22 Dead Little Bodies (A Logan and Steel short novel)

by Stuart MacBride

  Logan drew a red cross on the whiteboard, eliminating Union Square. ‘Might as well try College Street multistorey, while you’re there. Then hit the Trinity Centre.’

  ‘Guv.’

  The MIT office was nearly deserted. A handful of plain-clothes officers were bent over phones, taking sightings from members of the public. A whiteboard by the fancy coffee machine bore a list of possible locations that now stretched from Lerwick to Naples. A woman with bouffant hair and pigeon toes put her phone down, shambled over, and added ‘PORT ISAAC’ to the roll.

  She puffed out her cheeks, then turned to Logan. ‘I know they’re only trying to help, Guv, but why do they all have to be nutters? Oh, here we go.’ Her eyebrows climbed up her forehead and she pointed over Logan’s shoulder. ‘Showtime.’

  He turned and there was Steel on one of the large flatscreen TVs. A media liaison officer sat on one side of her, fiddling with his notes and looking uncomfortable. On the other side were an elderly couple: a grey-haired woman and a bald man, both with dark circles beneath watery eyes. The lines in their faces had probably deepened an inch since Saturday.

  Officer Bouffant scuffed over to Logan, staring up at the screen. ‘Both sets of grandparents wanted to do it, but the boss thought it’d be best to stick to the wife’s side of the family. Might be harder to get sympathy with the murdering wee sod’s mum and dad there.’

  Logan grabbed the remote and turned the sound on.

  ‘… thank you.’ The media officer shuffled his papers again. Then held out a hand. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Roberta Steel.’

  It looked as if she’d had a bash at combing her hair. And failed. ‘Heidi and Toby Skinner were picked up by their father from Balmoral Primary School at twelve o’clock on Saturday afternoon. At one forty-five, John Skinner jumped from the roof of the Grosvenor G Casino on Exchequer Row. At some point between twelve o’clock and one forty-five, Emma Skinner – Heidi and Toby’s mother – was subjected to a brutal and fatal attack, along with her friend, Brian Williams, at a house in Newburgh Road.’

  At that, the elderly couple sitting next to Steel quivered and wiped away tears.

  Officer Bouffant tilted her head. ‘We’re calling Williams her “friend”. Thought it’d be kinder.’

  A copy of that morning’s Daily Mail sat on the desk beside her. ‘MUM AND TOYBOY LOVER IN BLOODBATH HORROR’.

  ‘How did that work out for you?’

  She picked up the newspaper and dumped it in the bin. Shrugged. ‘Well, it was worth a go.’

  ‘… appealing for any information that will help us locate Heidi and Toby. Did you see John Skinner’s dark-blue BMW M5…’

  Then a sigh. ‘Wasting our time, aren’t we? Fiver says that gets us nothing but more phone calls from nutters.’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘… extremely concerned for their wellbeing…’

  Officer Bouffant curled into herself a bit, shoulders rounding. ‘You know what? Being in the police would be a great job, if we didn’t have to deal with members of the sodding public.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The media officer had another shuffle. ‘And now Mr and Mrs Prichard would like to read a brief statement.’

  The old man’s voice was cracked and raw, trembling with each breath. ‘We’ve already lost so much. Emma was the brightest, most wonderful human being you could ever meet. She lit up every room…’

  ‘Think they’ll get custody of the kids? You know, assuming we find them.’ She folded her arms. ‘I mean, the court won’t give Heidi and Toby to the dad’s parents, will they? Not after what he did.’

  ‘Haven’t you got phones to answer?’

  Sigh. ‘Yes, Guv.’

  ‘… bring our grandchildren home, safe and sound. Please, if you know anything, if you saw … their father…’ The poor sod couldn’t even bring himself to say John Skinner’s name. ‘… if you know where our grandchildren are…’ He crumpled, both hands covering his face. His wife put her arm around him, tears shining on her cheeks.

  Mr Media did some more shuffling. ‘Thank you. We will now take questions.’

  A forest of hands shot up.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Carol Smith, Aberdeen Examiner. Why did John Skinner jump off the casino? Did he have a gambling problem?’

