Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Bunch of bastards …’ Logan squatted over the reporter. ‘You OK?’

  A groan. A cough. A spatter of blood on trampled grass, a tooth glistening pink in a puddle of dark red.

  That would be a no then.

  ‘You’re all under arrest …’ He looked up, but the faces around him had changed. They’d melted away into the crowd, blending in with everyone else dressed in funereal black. ‘All right, who did this?’ Logan stared at the wall of people surrounding Michael Larson. They stared at the ground, or the big display screens. Shuffled their feet. Not one of them looking at him or the battered reporter.

  A clatter of heavy boots on paving stones and a uniformed officer appeared at Logan’s shoulder. ‘Jesus, he all right?’

  ‘Don’t just stand there – call a bloody ambulance.’

  ‘Oh my GOD!’ An oversized woman in a black miniskirt, clutched her chest. ‘Is that Ewan McGregor? EWAN! WE LOVE YOU!’ Jumping up and down like an ecstatic Labrador, while a man lay bleeding at her Doc-Martined feet.

  By the time Larson was wheeled away on a stretcher the service was well underway.

  The organizers had set up four huge screens in the St Nicholas Kirkyard, each one showing the action inside: a nondescript man in full Church of Scotland regalia, going on about peace and understanding, when all anyone outside seemed interested in was ogling the celebrity guests.

  Logan elbowed his way through the crowds, back to the monument where he’d left DI Steel. She was leaning against the lichened granite, smoking her fake cigarette.

  ‘Aye, aye, save the day did you?’

  Logan looked back over his shoulder. ‘Paramedics say he’ll probably be OK: concussion, fractured jaw, broken ribs. Maybe a dislocated shoulder.’

  ‘Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.’ She blew a little puff of vapour towards the heavens where grey clouds were spreading across the sky, like ink dropped on wet paper.

  ‘Where’s Rennie?’

  She waved a hand in the general direction of the church. ‘Off worshipping at the altar of whatsherface from Girls Aloud.’

  ‘Skiving little—’

  ‘Oh, lighten up.’ She turned to face the nearest screen, where the minister was giving up the stage. ‘How often you get this in Aberdeen, eh?’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Robbie Williams, and Ms Katie Melua are going to sing for us …’

  The speakers crackled and the church organ rang out through the speakers: the opening bars to Wind Beneath My Wings.

  ‘Oh Christ, not again!’

  Close-up on Mr Williams and Ms Melua, microphones in hand.

  Everyone in the graveyard was silent. The crowd seemed to be holding its breath for the first two verses, but as soon as the chorus started, they joined in.

  Logan watched the woman who’d bellowed her love to Ewan McGregor, hands clutched over her massive bosom in full opera singer pose, warbling along with tears streaming down her cheeks. She wasn’t the only one. Half the crowd seemed to be wetting itself with emotion.

  Then someone started in on the alternative lyrics and it spread like a cancer through the throng.

  ‘Can you believe …’ Logan turned to Steel, but she was singing along too.

  What the hell was wrong with everyone?

  When the service was over, Steel shoved her way to the front, warrant card out. ‘Come on, shift it: police business.’

  As soon as Gordon Maguire appeared from the church, she dug Logan in the ribs. ‘Heads up.’

  The producer was swaggering down the path, arms up over his head, giving everyone the victory Vs. Like a bald Richard Nixon. ‘YEAH! COME ON ABERDEEN!’

  Cheers.

  Logan pulled up the ‘POLICE’ tape and Steel ducked under, right in front of Maguire. He raised his hands. ‘Sorry, love, I can’t—’

  ‘We’d like a word.’ She stuck her warrant card under his nose.

  ‘Ah, right …’ He backed off a couple of paces. ‘Can it wait? I’m kinda in the middle of—’

  ‘Now, Mr Maguire.’

  ‘But I’ve got a plane to catch, it—’

  ‘Shall we?’ Logan took hold of Maguire’s elbow and steered him back inside, commandeering a small room just off the main entrance, lined with dark wood. It smelled of old wax and older cigarettes, light coming from a bare strip-light in the ceiling. Cardboard boxes were stacked in one corner, a display cabinet full of spider webs and dusty silver things opposite the door.

