Shatter the Bones

by Stuart MacBride

  She scrambled backwards, her Winnie the Pooh pyjamas all tangled around her torso, little bare feet rucking the sheets as she shoved herself into the corner. Screaming, over and over again. Nothing came through Logan’s headphones, just the faint buzz of silence turned up too loud.

  The hand snatched a handful of pyjama top and—

  Fingers wrapped around Logan’s shoulder.

  He flinched so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. Yanked off his headphones. Turned round and glared at DS Biohazard Bob Marshall. ‘Very bloody funny!’

  Bob danced back a couple of steps, both hands up, a grin on his face. ‘Just asking if you wanted a coffee.’

  ‘How long were you standing there?’

  ‘From about the time they were going up the stairs. Good job you had the old headphones on, or you’d’ve heard me giggling.’ Bob threw himself into his swivel chair, hard enough to make the wheels come off the ground on the rebound. ‘Your face was classic.’

  Logan stared at him. ‘A wee girl’s dead, Bob.’

  Silence. Bob sighed. ‘She was grabbed a week ago: you and I both know she’s been dead for days. Lucky if she lived through the first night… Aye, well, maybe lucky’s not the right word.’ He twirled around, then pulled a newspaper from the pile on his desk and chucked it over. ‘Front page.’

  On Logan’s screen another figure in a white SOC-style over-suit – the kind sold in DIY stores everywhere – was hauling a struggling Alison McGregor down the stairs: duct tape over her mouth, hands bound behind her back, legs bound at the ankle, curly blonde hair whipping from side to side as she tried to head-butt her abductor.

  He hit pause, then picked up the newspaper. It was a copy of the Edinburgh Evening Post, the headline, ‘HOOK LINE AND STINKER – POLICE FALL FOR “JENNY’S DEAD” HOAX’.

  ‘God’s sake…’

  ‘Gets better. Check out the third paragraph.’

  Logan skimmed the first two, swore, then read it out loud. ‘“It’s obvious to anyone with half a brain – brackets – which clearly excludes most of Grampian Police – close brackets – that Blue-Fish-Two-Fish Productions are up to their old tricks again. This is the company that handed out used tampons at T in the Park last year, the company that projected a naked photograph of Benjamin Kerhill on Big Ben, the company that proudly tattooed a live pig in Trafalgar Square”…’

  ‘Keep going.’

  ‘“The police need to understand that all they’re doing here is helping an unscrupulous company whip up interest in the McGregors’ upcoming album. What’s next: the HMS Ark Royal, sponsored by Lamb’s Navy Rum? The fire brigade, brought to you by Gaviscon?”…’ Logan crumpled the paper up and rammed it into the bin beside his desk. Then hauled it out again. ‘Who wrote this?’

  ‘You stopped before you got to the rant about “throwing away tax payers’ money” and “institutional gullibility”.

  ‘Michael Bloody Larson.’ Logan stuck the thing back in the bin again.

  ‘Ask me, the bastard needs a stiff kicking.’ Bob stretched out his legs, crossed his ankles, then stuck his hands behind his head. ‘Still, at least you’re getting some media interest. I’ve been trying for days to get them to print something about my case. “Sex-god sergeant leads hunt for missing alky.” or, “Handsome Bob Marshall, twenty-four, in race to fi nd Stinky Tam the Holburn Street tramp.”’

  ‘Twenty-four?’

  ‘Shut up. Poor old Tam’s been gone two weeks now and no bugger’s got any idea if he’s sodded off for a fortnight in glamorous Stonehaven, or lying dead behind the bins somewhere. Guess where my money’s at?’ Bob curled his top lip. ‘And Stinky Tam wasn’t exactly a bowl of lilies at the best of times.’ He creaked his chair from side to side a couple of times, then pointed at Logan’s screen: the figure in the SOC suit and Alison McGregor. ‘Don’t know how you can watch that over and over. Creeps me out.’

  ‘What else can I do? We’ve got sod-all forensics. According to the lab there’s not a single fingerprint in the whole house that doesn’t belong to Alison, Jenny, the babysitter, or Alison’s dead husband. No hair, no fibres, no DNA, footprints… Nothing.’

  ‘Pfff… What do you expect? Look at them.’ He pointed at the screen again. ‘Course there’s sod-all forensics: they’re not thick, are they? No, they’re wearing the same stuff we do: oversuits, gloves, booties, facemasks. That’s what you get for having all this crime drama on the telly, every bugger out there’s getting a weekly masterclass in how to get away with murder.’

