Shatter the Bones

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Someone has to tell Trisha Brown’s mother her wee girl’s been abducted.’

  ‘You could at least’ve taken Rennie!’

  ‘I wanted… They say I can sit with Samantha for fifteen minutes.’

  A pause. ‘Fuck’s sake, Laz, I would’ve come with you. You know that. Could’ve sat in the canteen ogling nurses while you were in with her.’

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go.’ He hung up before she could say anything else.

  The plump nurse eyed Logan up and down for the third time in as many minutes as she led him towards a curtained-off area at the far end of an eight-bed ward. It was oppressively hot in here, even though the windows were open, letting in the droning rumble of traffic and the occasional screeching wail of ambulances.

  ‘Now, I need you to understand that Mrs Brown isn’t to be excited.’ The nurse ran a hand across her chest, just above the massive shelf of bosom. Then checked the watch pinned to her blue top like a medal. ‘She’s not due another dose of methadone for two hours and she’s a bloody nightmare when she gets going.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  The nurse grabbed a handful of curtain and wheeched it back. Helen Brown lay on top of the covers, head back, mouth hanging open, snoring gently. No teeth. A wad of gauze was taped over one eye, the rest of her face a patchwork of bruises and stitches. Her right arm was encased in a fibreglass cast from palm to elbow, her left leg from the ankle all the way to the thigh. But her right leg came to an abrupt end at the knee, the exposed thigh stained yellow and green.

  Logan winced. The attack must have been horrific. ‘They cut her leg off?’

  ‘About three years ago. Gangrene.’ The nurse checked the chart hanging on the end of the bed. ‘That’s the trouble with intravenous drug users. Don’t know when to stop.’ She looked up at Trisha’s mum. ‘Mrs Brown? Helen? There’s a policeman here to see you.’

  A mumble. ‘Helen?’

  Trisha’s mum squinted with her good eye. ‘Fuck off…’

  ‘Come on, Helen. What have we talked about your language?’

  She struggled over onto her side. ‘Fuckin’ fat bitch. Where’th my painkillerth?’

  A sigh. ‘You know you can’t get anything more till five. Now there’s a policeman here to see you; do you want a glass of water?’

  ‘I need my fuckin’ painkillerth! In fuckin’ agony here…’ Logan settled into the seat beside the bed. ‘Mrs Brown, my name’s Detective Sergeant McRae. I need to speak to you about Trisha.’

  The nurse nodded. ‘Well, I leave you to it then.’ She stepped away from the bed and pulled the curtains closed again, shutting Logan in.

  Trisha’s mum scowled at him. ‘Fuckin’ bitch never gives me anything for the pain.’

  ‘She was seen getting into a car on Saturday evening—’

  ‘Oh, here we go.’ Helen curled back her lips, exposing a pair of bruised and battered gums. ‘Just ’cos she sucks someone off in—’

  ‘The person in the car attacked her. She was seen being beaten.’

  ‘Oh…’ Helen rolled over onto her back. ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘We don’t know. He drove off with her still in the car.’ Silence. Helen rubbed the fingers of her good hand up and down the blanket. Then a tear rolled its way down her bruised cheek.

  Logan looked away. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re sorry? You’re fuckin’ sorry?’ An empty plastic tumbler bounced off Logan’s shoulder. ‘Why aren’t you out there? Why aren’t you looking for my little girl?’

  ‘We’re doing everything we—’

  ‘SHE COULD BE FUCKIN’ DEAD FOR ALL YOU KNOW! Dead. Raped in a fucking ditch! My wee Trisha…’

  ‘If you can think of anyone who threatened, or—’

  ‘And they send round a fuckin’ sergeant? Alison McGregor gets the Chief Constable and half the pigs in Scotland, and all Trisha gets is a fuckin’ sergeant! WHAT FUCKIN’ GOOD ARE YOU?’

  ‘Mrs Brown, I want to assure you that Grampian Police are taking this very seriously.’

  The curtains burst open and the big nurse was back. ‘What did I tell you about upsetting her?’

  ‘I didn’t—’

  ‘TRISHA!’

  ‘Come on Helen, quieten down: you don’t want to disturb the other patients, now do you?’

  She grabbed a grey cardboard bedpan and threw it at the nurse. ‘MY WEE GIRL’S MISSING! I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT YOUR FUCKIN’ PATIENTS!’

