Shatter the Bones

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘I had meat yesterday.’

  ‘You did? Really?’

  ‘Lasagne. Not vegetarian: proper beef sauce.’ Well, if you couldn’t lie to your therapist, who could you lie to?

  The umbrella buried itself in a bush. ‘And how did that make you feel?’

  ‘Can we stick to the toes?’

  ‘This is quite a breakthrough, Logan. Seriously, well done – I’m proud of you.’

  And there was the guilt. ‘Toes?’

  ‘I don’t think they’re going to go through with it. I think however much money they get, they won’t kill her.’

  ‘Why would they kill her when she’s worth a fortune on the paedophile livestock exchange?’

  ‘Ah… You think she’d be better off dead than being passed around, sold on, abused?’

  Logan didn’t look around. ‘Don’t you?’

  That artificial voice crackled out of the laptop’s speakers again.

  ‘This is not a hoax. You have four days left. If you raise enough money, they will live. If you do not, they will die. Do not let Jenny and Alison down.’

  The umbrella’s owner dragged it out of the bush and struggled with the mechanism. It stayed resolutely inside-out.

  He jammed the broken brolly back into the bush, stuck two fingers up to it, then marched off into the downpour.

  Logan turned his back on the rain. ‘The other trouble is: we’re setting a precedent here.’ Goulding sat back, arms crossed. ‘They snatched two people everyone will recognize. They demand money from the public, but don’t say how much it’ll take to keep their victims alive. Everyone chips in, and they walk away with what: four, five million by the time Thursday morning comes around?’

  ‘I know, what’s to stop someone else from doing the same thing next week?’

  ‘How did your lasagne taste?’

  ‘Yeah…’ Logan bit his bottom lip. ‘Good. Meaty. Like I remembered it.’

  ‘Not like human flesh?’

  Warm saliva filled his mouth. Stomach lurching two steps to the right. A warm dizzy fog behind his eyes. Logan swallowed hard. Looked away. ‘No. Nothing like human flesh.’

  Furry. Warm and furry. She’s lying on her back, looking up at the ceiling, watching it twist to the left a bit, then jump back to where it was and twist again, and again, and again, and again…

  Jenny McGregor blinks. It just sets the room spinning faster. Mummy’s face appears, big and pink above her. Nose all red at the end, like a cherry, eyes all pink. Mouth a wobbly line. ‘There, there, shhhh… It’ll be all right, I promise… Shhhh…’

  A cool hand strokes her head. ‘Thirsty…’

  A plastic bottle presses against her lips and wet dribbles down her chin. Jenny swallows. Some of it goes down the wrong way. Splutter. Choke. Cough. Barbed wire in her throat.

  Mummy helps her sit up. ‘Are you OK?’

  She can see the bandages wrapped around each foot. Big lumps of white, with faint yellow-and-pink stains. Pins and needles stab and jab and tickle her little toes… Which is silly, because she doesn’t have little toes any more. She saw them go into the envelope with the shiny CD circle.

  This little piggy went to market,

  This little piggy stayed at home,

  This little piggy had roast beef,

  This little piggy had none.

  And these little piggies are gone...

  The monsters are back. They’re standing in the corner of the swirly room, with their names stuck to their chests and their metal voices. Maybe they’ve come for more toes?

  ‘I’m just saying, OK? I don’t see why I have to be “Sylvester”.’

  ‘Jesus, not again…’ The one called TOM shakes his smooth plastic face from side to side.

  ‘I want to be “Tom”.’

  ‘Tough: I’m Tom.’ He settles back against the wall and crosses his white papery arms. ‘Anyway, could be worse: you could be “Christopher”, that’s like being “Mr Shit”.’

  ‘Hey!’ COLIN hits him in the arm. ‘He was a great Doctor!’

  ‘My arse. Doing a runner after only one series. Only seems better cos they threw all that money into special effects.’

  ‘Yeah.’ SYLVESTER nods. ‘Sylvester McCoy would’ve been a great Doctor if they’d given him a decent bloody budget.’

  Silence. ‘You are so fucking gay!’

  ‘Yeah, more Gaylord than Timelord.’

  ‘Fuck the pair of you…’

  The door opens and everyone stops talking. They stand up straight like pale white soldiers. DAVID walks into the room.

