Chalmers pulled up at the kerb. Left the motor running. ‘Not looking good, is it?’
Logan climbed out into the sunshine.
The whumping blades of a helicopter thrummed from somewhere over Kirkhill Forest; a child’s happy squealing came from nearby, punctuated by the high-pitched yip of a small dog; the distant bagpipe drone of a lawnmower. Tuneless whistling from the man three houses down as he washed his Range Rover Sport.
Logan opened the gate and marched up the drive. A portico jutted out of the building, making a little rectangle of shade from the sun. He pressed the button on the intercom and classical music sounded deep within the house, followed by a dog barking. Something big, with lots of teeth.
A minute later, Ravel’s Bolero faded away. Still nothing from the intercom. But the hell-hound sounded like a gun going off, over and over again.
Logan gave the bell another try.
Chalmers wandered up beside him. ‘Maybe they’re out?’
‘Or maybe they’re just— Sodding hell, what now?’
Steel’s ringtone blared out of his pocket. He hauled out his mobile and pointed Chalmers at a sweep of lockblock leading around the side of the house. ‘Try round the back.’
She looked up at the house, rubbing her thumb across the tips of her fingers. ‘What if the dog—’
‘If it could get outside, we’d be running for our lives with no arse in our trousers by now. Go.’
As soon as she was gone, he took the call. ‘I’m doing it, OK? I’ve just been to the Garfields’, and now I’m at the Chungs’.’
‘What’s happening with that sodding necklacing victim? How come you’ve no’ got an ID yet?’
He stared up at the pale-blue sky. A plane roared into view, fresh out of Aberdeen Airport, banking around to head south, or east, going somewhere else. Lucky sods. ‘How many things do you think I can actually do at the one time? I’m looking for—’
‘What did I tell you about organizing things? You’re no’ supposed to be running about—’
‘You told me to come out here! You, not me.’
A harrumph. ‘Aye, well … Don’t change the subject.’
‘We’ll get an ID when we get an ID. Now bugger off and let me do my job.’ He hung up. Chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. Maybe telling Steel to bugger off wasn’t the best of ideas. He switched the thing off.
Chalmers appeared through the gate again. Stopped by the side of the house, and scraped the sole of her shoe across the kerbing that bordered the path. ‘All locked up round there. The only thing moving in there is an Alsatian the size of a horse. So Mr and Mrs Chung are either hiding under the bed, the dog’s eaten them, or they’re out.’ Then more scraping.
Logan took out a business card and printed a note on the back of it in small careful letters: ‘SORRY WE MISSED YOU. CAN YOU GIVE ME A CALL SO I CAN ARRANGE A TIME TO COME OVER AND DISCUSS ANTHONY?’ Then stuck it through the letter box.
Chalmers had finished with the kerbing, now she was dragging her shoe across the grass … ‘Where to?’
Logan marched down the drive towards the gates. ‘Nothing else we can do here. Time to call it a night.’
Logan slid the viewing hatch open and peered into the cell. Blinked. Then backed off a couple of paces, wafting his hand in front of his nose. The sharp-edged stench of stale alcohol curdled the air, making his eyes water. ‘God, it’s like a brewery in there …’
The Police Custody and Security Officer wrinkled her nose. ‘He was doing tequila shots when they picked him up. I hear he’d downed a whole bottle of Bells on his own first.’
Logan stepped up to the hatch again.
The cell wasn’t much bigger than a hotel bathroom. The red-brown terrazzo floor was littered with discarded clothing, bright sunlight streaming through the little square panes of glass that made up the window. They cast glowing cubes of light on Reuben’s naked back, making the tuft of hair between his shoulder blades shine.
He was lying on his side, bum to the door, naked except for a pair of dark-blue pants and a single sock. Snoring. Like a pig from a horror film.
The PCSO shuddered. ‘Took three of us to get him into the recovery position.’
‘He give you any trouble?’
‘Nope: all nice and calm. Told Michelle he loved her, then did the same to Mark. But me?’ She sighed. ‘Always the bridesmaid …’
Reuben twitched and a deep rattling grunt echoed out into the corridor.
She clacked the hatch closed again. ‘Be still my beating heart.’
