Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8

by Stuart MacBride

  Silence.

  Steel squared her shoulders. ‘Ladies, and gentlemen, we are no’ at home to Mr Fuckup today. Who are we no’ at home to?’

  The response wasn’t much more than an embarrassed murmur. ‘Mr Fuckup.’

  ‘I CAN’T HEAR YOU! WHO ARE WE NO’ AT HOME TO?’

  Better this time: ‘Mr Fuckup.’

  ‘ONE MORE TIME!’

  They bellowed it out: ‘WE ARE NOT AT HOME TO MR FUCKUP!’

  ‘Damn right we’re no’.’ She smiled, nodded. ‘Now get out there and catch me those bloody killers!’

  Logan made it as far as his office, a mug of coffee clutched in one hand shrouding him in bitter steam and the promise of actually managing to stay awake until lunchtime.

  ‘Guv?’

  He closed his eyes. Counted to five.

  ‘Guv?’

  When he opened them again, PC Guthrie was still standing there, pale eyebrows making a question mark on his podgy face.

  Well, it was worth a try. ‘Whatever you want, it can wait till I’ve had my coffee.’

  Guthrie followed him into the office. ‘Erm … Do you remember DI Insch? Well, he’s just been on the phone about some bloke going mental at one of his starlets. Says he wants you to deal.’

  ‘Does he now.’ Logan eased himself into his seat, back creaking and pinging all the way down. The coffee was spoon-meltingly strong, making things fizz behind his eyes. ‘Send a patrol car.’

  The constable shuffled his police-issue boots. ‘He was kind of insistent it had to be you, Guv.’

  Of course he was. Logan put his coffee down. Sighed. Then stood. ‘Get a car.’

  PC Guthrie hauled the CID pool car into the car park behind a swanky boutique hotel on Queen’s Road. A middle-aged man in black trousers and burgundy waistcoat was sitting on a low wall, a clump of blood-soaked tissue held against his nose. Scarlet stains covered the front of his white shirt. He looked up as Guthrie hauled on the handbrake and climbed out into the morning sun.

  Logan levered himself out of his seat, something sharp grinding away at the base of his spine.

  The man with the bloody nose didn’t say a word, just pointed back towards the rear of the hotel and an open fire exit.

  Logan nodded at Guthrie. ‘Take his statement.’

  Guthrie looked left, then right, then dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Thought we were keeping this low key?’

  ‘Tell me, Constable, do you remember what Steel said would happen if you don’t deal with your allotted jobbie when you’re told to?’

  ‘Ah … Right.’ A blush made his chubby cheeks glow. ‘Yes, Guv. Statement …’ He pulled out his notebook and shuffled in front of Mr Bleedy. ‘Now, sir, I need you to tell me what happened, in your own words.’

  Logan left him to it.

  Inside the hotel, the corridor was lined in dark-red flock wallpaper with brass sconces every couple of metres casting pools of golden light. Tasteful in a ‘tart’s boudoir’ kind of way. Plain wooden doors sat every eight foot or so, signed with things like ‘PRIVATE’ and ‘STAFF ONLY’. One three doors down lay open, with someone’s leg sticking out into the hallway, their blue sock twitching in time to muffled grunts from inside the room.

  Kinky.

  He peered in. A lanky man lay face down on the floor, one shoe on, one shoe off, struggling beneath a huge lump of muscle in a bomber jacket, jeans and a red T-shirt.

  Mr Muscle had one knee in the base of the guy’s spine, one arm twisted up behind his back, and his face mashed into the grey carpet tiles. A translucent coil of wire spiralled out of Mr Muscle’s left ear and disappeared into his collar. So he was either a concerned citizen with hearing difficulties, or a professional security thug.

  Logan leaned against the doorframe. ‘Are we all having fun?’

  Mr Muscle looked up and gave him a thin smile. His face was round and smooth, like a large, slightly scary baby. ‘Mr Whyte here is having a difficult time adjusting to being single. Aren’t you, Mr Whyte?’

  The lanky bloke wriggled some more, muffled swearing just about audible through the carpet tile’s pile.

  ‘Any chance you can let Mr Whyte go?’

  ‘I don’t know if that would be advisable.’ Mr Muscle pulled a face. ‘The last time we tried releasing Mr Whyte, he assaulted one of the hotel staff.’