  ‘We’re doing everything we can to find—’

  ‘You bunch of bastards. You think she’s just a junkie hoor, she’s not worth anything. SHE’S MY LITTLE GIRL!’ Helen Brown swung her fibre-glass cast at Logan’s head. ‘I’LL FUCKIN’ KILL YOU!’

  He jerked back out of the way, the plastic visitor’s chair tipping over, clattering to the floor, as he stood.

  ‘Right, that’s enough.’ The nurse lunged, pinning Helen to the bed.

  ‘GET OFF ME YOU FAT BITCH! AAAAAAGH!’

  ‘I said that’s enough!’ The nurse scowled up at Logan, teeth gritted. ‘I think you’d better go, don’t you?’

  * * *

  ‘You’re looking well. No really…’ Logan squeezed Samantha’s hand. ‘Very goth.’

  She didn’t look ill, there was barely a scratch on her. At least, not on the bits he could see. They’d taped her eyelids shut. A breathing tube snaked in through the side of her mouth, a pulse monitor clipped to her right index finger, an IV line plugged into a shunt on her right wrist.

  ‘I moved back into the caravan. Place smells worse than your dad. All mouldy…’

  Wee Hamish’s flowers were sitting in a large vase on the windowsill. A vast arrangement of roses and carnations and fuzzy-white-spray-stuff and leaves and twirls of bamboo. Extravagant, but tasteful.

  ‘Elaine picked up all your clothes, by the way. The pants and boots and things.’ He sank forward until his head was resting against her chest, rising and falling on the swell of her mechanically-assisted breathing. ‘Fuck… I don’t know if you can hear me or not. But it’s going to be OK. I promise.’

  Lying bastard.

  ‘Starting to think you’re stalking me.’

  Logan scrubbed a hand across his eyes, kept his head facing the corner. ‘Sorry...’ It took him a couple of beats to realize where he was – a subterranean corridor, deep within the bowels of the hospital. The thrum of the ventilation system, the smell of over-boiled cauliflower and industrial floor polish.

  He sniffed. Wiped his eyes again. ‘I used to wander the corridors ... you know, after the stabbing. Must’ve worn out three pairs of trainers by the time they let me go home. Always ended up down here.’ Staring at four watercolours framed on the scuffed cream walls. A single landscape split over the seasons, the colours so vibrant they were surreal.

  The APT moved around, peering at him, her fiery-orange hair swinging like a pendulum. ‘You OK?’

  He almost laughed. ‘Been a rough couple of days.’

  Silence.

  ‘You want a cup of tea, or something?’

  ‘Milk, two sugars.’ She placed a steaming mug on the desk in front of him.

  Coffee. He could smell it over the bleach and formaldehyde. Over the smell of institutionalized death. ‘Thanks.’

  The Anatomical Pathology Technician glanced over her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about Mrs Sawyer, it was very peaceful.’ An old lady – laid out on the cutting table, just her head and bare feet sticking out from beneath the white plastic sheet. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘No.’

  A nod. ‘Well, tell you what, I’ve got something that might cheer you up...’ She was back a minute later, carrying the laptop from the other room. It went on the desk, next to Logan’s coffee, then she fiddled with the touch-pad. ‘Remember you were looking for dead girls who’d been given morphine and thiopental sodium?’

  The screen was fuzzy, out of focus. He blinked. It was a little girl, her eyes half shut, face covered with scrapes and bruises, blood c
rusting around her nose. Bowl haircut and a razor-sharp fringe.

  The APT poked the screen. ‘Olivia Brook. Five and a half. Car accident. Riding her bike and got broadsided by a teenager in a VW Polo. I was going to email you after we’d seen to Mrs Sawyer.’

  Logan stared at the photo. Poor little sod... ‘I thought you searched—’

  ‘Oh, she didn’t die. They had to take her left leg off just above the knee. Was hanging by a thread anyway; blood supply was completely compromised; the bones were all crushed; nothing they could do.’

  ‘Where’s the leg?’

  ‘We incinerate hospital waste.’ She raised her hands to the ceiling tiles. Giving her head a little shake, one eyebrow raised. ‘So...?’

  ‘So no one would notice a missing toe.’ Bastards. ‘But we do have blood samples on file. I can send one over, if you want to try for a DNA match?’

  ‘Yeah, could you make it—’

  Logan’s mobile rang, deep in his pocket – the generic tune marking the call as one from an unknown number. If it was Shuggie Bloody Webster calling to talk about consequences he was in for a fucking nasty shock. Logan dragged the phone out. ‘What?’