  He looks around, breath hissing in and out. Then the same, dead, robot voice as all the other monsters. ‘Has she been given her antibiotic yet?’

  COLIN looks at the other two, then takes a step back. ‘I was … erm … just about to start—’

  ‘Well get on with it.’ He steps up so close that Jenny can almost see the horns under his crime-person suit. But she can see his tail: long and red, with a forky bit on the end, swishing back and forward – like an angry cat.

  COLIN picks up his little plastic box and hurries over. Opens it up. Pulls out another needle. Fills it with milk. ‘I…’ He glances at DAVID, then kneels down at the side of the bed.

  Mummy flinches back. ‘Don’t hurt her!’

  COLIN reaches out and strokes Jenny’s hair with his rubbery purple fingers. ‘It’s OK. I just… I have to give you a little injection to stop you getting sick. Is that all right? I can’t give you tablets in case you throw them back up.’

  Jenny looks at him. His face looks like a dead person. Like Daddy in the box. Like the goldfish on the bathroom floor.

  She reaches for him, little fingers grasping his sleeve. ‘Please, don’t … don’t take my toes away…’

  ‘Fuck…’ COLIN rests his head against the stripy mattress. ‘I won’t, OK? You’re going to be fine. It’s just a little scratch.’ He holds it against her skin. ‘Sorry…’

  She barely feels the jaggy needle as it goes in. Doesn’t feel the bee’s sting. ‘I want to go home…’

  ‘I know you do, sweetheart. I know you do.’ COLIN stares at the floor for a bit, then stands. Makes himself look bigger by putting his shoulders back, bringing his head up. He turns, and walks across the swirling room to DAVID. Then slumps. ‘I can’t do this any more.’

  Mummy strokes her forehead. ‘Shhhh… It’ll all be over soon, and we’ll go home. Don’t be scared.’

  ‘You know fine what you signed up for, Colin.’

  ‘It… It’s different, OK?’

  ‘Don’t be an arsehole, we—’

  ‘You’re not the one had to cut off a little girl’s toes!’

  ‘Here, look, it’s Teddy Gordon.’ Mummy holds that horrible stitched-on smile in front of her. Twitches his head left and right, like he’s having a fit. Like that girl in primary three they have to watch in case she bites off her tongue.

  ‘So what, you’re chickening out?’ DAVID pokes COLIN in the chest.

  ‘I’m…’ He looks at his feet. ‘You know what? Yeah, I’m chickening out. I’ve had it. I’ve had it with this whole fucked up—’

  DAVID moves fast as a tiger. Grabs COLIN and thumps him into the scribbly wall. BANG – the room goes left to right for a couple of twists.

  ‘You listen to me, you rancid little wanker: you don’t get to chicken out. You do what your fucking told, understand?’

  ‘You can’t make me—’

  DAVID slams him into the wall again. And again. Then punches him in the tummy.

  ‘DO YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND?’ DAVID’s robot voice fizzes and crackles.

  He lets go, and COLIN falls to his knees, crying. Holding his head in his purple hands.

  DAVID backs away. ‘Do your bit.’

  TOM twitches, then walks over and puts his arm around COLIN. ‘Come on, you just need a bit of air, yeah? Yeah, course. We’ll go outside, get you a can of Coke, or something, OK?’

  He helps COLIN to his feet and out the d
oor. It slams shut like a fist.

  DAVID rolls his shoulders back, then walks over, till he’s standing over Mummy, looking down at them both. Breath hissing in and out.

  Mummy’s voice wobbles. ‘Please, she’s not feeling—’

  ‘The antibiotics will take down her fever. She’ll be fine.’ DAVID tilts his head to one side. ‘As long as you both do as you’re told.’

  ‘But she—’

  ‘Misbehave, and I’ll execute the pair of you. Do you understand?’

  ‘We—’

  ‘Do we need to have another fucking talk about how this works?’ Silence. ‘Well, do we?’

  He throws an arm out, it leaves oily trails in the air. ‘Sylvester: key.’

  SYLVESTER shuffles his feet. ‘Are you—’

  ‘Give me the fucking key!’

  SYLVESTER holds out a little bit of metal and DAVID snatches it, then grabs Mummy’s ankle and unlocks the padlock that holds the chain around her ankle.

