Close to the Bone lm-8

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘And meanwhile, Agnes Garfield is out there,’ Logan stabbed a finger at the window, ‘killing people! Do you really want to be responsible for another death? ’

  ‘I’m not responsible for anyone’s death. Whatever happened to Roy Forman wasn’t a result of my actions. If Agnes-’

  ‘She beat the crap out of him, chained him to a stake, throttled him, stuck a tyre around his throat and set fire to it.’ Logan reached into his pocket. ‘Do you want to see the pictures? Want to see what that looks like? ’

  Professor Marks’s knees twitched, then drew together, as if Logan had just offered to kick him in the balls. ‘I’m bound by my Hippocratic oath to-’

  Goulding lunged for him and Marks squealed, scrambled back into the armchair.

  Chalmers was on her feet, blocking the way, one hand in the middle of Goulding’s chest. ‘All right, let’s everyone just calm down. OK? ’

  He stared over her shoulder. ‘Tell them, Marks.’

  The professor closed his eyes, curled into himself. ‘I took an oath.’

  Goulding stared out of the office window, shoulders slumped, one hand on his forehead. ‘Are you really going to arrest him? ’

  Logan looked up from his phone. ‘Soon as they fax the warrant over.’

  ‘Good.’

  Thin grey light seeped in through the glass, the room darkening with the afternoon. It was a lot quieter without Professor Marks moaning on about his rights and his chipped tooth. Of course, Chalmers wouldn’t be happy — having to babysit Marks in his own office, making sure he didn’t do a runner for darkest Fife, or the hedonistic fleshpots of Inverurie — but tough. It was character building.

  Or at least that’s what Steel always told him when she was handing out the crappy assignments.

  Logan went back to his phone. According to the screen, there were nine voicemail messages waiting and half a dozen texts too. Half of which were from Steel:

  You rancid wee shite! I’m going to rip your nutsack off and make you wear it as a hat!

  You knew I wanted help with this meeting!

  Get your arse back here NOW!!!!!!

  Again with the scrotum threats. Still, say what you like about Steel, at least she didn’t resort to text-speak.

  Delete.

  He deleted the other ones too, not bothering to read past the first line, all of which contained at least one swear word.

  Goulding cleared his throat. ‘I know dragging Marks down the corridor by the scruff of his neck must have seemed a little. . unprofessional, but-’

  ‘You had him in a headlock.’

  ‘Roy Forman was making so much progress, coming on so well. To just throw it all away like that. .’ A sniff. ‘Why didn’t you tell me he was the necklacing victim? This morning, when I was interviewing Robert Whyte? ’

  ‘Didn’t know you knew him. If I did, you couldn’t have talked to Whyte: conflict of interest.’

  The next text message was from Rennie, moaning on about how Henry Scott wasn’t there by the time he got to Gilcomston Church, and why was Chalmers always the favourite, and it wasn’t fair. Wah, wah, wah.

  Delete.

  Next one was from Tim Mair at Trading Standards.

  Where the hell are you, McRae? We said 3 pm! I brought biscuits amp; everything!!!!!

  Arse. Three. Ah well, never mind.

  Logan poked out a reply with his thumbs:

  Don’t be such a girl. Got caught up on murder enquiry.

  Better leave it till later. Make it 17:15-ish?

  ‘Did you know Roy was in Operation Desert Storm? Right behind enemy lines, fighting the Republican Guard. His squad was pinned down by sniper fire, then the mortar rounds started falling. They lost their commanding officer and half of the team. Roy caught a bit of shrapnel in the eye. Half-blind, bleeding heavily, he carried one of his mates three miles back to base camp, under fire the whole way.’

  Logan looked up from his phone. ‘He told DCI Steel he was caught in a roadside bomb.’

  ‘Look, the point is, he was a hero. He was damaged fighting for his country, and he was out on the streets. And he was getting better.’ A glower. ‘Until Professor Skid Marks got involved.’

  The last text was from Dr Graham:

  Gt the SIA rslts bk frm Dundee

  Vktm ws lcl

  Gv me a phn amp; ill tlk U thru thm

  What the hell did ‘SIA’ mean? The woman was a nightmare.

