Shatter the Bones lm-7

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘No, I didn’t know Bruce had killed himself. That’s… That’s just terrible.’ Craig Peterson sat on the end of the bed and stroked the little tuft of beard that clung onto his chin. Throw in the big nose, floppy curly brown hair and furrowed eyebrows, and he looked like a vaguely disappointed goat. Posters: Reservoir Dogs; Hitchcock’s North by Northwest; War of the Worlds — the Orson Welles version, not the Tom Cruise one; Marc Caro and Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s La Cite des Enfants Perdus. ‘I mean, I knew he’d been a bit stressed recently — what with trying to catch up with his coursework and Tanya dumping him — but suicide? Why wouldn’t he come speak to me? He must’ve known I could have helped him.’

  ‘Tanya?’ Logan flipped a few pages back in his notebook. ‘Tanya Marsden?’

  More beard stroking. ‘Likes to call herself “Tiggy” for some reason. I tried to tell Bruce she wasn’t his type, but “l’oeil de l’amoureux est aveugle a tout defaut”.’

  Oh, to be young and pretentious.

  So Tanya Marsden and Bruce Sangster had been an item — she’d kept that quiet.

  ‘I see…’ Logan underlined the word ‘LIAR’ next to her name a few more times.

  ‘Moliere — it means “the lover’s eye is blind to all fault.”’

  ‘Does it now.’ He moved on a couple of pages and wrote ‘PATRONIZING PRICK’ next to Peterson’s. ‘Did he ever say anything to you about drugs?’

  ‘Well… Off the record?’

  Logan smiled. ‘No.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want his parents to get the wrong idea, they had very high hopes for him.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Where do you stand on the subject of cannabis, Sergeant?’ Logan just stared at him, letting the silence stretch.

  A big sigh. ‘Look, Bruce might have said something about hooking up with a woman when he was down in Dundee at one of those Dungeons and Dragons conventions last year. This person — Bruce always called her “Stumpy the Dwarven Queen” — was getting him cannabis, amyl nitrate — poppers, maybe some speed if it was coming up to exam time and Bruce needed to cram. And Bruce always needed to cram.’

  ‘Stumpy the Dwarven Queen?’

  Peterson folded his arms, then crossed his legs. ‘Look, I’m really not comfortable talking about a dead friend behind his back, so if you’d like to save the sarcastic tones until you get back to the station, Sergeant, that’d be fine with me.’

  ‘Sarcastic tone, Mr Peterson? I think you’ll find I’m just trying to get to the bottom of a suspicious death. Surely that’s worth treading on a few sensibilities?’

  The student’s nose came up. ‘You can’t “tread” on sensibilities, you have to “offend” them.’

  Logan smiled. ‘If you insist: where were you yesterday afternoon between the hours of twelve and five?’

  ‘What?’ His eyes went wide. ‘My God, you’re actually serious. You think Bruce was murdered?’

  ‘And if you can give me the names and addresses of anyone who can confirm your whereabouts, that’ll be a great help.’ You arrogant little prick.

  There was a bit of bluster, some self-righteous indignation, but eventually Peterson handed over the details of two friends who were with him most of the day watching DVDs and being pretentious. Logan took down the details. ‘Now: tell me about Alison McGregor.’

  Peterson opened his mouth, puckered his forehead, then clamped his lips together. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You were in the same psychology class as her.’

  ‘Well, yes… I mean, I went over all this with an Inspector McPherson-’

  ‘And now you’re going to go over it again.’ Logan shifted forward in the seat, getting close enough to make Peterson edge back, until his back was up against the wall.

  ‘I never really knew her. I mean, I knew who she was — well it’d be difficult not to when there’s paparazzi hanging about outside the lecture theatre — but we never really talked. I tend to be very campus orientated, and she lived on the other side of town, so I didn’t really see that much of her. Outside lectures and tutorials. Maybe a couple of times in the library.’ He rubbed a hand at the side of his neck. ‘It’s terrible, what’s happened, but I didn’t really know her. She seemed really popular…?’

  Logan just sat there and stared at him. ‘Lots of friends? Especially when there were photographers about. I think some of the girls had a pool running on who could get their faces in the papers the most. You know, by talking to her while she was being snapped…’

  More silence. ‘Erm…’ He licked his lips. ‘Look, I never really knew her, OK?’