  ‘I didn’t mean any—’

  ‘You’re not on TV now.’ He grabs her arm and hauls her off the bed. ‘This is my house, and in my house you do what you’re fucking told.’

  The rooms spins.

  Teddy Gordon smiles his horrible smile.

  Jenny’s missing toes throb. ‘Oh yeah.’ DAVID drags Mummy away. ‘I’m going to enjoy this.’

  ‘Please! I don’t—’

  The door bangs shut. Like the lid on Daddy’s box.

  Jenny feels warm tears rolling down her cheeks.

  SYLVESTER’s chin drops against his chest. ‘Fuck…’

  The room lurches like a drunk man.

  Chapter 23

  ‘Well?’ Finnie folded his arms and stared around the room.

  Logan tore another sliver of Sellotape from the roll and fixed up the last sheet of A3. ‘That wall over there,’ he waved a hand at the dusty plastic sheeting covering the exposed breezeblocks and cabling, ‘is all the notes and transcripts of the videos. That wall,’ he pointed at the corkboards he’d managed to salvage from the builder’s skip out the back, ‘is all the door-to-doors. Next to it you’ve got the interviews with Alison’s friends, colleagues, and the people on her university course. Then it’s the TV people…’

  He took two steps back, arms held out wide. ‘And this is the timeline. Well, as much of it as we can piece together. Starts over there – underneath the window – three weeks before the kidnapping and ends with the toes being delivered to the BBC yesterday.’

  Superintendent Green pointed at the whiteboard propped up by the door. ‘And this?’

  ‘Kidnappers. We know there’s at least three of them because of the first video – one to hold the camera, one to haul Alison McGregor down the stairs, one to hit her over the back of the head. I’m assuming there’s one more to drive the getaway car. We’ll need to go through every report of a stolen vehicle for the last week: I don’t see them being stupid enough to use their own car or van. We might get lucky.’

  Logan nodded at the whiteboard, split into four vertical columns headed: ‘DAVID’, ‘TOM’, ‘#3’, ‘#4’ with a small list of bullet points below each. ‘One of them has medical training and access to a hospital or veterinary pharmacy. One’s probably a hacker, or an IT security specialist – that’s how they can send the emails and post footage to YouTube without leaving a trail. One’s highly forensically aware, which is why we’ve got no DNA, fingerprints, or trace evidence.’

  Green folded his arms across his broad chest, the fingertips of his right hand stroking the dimple in his chin staring at the list of bullet points under the #4 heading. ‘Who’s “Ralph”?’

  Logan tapped the whiteboard. ‘Not who, what. “Ralph” is one of the text-to-speech voices that come bundled with the Macintosh operating system. It’s the voice they use on the videos.’

  ‘I see…’ Green sniffed. ‘And is this all you’ve done?’ Logan gritted his teeth. ‘Next I’m going to cross-reference the individual skills with every registered sex offender in—’

  ‘You see, that’s the trouble with never having investigated a kidnapping before. All this unfocused energy, flailing out in all directions.’

  He stared at Finnie, but the head of CID just rolled his eyes. Play nice. Don’t rock the boat. Don’t tell Superintendent Green to go ram a filing cabinet up his arse.

  Logan cleared his throat. ‘And what would you do, sir? With your wealth of experience?’

  Either Green wasn’t very good at sarcasm, or he just didn’t care. ‘I’d go back to the start.’

  What? ‘With all due respect,’ – you posing tosser – ‘that’s what I’ve been doing.’

  A smile. ‘No, Sergeant, not the start of the investigation, the start of the crime. Dig into similar events: not just in Aberdeen, but Glasgow, Edinburgh, Newcastle. Put it into context – where did Alison and Jenny’s kidnappers get their inspiration from? Did they have a practice run? Is that where the first toe came from?’

  Silence. ‘Search the archives.’ He patted Logan on the shoulder. ‘Ten years or so should do it.’

  Bastard. This was just Green’s revenge for making him look like an idiot last night.

  Logan turned to Finnie again. ‘You can’t be serious, this is a complete—’

  ‘In the meantime, I hear you have three sex offenders with access to veterinary practices. I take it you’re planning on doing due diligence to make sure they’ve been thoroughly checked out?’

  ‘But DI Steel’s already doing—’

  ‘Now, now.’ Finnie held up a finger. ‘Superintendent, would you excuse us for a moment? There’s something I need to discuss with Sergeant McRae.’