  Logan stepped into the room. Then paused. Something in there smelled like raw meat and wet dog … He pulled out his handcuffs and secured Mr Whyte’s other wrist, then hauled it over so he could grab the one Mr Muscle had in a death grip. Click. ‘OK, let him up.’

  Mr Muscle took his knee out of the guy’s spine, grabbed him by the shoulders, and hauled him to his feet.

  One side of Robbie Whyte’s face was scratched and glowing with carpet burn, other than that, there didn’t seem to be a mark on him. What he did have was a rumpled quiff, designer stubble, bright-blue eyes ringed in red veins, and a dimple in his chin big enough to hide a Malteser. That, the hairy arms, and the pot belly, made him look like a boy band member who’d gone to seed. His grey T-shirt had ‘GOD’S GIFT’ printed on it in big flesh-coloured letters. The ‘i’ in ‘gift’ was shaped to look like a willy.

  ‘Get off me!’ He kicked out, just missing Logan’s knee. ‘I’ll fucking kill you!’ The smell of stale beer, whisky, and kebab oozed out of him.

  Logan took a step back and produced his warrant card. ‘Threatening a police officer is an offence, Mr Whyte. As is assault.’

  ‘I never did nothing! NOTHING!’

  Mr Muscle tightened his grip on the guy’s shoulders. ‘Mr Whyte, I strongly suggest you cooperate with the authorities.’

  Logan swapped his warrant card for his notebook. ‘Where’s Nichole Fyfe?’

  The big man nodded back over his shoulder. ‘Miss Fyfe is upstairs in her room. She’s deeply upset.’

  ‘I didn’t do nothing.’

  Mr Muscle gave him a little shake. ‘Mr Whyte here has been hanging around the hotel for at least the last three days. Last night he tried to make contact with Miss Fyfe. She informed him that their relationship was over four years ago, and asked him to leave her alone.’

  Whyte’s face darkened. ‘That’s crap. You bring her in here, and she’ll tell you—’

  ‘This morning, Miss Fyfe opened her hotel-room door and discovered a parcel in the corridor outside, addressed to her.’

  ‘It’s bollocks. He’s lying—’

  ‘When Miss Fyfe opened it, she discovered the severed head of a Yorkshire terrier, wrapped up in press clippings about her involvement with the filming of Witchfire.’

  ‘I told you it wasn’t me!’

  Logan stared at him. ‘Seriously?’

  Mr Muscle nodded at a cardboard box sitting in the middle of the room’s desk. It was still partially wrapped in gold and silver paper. Logan peeked inside. It wasn’t a big terrier, the head no bigger than his fist, the fur around the muzzle and neck spiky with dark-red clots, both eyes open, staring up out of the box at him.

  At least that explained the smell.

  The head nestled in a bowl of scrunched newspaper and pages torn from magazines, all of it stained with blood. Looked as if there were a couple of decent fingerprints on a photo-spread from Hello! ‘FABULOUS NICHOLE SPARKLES AT ABERDEEN CHARITY AUCTION’, the whorls and deltas picked out in scarlet.

  ‘You killed a dog? What is wrong with you?’

  ‘I didn’t do it! They’re fitting me up! Ask Nichole: ask her, she’ll tell you it’s all lies. He’s trying to make me look bad. He’s—’

  Mr Muscle gave him another shake. ‘I arrived with the studio car to collect Miss Fyfe at six this morning. Mr Whyte was waiting outside, hiding behind the hotel bins. I approached him to ascertain why he wasn’t respecting Miss Fyfe’s request for privacy and he threw an empty bottle of Bell’s Whisky at me.’

  ‘I never! He’s lying!’

  Logan looked Mr Muscle up and d
own. ‘You give evidence in court a lot, don’t you?’

  ‘Occupational hazard.’ His massive shoulders shrugged beneath the shiny bomber jacket. ‘But I believe the incident with the bottle will be captured on the hotel’s security cameras. After Mr Whyte’s assault on my person, I restrained him and contacted Mr Insch for further instructions.’

  Logan stopped writing. ‘Let me guess, he asked you not to make it official?’

  ‘Sadly, that was before I learned about the package. As I said, Miss Fyfe is considerably distressed.’

  Not surprising. Most hotels left newspapers outside the rooms in the morning, not severed Yorkshire terriers’ heads.

