yourself it’ll all be over soon.’

  The door clunks.

  Jenny blinks away the tears. It’s SYLVESTER, back with another monster. This one has ‘COLIN’ written on his chest. He’s carrying a little plastic box.

  WILLAM doesn’t look at him. ‘Get on with it.’

  COLIN clears his throat. ‘I… Erm… Look, it’s just… I mean, do we have to? Can we not just send the papers another photo or something?’

  ‘You saw what they’re saying on the news.’

  ‘But I’ve never done… She’s just a little girl.’

  ‘I know what she is. Now do your bloody job. Or do you want me to tell David you won’t? Is that really what you want?’

  ‘But I-’

  WILLIAM grabs him by the front of his crumply white suit. ‘What fucking good are you if you can’t do a simple bloody procedure?’

  ‘But amputating isn’t just… There’s the risk of infection, MRSA, septicaemia, blood clots, shock, what if-’

  ‘Pull — your — fucking — weight.’

  She lets go and he steps back. Stares down at his blue feet. Then nods.

  ‘You need to roll up her sleeve.’

  Fire bites her shoulders as TOM twists her arm, dragging her jammie sleeve up to her armpit.

  Please no. Please no. Please no.

  COLIN puts the plastic box down on the table. Opens it. She can see shiny sharp things sparkling inside. Then he takes out a tiny jar and a jaggy needle. He goes back in for a little foil packet, tears it open and pulls out a little tissue. Wipes it against the inside of her elbow, it makes the skin go all cold.

  Then he fills up the jaggy needle. ‘I’m sorry…’

  A hard scratchy feeling, then a stabbing pain, like being stung by a bee.

  Another wipe. ‘We need to give it a minute.’

  She blinks.

  The bee sting doesn’t hurt any more. ‘I still don’t think-’

  ‘No one’s asking you to think, Colin.’

  Blink. Blink.

  She’s in the playground on the roundabout, spinning faster and faster, round and round, trees and houses and monsters whooshing past. Blurry plastic faces, muzzy booming Cybermen voices. Fuzzy warmth spreading between her ears.

  She blinks, but her eyes won’t open again.

  Chapter 20

  ‘So why did she have your name written on her?’ Chief Inspector Young sat back in his seat and surveyed Logan over the expanse of his desk. The Professional Standards office was empty, except for the two of them: three desks; framed diplomas and handshake photos on the walls; a case of legal textbooks and policing manuals; and the clinging reek of spearmint.

  Young had rolled up his sleeves, exposing a pair of huge hairy arms. But then he was big all over, like a rugby player or a professional boxer. Or a mob enforcer. Pale scar tissue made ripples across his knuckles. Definitely not the sort of man you’d want to fuck with.

  Logan puffed out his cheeks. ‘Best guess? Someone thought she wouldn’t remember who to ask for otherwise. But the idiots didn’t even write it upside down so she could read it. Mind you, given how off her face she was…’

  The Chief Inspector drummed his fingertips on the desktop, the tendons and muscles dancing beneath the fur of his forearms. ‘And tell me, Sergeant, why did she think you’d hand the drugs over to her?’

  ‘Because she’s an idiot too?’ Logan shrugged. ‘She’s convinced the people her boyfriend bought the stuff from are going to hurt him if he doesn’t come up with the money. What else is she going to do?’

  ‘Hmm…’ Young stopped making thumpitta-thumpitta noises on the desktop. ‘And have you put anything in place?’

  ‘Well, Shuggie’s wanted on drugs charges from the Thursday morning raid, and it’s pretty obvious he’s still in contact with Trisha. So I’ve advised DI McPherson to put her under surveil-lance.’ Another shrug. ‘It’s his case.’

  ‘I suppose … there’s always hope.’ Young started drumming again. ‘We’ve not seen you up here for a while, Logan. I think Superintendent Napier’s missing you.’

  ‘Really, sir?’ He glanced over his shoulder at the Arch Bastard’s desk. All neat and tidy, everything carefully arranged in straight lines.

  The Chief Inspector looked off into the middle distance. ‘Tell me … how’s Acting Detective Inspector MacDonald getting on?’

  Silence.

  Logan shifted in his seat. ‘In what way, sir?’

  ‘Is he settling in all right? Getting on with his colleagues? Can be very stressful, suddenly moving up from DS to DI like that.’ Young wouldn’t make eye contact.

  ‘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 l
inoleum 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.