‘No.’ Chalmers turned the wheel and they drifted onto another road lined with yet more pale-cream buildings with the occasional patch of sandstone cladding thrown in for fun. White PVC windows, lockblock drives, satellite dishes, and a tiny garage where a front room should have been. All topped with fresh brown pantiles. Detached homes built so close together you’d be lucky if you could walk between them without your shoulders brushing either side. ‘Place is like a maze. . .’
She did a three-point turn and headed back the way they’d come. A wee boy on a yellow bike with tassels on the handlebars cycled slowly by, excavating the inside of his nose as if it held buried treasure.
‘Has to be around here somewhere. . .’
According to the Police National Computer, Guy Ferguson was the lucky recipient of umpteen warnings, and three stints of community service. Everything from shoplifting in John Lewis when he was twelve, to drunk and disorderly when he was fourteen. Then there was a string of vehicle offences – theft from opening lockfast places, unlawful removal, vandalism, driving without insurance. . . One count of breaking into the corner shop and making off with the till. Almost went to prison eighteen months ago when he was caught helping himself to the contents of ladies’ handbags in the Kintore Arms.
And that was the last thing on his record. Either Guy had cleaned up his act, or he’d finally figured out how not to get caught.
‘God’s sake. Everything round here’s Castleview: Castleview Place, Castleview Avenue, Castleview Crescent. Where’s the castle? Can you see one? ’
Logan flicked back to the mugshot at the front of the file. ‘Developers are like politicians – never believe anything they say.’
In the photo, Guy looked as if he’d just been dragged through an Alsatian, backwards. His left cheek was a patchwork of bruises, his eye swollen almost shut, split lip and swollen jaw. Apparently some bloke objected to Guy stealing things from his wife’s handbag. An earlier pic showed a plain young man with doormat eyebrows, acne-flecked cheeks, and a moustache that barely qualified as enthusiastic bumfluff.
Very gangsta.
Chalmers pointed through the window. ‘Here we go.’ She pulled up in front of yet another barely detached sandstone-clad box, blocking the Audi and Renault parked on the driveway. Then wiped her hands on the steering wheel, leaving a shiny film behind. ‘Guv, about the death message. . .’
‘Let me guess, you’re not keen? ’ Logan slipped the printouts back into the file. ‘Our victim had form for stealing cars and breaking into places to rob them. Sound familiar? ’
‘The jewellery job.’
‘Car was stolen a couple of streets away from here, used in a robbery, then dumped and burned just past Thainstone Mart. Next to Guy Ferguson’s body.’
Chalmers left another layer of palm sweat on the steering wheel. ‘They do the job, then his mates turn on him after they’ve divvied up the loot. Maybe he was holding out on them? ’
‘Could be.’ Logan climbed out into the warm afternoon. ‘What about the registered keeper? ’
‘Straight up, far as I can tell: no record in the PNC. Pretty hacked off to lose the car too, was a present from his dad.’ She straightened her wrinkly suit, then marched up to the front door and rang the bell.
A minute later, it was opened by a wee girl in a bright yellow dress with bears on it, head a mess of black curls. She looked up at DS Chalmers with big blue eyes, then stuck her thumb in her mouth.
A voice came from somewhere inside: a man. ‘Who is it, Bella? ’
The thumb came out with a soft pop. ‘My name’s Bella and I’m five and I’m getting a pony for my birthday.’
Chalmers hunkered down until she was roughly at eye-level. ‘Hello, Bella, my name’s Lorna. Can you tell your mummy and daddy the police are here and they need to speak to them? ’
A nod sent her curls bobbing, then she turned and shouted back into the house. ‘It’s the pigs!’ Before squealing her way down the corridor, arms waving above her head. ‘You’ll never take me alive, Copper!’
Chalmers cleared her throat. ‘Well that was . . . nice.’
A man poked his head out into the corridor. Pulled a face. Then sauntered towards them: jeans, flannel shirt, the top of his head poking through a crown of greying frizz. He wiped his hands on a tea towel. ‘Sorry about that – someone let her watch Life on Mars the other day and she’s been impossible ever since.’ He gave them a smile. ‘How can I help? ’
Logan stepped forward. ‘Mr Ferguson? ’
The smile slipped a little. ‘Yes? ’
‘Can we come in please, Mr Ferguson? We need to talk.’