  The only forensic evidence the kidnappers had left behind was a faint dusting of tiny brass filings, caused by whatever they’d used to pick the lock on the back door.

  Bob sniffed. ‘You chase up YouTube?’

  ‘Nothing. They can trace the upload back through to a couple of servers in Bangladesh, but after that…? Could’ve come from anywhere.’ Logan picked the forensic report out of his in-tray. ‘Everything: every note, every envelope, every video – it’s like they’ve been put together in a vacuum by bloody ghosts.’

  A gravelly voice came from the CID room outside, ruining a Fifties song, ‘Oh yes, I’m the great pudenda; pudendin’ I’m doing well…’

  DI Steel pushed through the door to the Wee Hoose, huge mug of coffee in one hand, chocolate biscuit in the other. ‘Morning, ladies.’ She stuffed the biscuit in her gob and bumped the door closed with her hip.

  Logan scowled at her. ‘Seven AM sharp, you said. Where have you been?’

  ‘It’s your lucky day, Laz. Susan says she’s probably up for a wild ride on the orgasm express this weekend, so I shall forgive your rudeness if you tell me you’ve sent that letter off.’

  ‘You said you’d get Rennie to do it.’

  ‘No I didn’t.’

  ‘You bloody well did! Bob, tell her.’

  ‘Now, now, Laz.’ Bob grinned and turned back to his computer. ‘It’s not nice to contradict a lady.’

  ‘You rotten—’

  A knock on the door, then PC Guthrie stuck his pasty head into the Wee Hoose. ‘Guv?’ He nodded at DI Steel. ‘This just came in…’

  Guthrie held up a clear plastic evidence pouch. There was a sheet of A4 in it, creased as if it had been folded into thirds, covered in jagged blue biro.

  Steel grabbed it off him, squinted at the note for a bit, then held it out to Logan. ‘Read.’

  It was all in block capitals, the letters lopsided and sloppy, traced over and over again. Probably disguising their handwriting. ‘Sodding hell…’

  The inspector wrinkled her nose. ‘Well? What does it say?’

  ‘It’s a tip-off. Says Alison and Jenny were snatched by a paedophile ring.’

  Bob squeaked around in his chair and peered over Logan’s shoulder. ‘They’ve spelled “paedophile” wrong. And “snatched”…’

  ‘Says they’re going to auction Jenny off – after they’ve all… Shite. After they’ve all “sampled the merchandise”. They’re going to kill her mum soon as they get the ransom.’

  Guthrie nodded. ‘Arrived in the post today. Finnie said I had to show you, then get it up to the lab.’

  Steel crunched her way through her biscuit, frowning. ‘Bit risky, isn’t it?’

  Logan read the note again. ‘Could be a hoax?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ Bob poked the evidence bag. ‘If you’re going to lust after wee girls, what could be better than screwing the pretty six-year-old off the telly? Bet there’s paedos up and down the country recording Britain’s Next Big Star and wanking themselves ragged every time she comes on.’

  Celebrity paedophilia – why not, they’d had celebrity everything else… Logan handed the note back to Guthrie. ‘Anything on the envelope?’

  ‘Just the address. Didn’t even have a stamp; lucky it got delivered at all.’

  ‘Right,’ Steel dumped her mug on Doreen’s desk. ‘Laz, get onto Bucksburn: I want the Diddymen hauling in every pervert they’ve ever dealt with. And no’ just the ones on the register, the lapsed ones t
oo. We’ll start with the paedos, then try our luck with the rapists. And don’t let them fob you off with—’

  ‘Why would rapists—’

  ‘Just because they’ve no’ been done for kiddy-fiddling, doesn’t mean they’re no’ into it. Sometimes you’ve got to convict the filthy fucks for what you can get.’

  Logan thumped the wodge of stapled-together paper down on DI Steel’s desk. ‘Three hundred and thirty-nine sex offenders living in the north-east. That’s them arranged by offence, in order of closeness to Alison McGregor’s house.’

  Steel prodded the paperwork with a stained finger. ‘This all of them?’

  ‘All the ones on the register. Ingram says he’ll get the rest written up by close of play.’