  Steel shook her head. ‘No’ that we know of. The casino has no record of him ever being in the building before. As far as we—’

  Logan killed the sound and left Steel chuntering away to herself in silence.

  It was all just for show anyway. The illusion of progress. Yes, someone might spot John Skinner’s BMW, but it wasn’t likely. The only way they were going to get Heidi and Toby back was by working their way through every parking spot in the city, and hoping there was something in Skinner’s car that would point the way.

  And hope even more that it didn’t point to a pair of tiny shallow graves.

  His phone buzzed deep inside his pocket, then launched into ‘If I Only Had a Brain’. That would be Rennie.

  Logan hit the button. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Guv? Think we’ve found him.’

  ‘There.’ The CCTV tech leaned forward and poked the screen. A figure was frozen in the lower left-hand corner, shoulders hunched, long blue raincoat on over what looked like a grey suit. John Skinner.

  Logan nodded. ‘It’s him.’

  She spooled the footage backwards, and he reversed onto Union Street, disappearing around the corner of the Athenaeum pub. ‘Took a while, but we managed to—’

  ‘Hoy!’ The door thumped open and Steel stood on the threshold, with a mug in one hand and a rolled-up newspaper tucked under her arm. ‘Who said you sods could start without me?’

  And everything had been going so well. ‘Thought you were off being a media tart.’

  ‘Did you see me on the telly? I was spectacular. Like a young Helen Mirren.’ She thumped the newspaper against his chest. ‘Page four.’

  Logan opened the Scottish Sun to a spread on ‘FATHER OF TWO IN MURDER-SUICIDE SPREE’ complete with photos of John Skinner, his two victims, and his missing children.

  She poked the article. ‘See? “The community has been stunned by Skinner’s terrible crimes, and now fears for Heidi – seven – and Toby – six – are growing.”’ A nod. ‘Told you: missing kids trumps dead tramp. Think they’re going to run a two-page spread on Gordy Taylor choking on his own vomit? Course they’re no’.’

  He dumped the paper in the bin. ‘That doesn’t mean we don’t—’

  ‘Blah, blah, blah.’ Steel leaned on the desk, close enough to brush the tech’s hair with an errant boob. ‘What are we looking at?’

  ‘John Skinner.’ She shuffled an inch sideways, getting away from Steel’s chest. ‘So, we track him backwards from the casino…’ Her fingers clattered across the keyboard and the scene jumped to the security camera at the junction of Union Street and Market Street. John Skinner reversed across the corner of the image, clipping the edge of the box junction before disappearing again.

  ‘Can barely see the wee sod; can you no’ follow him properly?’

  The CCTV tech shook her head, flinching as her ear made contact. ‘If someone does something and we’re there, we can follow him from camera to camera. But we can’t jump back in time and tilt and pan, can we? You’re lucky we got anything at all.’

  Logan’s phone rang, deep in his pocket. Please don’t be Mrs Black, please don’t be Mrs Black. But when he checked the display it was only Marjory from Willkie and Oxford, useless solicitors and rubbish estate agents to the stars. Probably calling with another derisory offer from the Moores. Well, she could go to voicemail. Let it ring.

  Steel glowered at him. ‘You answering that, or do I have to shove it up your bumhole. We’re working here.’

  Right. He pressed the button to reject the call. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Think so too.’ She eased a little closer to the CCTV tech. ‘Come on then – where now?’

  Another rattle of keys.r />
  ‘Markies and the Saint Nicholas Centre probably got him on their cameras, but the next time he shows up is here…’ A view across School Hill at the traffic lights. Three cars and a bus stopped on one side, a motorcyclist and a transit van on the other. Skinner lurched backwards across the road and into a short granite canyon blocked off by metal bollards. He reversed past the bank and in through the line of glass doors leading into the Bon Accord Centre. Or more properly, out of it – given the way he’d been going in real life.

  She poked the screen as the doors shut, swallowing him. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Doesn’t appear on foot on any of the other CCTV cameras in the area.’ A smile put dimples in her cheeks. ‘But I found this.’

  The screen jumped to a view down Berry Street, where it made a T-junction with the Gallowgate. Bland granite flats on one side, and a bland granite office block on the other side. A dark-blue BMW M5 came down the Gallowgate and paused in the middle of the junction, indicating right. The opposing traffic dribbled away and it turned onto Berry Street.