  As soon as the cell door closed the sobbing started.

  PC Guthrie peered through the clear plastic evidence bag and into the open box. His shoulders dropped an inch. ‘Poor little fella …’

  Logan patted him on the back. ‘Get it up to fingerprints. Then off to the mortuary.’

  He sucked his teeth, mouth turning down at the edges. ‘The Ice Queen’s going to love that. Can’t we just—’

  ‘And I want a full criminal history of laughing boy on my desk in twenty minutes, tops.’

  A sigh. Then Guthrie clutched the evidence bag to his chest, staring down at the dog. ‘How could anyone do that to a wee doggie?’ He shuffled off.

  Logan slid back the hatch in the cell door. Robbie Whyte stood in the middle of the small room, arms hanging by his sides, his baggy jeans barely covering his pants, his trainers like boats. That’s what happened when they confiscated your belt and shoelaces.

  Whyte’s shoulders trembled.

  Logan knocked on the cold metal door. ‘You sure you don’t want to just … tell someone why you did it?’

  ‘It’s all lies …’ Whyte ground the heel of one hand into his left eye. ‘She still loves me. I know she still loves me.’

  ‘Thought the expression was, “Say it with flowers.” Not, “Severed dogs’ heads.”’ A pause. ‘Was it your dog? Or did you just pick one at random?’

  ‘She always wanted a yorkie. Mad, eh? Smelly, yappy, little dog like that. So I got her one off a mate.’ He sniffed. Scrubbed at his eyes again. ‘Before that talent scout tosser spotted her, she was …’ Whyte gave a one-shouldered shrug. ‘Then she did that bloody advert for tampons – “Look at me, I’m roller-skating with a penguin!” and that was it. Suddenly she was too good for us.’

  ‘So you hacked the head off a Yorkshire terrier? That made sense to you?’

  ‘Didn’t even take the dog. Can you believe that? Walked out and left us both behind, like we were nothing to her. What sort of person does that?’

  ‘What sort of person decapitates their own dog?’

  Whyte hunched over into himself, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. ‘Nichole’s mine. She’s not anyone else’s. She knows that …’

  Logan slid the hatch shut again, pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he got to the one marked, ‘NUTJOBS-R-US’.

  It rang, and rang, and rang … then a broad Liverpudlian accent boomed out of the earpiece. ‘Logan, haven’t heard from you in ages, is everything OK? Are you persevering with the talking therapy?’

  ‘Yeah, I need you to come in and look at someone …’

  24

  DI Leith cracked a yawn, showing off a mouthful of fillings. He blinked, rubbed a hand across the stubble on his chin: grey to go with the short-back-and-sides clinging precariously onto his scalp. The washboard wrinkles on his forehead deepened. ‘I’m just asking you to take a look at it, McRae. Half an hour. Forty-five minutes tops.’

  Logan shifted the folder to his other arm, balancing the polystyrene cup and grease-windowed paper bag on top as he reached for the door handle. ‘Can’t. I’ve got a stalker in the cells on animal cruelty and assault charges who’s probably going to need sectioned, and Steel’s on the warpath about the necklacing case. You heard her.’

  Leith slumped against the wall and let loose another yawn. ‘We both know it’s not going to happen, OK? We can’t just pluck a result out of thin air because she wants to stick it to the review team. The trail for our torture victim is still viable. We need to chase it down before it goes cold.’

  ‘So you do it then.’ He turned the handle and pushed through into his office. A rumpled-looking Rennie was slouched in the visitor’s chair, blond hair sticking out at random angles, as if he’d had a fight with the styling gel and lost. The bags under his eyes were even more impressive than Leith’s.

  Rennie scrambled out of the chair. ‘Guv.’

  Leith slumped into the vacated spot. ‘Thought I told you to go home.’

  ‘Need to talk to DI McRae, Guv.’

  Logan settled behind his desk, cricked the plastic lid off his coffee, then unwrapped the bacon buttie. ‘He’s right: go home. You look like an extra from a zombie film.’ The squeezy bottle of tomato sauce was locked away in the bottom drawer, where the thieving sods on nightshift couldn’t get at it. Logan liberated it and slathered the bacon in scarlet.

