Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘What – do – you – want?’

  Jamie dipped into the satchel and came out with a large brown envelope. ‘Been lookin’ into your battered Chinkies for Mr Mowat. Sod-all clue who the other side are, but the ones doing the hammerin’ are definitively the McLeod brothers.’

  No surprise there.

  Jamie dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘I’m just sayin’, you know, if the time comes, you can rely on us. The Reubinator’s great and all that, but it’s like doing Strictly Come Dancin’ through a minefield some days.’

  ‘I’m not taking over, and I’m not killing Reuben.’

  ‘Ahhh … Right. Just a wee coma or a bit of brain damage. Gotcha. Anyway, Mr Mowat says he’s keen on this batterin’ cannabis thing being over soon as. Word is Creepy and Simon McLeod are going after anyone they think’s in on it – and they’re all about the “cripple first, ask questions later”.’

  ‘No coma. No brain damage.’

  Jamie shrugged. ‘We’ll talk later. Meantime,’ he waggled the envelope at Logan, ‘got a couple addresses for the McLeod’s cannabis farms: Blackburn and Westhill. Might wanna get your boys to take a squint?’

  Logan didn’t move. ‘Seriously? Handing over a brown envelope, in a public place? You got someone lurking in the bushes taking pictures?’

  He sighed, pushed his glasses back into place again. ‘Man, you are cynical.’ He slipped the envelope under one of the Fiat’s windscreen wipers, sending a little avalanche of twigs and grass tumbling onto the bonnet. ‘No skin off my nose, man. But if you’re no’ going to sort it out …’ Jamie bared his teeth and sooked air through them. ‘Gonnae get messy.’

  ‘Always does.’

  ‘Later, OK?’ He backed away, grinning. ‘And I meant what I said about Reuben.’

  ‘… talk of industrial action across the whole Scottish Police Services Authority. We spoke to Grampian Police Assistant Chief Constable Denis Irvin …’

  Logan turned the radio down a bit, shifted his phone from one ear to the other, and changed down into third as Mounthooly roundabout loomed into view. A vast hump of grass and trees, easily big enough for a full-sized football pitch, like an island in the stream of traffic. ‘Look, how difficult can it be? Just get a copy of Anthony Chung’s criminal record from San Francisco.’

  On the other end of the phone, PC Guthrie groaned. ‘You know what getting anything out of the Yanks is like.’

  ‘… inconceivable they’d do anything as counterproductive and ill-judged as strike …’

  ‘Someone’s got to have a liaison officer with the US Justice Department: try the Serious and Organized Crime Agency.’

  ‘They’re even worse than the bloody Americans.’

  True.

  ‘… assure the people of the north-east that Grampian Police won’t let this impact on public safety or pursuing criminals to justice …’

  A taxi’s brake lights flared at the entrance to the roundabout, it juddered to a halt, just missing getting obliterated by an eighteen-wheeler loaded down with offshore drilling pipes. Idiot should’ve been watching where he was going. Logan drifted over into the outside lane. ‘If they give you any lip, tell them there’s a suggestion he’s connected to a terrorist organization.’

  ‘He is?’

  ‘No, but it’ll get their finger out of their bumholes.’

  ‘… other news, to celebrate national sandwich week, one group of Ellon school pupils aim to create the world’s longest chip buttie …’

  The junction was coming up. Logan put his foot on the brake. ‘Just make sure you say it’s “unconfirmed sources” …’ The car wasn’t slowing down.

  He did it again. Still nothing.

  One more time, jamming his foot to the floor.

  The rattling Fiat Punto just kept on going.

  ‘… weather’s going to remain overcast, but we could see some heavy rain later in the day …’

  Handbrake! Logan yanked it on and the rear wheels locked, screeching across the road surface, heading right out onto the roundabout in a stinking cloud of hot rubber. Teeth gritted, eyes screwed to narrowed slits, arms straight out in front, hands wrapped tightly enough around the steering wheel to turn his knuckles bone-white. Right into the path of a dozen vehicles.

  ‘STOP YOU RUSTY PIECE OF CRAP!’

  A people carrier slammed on its brakes as he slid to a halt right in front of it. Its horn blared an angry tattoo into the early morning air, the driver’s face dark pink as she screamed obscenities behind the windscreen.