  She hit pause. ‘Number plate matches.’

  Steel pressed in even closer. ‘So what are we saying?’

  Logan poked her on the shoulder. ‘Get your boob out of the poor woman’s ear.’ He pointed. ‘Down there you’ve got John Lewis and the Loch Street Car Park. What about the CCTV camera at the corner of St Andrew Street and George Street?’

  ‘Nope. Far as I can tell, he dumps the car in the car park and walks through the Bon Accord Centre.’

  Steel smacked her hand down on the desk. ‘Saddle the horses, Laz, we’ve got two wee kids to save!’

  12

  The patrol car’s sirens carved a path through the Monday rush hour. It was still excruciatingly slow though, crawling along under thirty miles an hour till they got to the junction with Berry Street, where John Skinner had turned right. Then the traffic thinned out and Rennie put his foot down, gunning the engine, throwing them hard around the corner and— ‘Eeek!’ He locked his arms and stamped on the brakes as the back end of a Citroën Espace burst into view. Its ‘BABY ON BOARD’ sticker loomed huge, getting huger…

  They slithered sideways in a juddering rumble of antilock brakes, coming to a halt half on the pavement.

  Steel leaned over from the passenger seat and skelped him round the ear. ‘What have I told you about no’ getting me killed?’

  ‘Pfffff… That was close.’

  ‘Moron.’

  The Espace pulled forward up the ramp, apparently unaware that they nearly had an extra three passengers in the back seat, complete with patrol car.

  Rennie backed off the pavement and followed them under the curved blue sign and into the concrete gloom. A wee queue of traffic led up to an automatic barrier, issuing tickets slower than tectonic plates move.

  Steel slumped in her seat. ‘Gah. Would’ve been quicker sodding walking.’

  Logan’s mobile gave its anonymous ringtone. He pulled it out and checked the screen: Marjory from the estate agents again. He stuck the phone back in his pocket, let it go to voicemail.

  Finally, Rennie grabbed a ticket from the geological machinery and pulled up onto the first level. Stopped, craning left and right. ‘Which way?’

  A forest of concrete pillars reached away into the distance, the space between them packed with cars, all washed in the grimy glow of striplights.

  Steel jabbed a finger at the tarmac. ‘Follow the arrows. Nice and slow. Anyone spots a BMW, they shout.’

  ‘One more time?’ Rennie ran his fingers across the top of the steering wheel as their car emerged from the darkness into the evening sunshine. The ramp curled around to the right, then across a short flyover – suspended three storeys above the street below – and they were back on the roof of John Lewis again.

  The last gasp of overflow parking was nearly empty. Half a dozen huge, expensive-looking, shiny, four-by-fours stood sentry on the seagull-speckled tarmac, each one parked as far away from the others as possible, in case someone marred their showroom finish.

  Could pretty much guarantee that none of them had seen anything more off-road than the potholes on Anderson Drive.

  Steel checked her watch. ‘Sodding hell.’ She sighed. ‘He’s no’ here, is he?’

  Logan leaned forward and poked his head between the front seats. ‘What if he looped round the back of the Bon Accord Centre and onto Harriet Street? Parked in there?’

  Rennie shook his head. ‘Nah: Harriet’s one way.’

  Ah. ‘Still be a lot of wee places you could leave a car round here though. Not legally, but if you’ve just stabbed your wife and her lover to death, you probably aren’t too bothered about that.’

  Steel covered her face with her hands and swore for a bit. Then straightened up. ‘One last time round the car park, then we try Crooked Lane. Then Charlotte Street. And anywhere else we can think of.’ She kicked something in the footwell. ‘Buggering hell!’

  ‘… your news, travel, and weather at seven, with Jackie.’

  ‘Thanks, Jimmy. The trial of Professor Richard Marks enters its third day today, with one prosecution witness claiming the psychiatrist sexually assaulted him on eighteen separate occasions…’

  Rennie swung the car around Mounthoolie roundabout. ‘Where now?’

