Shatter the Bones

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘They skinned my … my fingers.’ He coughed, spraying blood and chunks of tooth all over his jeans.

  Logan knelt down behind him and yanked Shuggie’s arms back. A safety pin held the tatty bandage end in place. Logan fumbled with it, the three layers of gloves making it nearly impossible. And then he got it, pulled the rust-flecked pin out, and unwound the bandage.

  Shuggie screamed – the grubby fabric tugging at the raw flesh, coming away like strawberry jam, stinking of rancid meat.

  ‘Jesus…’ Only the thumb and forefinger were visible, but they were a stomach-lurching mess of purple, red and black, the tendons just visible as grey strips. Logan backed away to the edge of the plastic sheeting. ‘Why didn’t you go to the hospital?’

  ‘Every … every day I … I couldn’t pay them back … they took … took another one…’ Breath hissing out through bloody lips.

  God almighty. ‘I didn’t … I didn’t set fire … to anything.’ He made a sound that almost sounded like a laugh. ‘How could I?’

  Logan’s stomach lurched. Head full of burning coals, mouth full of saliva. He staggered back against the shelving.

  It wasn’t him. It wasn’t Shuggie.

  He swallowed, forced down the bitter taste of bile. Even if Shuggie didn’t pour the petrol, it was still his fault. There had to be consequences.

  ‘Where are they? Jacob and Robert – your Yardie mates? Did you tell them I wouldn’t give you your fucking drugs back? Did you set those bastards on me?’

  Logan’s eyes stung, his vision blurring.

  Blink. Swallow. ‘Where the fuck are they?’

  Lying, sobbing on the warehouse floor, Shuggie told him.

  ‘Oh…’ Jonny Urquhart stood looking down at Shuggie Webster’s battered body. ‘Cos it’s no problem if you want me to … you know.’ He made a gun with his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘No.’ Logan cleared his throat. ‘He’s under arrest.’

  ‘You sure? Cos you’ve really kinda fucked him up. What’s going to happen when he’s served his time, eh? You want some junkie scroat bag coming after you?’

  Silence.

  That’s what had caused this whole mess in the first place. ‘Tell you what.’ Urquhart hunkered down next to Shuggie. ‘Listen up, fuckwit, and listen really good, ’cos if I have to repeat myself, you’re screwed. You do anything to this nice police officer and we’re gonna find you. You’re gonna give yourself up, and you’re gonna cough to whatever he says, and you’re gonna to go to prison and do your time like a good little boy. You so much as whisper “police brutality” and I’ll get some huge bastard to rape your arse ragged, then cut your fucking throat. We clear?’

  Shuggie coughed up a mouthful of dark red. ‘I said, are we fucking clear?’

  ‘Yeth…’ It was little more than a whisper, borne on a bubble of blood.

  Urquhart ran a hand through his green hair. ‘Course he’s a junkie, and you know what their word’s worth. Sure you don’t want me to—’

  ‘No. Just…’ What? Drop him off at the station looking as if he’s been run over by a combine harvester? Take him to the hospital? Anything that ended up with Wee Hamish being connected to Shuggie Webster was eventually going to lead right back to him.

  And maybe Logan deserved it.

  He peeled off his three layers of gloves. His hands stank of elastic bands, the knuckles tainted deep pink, the skin puffy and tender. ‘I’ll deal with it.’

  ‘OK.’ Urquhart nudged Shuggie’s crying body with the toe of his boot. ‘You’re a lucky fuck, Shugs. See if you’d set my house on fire?’ A smile. ‘You just remember what I said: one step out of line and…’ he drew a finger across his throat.

  Chapter 41

  Logan hauled on the handbrake outside Accident and Emergency, pulse rushing and booming in his ears. ‘This is all your own fault. You should’ve turned yourself in when I gave you the sodding chance. You’d still have your fingers, and Samantha wouldn’t…’ He gritted his teeth. Then opened the car door and climbed out into the warm afternoon. ‘Stay here.’

  Shuggie sat in the passenger seat, cradling his skinned hand, his face a bubbling mass of raw meat. Tears making clean tracks on his bloody cheeks.

  Past the small knot of smokers and in through the automatic doors to A&E. There was a herd of wheelchairs just inside – not proper ones, just brown vinyl seats with four little wheels at the end of their legs. Logan grabbed one and performed a seven point turn with the thing, fighting to get it facing the right way.