  ‘… just to rub it in: here’s the Eurythmics with “Here Comes the Rain Again”.’

  Logan closed his eyes, rested his forehead against the steering wheel. Everything inside him sagged, as if someone had pulled the plug out. Not crushed to death in a mangled ball of rusty metal after all.

  More horns joined the people carrier’s angry song.

  He sat up straight, blinked, then wound down his window.

  Exhaust fumes and burning rubber never smelled so sweet.

  The people-carrier’s driver was still swearing at him through the glass, veins standing out in her neck like angry snakes.

  He held up a hand and turned the engine over again, stuck the Punto in reverse and slowly dragged it backwards onto Causeway End. Pumping his foot on the brake pedal did sod all, so he used the handbrake again.

  Christ, that was close …

  ‘Tada …’ Dr Graham whipped the cloth away, exposing a clay head: large nose, high cheekbones, jowls, a small mouth set between two deep crevices. She placed it on Steel’s desk. ‘Of course, I had to use a bit of artistic licence on the wrinkles, but all in all I’m pretty happy with it.’

  Steel screwed up her eyes, leaned forward in her chair and peered at it. ‘No’ a sodding clue. You?’

  Logan shrugged. ‘Just a random old lady.’

  ‘Nah: one thing I know about nutjobs, Laz, is they don’t do things for no reason. She’s no’ random, she’s somebody special. We just don’t know why yet.’

  Dr Graham shuffled her feet. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve turned up another body needing facial reconstruction, have you? Maybe more skeletonized remains?’

  Steel leaned back in her chair and puffed on her fake cigarette. ‘Laz, get the auld wifie’s head up to Media: I want her on the telly news by lunchtime, all the papers, blah, blah, blah.’ She stared at him. ‘Sometime before we all die of old age would be good. And try to crack a smile, eh? Won’t kill you.’

  ‘Thanks. Very funny. I nearly died, OK?’

  ‘Serves you right for being a tightwad and buying crappy old rustbuckets then, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Just …’ The muscles in his jaw clenched. ‘Fine.’ Logan grabbed the head – surprisingly heavy, almost as bad as the real thing – and stomped out, slamming the door shut behind him.

  Steel’s voice oozed through the wood. ‘Touchy … Now, Doc, about your invoice …’

  The Wee Hoose echoed with laughter that died as soon as Logan walked in. Biohazard Bob and three PCs cleared their throats, Biohazard sticking something in his pocket as the uniforms shuffled out of the room, faces flushed, not making eye contact.

  Logan pushed the door shut with his heel. ‘Do I want to know?’

  ‘Probably not.’ Bob sank into his chair. ‘Nice severed head, by the way: suits you.’

  The other desks were covered in piles of forms and file boxes, only one was clean and tidy: DS Chalmers’s. ‘Where’s the new girl?’

  ‘Buggered if I know …’ He frowned. ‘Rennie’s right, you’re playing favourites, aren’t you?’

  Logan stared at him. If Biohazard wanted favourites, he could bloody well have them. ‘You know what: maybe I am putting too much on DS Chalmers’s shoulders. So …’ He plonked the head down on Biohazard’s desk. ‘“Who is this woman?” TV, papers, posters. You know the drill.’

  ‘Noooo.’ Bob covered his face with his hands. ‘Can’t someone else—’


  ‘You’re the one feeling neglected.’ He pointed at the head. ‘Steel wants that done ASAP. If it’s not on the lunchtime news, you know what’ll happen to you.’

  Bob groaned. Stood. Then picked up the head. ‘Come on, Sexy.’ He paused at the door. ‘One thing. Chalmers might be the new girl, but there’s something you’ve got to remember …’ He squeezed one eye shut, leaned to the left, then hurried out, thumping the door shut.

  The smell he’d left behind wasn’t far off being weaponized.

  37

  Kelly the PCSO pulled her chin in, eyebrows furrowed. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Biohazard.’

  The cell block was quiet, the singing and swearing of last night reduced to a sort of anxious murmur as people got ready for their turn in front of the Sheriff to find out if they’d be released on bail, or banged up in Craiginches.