Logan looked back, along the corridor. ‘Any chance you can stick him in an interview room?’
‘Couldn’t even wake him for the Duty Doc’s examination. That lump of raw sex is dead to the world. Going to have a stinker of a hangover tomorrow morning.’
‘Good.’
The nurse looked up from her copy of Immanuel Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason and smiled. It made little dimples in her plump cheeks. ‘Evening, stranger.’
Logan smiled back. ‘Evening, Claire, how’s Bill’s piles?’
She stuck out a hand, palm down, fingers spread, then wiggled it from side to side. ‘You know what he’s like. Loves a curry, never thinks of the consequences. Men, eh?’
‘That’s why you ladies love us.’ He pointed down the corridor to the private room at the end. Blinds drawn. ‘She in?’
‘Well, she popped out for a bit of shopping, but she’s back now. Why don’t you go in and I’ll be along in a bit?’
Logan let himself into the room. Dark. He squinted in the gloom. ‘What, you’re a vampire now?’
He crossed to the other side and hauled the curtains open. Sunlight streamed in, glittering back from the stainless-steel fixtures. Leaning on the windowsill, he looked down at the little chunk of grass pinned to the ground by thin trees, their green leaves shining in the warm evening. A wee grey shape lumped into view, then hunkered down, eating.
‘That rabbit’s back again. And I think he’s got a knife …’
‘Don’t be daft.’ Sam sat up in the bed. She must’ve had her hair done since lunchtime, because it was a shocking shade of bright scarlet. The tattoos on her arms poked out from the short sleeves of her Skeleton Bob T-shirt. She threw the covers back, exposing a pair of red shorts and thigh-high black-and-white stripy stockings. ‘You bring me a present?’
He stuck a bottle of Lucozade on the bedside cabinet, then followed it up with a copy of Skin Deep – ‘CYANIDE GIRLS GONE WILD’ and a Now – ‘NICHOLE SPEAKS: ACTING SAVED ME FROM A LIFE OF CRIME’. Then collapsed into the visitor’s chair, arms and legs hanging loose. ‘God, what a day.’
‘Did you get milk and Marmite?’
‘In the car.’ He slipped his shoes off and stuck his feet up on the bed. ‘Steel’s being an absolute … pain in the neck. You’d think I’d get some sympathy for getting punched in the nose, wouldn’t you?’
Samantha poked his left foot. ‘You’ve got a hole in your sock.’
‘But no, all she does is moan and whinge.’
‘Honestly, it’s like going out with a hobo. Give it a decent burial and buy some new socks. Maybe even, shock horror, in a colour other than black?’
He smiled at her. ‘Thought you goths loved black.’
‘Not when it comes to underwear.’ She bounced a couple of times. Then scooted forward, until she was kneeling on the edge of the bed, looming over him. ‘I want a new tattoo. Something spiky and swirly, with a cat.’
‘Of course, Steel’s only moaning because the ACC’s sandpapering her backside over this necklacing thing. Press are going mental after we caught the guy who killed him.’
‘Speaking of cats, I think we should get one. Well, a kitten.’
Logan groaned. ‘Can’t we just—’
‘A little fuzzy kitten. We’ll call it Cthulhu!’
‘Cthulhu? Isn’t that a bit—’
‘Shh!’ Samantha froze. ‘They�
��re coming.’ Then she jumped back into place and wriggled under the sheets. Winked at him. ‘Not a word!’
The door opened and Claire stuck her head in. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’ She wheeled the trolley in, stacks of cups clinking against each other. Then filled one from a metal teapot the size of her head. ‘How’s herself doing today then?’
Logan helped himself to a slosh of milk and a Jammy Dodger. ‘Wants another tattoo. And apparently we need to get a cat.’
‘That’s a lovely idea. Be company for you while she’s in here. Don’t know about the tattoo though …’ She looked down at him, her eyes softening around the edges. ‘Go on, take another biscuit, I won’t tell anyone.’
He did – custard cream – dunking it in his tea as she lumbered the trolley out of the room. Then the door clunked shut behind her.
‘It’s OK, she’s gone.’
Samantha sat back up again. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Claire’s OK, but if I have to sit through one more discourse on the philosophical nature of being, or her husband’s piles, I’m going to scream.’