  ‘Worse than a wobbly shopping trolley, eh?’ It was the guy from last night: Mop Dude, pushing a buggy loaded with newspapers, crisps, bars of chocolate, and assorted sweeties. There was a little stack of the Evening Express next to the Curlywurlies, ‘SICK COUPLE TRY TO CASH IN ON KIDNAP TRAGEDY’. He nodded. ‘Unbelievable, isn’t it? Got to wonder what’s wrong with some people, you know?’

  He flicked a strand of long brown hair away from his face and grinned, the piercing in his nose sparkling in the hospital’s dismal fluorescent lighting. ‘How’s your girlfriend? She doing better?’

  Logan looked away. ‘No change.’

  ‘Aw, man, sorry to hear it. You got some sleep though, yeah?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Yeah, those pills are the mutt’s.’ He stared at Logan for a bit, then shook his head. ‘You’re looking kinda pale, man.’

  ‘Been a tough day.’

  A laugh. ‘Tell me about it. Doing double shifts so I can afford T in the Park… Mind you, maybe I should stick it all in that fund for Alison and Jenny. One day to go. Nightmare, eh?’

  One of the uniformed officers stationed at the hospital marched out from the reception area, pulling his peaked cap on over his bald patch. ‘Hoi, you with the chair!’ He pointed out through the doors. ‘That your car? You can’t park in an ambulance bay…’

  Officer Baldpatch went pink and lowered his hand. ‘Sorry, Sarge; didn’t know it was you.’

  Logan gave the wheelie chair a nudge and sent it trundling off towards the car park. ‘Shuggie Webster’s in the passenger seat. He needs a doctor.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’ The constable hurried out after the chair.

  Mop Dude cleared his throat. ‘You’re a cop?’

  After today, that was debatable. ‘Look … man … about those pills—’

  ‘Pills? What pills?’ Logan dug a handful of change from his pocket. Karma. ‘Now how much for an Evening Express and a packet of Skittles?’

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ DI Steel settled onto the end of Logan’s desk, her face creased into a scowl. ‘Ten to six, should be home by now.’

  Logan pulled the next sheet of paper from his in-tray and gave it a skim before dumping it in the bin. ‘Hospital.’

  ‘Aye, I heard. How the hell did you get your hands on Shuggie Webster?’

  The next three sheets were e-fits, printed off from the identikit software with no indication of who it was meant to be, who’d done them, or who the witness was. They were part of a little stack of unlawful removal forms and other assorted random gubbins, as if someone had grabbed the lot off the printer without bothering to check what they’d picked up. All of it anonymous. ‘I got a tip-off.’

  ‘And you thought you’d go after him on your own?’

  ‘Yup.’ Logan stuck the printouts on his desk – they didn’t even have case numbers. That was the trouble with people nowadays: no pride in their work, and no clue how to do it properly either. Not that he was in a position to hand out lectures on professionalism any more.

  ‘Laz, you daft sod, you had a bloody firearms team trying to track Shuggie down yesterday. You’re lucky he didn’t beat the shite out of you.’

  Yeah… Lucky. ‘I got a tip-off, he came quietly. It was fine.’ Next down were the results of the GSM trace on Shuggie’s mobile phone. Apparently he was in Aberdeen Royal Infirmary.

  Logan stuffed the next three reports in the bin. ‘You know anything about a pair of Yardies calling themselves Jacob
and Robert?’

  ‘We had a deal, Laz. Five o’clock – you come home with me and let Susan spoil you.’ Steel picked up the Evening Express he’d bought at the hospital and flicked through it. She sucked on her top lip for a minute, then dumped the open newspaper back on his desk. ‘POLICE HERO IN HOUSE FIRE TRAGEDY.’

  She tapped the story with a scarlet-painted nail. ‘Susan’s worried about you.’

  Logan chucked a memo from Superintendent Napier in on top of the discarded reports. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘No you’re no’.’ The inspector stood. ‘Did you see Samantha?’

  Fifteen minutes of sitting at her bedside. Just sitting here, holding her hand and listening to the machinery breathing for her. Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to tell her what he’d done to Shuggie because of her.

  She probably wouldn’t have been impressed. ‘…to Planet Laz, come in Planet Laz?’

  He blinked. ‘Sorry. Didn’t get much sleep. Finnie about?’ Steel narrowed her eyes. ‘Did you no’ hear a single word I said?’