  Goulding left the window and settled behind the desk. ‘How’s Samantha getting on? ’

  Logan thumbed out an answer:

  I’ll give you a call when I’m back in the station.

  How’s the facial reconstruction coming?

  He hit send. ‘Just great. We went clubbing in Brechin last night. Going to the Maldives in July — do a bit of scuba diving.’

  ‘I see. .’ He steepled his fingers. ‘I’ve arranged for a Mental Health Officer to see Robert Whyte at four this afternoon. I’d be very surprised if he isn’t in a secure ward by the end of the day.’

  A nutjob, but not the right nutjob.

  Logan stuck his phone back in his pocket. ‘I think we’re getting a cat.’

  ‘That’s good. From a therapeutic point of view it’s probably a bit more effective than discussing all your problems with an imaginary person.’

  For God’s sake. He slumped in his seat, both hands covering his eyes. ‘Here we go again. .’

  ‘I’m just saying it’s not entirely healthy. And you know talking therapy works. Look at all the progress we’ve made over the last two years: we cured your vegetarianism, didn’t we? You’re drinking less, you’ve lost weight, and you’re a lot less irritable.’

  ‘Leave it, OK? ’ Jesus, nag, nag, nag.

  ‘Logan, I’m serious: it’s really not healthy to keep-’

  ‘Take the bloody hint.’ He dropped his hands from his face and jabbed a finger in Goulding’s direction. ‘I can still do you for assaulting Professor Marks.’

  Silence.

  Goulding sighed, then wandered over to his wall full of whiteboards. ‘I’d like to work up a profile on Agnes Garfield. We know who she is, but it might help tell us where she is and what she’s going to do next. And much though I hate to impugn the professional reputation of my esteemed colleague: Professor Richard Marks is a dribbling idiot.’

  ‘I don’t have any say on the budget for this one.’

  ‘I’ll do it for free, on the condition that you catch her. Roy didn’t deserve to die like that.’

  ‘Free? ’ Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘In that case, knock yourself out. I’ll get the case files sent over. And if it helps, I think she might have tortured someone to death in Kintore too.’

  The office door swung partially open, and there was Chalmers. She froze on the threshold, then knocked. As if they didn’t already know she was there. ‘Sorry, Guv. That’s the warrant in now.’

  Logan stood. Put his phone away. ‘He still refusing to cooperate? ’

  ‘Won’t say a word.’

  ‘Cuff him, then call Control and tell them to send a patrol car: give Marks the full blues-and-twos treatment. March the little sod out the front door in handcuffs so everyone can see.’

  She nodded. ‘Guv, about Agnes Garfield. .? ’

  ‘You stay with him till the patrol car gets here. Make sure he’s processed properly — fingerprints, DNA, the lot.’

  ‘See, I was thinking: Roy Forman was in the Gordon Highlanders, right? A trained soldier, unarmed combat and all that? Would an eighteen-year-old girl really be able to subdue him, tie him up, and burn him like that? Wouldn’t he fight back? ’

  Ah. . Chalmers had a point. ‘Maybe she had help? ’

  Goulding picked up a dry eraser. ‘Roy was an alcoholic. Give him a bottle of meths and a straw and he’d do anything you want.’ The eraser cut a swathe through a scribbled mind-map, leaving the ghost of words behind. He picked up a red pen and wrote ‘AGNES GARFIELD’ in the middle of the board and trapped it in a lopsided
box. ‘When you stick that idiot Marks in his cell, do me a favour? Make sure there’s someone noisy and smelly next door. It’ll drive him mad.’

  Logan took the grumbling Punto for another tour of the surrounding streets. Still no sodding parking space. In the end he had to dump the car on the Beach Boulevard and walk.

  A cold wind stirred sand and grit in the gutter, made the trees shiver.

  On the other end of the phone, Samantha sighed. ‘Well. . maybe Wee Hamish is right? Maybe you’ll have to sort Reuben out sooner rather than later.’

  ‘I’m not killing Reuben.’

  ‘Who said anything about killing him? I said sort him out. Make a deal with him.’

  Logan grimaced. ‘Yeah, because Reuben’s the negotiating type.’

  The little red man went green. A hatchback lurched to a halt, the bmtch-bmtch-bmtch of driving bass thumping out through the closed windows.