  ‘… at Aberdeen University since 2010…’

  The massive lump of earth and grass slid by the driver’s side, easily big enough to hold its own housing scheme. Surprised no one had thought of that yet. Could make a fortune.

  Steel slumped against the passenger window. ‘Back to the ranch.’

  ‘… twenty-three counts. Next up: the grandparents of two missing local children issued an appeal today for information. Heidi and Toby Skinner have been missing since their father committed suicide on Saturday…’

  Rennie took the next left, up the Gallowgate. Grey three-storey flats on one side, grey four-storey flats on the other. The grey monolithic lump of Seamount Court towered over the surrounding buildings with its eighteen-storeys of concrete, narrow windows glittering in the sunlight.

  ‘… you, please: we just want our grandchildren back…’

  The North East Scotland College building drifted past the driver’s side – in yet more shades of grey.

  Logan shifted in his seat. ‘Maybe he had an accomplice? Maybe he got out at the Bon Accord Centre and someone drove the kids away?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Steel raised one shoulder. ‘Or maybe he decided the whole family would be better off dead. You know what these scumbags are like – she’s shagging around on him, so everyone gets to die.’ She stared out of the window at the sea of grey buildings. ‘You’ve really managed to cock this one up, haven’t you?’

  What?

  Logan reached forward and poked her on the shoulder. ‘How have I cocked it up?’

  Rennie kept his eyes on the road, mouth shut.

  ‘You should’ve had a lookout request going on the kids soon as they scraped Skinner off the cobblestones!’

  ‘Really? Because I remember you saying it was all his own fault and Guthrie should head round and try to shag the widow.’

  A sniff. A pause. Then Steel raised an eyebrow. ‘To be fair, given what she’d been up to with Brian Williams, Sunshine might have been in with a chance, so—’

  ‘And I don’t see you showering yourself in glory here. If it wasn’t for me, we wouldn’t even be searching the car parks!’

  Steel’s eyes narrowed. ‘Nobody likes a smart arse.’

  Rennie knocked on Logan’s door frame. ‘Thought you’d have gone home by now.’ His hair was back to its usual blond quiffiness, the tie loosened and top button undone. Bags under both eyes.

  Logan leaned back in his office chair. ‘Could say the same for you.’

  A small smile and a shrug. ‘Got everyone we can out looking for Skinner’s car. Might have to organize a mass search tomorrow. Half of Aberdeen rampaging through the streets, shouting at blue BMWs
. Fun. Fun. Fun.’

  ‘The joy of working for Detective Chief Inspector Steel.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Our Donna’s less of a hassle, and she’s only six months old. Still, at least we don’t have to change Steel’s nappies.’

  ‘Yet.’

  Rennie curled his top lip. ‘Shudder.’ Then he hooked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the corridor. ‘Bunch of us are heading off to Blackfriars. You wanna?’

  Logan shut down his computer. ‘Tempting, but I’ve got to check on a nutjob before I go home.’

  Violent pink and orange caught the underside of the grey clouds, as the sun sank towards the horizon. Logan tucked the pool car in behind a Mini on the other side of Pitmedden Court.

  Across the road, lights shone from Justin Robson’s windows, but Mrs Black’s house was slipping into darkness. She was probably sitting in there, on her own, mourning her dead parakeets at the bottom of a vodka bottle. Wondering where her life went so badly wrong.

  Maybe plotting revenge on her horrible next-door neighbour.

  Not that Justin Robson didn’t deserve a good stiff kicking for what he’d done. And got away with.

  Still, at least they didn’t seem to be at each other’s throats this evening. That was something. But there was no way it would last. Sooner or later, one of them was going to open fire again.

  Logan pulled away from the kerb, heading back towards Divisional Headquarters.

  Should’ve arrested the pair of them when they had the chance.

  Logan let himself into the flat. ‘Cthulhu? Daddy’s home.’ He clunked the door shut. Hung up his jacket. Grabbed the last tin of Stella from the fridge. ‘Cthulhu?’

  She was through in the lounge, stretching on the windowsill – paws out front, bum in the air, tail making a fluffy question mark. A couple of proops, a meep, then she thunked down on to the laminate floor and padded over to bump her head against his shins.

  The answering machine was giving its familiar baleful wink again.

  Well it could sodding wait.