  ‘…because he’s a prick, that’s why. Hold on.’ Logan jammed his Airwave handset into the gap between the steering wheel and the instrument panel, changed down, and swung the pool car around the roundabout onto Mugiemoss Road. Windscreen wipers going full pelt. ‘You still hear me?’

  DS Doreen Taylor’s voice crackled out of the handset’s speaker, the volume turned up full, distorting the words. ‘I’m not sure I want to.’

  ‘How can re-interviewing everyone be anything other than a complete waste of time? Never mind how pissed off Steel’s going to be when she finds out we’re double-dipping on her perverts. Like I’m checking her sodding homework.’

  Rain hammered against the bonnet of the car, drumming on the roof, misting the space between Logan and the dirty big truck he was following. The River Don coiled grey and dark in the middle distance, like a slug. The streetlights glowing. Wasn’t even mid-morning yet.

  And his left palm ached, as if someone was grinding a hot needle into the flesh. So the weather was definitely going to get worse. Scar-tissue: the gift that keeps on giving.

  ‘Well, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself. You didn’t have to poke holes in his sunshine theory yesterday. Anyway, if you’re looking for sympathy you’ve dialled the wrong number. While you’re out gallavanting, I’m stuck in here listening to his posturing egotistical monologues.’

  Another roundabout. Grove Cemetery on one side, the little caravan park where Samantha kept her huge static Portakabin thing on the other. Not that there was any point in keeping it: she hadn’t been back in months.

  Heavy grey clouds blanketed out the sky, thudding ever more water down on the city.

  ‘And do you know what Finnie said?’

  ‘Logan, did you just phone me for a moan? Because—’

  ‘He said we’ve got to keep Green sweet, so he doesn’t bring in all his SOCA tosser mates and take over the investigation.’ Logan put on his best DCI Finnie impersonation – stretching his mouth out and down, like a disappointed frog. ‘“Can you imagine what would happen if Grampian Police had the case taken off them? Would the media write stirring articles about how clever and special we all are? Hmmm?”’ He changed down and followed the huge filthy truck across the bridge and past the sewage treatment plant. ‘And another thing—’

  ‘I’m going to hang
up now, Logan.’

  ‘—explain to me why I always end up—’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  He frowned at the Airwave handset. ‘Doreen? Doreen, can you hear me?’

  The windscreen wipers groaned and clunked. ‘Hello?’

  She’d hung up on him. Unbelievable.

  He took the Parkway, around Danestone and into the Bridge of Don. According to DI Ingram’s notes, Frank Baker – the floppy-haired neat-freak they’d interviewed on Friday morning, the one who looked like a swimming pool attendant – worked in a fabrication yard in the Bridge of Don Industrial Estate. He was the first sex offender on Green’s list.

  Logan put his foot down, trying to get past the truck on the way up the hill, slithering back behind it as a Range Rover coming the other way flashed its lights at him.

  And then his phone went – the brief chirrup signifying a text message. He flicked the windscreen wipers onto their highest setting, then pulled the mobile out of his pocket, thumbing the little envelope icon. Holding the phone against the steering wheel, so he could read and drive at the same time.

  ‘I no where they is – jenny and her mum. If U want 2 C them alive, wee should meat.’

  Not exactly the most appealing of messages.

  Logan fiddled with the phone’s screen, trying to get the sender’s number up—

  A horn blared.

  Shite!

  He swerved the pool car back into the right lane. The bus driver coming the other way gave him the finger on the way past.

  Logan pulled over in the driveway of a little grey house, heart hammering in his chest. Jesus, that was close.

  He fiddled with the phone some more, got the caller’s number. It wasn’t one he recognized. He hit reply, and tapped out ‘Where?’ on the screen.

  ‘Ware R U?’

  Fine, if that was the way they wanted to play it. Why should he go traipsing halfway across Aberdeen to meet up with some time-wasting weirdo? He picked out the reply: ‘DANESTONE. THAT TOBY PUB PLACE ON THE PARKWAY. HALF AN HOUR.’

  Screw Superintendent Green and his ‘due diligence’.

  Half an hour later he was onto his second coffee and first sticky bun. The Buckie Farm was one of those chain pubs where you could get a carvery lunch for a couple of quid. Nice enough, even if it was a little soulless.