  ‘I see.’ Logan didn’t move. ‘And I’ve got studying to do. So if there’s nothing-’

  The Danse macabre blared out from Logan’s pocket. He pulled it out and hit the button. ‘McRae.’

  ‘Sarge?’ Rennie. ‘Where are you? I’m in the car park.’

  Logan glanced up at Peterson. It wouldn’t hurt to take the patronizing little sod down a notch or two. ‘Yes, I’m speaking to him now.’

  ‘Eh? You in the pub already?’

  ‘No, he claims he,’ Loan checked his notebook, smothered a smile, ‘“never really knew her.”’

  ‘Knew…? Ah — I get it. OK.’

  ‘That’s right. Says he has an alibi for the Bruce Sangster death too.’

  Peterson shifted from cheek to cheek. ‘I got everything you wanted from the archives, so I’m out at Hillhead, ready to crack the McGregor case!’

  Logan stared at Craig Peterson until the student looked away. ‘No, I think I’ll take care of it personally.’

  ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  ‘Stay where you are.’ Logan hung up and slid the phone back in his pocket. Then stood. ‘We’ll be in touch, Mr Peterson.’ He leant forward, looming, and the student shrank back again. ‘Don’t leave town; remember I’ll be watching you.’

  Rennie leant back against a filthy Vauxhall, pink face raised to the sun, hands in his pockets, little white cables dangling from his ears, eyes closed.

  Logan poked him in the shoulder. ‘How did you get a pool car?’

  ‘Eh?’ He took out his earbuds. ‘Oh, hi, Sarge. Did he cough? Whoever you were noising up?’

  ‘Bloody Eric told me all the cars were booked!’

  ‘Really? He was fine with me. Maybe-’

  ‘What happened with the archives?’

  ‘Not a lot. Couple of idiots kidnapped a jeweller’s daughter; animal rights activists dug up someone’s mum and demanded an end to animal testing at the Rowett; gang grabbed the wife and kids of a bank manager in Ellon so he’d let them in to loot the place…’ Rennie stared off into the middle distance. ‘Oh-ho, hold your breath, here comes Biohazard.’

  Bob was shambling out of the block of student accommodation opposite, jacket over his shoulder, shirtsleeves rolled up to expose two forearms so hairy it looked as if he was wearing a furry pullover. He waved, then ambled over.

  Logan turned, looking up at the block behind them. The one where, with any luck, Craig Peterson was currently crapping himself. ‘Waste of time then.’

  ‘Sorry, Sarge.’ Rennie rubbed his hands together. ‘So, come on — who were you winding up?’

  ‘Jesus, I bloody hate students. Bunch of animals…’ Bob had a scratch at his pelt, then nodded at Rennie. ‘Constable, what a happy coincidence! I’ve got a big list of tosspots who need interviewed.’

  Rennie shook his head. ‘Sorry, Guv, but I’m officially DS McRae’s minion till Friday. We’re grilling Alison McGregor’s classmates. McRae and Rennie, at the ready!’

  Bob raised his arms to the sky, then let them fall back to his sides with a theatrical groan. ‘Logie, you’ll let me borrow the loon, won’t you?’

  ‘Nope. Soon as we’re done here we have a nationwide search on historic kidnappings to wade through.’

  ‘Aw, come on — we could divvy up Bruce’s mates. Three of us, we’d get through them in no time.’

  ‘Goodbye Bob…’ Logan took a step away, the
n stopped, turned, and went back to the car. ‘You might want to keep an eye on one Tanya “Tiggy” Marsden. According to Craig Peterson she was Bruce’s girlfriend, but she says they were just friends.’

  Bob raised one side of his monobrow. ‘Oh aye, trying to distance herself after the fact? Think she’s his dealer?’

  ‘Doubt it.’ Logan told him about Stumpy the Dwarven Queen.

  A grimace. ‘That’s sod all use…’ The grimace turned into a smile. ‘Still, at least it takes the source off our patch — I can fob it off on Tayside. I was going to renege on buying you that pint, but I’ve changed my mind. Now lend us the wee loon here, and I’ll throw in a packet of crisps.’

  Logan looked back up at the block of student flats. Someone was staring back down at them. Craig Peterson, stroking his billy-goat beard. Logan made a gun from his thumb and forefinger, pointed it at Peterson, then shot him in the face.