  ‘Look, is this going to take long? Only, like I said, I’ve got a plane—’

  ‘You’re no’ going anywhere till I say you are.’ Steel smiled at him. ‘You must be raking it in: all this publicity?’

  Maguire shrugged. ‘I do OK.’

  ‘Aye, I’ll bet you do. What’s the fund up to now?’

  He pulled out a packet of Silk Cut. ‘I don’t see how—’

  ‘No smoking.’ Logan took the cigarettes from him. ‘Answer the question.’

  Maguire scowled. ‘Two-and-a-bit. Million. But it’s not like I get to see any of that, OK? It’s all downloads. Every penny goes into a marked account, and it’s for the ransom. I don’t even have access to it.’

  Steel pursed her lips. ‘So what happens if we turn up Jenny and her mum, all safe and sound? What happens to your two-and-a-bit million then?’

  Maguire cleared his throat, ran a hand across the back of his neck. ‘I suppose it’d go to charity … or something … After administrative deductions.’

  ‘Aye, I’ll bet it will.’

  ‘You can’t just—’

  ‘Is this all just a big PR stunt?’ Logan tossed the packet of Silk Cut from one hand to the other. ‘Did you set the whole thing up?’

  Maguire took off his trendy glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Listen, OK? Yeah, the pre-orders for the album are huge, but if I don’t have Alison and Jenny, I can’t finish recording the bloody thing. We’ve got about half the tracks in the can and I’ve only got three weeks to get it done.’

  ‘Don’t—’

  ‘Three weeks – after that the bank call in my overdraft. We’ve sunk everything we’ve got into making Britain’s Next Big Star. Orchestras, backing choirs, classical scores, performance rights payments, cameras, crew, sets … The costs are suffocating. But we can’t cut corners because we’re up against the X-Factor and Britain’s Got Talent, and the Search for Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Next Whatever the fuck. If we pull it off, we make a sodding mint, but right now the whole production company’s sliding down a razorblade into liquidation using its ball-sack as a brake.’

  Maguire ran a hand across his bald head. ‘And you’d think my investors would be rubbing their hands at all the publicity, wouldn’t you? But no, the thieving wankers are waiting for us to go under so they can step in and take a hundred percent, get some cheap-arsed Lithuanian company in to make the next series, and pocket the difference. You lot are lucky – there’s honour amongst thieves. TV companies are all bastards.’

  Steel fiddled with her e-cigarette. ‘So you’re no’ the one who sent us a severed toe?’

  He closed his eyes. ‘No. I didn’t send you a toe. Where the fuck would I get a toe from?’

  ‘You’ve done worse for a wee bit of publicity: like them tampons—’

  ‘It wasn’t even real blood! We dipped them in some fake stuff we got off the internet, OK? We’re a small company, we do everything we can to create a buzz. Alison and Jenny don’t need it – they’re going to win Britain’s Next Big Star … They were going to win. Fuck knows what’s going to happen now.’ He pinched his nose again. ‘Look, I want them back. If they come back, the ratings go through the roof, we finish the record, Blue-Fish-Two-Fish doesn’t have to go into receivership, everyone makes a shit-pile of money, and we all live happily ever after.’

  Steel scowled at him. ‘Aye, well, you know what I think? I think—’

  The door banged open.

  DCI Finnie stepped into
the little room. Behind him, Logan could see Superintendent Green and Acting DI Mark MacDonald filling the corridor.

  ‘Inspector Steel,’ Finnie’s rubbery face pulled itself into something that wasn’t quite a smile, ‘I thought you were supposed to be tracking down a paedophile ring. Did I imagine that? Or have you somehow manage to miraculously work your way through every sex offender in Grampian in time for a jolly into town? Hmmm?’

  19

  ‘Afternoon, Guv. If you’re here for Kylie Minogue’s autograph you’re too late – she’s buggered off home. Took the hump when I wouldn’t give her a seeing to.’

  ‘Do I really have to remind you, Inspector, that one little girl is already dead, and we’ve only got five more days to stop Alison and Jenny McGregor joining her?’

  They stood staring at one another.

  Steel sniffed, then stuck the e-cigarette back in her pocket. ‘I’m done with Mr Maguire anyway.’

  ‘Acting DI MacDonald.’ Finnie turned his fake smile in Mark’s direction. ‘Why don’t you do me a favour and escort Mr Maguire back to the station?’

