Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8

by Stuart MacBride

  Logan stuck a finger in his other ear. ‘What?’

  ‘I sai— … entire pl— … —overed in blood! It— … —ody.’

  He stood. ‘Calm down and try again.’

  Rennie did, but it wasn’t any better.

  Steel frowned up from her whisky. ‘What’s munching on your pants?’

  ‘Rennie. Says there’s a body, blood everywhere.’ Logan grabbed his jacket off the chair and pushed through the crowd to the exit.

  Sunlight glinted off the roadworks on the other side of the street, a deep hole in the patchwork tarmac ringed around with orange cones and barrier tape.

  Justice Mill Lane bustled with cars, taxis and drunken halfwits. A pair of girlies were bent over their friend, at the kerb, outside the nightclub next door, one holding her hair the other stroking her shoulders as she vomited in the gutter. Her short skirt was tucked into her knickers at the back. Classy.

  A pack of greasy-looking young men laughed like hyenas outside the slab-faced communist-styled lump of a building that used to be the local swimming pool, trying to get one of their number to wear a stolen traffic cone as a wizard’s hat. Someone in the distance roared out the words to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ as if it was a battle cry.

  Eight o’clock on a Monday evening …

  Logan hunched his shoulders against the noise and pressed the phone hard against his ear. ‘What body?’

  ‘OK, OK …’ There was a deep breath. ‘Kintore. Neighbours complained about the smell, so the local station sent round a uniform. There’s a body in the kitchen and blood … everywhere.’

  ‘Has the—’

  ‘I can’t cock this up! I’ve never dealt with something like this on my own. What? What do I do?’

  O’Donoghue’s door clunked open and Chalmers appeared.

  DCI Steel was right behind her, blinking into the sunshine. ‘What’s this about a body?’

  ‘Will you shut up?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ll shut up. Just tell me what to do!’

  ‘Not you.’

  Steel stuck her chin out. ‘Don’t you tell me to shut up!’

  He turned his back on her. ‘Get your notebook out. I need you to call Control and tell them you’re confirming it’s a suspicious death. Tell them you need a crime scene manager, the PF, the pathologist, the IB, and enough bodies to search the place and get door-to-doors started.’

  ‘I can do this … I can do this …’

  ‘And get the scene secured – you know the drill: no one in or out. Now give me the address and I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  Steel poked him in the chest with a yellowed finger. The words floated out on a tide of whisky fumes: ‘We’ll be there. Head of CID, remember?’

  21

  Blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape stretched across the driveway, tied to a For Sale sign driven into the lawn on one side and next-door’s cheery garden gnome on the other. Not exactly impenetrable, but better than nothing.

  Bees hummed in the syrupy summer air, thick with the Turkish-delight smell of honeysuckle and roses. A nice street, in one of the older bits of Kintore, only a handful of eighties bungalows breaking up the solid granite cottages and terraced houses. The clacking diesel growl of a train going past behind the property on the way out to Inverurie.

  It wasn’t the kind of place normally associated with words like ‘bloodbath’.

  DCI Steel leaned on the roof of Logan’s battered Fiat Punto, elbows just missing a gritty smear of vitrified seagull poop. She took a long drag on her fake cigarette. ‘What kind of sick weirdo has gnomes?’

  Chalmers struggled her way out of the back seat, notebook at the ready. ‘Why aren’t the SEB here?’

  ‘I mean, it sounds like a venereal disease, doesn’t it? Can’t come into work today, I’ve got a bad case of the gnomes.’

  No sign of life, so Logan called Rennie on his mobile. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Out front.’

  ‘Don’t come in!’ Clunk, rattle.

  ‘What, are you naked or something?’

  Then the front door opened and Rennie lurched out onto the driveway, dressed in a white SOC suit. ‘You have to stay out here.’

  Steel snorted, then stepped over the gnome-line. ‘Aye, that’ll be shining.’

  Rennie scurried over, the legs of his suit making rustly vwip-vwop noises. ‘No!’

  She stopped one foot in, one foot out. ‘I’m head of sodding CID, you wee shite. I’ll decide—’

  ‘This is a secure scene. No one enters or leaves till the Procurator Fiscal and the IB gets here.’ He stuck out his chest. ‘First rule of crime-scene management: secure the scene.’