  ‘Sodding hell, that’s a lot of perverts…’

  ‘Can’t drag them all into Bucksburn, or FHQ – some-one’s bound to notice and call the media, so I’ve booked a bunch of rooms at the Munro House Hotel. Told them we’re interviewing for Special Constables; they’re even doing us a discount on the corporate rate. If we haul three-hundred-odd people in there over a couple of days, no one’s going to notice.’

  She scrunched one eye closed, flipping through the wodge of printouts. ‘Right, get onto Big Gary, I want—’

  ‘Twelve-man team, all accredited interviewers, six video cameras, and an unmarked minibus. Ready to go whenever you are.’

  There was a pause. ‘Nobody likes a smart arse.’

  The hotel was a huge Victorian mock-Scottish-Baronial mansion – a forbidding lump of granite with turrets, bay windows, and gable ends shaped like a staircase for crows – only a five-minute walk from the Bucksburn police station, where the Offender Management Unit were based.

  Steel marched up the sweeping grey steps, past two carved lions. ‘How many we doing?’

  Logan checked the list. ‘As many as we can get through. DI Ingram’s lot are bringing them in from half nine.’

  ‘All paedos?’

  ‘A mixture. I’ve told him to bring them in based on how close they live to Alison McGregor’s house.’

  The unmarked minibus kangarooed into the car park, a grim-faced Rennie wrestling with the steering wheel. It jerked to a halt and a ragged cheer went up from the passengers.

  ‘Fair enough.’ She shoved open the heavy oak door and barged through into the reception, with Logan right behind her.

  The Munro’s carpet was a muted blue tartan, with a pale groove worn into it leading away into the gloomy interior. Wooden panelling lined the walls, peppered with water-colours of mountains in heavy golden frames. A stag’s head was stuffed and mounted above the reception desk, glaring out in mild surprise at Logan and the inspector.

  ‘Can I help you?’ A man in a charcoal-coloured suit appeared at the inspector’s elbow. He stood slightly hunched and knock-kneed, as if his underwear was doing horrible things to his undercarriage.

  Logan flashed his warrant card. ‘I called earlier about running some interviews?’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course: the Special Constables.’ The man clasped his hands together in front of his chest. ‘Your twelve rooms should be ready shortly, but I’ve taken the liberty of setting up a base of operations in the Crianlarich meeting room as well. There should be complimentary teas, coffees, and some pastries waiting for you.’

  Steel wrapped an arm around the concierge, smiling up at him. ‘Throw in a couple of steak pies and a bottle of Macallan, and I might never leave.’

  Frank Baker (24) – Indecent Exposure, Lewd and Libidinous Practices and Behaviour

  ‘I really don’t see how this concerns me, Mr…?’

  ‘Sergeant McRae.’

  ‘Ah…’ Frank Baker crossed his legs, made sure the crease in his tan chinos was perfectly straight, then did the same with the parting in his floppy brown hair. ‘Well, Sergeant, you see, I’ve never actually met—’

  ‘You live on the same street.’ Detective Constable Rennie crossed his legs, ran a hand through his own hair. Little flakes of skin were peeling off of his nose and forehead, glowing in the sun’s rays. ‘You have to see why we’d want to talk to you, Frank.’

  ‘Yes, well…’ He cleared his throat, then glanced at the little video camera mounted on a cheap tripod in the corner. ‘It’s really all just a silly mistake, you see, it was a misunderstanding, I really shouldn’t be on the register in the first place, I just—’

  ‘You just happened to expose yourself through the railings of a primary school?’ Logan checked the notes pinned to his clipboard. ‘Then did it again at the duck pond in Duthie Park.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘And then you tried to get a little boy to come into the toilets with you in Hazlehead Park, didn’t you Mr Baker?’

  Frank Baker’s cheeks turned a fiery shade of pink. Then his chin came up. ‘I don’t see how that makes me a kidnapper!’

  Rennie leaned forward and patted Baker on the knee. ‘It’s OK, Frank, no one’s saying you kidnapped anyone, we—’

  ‘They dragged me out of work to come here, you know! Two hairy constables, where I work!’

  Logan checked his notes. ‘Says here you’re a welder?’

  ‘They came to my work.’ He uncrossed his legs, then crossed them the other way around. Went through the same routine with all his creases. ‘No one there knows about … my mis understanding. And I’d like to keep it that way.’

  ‘A welder?’ Somehow it was difficult to imagine the prissy floppy-haired neat-freak sitting in front of them doing anything as messy as that.