‘Play nice with the nurses, they can put spiders in your mouth while you sleep, and then where will you be?’ He ate his biscuit. Drank his lukewarm tea.
Samantha picked up the copy of Now, flipping through its glossy pages. ‘I’m serious about that cat, by the way.’
‘I think Rennie’s going to quit.’
‘Thought his wife was planning on turning into a baby factory. How’s that going to work if he’s got no job?’
‘Steel drew a knob in his notebook. Keeps riding him about finding those shoplifting tramps.’
‘Hmmm?’
‘You know what she’s like. Pick, nag, poke, sarcastic comment, arse-related threat …’
‘Yeah …’
‘It’s a bit of cheese, bacon, and vodka. That doesn’t need a detective sergeant, that needs a uniform PC who’s done something stupid and needs taught a lesson.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’
‘What?’ Frown. He looked up – she had her face buried in the copy of Now. ‘Are you even listening?’
She peered at him over the top of her magazine, then turned it around, showing off the centre spread: a big photo of Nichole Fyfe in jeans and an oversized white shirt, laughing, with His Majesty’s Theatre in the background: ‘COMING HOME TO ABERDEEN ~ MY SECRET SHAME AT TROUBLED TEENAGE YEARS’. Samantha gave the thing a shake. ‘If you hire a publicist to tell the whole sodding world about it, it’s not a bloody secret!’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was boring you.’
‘Anything to get their face in the gossip mags. “Oh look at me, I’m special and clever!” “Listen to some crap I made up to make myself sound interesting this week!” “Talk about me! I don’t exist otherwise!”’
He wiggled his toe through the hole in his sock. ‘Then why do you keep buying the things?’
‘“Secret” my pale tattooed backside. She probably thinks we’ll read this rubbish and go, “Gosh, she’s such an inspirational figure! If she can go from a delinquent with a criminal record to a multimillionaire film star, maybe I can too!” When really she’s just boasting about how much better she is than the rest of us. I tell you, it’s—’
Logan reached out and snatched the magazine.
‘Hey!’
‘If you hate this stuff so much, you shouldn’t be reading it. It’s bad for your blood pressure.’ He dumped Now on the floor beside his seat. ‘Call it an intervention.’
Samantha thumped back into the pillows with her arms folded across her chest. ‘Spoilsport.’
‘That’s me.’ He dug into his pocket and pulled out a chunky boxed set of CDs. Then waggled it at her. ‘I got you the new Stephen King on audio book, but if you’re not interested …?’
The scowl on her face faded to a smile. ‘You’re a rotten sod, Logan McRae.’
‘Thought so.’ He nipped out to the nearest vending machine for a Crunchie, an Irn-Bru, and a packet of prawn cocktail, and when he got back they just sat there, talking about everything and nothing: tattoos, Steel, kittens, necklaced bodies, holiday plans, being punched in the face … Until finally Logan checked his watch and groaned. ‘Right, got to go. Early start in the morning.’
Samantha looked up at him, a little dent between her eyebrows. ‘See you tomorrow?’
He put his empty tin on the bedside cabinet, next to three unopened bottles of Lucozade and the stack of unread magazines. Then stood. Took hold of her cold hand and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
Monday
12
‘ … unnngh …’ Logan rolled over and lay on his back, one arm covering his eyes. ‘Go away …’
The doorbell’s ding-dong chime ripped through the caravan.
He sat upright, stared at the clock. Six o’clock – fifteen minutes before the alarm was due to go off. Sodding hell, why did everyone …
Wait a minute: last time someone rang his doorbell in the morning he got punched in the face. Maybe this was one of Reuben’s ‘associates’ come round to make sure Logan was in no fit state to press charges? Because he was propping up a concrete patio somewhere in Elgin.
He rolled out from beneath the duvet and onto the gritty carpet, hand searching the space under the bed. Discarded socks. Shoebox. Plastic bucket. His fingers curled around the wooden pickaxe handle.
That’d put a dent in someone’s morning.
Unless they had a shotgun …
He hauled on a pair of trousers, not bothering with pants or a shirt, and padded his way to the caravan’s front door. Stopped to one side, flattening himself against the stripy wallpaper, ear pressed to the wall. Listening.