  ‘Oh Lord, I got trapped in the lift with him once. Always take the stairs, and never light a match.’ She led the way to cell number eight and rapped on the door. ‘Best to let them know we’re out here, in case he’s pleasuring himself. Happens more often than you’d think.’ She slid open the hatch. ‘He’s had his breakfast, so don’t let the puppy-dog eyes con you into giving him any treats.’

  Logan stepped up and peered into the cell. Dr Marks had graduated from the floor to the mattress, curled up in the foetal position, arms wrapped around his head. ‘Go away …’

  ‘That was one night, Dr Marks. What do you think a week in prison’s going to be like?’

  ‘They wouldn’t even switch off the light.’

  ‘That’s in case you decide to do yourself harm in the dark. Don’t want to find your cold dead body in the morning, do we? Probably a good idea to keep you on suicide watch up in Craiginches too. Sensitive lad like you— Sod.’ His phone was ringing. ‘Have a think and I’ll be back in a minute.’ He pulled it out. ‘McRae?’

  ‘LoganDaveGoulding, how you doing?’

  He moved down to the end of the corridor and pushed through into the stairwell. ‘I’m kind of in the middle of something, Dave.’

  ‘Excellent, excellent. Look, I’ve got you a profile for Agnes Garfield.’

  ‘That was quick.’

  ‘Had a head start. Do you want the highlights? Agnes’s psychological condition means it’s unlikely she’s operating alone, or in a dominant role. She’s a subservient fantasist, looking for someone to make her dreams come true. That coupled with the obsession with books like Witchfire means she’s trying to live a life that never existed in the first place. She’ll probably resort to self-harm when things don’t live up to her expectations.’

  ‘Subservient? Didn’t you see what she did to Anthony Chung? Far as we can tell, he’s the only dominant—’

  ‘No. She’d never do anything to hurt or disappoint him. It isn’t—’

  ‘She staked him out on the linoleum and tortured him to death, Dave. Doesn’t get more final than that.’

  Silence came from the other end of the line.

  ‘Dave?’

  ‘Then that idiot Marks is even more useless than I thought. His files clearly show she’s elevated Anthony Chung to the position of personal deity. There’s literally nothing he can do that she isn’t going to forgive or see as a test of her faith. Infidelity, violence, abnormal sexual behaviour …’

  ‘Well, he must’ve done something, because he’s lying in the morgue with …’ Logan frowned at the stained concrete beneath his feet. ‘Wait a minute: Marks’s files?’

  ‘Have you read Witchfire? In it there are three primary forms of punishment doled out by the Fingermen: trial by fire, trial by blood, and trial by water. We’ve had the first two. She’s going to have a go at chucking someone in a river next, and if they don’t drown she’ll drag them back on shore and burn them.’

  ‘How did you get your hands on Dr Marks’s files?’

  ‘Agnes started off pretending to be in Rowan’s world. It was a harmless fantasy, daydreaming she was someone special with a destiny and power, but she did it so often that it became habitual. The fantasy became real. She’s not play-acting any more, she genuinely thinks they’re witches and they’re evil and they need to be purged to save their souls.’ A deep breath. ‘And that’s where the problem starts: there’s a dichotomy at the heart of Agnes’s psyche and it’s eating her sense of self. In the book, Rowan’s a witch-finder that doesn’t believe in witches, but has to punish them. But Agnes doesn’t just believe in witches, she thinks she is one. She’s trapped between two diametric delusions.’

  ‘Dave!’

  ‘I broke into his office, it’s not important. What matters is that she’s following a pattern: it’s not malevolent, it’s not because she enjoys it, it’s because this is what she believes she has to do.’

  ‘You broke …?’ Logan glanced up and down the corridor. No one there. But he lowered his voice to a whisper anyway. ‘Are you insane? Anything you get from those files is inadmissible. Put them back!’

  ‘I don’t see how: you’ve got a warrant, haven’t you? And who’s going to know?’

  ‘Put – them – back.’

  ‘She won’t be moving about, she’ll have a single base of operations, somewhere she feels safe. Somewhere she can paint protective circles.’

  Like the ones on her bedroom roof and in her cupboard under the stairs.