  ‘First rule of DCI Steel – do what you’re sodding told, or I’ll have your scrotum for a shower cap!’

  His eyes flicked to Logan. ‘Guv?’

  ‘You stick to your guns, Detective Sergeant.’

  Steel scowled at him. ‘Don’t you bloody start.’ She pulled her shoulders back. ‘Rennie, I’m warning you: get out of—’

  ‘Have you been drinking?’ He sniffed, then his mouth set into a hard little line. ‘You’re not getting anywhere near my crime scene. The PF would do her nut.’

  Logan placed a hand on Steel’s shoulder. ‘Why don’t you and Chalmers wait out here, and I’ll let you … What?’

  Rennie shook his head. ‘You’ve been in the pub with her, haven’t you?’

  ‘I had one pint. I’m still—’

  ‘DI Leith got here five minutes ago, Control made him Senior Investigating Officer, and you know what he’s like.’

  ‘You called me! We came wheeching all the way out here for nothing?’

  Rennie opened his mouth, then closed it again. Fingered the elasticated hood of his oversuit. ‘I can’t let anyone in till the PF and the IB get here.’

  Chalmers curled her top lip. ‘“IB”? How behind the times are you? It’s Scenes Examination Branch.’

  ‘That’s what we call them, OK?’

  ‘How can you possibly be in charge of a crime scene—’

  ‘Oh, bugger off back up north with the rest of the Tartan Bunnet Brigade, we don’t—’

  ‘—can’t even tell the difference between—’

  ‘ENOUGH!’ Steel curled her hands into fists. ‘God, you’re like a pair of wee kids.’

  Silence.

  She jabbed a cigarette-stained finger at Rennie. ‘You, Procedure Boy, who’s FAO?’

  Rennie nodded at a patrol car parked on the other side of the road. ‘Constable Duncan.’

  Steel hauled up her trousers. ‘Thrown off my own sodding crime scene …’ She gave Rennie one last scowl, then turned on her heel and scuffed across the street to the patrol car. Chalmers waited a couple of beats, then followed her.

  Rennie closed his eyes and sagged on the spot. ‘I’m sorry, OK? I panicked and I didn’t know what to do and it was all happening so fast and there’s all this blood …’

  Logan looked up and down the street. Quiet so far, but that would change. ‘You’re a right pain in the backside, you know that, don’t you?’

  He drooped even further. ‘Sorry, Guv.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you did the right thing. No one in or out.’ Then Logan followed Steel and Chalmers over to the patrol car.

  The passenger door was open, a police officer sitting sideways in the seat with his feet in the gutter, head between his knees. He’d stripped off his stab-proof vest and dumped it on the driver’s seat.

  Steel poked him on the shoulder. ‘You the First Attending Officer?’

  He nodded, then blew out a long shuddering breath.

  ‘No’ what you expect, is it? Hacked-up body on a nice Monday evening.’

  Constable Duncan’s voice came out muffled from way down there. ‘It was … like a horror film …’

  A young couple passed on the pavement opposite, giggling and murmuring, heads together, eating
chips from rectangular cardboard boxes. The scent of batter and hot vinegar coiled out around them. The girl peered into the patrol car. ‘You doing someone?’

  Logan nodded at the house with its half-arsed barrier of blue-and-white tape. ‘You know who lives there?’

  Her boyfriend jammed in another handful of chips. ‘For sale, isn’t it?’

  As if the estate agent’s sign in the lawn wasn’t enough of a clue.

  ‘Darren.’ She smacked him on the shoulder, leaving greasy fingerprints on his AFC tracksuit top. ‘Been empty for ages. Think they went to Dubai or somewhere, you know, for work and that?’

  Steel straightened herself up. ‘You pair know it’s an offence to withhold evidence or lie to a police officer, right? So you’d better think really carefully before answering …’ She squinted at the pair of them. Squared her shoulders. ‘Where’d you get those chips?’

  Steel counted out three grubby tenners into Chalmers’s palm. ‘Three fish suppers, one with pickled onion, a thing of mushy peas, and some tins of Irn-Bru.’ She looked down at the constable, still sitting in the passenger seat with his head between his knees. ‘You want some chips, Duncan?’ No answer. ‘Get him one too.’