  A small, rustling pause, then, ‘Logan?’ A man’s voice, the accent a whispery, gravelly mix of Aberdonian and public school. Wee Hamish Mowat.

  Logan licked his lips. Sat up straight. ‘Hello?’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling, but I thought you might like to know that we’ve managed to locate your missing … friend.’

  Chapter 40

  A small warehouse in Dyce – not much bigger than a double garage, oil stains on the concrete floor, metal shelving around the bare breezeblock walls loaded down with dusty boxes.

  A layer of thick, clear plastic sheeting was spread out on the floor, the corners held down with chunks of rusty machinery.

  One of the roller doors was open, letting in the bang and clank of the industrial estate, the whumping roar of helicopters on their way to and from the rigs. A dented Transit van had been backed part way into the warehouse, its rear wheels sitting on the plastic sheet, its front end sticking out into the sunny afternoon. Engine idling.

  The young man with the green hair sniffed, then picked up a metal attaché case, popped open the catches, and held the thing out to Logan, as if he was starring in a spy film. Jonny Urquhart – From Mastrick With Malice. He smiled, showing off a set of perfect teeth, his cheeks a moonscape of old acne pock-marks. ‘Don’t worry, totally clean, like.’

  Logan looked into the case. It was a big semi-automatic pistol, wrapped in a clear plastic zip-lock food bag. Another bag had the clip. One more, a handful of snub-nosed 9mm bullets.

  ‘Hollow point.’ Urquhart winked. ‘They’ll fuck you up good.’

  Logan’s palms were suddenly damp. He wiped them on his jeans. ‘No. Thanks, but no.’

  ‘Ah, going hands-on, eh? Old school: like it.’ He slammed the case shut again, twiddled with the combination lock. ‘You got gloves? No? Don’t worry, I’ll sort you out.’

  He hauled open the Transit’s back doors and clambered inside, then backed out again, hauling a fully-grown man by the armpits.

  Shuggie Webster: hands fastened behind his back, legs kicking out in random directions. THUMP, he hit the concrete floor … or rather, the plastic sheeting. A muffled grunt from behind a duct tape gag. He was still wearing the same filthy hoodie as before, but his shoes were gone, exposing a pair of socks with a hole in one toe. Urquhart dragged him into the middle of the sheeting, then let go.

  Shuggie lay there, eyes wide, breath hissing out of his nose. Logan swallowed. ‘There we go, one tosspot, delivered as promised. Like FedEx for fuck-heads.’ Urquhart dug another zip-lock bag from his pocket and tossed it across to Logan. ‘Compliments of the house.’

  Three pairs of gloves: one leather, two latex – the skin-tone ones you never saw on crime scenes any more.

  ‘Now, you sure you don’t want that gun?’

  On the ground, Shuggie tried to shout something, bucking and writhing.

  ‘No one fucking asked you.’ Urquhart took two steps and slammed his boot into Shuggie’s side.

  That got him a muffled grunt. ‘See? This is what happens when you buy your drugs off fucking foreigners.’ Another kick. ‘Support local businesses!’ Urquhart clapped his hands together. ‘Right, I’ll leave you guys alone. Give us a knock when you want me to come help you get shot of what’s left, OK?’ He swaggered over to the back of the van, reached in and produced a portable stereo the size of a bulldog. Fiddled with it for a moment, then clicked a button.

  Heavy metal boomed out of the speakers, loud enough to drown out any screams.

  He popped it on the ground, creaked the van’s doors shut again. It pulled forward four feet.

  Urquhart turned, tugged his green forelock, stepped outside and hauled the roller door shut. Now it was just Logan, Shuggie, and Metallica.

  Shuggie stopped wriggling, just lay there on his back, staring up at him.

  Of course the right thing to do would be to look on all this as an object lesson. To accept that Shuggie Webster was just a screwed up little man who got in with the wrong people when he was young. Whose life had been blighted by drug use and a second-rate education. That he was a human being, as flawed and redeemable as anyone.

  Logan slid the little plastic zip open and pulled out the latex gloves.

  Revenge wasn’t going to solve anything. It wasn’t going to make Samantha’s spleen and left kidney grow back. Make the swelling in her brain go down. Fix her busted ribs, broken shoulder, shattered left knee, or dislocated hip. Make her wake up.

  It wasn’t going to do a fucking thing.