  ‘So get him banged up for something. Don’t just sit about and wait for the scar-faced fat scumbag to turn up on the doorstep with a machete and a power drill.’

  Logan wandered across the road, taking his time, getting the evil eye from the hatchback’s acne-ridden boy-racer driver. ‘I’m not killing him, and I’m not fitting him up either.’

  A scrunching noise — probably Samantha putting her hand over the mouthpiece — then a muffled conversation.

  He nipped across the other side of the road, weaving his way between cars and trucks waiting at the roundabout. ‘Look, I’m going to have to go. I’ll give you a call later, OK? It’s-’

  And she was back. ‘Listen, these bones of yours — the ones outside the caravan — your historian said they were for protection, right? What if they’re not there to protect you? What if they’re there to protect whoever made them? ’

  ‘And that helps because. .? ’

  ‘Remember, in the book, the Vodun bokor sticks one in Rowan’s pack, so she won’t track him down? ’

  Onto Justice Street, where a pair of bulky tower blocks loomed over the surrounding granite buildings, dark windows glinting in a stray beam of struggling sunshine.

  ‘Sorry, but I don’t-’

  ‘God, how slow can you be? Think about it: when did you get the first knot of bones? Before Roy Forman was burned, right? Maybe even before she tortured the other guy? ’

  He stopped. ‘She’d planned it all out. She knew I was looking for her, because I’d been to her house. So. .’ A frown. ‘She tracked me down, followed me home. .’ Something cold caressed the back of his neck.

  Logan spun around, his free hand clenched into a fist.

  No one there.

  A thin drizzle drifted down from the clay-coloured sky, misting the windscreens of parked cars, painting an anaemic rainbow in that one slice of sunlight.

  ‘Don’t be such a big girl. The bone knots are to protect her from you. She’s scared of you. You’re like a witch-finder finder.’

  ‘Ah, right. .’ Jumping at his own shadow, like an idiot.

  ‘You’re welcome. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get tarted up for my new physical therapist. He’s a bit hunky.’ And Samantha was gone.

  She was right: Agnes Garfield wasn’t a criminal mastermind, or the next Hannibal Lecter, she was just an eighteen-year-old girl with mental health problems who wasn’t taking her medication any more.

  The poor girl was more scared of him than he was of her.

  A warm breath escapes her lips, curling white in the light of the open chest freezer. Shiny packages wrapped in tinfoil, so many precious things. .

  Rowan leans forward until her cheeks rest against the cold plastic tray. Soothing. Calming. Damping down the fire in her head.

  Everything will be OK.

  The fifth tenet: ‘Do not fear the darkness, make it fear you.’

  She closes the freezer lid and the room goes black, just the gurgle and buzz as the compressor kicks in, taking it back down below zero again.

  Shapes fade out of the gloom: the boxy outline of the big chest freezer, the scythe leaning against the wall, the lonely pegboard stained by the ghosts of implements past. The old wooden table. The sickly sweet stench of death.

  ‘Light a fire in God’s name. .’

  She takes a deep breath and straightens her back. It’s time.

  The door opens with a creak onto the next room. A barn, with dusty bales of hay stacked in the corner, heady with the smell of mildew. Mouse droppings make Morse code patterns on the dirt floor.

  That won’t do.

  She picks up the broom and clears a patch in the middle, eight foot by eight foot. Then stands and stares down at the uneven grey surface, lights the black candle and traces the circles out across it. Septen, merid, orien, occid — north, south, east, and west. Then the names of God, the symbols, and finally the pentagram.

  Rowan smiles. No gaps, no mistakes, a perfect Ring Knot.

  The hammer is heavy in her black-gloved hand, and so is the metal stake. It rings like a bell as she batters it into the hard-packed dirt at the head of the pentagram, each blow jarring up her arm into her shoulder, sending up a little puff of dust.

  Four more stakes go in and finally it’s done.

  The man in the corner says something behind his gag, eyes wide and trembling. He’s lying on his side, both hands tied behind his back. His wrists are red and chafed around the rope where he’s been struggling, the ankles are the same — bare feet filthy and scratched. Tendrils of orange and red crackle around him, thorns of light scratching at the granite walls. Looking for weapons. Looking for a way out.

  When what he should be looking for is redemption.