  ‘Oh, come on!’ The producer threw his hands in the air. ‘I’ve got a bloody plane to catch! We’re shooting a live TV tribute in—’

  ‘After all, I’m sure he wouldn’t like anyone to think he wasn’t cooperating with the police at this delicate time. Would you, Mr Maguire?’

  ‘Bloody … OK, OK.’ He barged past into the corridor. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Finnie gave Logan the once over, top lip curled. ‘If you don’t mind, Sergeant, I’d like to speak to DI Steel in private. Perhaps you could use the time to pop past Professional Standards? I hear they’d love a little chat with you about some rape allegations.’

  Shite. So much for plan A.

  ‘Yes, right.’ Logan squeezed out of the room, and Finnie closed the door.

  A muffled argument.

  Standing out in the corridor, Superintendent Green nodded: as if they’d just agreed on something. ‘So, Detective Sergeant …?’

  ‘McRae. Logan. Sir.’

  Another nod. ‘I see.’ He tilted his head on one side, staring, a little crease between his eyebrows. ‘Rape?’

  ‘Just a junkie making stuff up. Thinks she can blackmail me into giving back the drugs we seized off her boyfriend.’

  ‘I see … And have you ever investigated a kidnapping before, Sergeant? I mean a real one, not just drug dealers grabbing each other off the street: ransom notes, body parts in the post, that kind of thing?’

  No, but you have, haven’t you, you smug bastard. ‘Not really, sir. Kidnapping’s not that common in the north-east.’

  More nodding. Then Green patted him on the shoulder. ‘Walk with me, Sergeant.’

  The Superintendent turned and marched out into the afternoon. The graveyard was slowly emptying – now the TV cameras were turned off and all the celebrities had gone, the crowd would all be scurrying away home to check their DVD recorders. See if they’d managed to get on the telly.

  Green looked down at his feet as they walked along the path from the church – big grey slabs laid in a wide, meandering walkway. He stopped just in front of a large rectangle of granite. It was a gravestone laid on its back in the middle of the path, the name nearly worn into obscurity by generations of scuffing feet. ‘When I was small, my father would take me to church every Sunday, after Mother …’ Frown. ‘Well, anyway, one day he said, “You see that? That name beneath your feet? We’re walking on dead people.” And I nearly wet myself. I was about five, I think. Had nightmares for months.’ Green took a step, so he was standing right on top of the headstone. ‘Why does the inspector call you “Laz”?’

  ‘Private joke.’

  Green raised his chin, shoulders back, staring out across the empting graveyard. ‘We’re going to need to pull out all the stops on this one, Sergeant. It’s vital we get Jenny back before anything happens to her.’

  Well, dun. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Normally I’d expect the kidnappers to grab some rich kid, send a ransom note to the parents telling them not to get in touch with the police or the kid dies. A demand for money to be handed over at a clandestine location. All done in complete secrecy’ His eyes narrowed. ‘But this …’

  He looked as if he expected stirring theme music to swell up at any minute.

  They grab two people in the public eye – people without any family – and instead of conducting their seedy business in the shadows, they send their ransom demands to the newspapers. They want the police involved.’

  Go on, say it …

  We’re not dealing with ordinary kidnappers here, Logan.’

  Dun, dun, daaaaaaaaa!

  ‘No, sir.’

  As if they hadn’t worked that little gem out for themselves.

  NO! NO! NO! NO! She tries to wriggle free, but the monster in white holds her tight, wraps his papery arms around her, lifting her up off the ground.

  ‘Hold still, you little bitch!’ His voice is all weird: hard and metal like a robot, like the silver monsters on Doctor Who, like a Cyberman.

  Her heel smashes into something soft and squishy.

  A buzz, a crackle. ‘Oh, fuck …’ And the arms let go.

  She tumbles to the bare floorboards. The monster staggers against the wall, one hand on the paint-sprayed wallpaper, the other grabbing his willy.

  She scrambles to her feet and runs for the door. Get back through to Mummy, where the bed is, where—

  Ulp …

  Her feet fly out in front of her as the chain around her neck snaps tight.

  ‘Come back here you little cow.’

  Mummy’s voice, shouting in the other room: ‘Don’t hurt her! You promised you wouldn’t hurt her!’