The living room was bright and airy, the sounds of music and laughter coming through from the dining-kitchen. Mr Ferguson sat on the edge of the couch, his wife perched beside him. She fidgeted with the hem of her orange cardigan, working it back and forth between her fingers, pulling little tufts of fluff from the wool.
She looked over her shoulder at the open door. Slipped a fleck of orange fuzz into her mouth and chewed on it.
The wee girl who’d swore they’d never take her alive was sitting at the table, shovelling peas into her mouth while an older man cut something up on her plate.
Mrs Ferguson pulled another tuft of orange fluff. She stared off over Logan’s shoulder, not making eye contact. ‘What’s he done now? ’
Her husband sighed. ‘Why do you always have to do that? ’
‘I’m not doing anything, I’m being realistic. Of course Guy’s done something, why else are they here? ’ She pointed at Logan and Chalmers.
‘Sheila, he’s—’
‘That boy could cause a fight in a cemetery.’
Mr Ferguson laid a hand on her knee. Smiled at Logan again. ‘Guy’s a good kid, he just . . . he’s easily led.’
Logan licked his lips. Cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid we have some bad news. . .’
Mrs Ferguson’s mouth fell open, eyes wide. Then she stood, walked over to the door and closed it, shutting out the sounds of laughter. ‘I see.’
‘Oh God. . .’ Her husband rocked back and forward in his seat. ‘Oh God, no. . .’
She blinked, wiped the heel of her hand across her eye, then brought her chin up. ‘We only saw him this morning. He was supposed to be getting out on Wednesday.’
‘Oh God, Guy. . .’ Mr Ferguson dropped his chin onto his chest and sobbed, fingers digging into the soft cushions of the couch. ‘Oh God. . .’
Logan glanced at Chalmers, then back at Mrs Ferguson. ‘You saw him this morning? ’
‘At the hospital. They said he was going to be all right. Just keeping him in for observation.’ She settled onto the arm of the couch and wrapped an arm around her husband’s heaving shoulders. ‘Was it . . . did he suffer? ’
‘He was in hospital? ’ Oh, shite.
‘They were fooling around and he got petrol all over his hands. How can someone die from burned hands? ’ A thick line appeared between her eyebrows, two more slashing down from the corners of her mouth. ‘It was that MRSA, wasn’t it? ’
‘Ah.’ Logan stood, put his hands in his pockets. Took them out again. Shuffled his feet. ‘There may have been a bit of a . . . mistake.’
6
The pool car’s sirens carved a path through the afternoon traffic. Chalmers jinked the car around an eighteen-wheeler loaded down with bags of gravel. ‘Don’t think I’ve ever been so embarrassed in my life.’
Logan pressed the mobile against his chest. ‘Slow down! I said I wanted to go up to the hospital, not end up in bloody A&E.’ Then back to the phone. ‘What do you mean, he’s not there? ’
A small pause. Then Sergeant Big Gary McCormack’s bunged-up Aberdonian accent grumbled down the line. ‘What do you think I mean? I mean, he’s not there. Sent a car round there three times this morning and there’s still no sign of him.’
‘He’s six foot tall, five foot wide, and looks like someone took a burning che
ese grater to his face, how can you not find him? ’
‘Are you asking for another punch in the face? I’ve got a whole city to keep safe here, dayshift’s got better things to do than run around after your ungrateful arse!’ A clunk and the line went dead. The bastard had hung up on him.
Logan rammed the phone back into his pocket. ‘Typical. Ask them to do one simple thing and— Bloody hell!’ He grabbed the handle above the passenger door as Chalmers threw the car into the roundabout, tyres screeching all the way.
She ground her hands around the steering wheel. ‘They’re going to make a complaint, aren’t they? I don’t want that on my record, how am I supposed to make promotion with that hanging over my—’
‘Let them complain. The lab didn’t screw up on the fingerprints, they screwed up on the DNA. It’s not the victim’s: it’s the killer’s. So as soon as we get to the hospital. . .? ’
‘We get the killer.’ Chalmers brought her little pointy teeth out to shine. ‘One week on the job and I’ve solved a gangland execution.’
Logan stared at her. ‘You do know I’m sitting here, don’t you? ’
At least she had the decency to blush. ‘I meant, we’ve solved a gangland execution. Team effort. . . Sorry, Guv.’