  ‘They had no business bundling me into a patrol car like some sort of criminal.’ Baker brushed imaginary lint from his sleeve. ‘I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong. I would never ever touch a little girl. They’re not…’ He shuddered slightly. ‘I never even spoke to her. Or her mother. I wouldn’t know them if I passed them on the street.’

  Rennie uncrossed his legs, then crossed them again. Brushed something from his trouser leg. ‘Not even when they got on the TV?’ He’d been doing this since the start of the interview: every time Baker did anything, Rennie copied it. Like a sunburnt reflection.

  ‘Dear God, it was a nightmare. Soon as they made it through the first two stages there were reporters everywhere. I couldn’t go out my front door without a half dozen of the grubby little swines pointing cameras in my face. “Do you know Alison and Jenny?”, “What do they like to eat for breakfast?”, “Does Alison have a man in her life?” On and on, every single day.’ He took a deep breath, and Logan watched Rennie do exactly the same thing.

  Baker looked out of the window. ‘It’s very … inconvenient for someone in my position to be harassed by the media. It makes me uncomfortable.’

  Logan tapped his pen against the clipboard. ‘So you’re saying you never spoke to, interacted with, or had anything to do with Alison and Jenny McGregor?’

  Baker closed his eyes, pursed his lips. ‘I don’t know them. I’ve never known them. I don’t want to know them.’

  ‘Do you watch a lot of television, Mr Baker?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Documentaries, the news, or are you an X-Factor and Britain’s Next Big Star kinda guy?’

  Baker gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘OK, OK… I watched them. Every week, up there singing and dancing and getting famous. For what? What the hell was so special about Alison Bloody McGregor and her little girl? Oh, Jenny’s daddy died in Afghanistan, boo bloody hoo.’

  ‘Iraq, Mr Baker. James McGregor died in Iraq.’

  ‘Same difference.’ He scowled at the floor. ‘I never touched them. I didn’t kidnap them. I didn’t kill her, or her horrible little child. I wouldn’t dirty my hands…’

  Darren McInnes (52) – Exposing Children to Harm/Danger or Neglect, Possessing Indecent Images of Children, Theft by Housebreaking, Serious Assault

  ‘No, that’s not what I’m saying.’ McInnes brushed his long, greasy yellow-grey hair from his face and tied it in a loose ponytail. He pursed his lips, the fol
ds around his grey eyes deepening behind thick glasses. ‘I’m saying I had nothing to do with them.’

  At least he looked like a paedophile. Baker could have passed for a swimming pool attendant, but there was no mistaking Darren McInnes.

  McInnes shifted in his seat, Rennie copying his every move. ‘Can I smoke?’ He pulled out a tin of tobacco.

  Logan shook his head. ‘There’s a hundred and fifty pound fine for smoking in the hotel, Mr McInnes. Where were you last week: Wednesday night, Thursday morning?’

  ‘Bloody government. I should be able to smoke if I want to, they’re my bloody lungs.’

  Logan banged on the arm of his chair, making the lanky man flinch.

  ‘Where – were – you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was at home. Probably. Watching TV. Maybe I had a couple of beers, it’s not illegal is it?’

  ‘How well do you know Alison and Jenny McGregor?’

  ‘We’ve been over this. I don’t, OK? Yes, I was aware of them, but I don’t follow all that reality television shite. Whatever happened to the good old days, eh? When they used to make decent drama and comedy and documentaries? Now it’s all about sticking a bunch of nobodies on the box and raking the cash in with dodgy telephone scams. Makes you sick.’ He produced the tobacco tin again, popped it open and pulled out a packet of Rizla papers.

  ‘I said no smoking.’

  McInnes looked up at Logan. ‘I’m not smoking, I’m rolling, OK? That still allowed in Nazi Britain?’

  Rennie pulled a pen from his pocket and fiddled with it. ‘And you never watched Alison and Jenny on the TV, at all?’

  ‘Oh, I heard them on the radio. Everywhere you go, they’re on the radio, singing that bloody awful song. They didn’t even write it. Cover versions, that’s all people can do these days.’

  Logan stood and walked around until he was standing directly behind McInnes. Looming. Up close he smelled of unwashed hair and stale cigarettes. ‘Do you know anyone who’s selling a little girl?’

  ‘Ah.’ The lanky man pulled a sheet of translucent paper from the little packet, then dug into a pouch of tobacco. ‘Well, sometimes one hears certain … rumours. Internet chat rooms, news groups, that kind of thing.’