  ‘Just got to get something sorted before we go.’ Logan made for the door, but she was blocking the way.

  ‘Laz, look, I understand it’s—’

  ‘You do?’ He stared down at her. ‘You understand?’ Sigh. ‘Fuck’s sake, we’ve all—’

  ‘I just … just need to speak to Finnie.’

  ‘…and all I’m saying is that we can’t put anything in place until we know what the terms and location for handover are going to be.’ Superintendent Green was leaning back against the windowsill in Finnie’s office. He looked up as Logan entered, then back to the head of CID again. ‘Any plans we make now will be irrelevant as soon as they get in touch.’

  ‘And I say there are contingencies we should be planning for now.’ Finnie swivelled his chair around and frowned at Logan. Then his face softened. ‘I understand you brought Shuggie Webster in. Well done.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, but I wanted to talk to you about—’

  ‘The only things you can realistically do at this stage of a kidnapping are put the hospital on alert, get a duty doctor on call, and get the force helicopter on standby.’ Green folded his arms. ‘It’s irrelevant in any case – we should be concentrating on finding Frank Baker. We do that and he’ll lead us straight to the McGregors.’

  Finnie didn’t even look around. ‘This isn’t Miami Vice, Superintendent; Aberdeen doesn’t have a helicopter.’ He paused for a moment, then took a deep breath, eyes closed, letting it out slowly. ‘Now, what can we do for you, Logan?’

  ‘I need another firearms team. Two Yardies going by the names Jacob and Robert, it’s possible they’re the ones who’ve abducted Trisha Brown. They skinned most of Shuggie Webster’s right hand when he couldn’t pay off his drug debt.’

  Green sniffed. ‘I think we’ve got more important things to worry about than a couple of two-bit drug dealers, Sergeant.’

  ‘Really, sir?’ Logan pulled on an ill-fitting smile. ‘Oh… Well, in that case, would you like me to nip back up the hospital and tell Trisha Brown’s mother her little girl isn’t as important as Alison and Jenny McGregor, because she’s not on the television?’

  Pink rushed up the superintendent’s cheeks. ‘That’s not what I meant. By all means go pick up your little drug dealers, but let’s not lose sight of the fact that the kidnappers have already killed one little girl and time’s running out for Alison and Jenny!’ He squared his shoulders. ‘Frank Baker’s the key.’

  ‘Frank Baker isn’t—’

  ‘You just can’t admit when you’re wrong, can you Sergeant? You’re wrong and I was right. Baker’s guilty – that’s why he ran. The guilty ones always run. That’s why I exerted so much pressure on him, not because I think I’m,’ Green raised his fingers and made finger-quotes, ‘“something off The Sweeney.”’

  Logan clenched his fist, feeling the skin pull tight over his swollen knuckles. ‘Frank Baker ran because you threatened to tell the people he worked with he was a paedophile.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Green stepped forward, until he was standing at Finnie’s side. ‘He’s a paedophile with access to a veterinarian’s, his own transport, and—’

  ‘He’s into little boys, not girls!’ Getting louder and louder. ‘And the vets he volunteered at haven’t lost any thiopental sodium. They’ve checked, six times. You just pulled his name out of your arse and decided he was guilty!’

  Green stiffened. ‘Do I need to remind you, Sergeant, that I am a superintendent with the Serious Organized Crime Agency?’

  Finnie bit his top lip. Cleared his throat. Turned to Logan. ‘And do you have an address for the Marley brothers?’

  ‘Marley…?’

  ‘Robert and Jacob. Bob Marley: reggae singer, Jacob Marley: Scrooge’s dead partner from A Christmas Carol. Either your Yardies have a twisted sense of humour, or they’ve been visited by the coincidence fairy, don’t you think?’

  Logan gave Finnie the address he’d got from Shuggie: a semi-detached in Kittybrewster. An address beaten out of a crippled man with his hands cable-tied behind his back.

  ‘Hmm…’ Finnie sat back in his chair, swivelling slowly from side to side.

  Green raised that manly, cleft chin of his and stared down his nose at Logan. ‘I thought you were supposed to be on compassionate leave?’

  Prick.

  The head of CID tapped a finger on his desk. ‘DS McRae is a valued member of my team, Superintendent. If he feels he’s better off helping us recover a missing girl and her mother than sitting at home brooding, I’m inclined to support him.’ He gave Green a smile. ‘Dedication, Superintendent – one of the cornerstones of policework, don’t you think?’