  He snapped one set of latex gloves on, then struggled the leather pair over the top. Give Shuggie a good scare, then haul him back to the station, hand him over to the authorities, and make sure he goes down for eight-to-twelve years. Which means six-to-eight before he gets out on parole. Four-to-six with good behaviour. Less time-served while waiting for the case to come to court.

  Logan pulled the last pair of latex gloves on over the leather.

  Barely worth arresting him at all. Might as well give the little fuck a slap on the wrists and send him on his way with a stern talking to.

  Save everyone a lot of bother. ‘On your feet.’

  Shuggie just stared at him. ‘I said, “ON YOUR FUCKING FEET!”’ Logan slammed a kick into his thigh.

  Shuggie hissed behind the gag, then struggled to roll over onto his side. The bandage covering his right hand was almost black with dried blood and dirt. Logan grabbed his shoulders and hauled him up onto his knees.

  ‘You wanted “consequences”, Shuggie? Fine.’ Logan grabbed the cable tie holding the big man’s wrists together, and pulled. ‘You’re going to get your fucking “consequences”.’

  A muffled scream, but Shuggie got to his feet, socks slipping on the plastic.

  Just a bit of a scare…

  Logan slammed a fist into the big man’s kidneys – he collapsed to his knees again.

  ‘She’s in a coma.’ Logan took a step back and kicked Shuggie in the kidney again.

  ‘MMMMMMMPHHHHH!’

  Shuggie narrowed his eyes above the duct tape gag, a growling hiss coming from his throat.

  ‘A fucking coma!’ Logan rammed his forearm into Shuggie’s face, using the solid strip of bone just before the elbow to crack him right across the nose. Barely felt it. But Shuggie went sprawling back across the plastic, moaning and whinging like a baby.

  A swift boot in the nuts and he was folded over again, blood pouring from his ruined nose, jerking back and forward.

  Logan stamped on his left ankle. ‘Say you’re sorry!’ He kicked the big man over onto his back, then sat down hard on his chest. Rammed another elbow into his face. Shuggie’s head bounced off the plastic sheeting with a dull thunk. Logan hauled the duct tape gag off and Shuggie dragged in a huge breath.

  Logan hit him again, not bothering w
ith the elbow, using his fist. ‘Say—’ punch, ‘—you’re—’ punch, ‘—fucking—’ punch, ‘—SORRY!’ Then sat back, breathing hard.

  Shuggie’s face was already beginning to swell up, one eye closing over, the other well on its way – the pupil adrift in a sea of bright red. Nose flattened, lips split. Probably a broken cheekbone.

  ‘Urgh…’ Bubbles of blood popped at the side of his battered mouth.

  ‘Everything we do, all the shit we put up with, to keep bastards like you from hurting people. Stealing from them. Dealing drugs to their kids and ruining their fucking lives…’ Logan hauled himself to his feet, flexed his right hand, feeling the layers of glove tight across his skin. He kicked him again, catching Shuggie on the side of the knee, where it would do the most damage.

  The big man screamed. ‘Say you’re sorry.’

  Shuggie just lay there, gurgling blood and crying. ‘SAY IT.’

  ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry…’ His voice was wet, strangled with sobs. ‘Whatever … whatever I did – oh God – I’m sorry.’

  Logan stared at him. ‘“Whatever you did” ?’ Piece of shit. He stamped on Shuggie’s stomach, folding him up again.

  ‘Aaaaaa! Please, I’m sorry!’

  ‘YOU SET FIRE TO MY FLAT, YOU FUCKING WANKER!’

  ‘I’m so … I’m so sorry…’

  ‘You stuck a condom through my letterbox, filled it with petrol, and set fire to the fucking thing!’ Another kick in the stomach. ‘What, were you too stoned to remember? Samantha’s in a fucking coma because of you!’ One more for luck.

  ‘Aaaaaaaaagh!’ Shuggie lay there, trembling and panting. ‘I didn’t do it, please, I didn’t set fire to anything!’

  Logan backed off a couple of steps. ‘How stupid do you think I am?’

  The song on the stereo ended, replaced by another round of thumping drums and squealing guitars.

  ‘I can’t… My hand. How could … could I pour fuck-all through … through anything?’ Shuggie curled up into a ball, battered forehead resting on his one good knee. ‘Look at it. LOOK AT IT!’

  Logan walked around to the other side and stared down at the filthy bandage completely covering Shuggie’s right hand. ‘Doesn’t mean you can’t still use it.’