  Chapter 32

  Logan made a special point of checking up on Peterson’s alibi. Adrian Kerr: MSc E-Commerce Technology; posters of The Muppet Show, China Town, a football team composed of half-naked women. Nicholas Tawse: Psychology; Citizen Kane, Che Guevara, Monty Python’s Flying Circus.

  They both backed up Peterson’s story — of course — but it was still fun to make the stuck-up little sods squirm. Petty, but fun.

  Logan met up with Rennie back in the car park.

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Thought a couple were a bit dodgy — one was trying to hide a home-made bong, the other got all gooey-eyed every time I mentioned Alison and Jenny’s names. Swear to God, she had a shrine to them above her bed. Newspaper clippings, magazine articles, signed photos, the lot. I think there was a lock of hair too.’

  ‘Hair?’

  ‘Not, like a scalp or anything.’

  ‘Nobody else?’

  ‘Nah, mostly they’re just students. Bit of weed, bit of booze, bit of studying, bit of pining away in their rooms wondering why nobody wants to shag them.’

  ‘Right, let’s go pay Alison and Jenny’s biggest fan a visit.’

  Good God… Rennie hadn’t been kidding — there really was a shrine above Beatrice Eastbrook’s bed. Right in the middle of the wall was an amateurish watercolour portrait of Alison McGregor, Jenny sitting on her knee. Alison had a tinfoil halo that glimmered in the light of two big church candles, arranged either side of a lock of curly blonde hair in a little glass box, tied with a black ribbon and a sprig of heather. Just like the one on Alison’s photo of her dead husband.

  Around the icon, a sea of newsprint and magazine articles spread out like a tumour. ‘MY SECRET FEARS FOR JENNY — WILL FAME DESTROY HER CHILDHOOD?’, ‘NORTH-EAST MUM THROUGH TO BNBS SEMI-FINAL’, ‘ALISON’S SECRET SCHOOLGIRL SHAME: “I WAS A TEENAGE TEARAWAY”, ADMITS BNBS SEMI-FINALIST’, ‘SHE’S NO ANGEL — THE SKELETONS LURKING IN ALISON MCG’S CLOSET’…

  That last one had a photo of Victoria Murray, AKA Vicious Vikki, on it, her face scrubbed out with angry red biro, until the paper was tattered and sliced through, the word ‘LIAR!!!’ scrawled across the article over and over again.

  And around the edge, a series of glossy photos — the kind you could get printed at pretty much any supermarket these days.

  No posters: there wasn’t room.

  Beatrice Eastbrook would probably have looked like a perfectly normal person a year ago. But… She’d dyed her hair blonde, and had it curled to look exactly like Alison McGregor’s. Her make-up was exactly like Alison McGregor’s. Her clothes were exactly like Alison McGregor’s, right down to the shoes.

  Probably had a tinfoil-lined hat lying about the place somewhere too.

  She twirled the hair behind her ear. ‘Of course I didn’t hurt them, why would I hurt them? I love them.’ The accent was hard to place, a weird mix of Birmingham and Aberdeen — as if it wasn’t enough to look like Alison McGregor, she was trying to sound like her too. ‘Alison was … is — fantastic. A superstar. I mean, can you imagine it, someone like that living in Aberdeen, and I know her. She talked to me, like a real person.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea who might have taken her?’

  Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. ‘If I did, I’d kill them. I’m not joking — I’d literally kill them. Strangle them with my own hands. They cut off Jenny’s toes! What kind of bastard cuts off a little girl’s toes?’ She sank back onto the bed and shuffled back, feet on the duvet, knees against her chest. ‘You know what, when you catch them, you should cut off their toes, like in the Bible. Cut them all off and see how they like it.’

  ‘Did you see anyone strange hanging around her, before she went missing? Trying to talk to her?’ Other than yourself, of course, you card-carrying nutjob.

  ‘I don’t remember. Not that I noticed. Well, you know it was always pretty busy, with the photographers hounding her all the time and those bitches pretending to be her friend, just so they could get in the papers. I never did that…’

  Logan nodded. ‘What did she think of your new look?’

  A frown. ‘Well, she was flattered, obviously. Said I looked lovely. She’s a very generous and giving person.’

  ‘And she didn’t mind when you followed her home?’ Standing at the door, Rennie opened his mouth, but Logan held up a hand.

  ‘I…’ Beatrice blushed. ‘I don’t know what you-’

  ‘The photos around the outside of your mural.’ He pointed at the glossy pics. ‘That’s Alison’s and Jenny’s house in Kincorth. Look, there’s Alison putting the recycling out.’