  ‘Kicked me in the bloody balls!’

  She’s dragged backwards across the floorboards, arms and legs thrashing.

  ‘MUMMY!’

  ‘YOU PROMISED!’

  Thump. She’s lying on her front, with a heavy weight on her back – warm and rustling. The monster grabs her wrist, wraps something around it and pulls. It makes a Vzzzzwip noise. Then the other wrist, and both her arms are stuck behind her back.

  ‘MUMMY! MUMMY, THEY’RE—’

  A purple hand covers her mouth. It smells like bicycle tyres on a hot day.

  Tom: don’t just bloody stand there!’

  More weight, pinning her legs to the floor.

  Vzzzzwip. Vzzzzwip. And now her ankles are stuck together. A scritchy, ripping noise, then the hand lets go of her mouth and a strip of something sticky is jammed into place. She can’t even open her lips. All she can do is hiss and mumble and cry.

  Then the monsters let go.

  She wriggles as hard as she can, flopping about like a goldfish on the bathroom floor. That’s what happens to Bad Little Girls …

  ‘Bloody hell. Looks like she’s having a fit.’

  Wriggle. Thrash. Flop … struggle … twitch. Lie panting on the floorboards, tears dripping from her nose.

  Another monster steps into the room and clunks the door shut behind it. ‘Will you two stop pricking about?’ A lady monster – it’s difficult to tell from the Cyberman voice, but she has boobies. She has a name badge stuck to her white crinkly chest, with ‘HELLO MY NAME IS’ at the top, and ‘WILLIAM’ underneath.

  All the monsters are wearing them. ‘TOM’ and ‘SYLVESTER’ stand back, staring down at Jenny.

  WILLIAM crosses her arms. Every move makes a rustling sound. It’s not skin, not like she thought in her bedroom when they came for her – it’s that stuff the police wear on the television when something bad happens. Sticky purple gloves, blue shower-caps on their feet. Plasticy masks that hide their faces and make them look like robots. It goes with the horrible metal voices. ‘Where’s Colin?’

  TOM shrugs. Then SYLVESTER points over his shoulder, Throwing up.’

  ‘Oh for Christ’s sake.’
She nods. ‘Get him.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Now!’

  Robots, arguing.

  ‘OK, OK …’ SYLVESTER hurries out, feet scuffing on the floor.

  ‘Get her on the table.’

  TOM grabs her by the collar and waistband of her jammies and hauls her off the ground. ‘Wriggle and I’ll bloody drop you on your head, understand?’

  She stays very still.

  ‘Good girl.’

  Good Little Girl.

  Thump – TOM dumps her on the table. Holds her there with a heavy hand in the middle of her back.

  WILLIAM, the lady monster, stands over her. ‘Stop crying. If you behave yourself it’ll all be over soon.’

  The door clunks.

  Jenny blinks away the tears. It’s SYLVESTER, back with another monster. This one has ‘COLIN’ written on his chest. He’s carrying a little plastic box.

  WILLAM doesn’t look at him. ‘Get on with it.’

  COLIN clears his throat. T … Erm … Look, it’s just … I mean, do we have to? Can we not just send the papers another photo or something?’

  ‘You saw what they’re saying on the news.’

  ‘But I’ve never done … She’s just a little girl.’

  ‘I know what she is. Now do your bloody job. Or do you want me to tell David you won’t? Is that really what you want?’

  ‘But I—’

  WILLIAM grabs him by the front of his crumply white suit. ‘What fucking good are you if you can’t do a simple bloody procedure?’

  ‘But amputating isn’t just … There’s the risk of infection, MRSA, septicaemia, blood clots, shock, what if—’

  ‘Pull – your – fucking – weight.’

  She lets go and he steps back. Stares down at his blue feet. Then nods.

  ‘You need to roll up her sleeve.’

  Fire bites her shoulders as TOM twists her arm, dragging her jammie sleeve up to her armpit.

  Please no. Please no. Please no.

  COLIN puts the plastic box down on the table. Opens it. She can see shiny sharp things sparkling inside. Then he takes out a tiny jar and a jaggy needle. He goes back in for a little foil packet, tears it open and pulls out a little tissue. Wipes it against the inside of her elbow, it makes the skin go all cold.