  He’s lucky, he gets to be inside the knot, protected from the darkness of witchcraft and unclean souls. From people like her. .

  She lays out the tools of her trade — the blade, the pin, the bottle of lemon juice, the can of shaving cream and the razor.

  His soul might be protected, but his body is another matter.

  Rowan stands, brushes the dust off her gloves. Faces her enemy. Keeps her voice level. ‘The Kirk is my mother and father. It is my rod and my staff. My shield and my sword. What I do in its service lights a fire in God’s name.’

  Tears roll down his pale face.

  Make the darkness fear you.

  Rowan walks over to him, takes a deep breath, the scent of sweat and oranges and burning fill her head. Then she grabs a handful of his hair and drags him over to the Ring Knot. He kicks and screams the whole way until she taps him on the side of the head with the hammer — just hard enough to make him sag and groan.

  Then she unties him and fixes him to the stakes. Spread out like a frog in a science lab, waiting for the lesson to begin.

  She closes her eyes. Hangs her head. ‘Miserere mei Deus secundum magnam.’

  Have mercy upon me, oh God, according to your loving kindness.

  30

  The rancid stench of a partial-decomp post mortem oozed out of the cutting room like an unplugged fridge full of raw meat left in the sun. Tuneless whistling joined the smell as Miss Dalrymple — in wellies and a thick rubber apron — hosed the tiled floor, chasing smears of blood down the drain.

  Logan tried the viewing room.

  Dr Graham was hunched over another resin skull, measuring it with callipers, then consulting a long table of figures. She looked up as he closed the door. Her smile was full of teeth. ‘Just working out the tissue depth markers.’

  ‘What does “SIA” mean? ’

  ‘Ah, right.’ She hopped down off her stool and rummaged through a stack of paper. ‘Stable Isotope Analysis. Got the results back from Dundee on that segment of thighbone we sent them. The one from your rooftop skeleton? ’ She handed him a wodge of paper streaked grey down one side where the mortuary printer’s innards were eating themselves.

  The report started out with social niceties — how nice it was to hear from Dr Graham again, and maybe they could go out for a drink next time she was in town — then descended into an almost ind
ecipherable wodge of technical speak and wiggly-lined graphs.

  Logan frowned at it for a bit. .

  Nope. Not a clue.

  He passed it back. ‘Any chance of the short version? ’

  ‘Well, the fourteen-C isotope analysis bomb-curve dating puts time of death between thirty and thirty-five years ago. Your victim wasn’t recent.’

  Thirty-five years ago? Agnes Garfield wasn’t even born then.

  ‘The thirteen-C and one-eighty stable isotopic composition in conjunction with the eighty-seven-S-R slash eighty-six-S-R isotope ratio and strontium-’

  ‘The short version, Doctor.’

  Pink bloomed on her cheeks. ‘Sorry. To get strontium and one-eighty levels like this your victim had to live north of a line drawn between Montrose and Helensburgh. The thirteen-C data points to a Central European diet, so she wasn’t from the States.’

  Dr Graham took a sip from a bottle of water, sitting next to her collection of glass eyeballs. ‘The analysis says your victim probably came from the north-east of Scotland — basically, draw a lumpy circle containing Kintore, Torphins, Coldstone, Craik, Ardlair, Insch and Inverurie. She spent most of her life in there. Apparently the only other place that’d match the strontium and one-eighty is the backwoods of Sutherland and Ross and Cromartyshire.’

  Dr Graham flipped over to the last page. ‘One more thing — there’s a disjoint between the thirteen-C and the fifteen-N isotopes. Elevated fifteen-N means she was suffering from a long-term illness. Which explains the pitting on the skull. .’ Dr Graham picked up the cast and ran a finger around the eye socket. ‘See the marks? ’

  ‘And you’re positive she died thirty-five years ago? ’

  ‘Stable Isotope Analysis doesn’t lie.’

  ‘Sod.’

  She hugged the skull. ‘But doesn’t that-’

  ‘If it’s less than fifty years we’ve got to treat it as a suspicious death. If it’d been more than fifty years we could have written it off as archaeological, because whoever killed her would probably be dead by now anyway. She’d be someone else’s problem and I wouldn’t have another sodding murder on my hands.’

  Logan drummed his fingers on the viewing-room table.