  ‘I… It was only once.’

  ‘And there she is taking Jenny to school. And in that one Jenny’s wearing a tutu. Off to dance classes?’

  Beatrice rested her head on her knees, speaking into the little hidden gap between them and her chest. ‘I wasn’t hurting anyone.’

  Logan put his notebook down on the desk. ‘Did you see who took Alison and Jenny?’

  When she looked up, her eyes glittered with tears. ‘I just wanted to be her friend. A real friend, not like those two-faced bitches.’

  ‘Did you see who took them, Beatrice?’

  ‘She’s someone special. She’s famous — she’ll leave a mark on the earth that says she was here. I’m never going to be famous. Don’t matter if I live or die, does it? Don’t matter if I was never even born. I just thought, if she could see we had so much in common, we could be friends. I just wanted her to like me…’

  ‘It’s OK, Beatrice, I understand.’ Logan picked up his notebook and stood. ‘Now, if it’s all right with you, we’d like to search your room. Is that OK?’

  She wiped her eyes, then looked up at the lock of hair in its little glass box. Licked her lips. ‘What do you think they’ll do with Jenny’s toes?’

  ‘Of course, I spotted those photos the first time,’ Rennie hauled the pool car’s boot open and dumped a handful of evidence bags inside, each one filled, dated, labelled and signed for, ‘just didn’t want to prejudice your first impressions.’ He clunked the boot closed again.

  ‘Don’t be a dick.’ Logan climbed into the passenger seat. ‘Fair enough.’ Rennie got behind the wheel. ‘Worth a try though.’ Grin. ‘Back to the ranch?’

  ‘Yeah, then I want you to go through every photo on that camera and laptop. We’re looking for someone watching Alison McGregor’s house.’

  ‘Other than Beatrice McFruitloop, you mean.’ He started the engine. ‘How the hell did she manage to get into university? Psychology degree? Talk about “physician heal thy-bloody-self”.’

  ‘Maybe she’s good at exams. Just make sure- buggering hell.’ Logan’s phone was ringing. He pulled it out. ‘McRae.’

  ‘Told you there’d be consequences.’ Shuggie Webster, sounding stoned out of his box. ‘You happy now? You fucking happy?’

  ‘Shuggie, you’ve got to turn yourself in. Turn yourself in and we’ll talk about it.’

  ‘It’s your fault!’

  Logan checked the display — not the same number as before. ‘Where are yo
u?’

  ‘Consequences.’ And then Shuggie hung up.

  Rennie was looking at him. ‘Sarge?’

  ‘Back to the ranch.’ Logan dragged out his Airwave handset, dialled Control and told them to get a GSM trace set up on Shuggie’s new mobile. If Sheriff McNab gave them a warrant, and the phone company didn’t drag its heels, they’d know where Mr Consequences was before clocking off time.

  He stuck the handset back in his pocket and watched the halls of residence fade in the rearview mirror. Consequences … Then his mobile started ringing again. It was Colin Miller from the Aberdeen Examiner. ‘Got another note.’

  Logan clutched at the grab handle as Rennie juddered the pool car out of the junction and onto King Street. ‘Are you trying to shake the fillings out of my head?’

  ‘Laz?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, Colin. What are they saying? Let me guess: you have two days left or Jenny will die?’

  ‘No, it’s no’ from them. Look, we’ve been gettin’ in dozens of fake ransom demands every day since this kicked off, right? All fuckin’ mentalists wantin’ us tae drop off a few hundred thou in a bin bag in Torry, that kinda shite. Well today we got one that wasnae all about Jenny and Alison.’

  Silence. ‘Are you waiting for me to guess what it says, Colin?’

  ‘OK, OK. It says, “Trisha Brown has a little boy called Ricky. If you ever want him to see his mummy alive, you’ll start raisin’ money

  now. If you can do it for that showbiz bitch, you can do it for me.” That last bit’s in italics, with three exclamation points, but.’

  Oh … fuck. ‘Did they say how much and where?’

  ‘Aye: “I want a hundred and fi fty thousand. Pocket money compared to how much that bitch is gettin’ — take it out of her pot if you like. I don’t care. Five days. Or she dies.” Note’s got blood on it.’

  Logan tapped his knuckles against the car window. ‘You still there?’