  Chalmers pocketed the cash. ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘And get something for Rennie. Nothing fancy – mock chop or something – don’t want him getting ideas above his station.’

  She brought her chin up. ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘Aye, and no spitting in it either.’ Steel made shooing motions. ‘Well, go on then.’

  Chalmers puckered her lips for a moment, as if she was about to say something, then turned and marched off in the direction of the chip shop, back straight, arms swinging at her sides. Left, right, left, right, left, right …

  Steel settled her bum down on a garden wall and puffed at her fake fag. ‘Right, sunshine, time for you to sing for your supper. What happened?’

  PC Duncan took a deep breath, then sat up. His face was pale and shiny, like the belly of a frog, greeny-purple bags under his eyes. ‘I’ve never …’ He swallowed. ‘I mean, they make you go to a post mortem, but …’

  ‘Your first real body?’

  ‘The smell …’

  Logan flipped open his notebook. ‘When did you get the call?’

  ‘I was out looking for a missing Renault Clio. House has been vacant for about eight months, local estate agent’s handling the sale. Neighbours phoned the station complaining about the smell coming from the place.’ He shuddered. ‘Got there and there’s no sign of forced entry, so I go down the estate agent’s and get the key, come back and …’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘He was in the kitchen.’

  ‘Victim?’

  ‘Male, IC-one … maybe. Difficult to tell … Face all battered, cuts and stab marks over his body.’ PC Duncan’s head went back between his knees. ‘Oh God …’

  Steel examined the end of her pretend cigarette. ‘Tortured?’

  ‘They staked him out on the lino. There’s blood everywhere: on the floor, on the walls. And the flies … God, the place is black with them.’

  Logan wrote it down. ‘What about the neighbours?’

  Duncan raised his greasy face. ‘Mr and Mrs Morris, they’re in their eighties. He’s in a wheelchair. Don’t think they did it.’

  Steel blew a raspberry. ‘He means did they see anything, you divot.’

  ‘They keep themselves to themselves.’

  ‘Pfff …’ She stood, stretched, then leaned on the roof of the patrol car. ‘Someone up there sodding hates me. We’ve no’ had anything like this for what, two, three years? And soon as I’m in charge of CID, bang: necklacing, skeletons, and some poor sod tortured to death. Could they no’ have waited till Finnie gets back?’

  Logan sooked the salt and grease from his fingertips, then stuffed the cardboard box back in the plastic bag it came in. ‘Fiscal’s here.’

  Steel crunched through a bit of batter. ‘How can they no’ wrap fish and chips in paper any more? Used to love that – the smell of hot fat and sharp vinegar and warm newsprint. That’s your golden days of childhood right there.’

  The Procurator Fiscal’s Mercedes purred to a halt behind a grubby Transit van with ‘MANKY MYSTERY MACHINE’ finger-painted into the grime.

  ‘At least it’s no’ in that polystyrene rubbish. Whoever invented that needs buggering with a hedgehog.’

  The passenger door swung open and the Fiscal climbed out, looked around. Frowned. Then marched across the street to Logan’s battered Fiat Punto, heels clicking on the tarmac. ‘You’re eating chips?’

  Steel dipped a chunk of fish into the tub of snotter-green peas. ‘Would’ve got you some, but you weren’t here.’

  The Fiscal’s eyes narrowed, mouth pinched. ‘Have you any idea what will happen when the press turn up and find you lot mooching around eating chips?’

  ‘Thought it would be classier than a kebab.’

  ‘Have you been drinking?’ The Fiscal thumped the flat of her hand on the roof of Logan’s car. ‘For goodness’ sake, Roberta, think about the impression you’re making!’

  ‘I’m no’ the one shouting and banging things, am I?’

  Rennie emerged from the front door of the house and waved at them. ‘Ma’am? DI Leith says he’s ready whenever you are.’

  ‘Go home, Roberta.’

  Steel popped a chip into her mouth and chewed.

  ‘I mean it, Roberta!’

  A shrug. ‘Sod all going on here anyway.’ She closed the lid on her cardboard box and passed it to Logan. ‘Laz, fire up the Crapmobile, the pub beckons.’

  ‘And never turn up half-cut to one of my crime scenes again.’ The Procurator Fiscal turned and clacked towards the house. ‘Briefing: tomorrow morning, nine sharp.’