  ‘I think,’ Green picked invisible lint from the sleeve of his suit jacket, ‘that Grampian Police seem to have problems interfacing with the reality of the situation. Alison and Jenny McGregor’s survival depends on a unified and concerted response to Frank Baker, and we need to do it now.’

  Silence.

  Finnie pursed his lips, both hands spread out on the desktop. ‘Superintendent, I can assure you Grampian Police are well aware of the situation. And while I deeply value your input, if you don’t mind, I think I might just try to do my job and get a couple of drug-dealing scumbags off the streets.’ He ruffled some papers on his desk. ‘Detective Sergeant McRae – I understand you wanting to be involved,’ he cast a sideways glance at Green, ‘but I think it might be best if nightshift handled this.’

  ‘Sir, if I can just—’

  ‘You’ve done more than enough today. Go home; get some rest. We’ll deal with the Marley Brothers.’

  ‘But—’

  Finnie held up a finger, ‘We’ll deal with it.’

  Logan frowned at the screen. ‘So the red banana thing—’

  ‘The Ninky Nonk.’ Steel topped up his whisky. ‘Thanks.’ The living room was warm, a large LCD television mounted above the fireplace filled with bright primary colours. ‘So the Ninky Nonk is some kind of random bus service?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘And the porcupines—’

  ‘Pontipines. They want to get on the Ninky Nonk so they can go wherever it is Pontipines go. Dole office, most likely. Work-shy bastards.’

  ‘Only every time they try, the Ninky Nonk drives off?’

  She took a sip. ‘Got it in one.’

  Susan’s voice floated through from the kitchen. ‘Come on Stinkypants, time for bed.’

  Steel patted Logan on the arm. ‘It’s OK, she’s not talking about you.’

  There was a sort of toddler jail set up in front of the couch – a big circular enclosure made of plastic and netting. A little girl in a skull-and-crossbones babygrow lay on her back in the middle of it, trying to suck her own feet in that disturbing double-jointed way very small children have.

  ‘So why does it keep driving off?’ The whisky was making the world go fuzzy at the edges. That or the lack of sleep.

  ‘Best guess? The driver’s a cunt.’<
br />
  ‘Roberta!’ Susan appeared, wiping her hands on a dish towel. ‘What have I told you about that? What are they going to think when Jasmine starts nursery?’

  ‘They’ll think, “who’s this beautiful wee monkey with the colourful vocabulary?”’ She creaked up from the couch and broke Jasmine Catherine Cassandra Steel-Wallace out of Baby Barlinnie. ‘Oh-ho, someone’s made trouser truffles…’

  Susan smiled. ‘Are you OK, Logan? Do you want some more ice cream?’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine thanks.’ Just as long as he didn’t think about Shuggie Webster. Or Samantha. Or not being in on the firearms team picking up the Marley brothers. Engineering a little accident for them…

  ‘…Logan?’

  Blink. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said, do you want to kiss your daughter good night?’

  ‘Oh, er… yeah. Sure.’ He stood and planted a little kiss on the top of her head. Steel was right – Jasmine smelt like she’d been rolling around in something brown and sticky. ‘Sweet dreams.’

  ‘Say nighty-night to Daddy, Jasmine.’ Susan took hold of a little chubby wrist and waved it at Logan. ‘He gave your mummies a little tub of wriggly sperm, so doctors could put you in my tummy.’

  ‘Do you have to do that every single time I come round?’ Susan laughed. ‘Could you be any more uncomfortable?’ He could feel the blush crawling up his neck. ‘So…’ He went back to the TV. ‘Do you really watch this rubbish all the time?’

  ‘I know.’ Susan laughed, Jasmine cradled against her chest making big wet-mouthed yawns. ‘You get used to it.’

  ‘Whisky helps.’ Steel finished her glass. ‘Tell you, half the sodding licence fee must go on heroin and tequila.’

  ‘…movement out the back. Hang on…’ There was a pause, then the harsh whisper came from the Airwave handset again. ‘Nah, you’re OK – just a cat.’

  Logan propped the lumpy grey rectangle against the vase of daffodils on the breakfast bar, then turned the volume up.

  ‘Jesus, that’s no’ a cat, it’s a fucking tiger! Did you see the size of its—’