  ‘Come on, McRae, I can’t do it myself: I’ve been up all night, the post mortem’s at half nine and there’s no way that’s going to be done before lunchtime. I need an experienced pair of eyes on the ground now, not this afternoon.’ Leith thumped a blue folder onto Logan’s in-tray. ‘I’ll owe you one.’

  ‘You already owe me one.’

  ‘Fine, so I’ll owe you two. Please?’

  Logan eased open the folder’s front flap. Photograph: a blackened bloated body specked with mould, lying on a stainless-steel cutting table. The skin was lined with tiny dark-purple cuts each one surrounded by darker circular mottling that might have been bruises. Difficult to tell with the remains being so decomposed. No hair on the head, groin, armpits, or chest. Same as their necklacing victim. Logan closed the folder again and took a bite of his buttie. Bacon crunched between his teeth, filling his head with its smoky salty tang. ‘What about Ding-Dong?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Bell couldn’t find his arse with both hands if you duct-taped them to it. Come on.’

  He licked a blob of sauce from the side of his mouth. ‘OK, but if Steel asks, I’m off doing something about the necklaced guy. Deal?’

  Leith stood. ‘Deal.’ Then made for the door.

  As soon as it shut, Rennie crumpled into the seat again, arms hanging at his sides, head thrown back, showing off a stubbly Adam’s apple. ‘Urrrrrrrgh …’

  ‘I told you to go home.’

  ‘Why can’t everything be like it used to?’

  ‘You’re making the place look untidy.’

  ‘No, seriously.’ He raised his arms, then let them flop down again. ‘Being detective sergeant’s a crap job. All the DIs and Steel treat you like crap, all the DCs and uniform whinge and bitch and give you crap about everything you ask them to do. It’s like … being the filling in a crap sandwich.’

  Logan took Leith’s folder from the in-tray and pulled out the photos inside. ‘My heart bleeds.’

  ‘We used to be so happy …’

  ‘So resign. Tell Steel you don’t want to be a DS any more.’

  A snort. ‘Yeah, good luck explaining that to the wife.’ He wrapped his arms around his head. ‘Why couldn’t it have been a simple one-punch murder, or a nice easy domestic?’

  Logan spread the photos out across the desk. The close-ups of the face were the worst, there was almost nothing human left, just a battered lopsided mess swollen after four days in a warm room, speckled with orange and green mould. Whoever it was had even shaved off the poor sod’s eyebrows. The eyes were two black empty slits – always the first to go when decomposition set in.

  Each hand and foot had its own photograph, thick lines of bruising circling the wrists and ankles. Fingertips and toes pulped.

  Christ … Logan wrapped his bacon buttie up in its napkin and dumped it in the bin. Not hungry any more. Even the coffee tasted sour now.

  �
��—never going anywhere? Guv? Hello?’

  He blinked at Rennie. The sergeant was staring at him.

  No idea. He put the photos back in the folder. ‘You think you’ve got it tough? Ever since McPherson left it’s been nothing but paperwork, and strategy meetings, and balancing budgets, and manpower rotas, and operational targets, and key performance indicators.’ The folder went back in his in-tray. ‘I dream of being a DS again. Don’t know you’re born, that’s your problem.’

  A big, theatrical sigh swelled Rennie’s body, then deflated it back to floppy-armed despondency. ‘You’ll be sorry when I’m signed off on the stress.’

  ‘At least then I won’t have to listen to you whinge.’ He pulled out his notebook. ‘Tell me about the scene.’

  Rennie shuddered. ‘He’d been dead on that kitchen floor for ages. Flies everywhere.’

  ‘Forced entry?’

  ‘If they did, they picked the lock. No broken windows, no jimmied doors.’

  ‘So whoever it was, they had a key …’ Logan wrote, ‘ESTATE AGENTS?’ in his notebook and underlined it twice.

  ‘Or someone left a window open and the satanic wee shite sneaked in and closed it after they killed him and did a runner?’

  ‘Possible. You talk to the neighbours?’

  Rennie pulled a face and rolled his eyes. ‘Pair of coffin dodgers. Didn’t see anything; didn’t want to see anything.’ His voice jumped into a wobbly parody of old age: ‘Oh, Sergeant, it’s too terrible to think about, why did the Abernethys have to move to Dubai, oh the world’s such a terrible place these days, they should bring back hanging.’

  ‘What about the other side, did …’ A frown narrowed Logan’s eyes. ‘Wait a minute: satanic?’