‘Just drive.’
Footsteps clattered back from the spearmint-green walls. Paintings and arty photographs lined the corridor. People in dressing gowns shuffled to the side, leaning on the handrails, watching them march past.
Up the stairs.
Chalmers hurried on ahead, one of the uniformed officers seconded to Aberdeen Royal Infirmary clomping along behind her in full ninja black.
The other one hung back with Logan, puffing and panting as they climbed. ‘Could we . . . we no’ have . . . have taken the . . . bloody lift? ’
And let Gungho Gertrude get there first? No thanks.
They burst out onto the next floor.
Chalmers was staring at the ward signs hanging from the ceiling. She did a slow three-sixty, before shrugging her shoulders and poking the uniform in the shoulder. ‘Well? ’
‘Must be the next floor.’
Sod.
Logan went back through the doors to the stairwell, pulling out his phone on the way and scrolling down to Steel’s name. It rang as they charged up the stairs. Bang – out into another bland green corridor that smelled of boiled socks and murdered cauliflower.
Steel finally picked up. ‘Oh, it’s you is it? Where’s my bloody paperwork? I told you I wanted it on my desk by lunchtime, no’ next sodding—’
‘We know who killed the necklacing victim.’
Pause. ‘You do? ’
One of the uniformed officers checked the ward signs, then marched off to the left. Chalmers hurried after him, Logan and Mr Too-Many-Pies bringing up the rear.
‘Guy Ferguson. He was in on the jewellery heist. Victim was probably one of his gang. He’s in ARI right now: we’re on our way.’
‘Buggering hell. . . It’s only been a day and a half, and I’ve already solved the thing. Keep telling everyone I’m a genius.’
‘You’ve already solved? ’ Logan barged through a set of double doors into another stretch of sickly green. ‘You’re as bad as bloody Chalmers.’
‘My intrepid leadership is what did it. I’m no’ saying you didn’t play your own small part—’
‘Do I get any sodding credit at all? ’
Up ahead, Chalmers and the other uniform were shouldering their way into a ward.
‘Laz, you’re big enough and ugly enough to know how this works: credit, like a happy wee party balloon, floats up the way. Blame, like jobbies, falls down.’ Rustling came from the other end of the phone. ‘Now, be a good boy and keep an eye on my party balloon while I hurry over there to collect it.’
Aye, right.
Logan held the phone out at arm’s length, then made a harsh hissing noise. ‘. . .ant hear what . . . signal . . . hello? Hello? ’
‘Don’t you sodding dare, Logan McRae, or I’ll ram my boot so far up—’
‘Isn’t. . . Hello? ’ He hung up.
Darth Vader’s theme tune burst out of the phone’s speaker, the word ‘STEEL’ flashing on the screen. He switched it off and jammed it back in his pocket. Served her right. He nodded to PC Pies. ‘OK, we’ll—’
The ward door banged open and three young men scrambled out, white trainers squeaking on the cracked terrazzo floor. They weren’t wearing identical tracksuits, but it wasn’t far off it, the tops pulled on over hoodies and baseball caps. One slammed into the wall, twisted round a couple of times, then sprinted straight towards Logan.
More squeaking as he scrabbled to a halt, eyes wide, staring at the huge constable. ‘Shite!’ And he was off again – accelerating the other way, following his mates.
Constable Pies lumbered into a run, giving chase.
Logan shoved open the ward door. The other uniform was feeling his way along the wall, one hand clutched tightly over his groin, sweat running down his pale face.
Chalmers appeared behind him, the front of her suit spattered with something brown.
Logan jabbed a finger at the PC. ‘You: get back there and secure the prisoner.’ Then glared at Chalmers. ‘Don’t just stand there dripping, get after them!’
The trail of destruction wasn’t that hard to follow – overturned carts, little old men shaking their walking sticks and bellowing obscenities, little old ladies shouting far worse.
Off in the distance, a pair of double doors boomed against the walls. More swearing.
DS Chalmers stuck her elbows out and her chin in, sprinting after them.
Logan skipped to a halt, then turned and charged through into the stairwell again, taking the steps two and three at a time before bursting out on the lower level. Where it was nice and quiet.
There were only two ways out of Aberdeen Royal Infirmary from here: double back towards the exit onto the side road opposite the auditorium, or keep going and out past Nuclear Medicine. Unless they just popped out through a fire door. . .