Nothing.
Tightened his grip on the pickaxe handle.
OK.
Wasn’t hard to imagine someone standing out there, watching the spyhole, waiting for it to dim as Logan stepped in front of it, then BOOM – a shotgun blast, tearing through the wood and then his chest. One more to the head, and that was it. Drive off into the early morning traffic.
Light spilled in around the letterbox. So it was darker in here than it was outside. That meant no shadow on the spyhole.
Logan crept over and peered out.
No one on the top step. And no one standing outside the caravan either. Just the turning circle streaked with shadows as the sun climbed its way up a duck-egg-blue sky. Early morning midges out for a pre-bloodsucking ceilidh, glittering like flecks of gold. A lone magpie pop-hopping across the roof of his geriatric Fiat Punto.
Deep breath.
He turned the key in the lock and wrenched the door open, jumping out, waving the pickaxe handle, teeth bared …
No one.
The magpie stopped on the Punto’s bonnet, head cocked to one side, staring at him. Then it took off for the nearest tree, cackling. Ha bloody ha.
A small cardboard box sat on the doorstep, mummified in brown packing tape.
He nudged it with the pickaxe handle, but it didn’t explode or start ticking, so he picked it up and went back inside. The magpie stayed where it was, laughing at him.
Logan slammed the door on it, dumped the box on the kitchen working surface and stuck the kettle on. Six in the morning. What kind of scumbag rang people’s doorbells and ran away at six in the morning?
No address on the package, no sender’s details. He grabbed a knife from the draining board and slit the brown tape. Inside, the little box was full of shredded newspapers – the Press & Journal from the look of it – and nestled, right in the middle, another knot of chicken bones. This one was tied to what looked like a bouquet garni, the herbs wilted, greying, and dead.
He tipped the whole lot out and picked through it, but there was no sign of a note. Just a junior starter kit for making soup. He weighed the bones in his hand. Bloody kids. In what way was this funny?
Through in the bedroom the alarm clock went off, blaring some
cheesy eighties pop song.
Cup of tea, shower, then off for another jolly day at work. God, how lucky was he? The only thing that could make it any better was—
His mobile added its voice to Bananarama’s. ‘If I Only Had a Brain’: Rennie.
Logan grabbed his phone from the bedside cabinet and hit the button. ‘What?’
‘Morning, Guv. We picked up your good Samaritan’s missing mate last night, the one who did a runner from the hospital? Denies everything about the jewellery heist, but his story’s bang on with everyone else about the necklacing victim.’
The bathroom was in a bit of a state: towels on the floor, the hollow bones of dead toilet rolls building up behind the toilet, a sour smell coming from the shower curtain, soap and toothpaste acne speckling the tiles and mirror above the sink. The patch of mould that looked a bit like a face. Should really give the place a bit of a clean …
‘Bugger.’
‘Sorry, Guv, but I thought we kinda knew all this anyway?’
‘Wasn’t talking to you …’ Logan leaned over the sink and peered at the battered lump in the mirror. Both eyes were sunk into dark-purple bags. Wonderful.
‘Anyway, thought you’d want to know: Ding-Dong’s down to interview Reuben this morning, soon as his solicitor’s been round. And you’ll never guess who’s representing him.’
Logan poked a finger into the swollen bruised skin. Didn’t hurt, just looked bloody awful. ‘Not in the mood.’
‘Hissing Sid.’
Great. He let his forehead clunk against the dirty mirror. ‘When?’
‘Dunno. PCSO says Reuben woke up about five and spewed his ring all over the floor; got a hangover like a car crash right now, so I doubt Mr Moir-Farquharson will be strutting his slimy stuff before ten-ish.’
Welcome to Monday morning.
High above, the sun burns like a furnace, baking all the people below as they trudge their way through their desperate little lives. Unaware that things walk amongst them.
A couple laugh on the pedestrian area beneath her viewpoint, wrapped up in each other like ivy around a tree. They ignore everyone marching past – the shining lights, the grey, and the darkness.
There: a woman with a small child in a pushchair. No one knows that she’s an angel, because they can’t see her. They think she’s just another fattie in a tracksuit, smoking a fag, wheeling her screaming kid about on the way to the dole office.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8 Page 49