  ‘She has a romanticized notion of decay, it appeals to the entropy she feels inside, so she’ll want to stay somewhere that’s been empty for a while. Run-down, abandoned, maybe derelict. Assuming the dominant personality lets her have any say in it.’

  And that explained the half-dozen dead roses.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes: tread carefully. Agnes Garfield is a deeply damaged individual, and the world is a terrifying place for her right now. She’s the only one standing between us and the powers of evil. In her mind she’s a hero. Don’t break her.’

  Not a monster, just doing monstrous things.

  ‘Thanks, Dave.’ Logan hung up and headed back to the cell block. Stopped outside number eight and peered through the hatch again.

  Dr Marks hadn’t moved.

  ‘Last chance, Doctor. You stood up to us, we got a warrant, you got arrested. You did everything you could, no one can say you didn’t.’

  Marks just stared at the far wall.

  ‘OK, well, you think about it.’ Logan marched over to cell seven and banged on the door, then did the same to number six. The swearing and shouting kicked off again. ‘Enjoy.’

  Rennie slouched in and collapsed into Logan’s visitor’s chair. ‘Urrgh …’

  Logan glanced up from his door-to-door forms. ‘Well?’

  Rennie’s suit looked as if he’d slept in it, then taken it off and battered it to death with a cricket bat. ‘I quit. Sod this for a game of soldiers.’

  ‘What did Ding-Dong say?’

  He wrapped his arms around his head and let it fall backwards, knees clenched together. ‘How come Chalmers got the morning off, eh? She wasn’t even there all night. I was there all night, but do I get the morning off? Of course not, because every bicycle-seat-sniffing tosspot—’

  ‘My heart bleeds for you.’

  ‘Not as if we turned up anything, is it? No one’s seen Agnes the Nutbag; someone “thinks” they saw Roy Forman leaving the Green with an unidentified woman, but they reeked of meths and wee, so I wouldn’t trust them to ID their own reflection; and by the time I got back to the front of the queue they were all out of tiramisu.’

  ‘Focus.’

  Rennie blinked at him. ‘Right: Ding-Dong. I sneaked into his briefing and he says he interviewed some Stacey woman last night? Apparently she’s being very cagey about her whereabouts and the death of Anthony Chung. So she’s become a person of interest.’

  ‘He say what’s happening to her?’

  ‘Up in front of the Sheriff at ten for the assault and indecent exposu
re. You want me to check it out?’

  Logan swivelled back and forth in his chair for a bit. Then shook his head. ‘No: she’s a time-waster, looking for something she can shock Daddy with. Forget about her. And yesterday wasn’t a complete washout, was it? You found your missing tramp.’

  Rennie sank even further into the chair. ‘Ah … Funny story …’

  ‘Oh, you are kidding me.’

  His eyebrows pinched. ‘I had to go running after this guy who rocked up pished and picked a fight with Insch’s bouncers.’

  ‘Henry Scott was right there!’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault!’

  Logan buried his head in his hands. ‘I swear to God …’

  His computer made a pinging noise. Then another one. And another – new emails coming in thick and fast. He glanced up at the screen. Three hundred and sixty-two new messages.

  What now?

  He clicked on the last one to come in:

  > From: spellchaser@thecovenoflightandhope.org

  > To: fanbox@williamhunterwrites.com

  > Subject: You Sick Basterd!!!!

  >

  > WTF is wrong with U man? Ur book is shit and U can’t write 4 shit and Ur a looser!!!

  > Wiches is a powr for good in the wurld, an U can DIE!@

  There was more of it, but the spelling and grammar didn’t get any better. OK … He tried the first one to come in instead. It was from William Hunter’s webmistress in Iowa, apologizing for the huge number of nutter emails she was about to forward to him. Apparently these were all the dodgy messages that had been left through the website.

  Rennie slumped further in the seat and flopped an arm across his face. ‘Maybe I could go into private security or something?’

  ‘You’re useless at public security, who’d hire you?’ Logan’s mouse swept across the screen. No way he was going to sift through three hundred and sixty-two emails from random internet crazy people. He used a wizard to set up a rule and forwarded them all on to Dr Goulding instead, along with a short note to check them all for someone capable of necklacing Roy Forman and torturing Anthony Chung.