Too late to worry about that now.
He hurtled along the deserted corridor, passing empty beds and wheelchairs. An abandoned lunch pod.
An intern flattened himself against the wall, clutching a huge brown X-ray envelope to his chest, as Logan sprinted past.
Up the stairs at the end, heart pounding in his ears. Through the doors at the top and— PREGNANT LADY, PREGNANT LADY!
Logan’s shoes skidded on the patchwork of flooring and duct tape, stopping him just short of a wheelchair full of red-faced, teeth-gritted, soon-to-be motherhood, one leg encased in plaster to the hip. The man pushing the chair turned as Logan battered past, setting the shiny ‘CONGRATULATIONS!’ balloons spinning and bumping into each other.
‘Watch where you’re bloody going!’
And then BOOM – the door from the main wards smashed open and one of the tracksuit hoodies flailed into view, arms and legs windmilling as he tried to dodge a porter pushing a trolley heaped with metal bowls and trays. It didn’t work. The hoodie careened straight into him, the pair of them landing in a tangle of limbs as the trolley’s contents clanged and clattered across the cracked floor.
Then he was up on his feet again, lunging for the exit.
Only Logan got there first.
He slammed into the hoodie’s side, sending them both crashing into the automatic doors before they could open. They hit the rubber matting in a tangle of arms and legs.
‘Gerroffus, gerroffus!’
The door hissed open.
‘Police!’ Logan grabbed a handful of hood and hauled. ‘Hold still, you wee shite. . .’
‘Aaaagh, gerroffus!’
Something thumped into Logan’s side. The hoodie put his head down and threw another punch.
Right in the armpit. Buggering hell, that stung.
Logan let go of the hood and snatched at the other arm – fumbling till he g
ot a good hold on the wrist, then bent it over on itself, forcing the palm towards the forearm and keeping it there.
‘AAAAAAAAAGH! GERROFFUS!’
Another bang and the door burst open again: another tracksuit hoodie. This one hurdled the porter’s overturned trolley, clearing it by at least two feet, going like the hounds of hell were snapping at his heels.
BOOM – DS Chalmers charged through after him. Mouth open, sharp little teeth bared. ‘COME BACK HERE!’
Hoodie Number One landed another punch. ‘Gerroffus!’
Logan gave the wrist one final twist. . . And something inside went ‘pop’.
A moment’s stillness, then he exploded, screaming, legs thrashing.
His mate leapt over them and out through the door into the sunlight. Chalmers wasn’t quite so lucky. A flailing leg caught her mid-leap and she went crashing to the ground, face first. Hoodie Number Two didn’t look back, didn’t slow down, just kept on running.
Chalmers lay where she was, groaning.
‘Gerroffus, gerroffus, gerroffus.’ The wee sod was losing a bit of energy and volume now. The words punctuated by little sobs.
Logan dragged the cuffs from his pocket and forced one end on over the hoodie’s misshapen wrist. Got a squeal for his troubles. Did the same with the other one, fastening both hands behind the guy’s back.
Then Logan struggled to his feet, reached down, and helped Chalmers stand. ‘Nice swan dive.’
She glowered at him. ‘I would’ve got him, if you hadn’t tripped me!’ Fresh dots of red welled up on her skinned chin.
He hauled the crying hoodie upright. ‘Blame Laughing Boy here.’
She turned her head and spat a frothy blob of red on the rubber matting. ‘Bit my tongue. . .’
DS Chalmers limped in, clutching an icepack to her chin. ‘How’d you get there before us anyway? ’
The ward was broken up into rooms of four beds a piece. Clunky screen things on flexible arms sat above the headboards, flickering adverts at them promising a glorious world of entertainment for any patient willing to pay for it.
Guy Ferguson had the bed by the window, propped up on a cliff-face of pillows, blinking slowly in the sunlight. His arms disappeared into what looked like shoe boxes covered in gauze bandages. Shiny metallic ‘GET WELL SOON’ balloons were anchored to the rail at the foot of the bed, glittering in the sunshine, trailing coils of ribbon like poisonous jellyfish. Grapes, lads’ mags, and bottles of Lucozade cluttered the bedside cabinet.
Close to the Bone (Special Edition) (Logan McRae, Book 8) Page 5