  Steel licked the peas from her fingers, then stuck two of them up at her departing back.

  Rennie grimaced at them, then lifted up the line of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape so the Fiscal could duck under it.

  ‘Course you know what this is, don’t you?’ Steel picked something out from between her teeth. ‘Pent-up sexual frustration. PF sees me and gets all excited in her barbed-wire panties.’

  ‘Am I dropping you back at the pub or not?’ Logan got in behind the wheel. ‘Should’ve been at the hospital ages ago.’

  ‘Mind you, bet she goes like a Rampant Rabbit wired up to the mains. I could—’

  ‘Do you want me to drive off and leave you here?’

  ‘Touchy.’ She cupped her hands around her mouth. ‘CHALMERS, ARSE IN GEAR: WE’RE GOING!’

  The DS appeared from behind a nearby hedge. ‘Sorry, Guv, I was … looking for a bin. To put the chip boxes in?’

  Steel opened the passenger door, then hauled the seat forward and hooked a thumb at Chalmers. ‘In the back.’ As soon as she was inside, Steel clunked the seat into place again. ‘Pretty convenient you went off a-Wombling the minute the PF turned up, isn’t it?’

  ‘I … Recycling’s important.’

  ‘Didn’t want to be labelled as a prick for breathing Guinness fumes all over her, more like.’

  In that case, she was a hell of a lot more sensible than Steel.

  Logan cranked the engine over and drove them both back to town.

  The slates are warm beneath her buttocks, the heat seeping through her jeans and into her bones. Rowan leans back against the roof, legs dangling over the edge as the sun sinks towards the horizon. It’s nearly nine, but the burnt-fat scent of barbecuing flesh coils through the air from the massive steading development hidden behind the house, mingling with the sharp emerald stain of freshly mown grass.

  A fat pigeon croooow-crooooows from the overgrown beech hedge. Somewhere in the distance a dog barks.

  The world is back in its place.

  She sucks on her pipe … Nothing. The weed’s dead in the bowl, so she sparks her Zippo and puts the flame to it again, drawing the smoke deep inside her and holding it there l
ike the Holy Spirit. Calming the turmoil. Settling the waters.

  She has done a good thing today, released a tortured soul into the warmth of God’s embrace.

  A confession.

  Repentance.

  Acceptance.

  Rapture.

  Release.

  A grin spreads itself across her face, pulling her cheeks tight. She has lit a fire in God’s name today, and it will burn for all eternity.

  22

  Steel’s smile grew another inch. She licked her lips and waggled her eyebrows. ‘You sure you’re no’ wanting in for a nightcap?’

  Chalmers shook her head, backing away from Logan’s manky Fiat Punto. ‘Er … no. No thanks. I’m good. I’ll just … walk home from here. Need the exercise.’ And she was off, marching down the street, glancing back over her shoulder as if she was afraid they were going to start chasing her.

  Logan clunked the car door shut. ‘Do you have to do that?’

  Steel hauled up her trousers. ‘What? I was being hospitable.’

  ‘No: you were being creepy.’

  ‘You say potato …’ She turned and lumbered up the path towards her house. Chez Steel was a big granite pile on a quiet tree-lined road: bay windows on either side of a dark-red door; a garden full of rose bushes, the air thick with their scent and the hum of bees.

  A knot of keys appeared from the depths of her jacket pocket, then she unlocked the door and beckoned Logan over. ‘Don’t just stand there – neighbours will think I’ve gone funny, bringing scruffy men home with black eyes.’

  Logan scowled at her. ‘I’m not scruffy.’

  ‘You say tomato …’

  Cheeky sod, there was nothing wrong with his suit. OK, so he got it in the sales at Slaters for forty quid, but what was wrong with that? Couldn’t beat a machine-washable jacket and trousers when your job description included dealing with people likely to vomit all over you.

  He tugged at his jacket lapel as he followed her over the threshold into a hallway hung with photographs of the family – Steel, Susan, and little Jasmine. Making sandcastles on a beach somewhere with palm trees, flying a kite in Duthie Park, eating sandwiches on Brimmond Hill, playing on the dodgems down the beach … The row of coats hanging on the rack featured a bright-red duffle coat, a pair of tiny yellow wellington boots lined up beneath it.