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

by Stuart MacBride

  He squatted down and scooped Cthulhu up, turning her the wrong way up and blowing raspberries on her fuzzy tummy as she stretched and purred.

  ‘Daddy’s had a crappy day.’

  More purring.

  The answering machine bided its time, glowering.

  Might as well get it over with.

  He carried Cthulhu over and pressed the button.

  ‘You have five new messages. Message one:’ Bleeeeeep.

  ‘Mr McRae? It’s Dr Berrisford from Newtonmyre Specialist Care Centre, we’ve got your application in for a bed for Samantha Mackie in our neurological ward. Normally there’s a waiting list of about six months, but we’ve had a cancellation. Can you call me back please? I’ll be here till about eight. Thanks.’

  He hit pause and checked his watch, making Cthulhu wriggle. Seven forty-five. Still time. Cthulhu got placed on the arm of the chair while Logan dug out the paperwork from the coffee table’s drawer. Flipped through to Dr Berrisford’s contact details. And punched the number into the phone.

  Listened to it ring.

  ‘Newtonmyre Specialist Care Centre. How can I help you this evening?’

  ‘Can I speak to Dr Berrisford, please? It’s Logan McRae.’

  ‘One moment…’

  He sank into the couch. Then stood again. Paced to the window and back.

  A deep, posh voice purred down the line. ‘Ah, Mr McRae, how are you?’

  ‘You’ve got an opening for Samantha?’

  ‘That’s right. We were holding a bed for someone, but unfortunately they’ve passed away.’

  ‘That’s great…’ Logan cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, obviously it’s not great for them. I just meant—’

  ‘It’s OK. I understand. Now, there are a few things we’ll need to sort out, to make sure Miss Mackie can get the best care possible. You are aware of our fee structure?’

  Right to the chase.

  Logan glanced down at the letter, with its columns of eye-watering figures. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Excellent. Well, if you can organize the phase-one payment we’ll get the ball rolling.’

  Phase one cost more than he made in a year.

  He forced his voice to stay level. ‘When do you need it?’

  ‘Well, normally we’d say straight away – there is a waiting list – but if you need time to sort things out I can probably extend that to two weeks? Any more than that and I’ll have to release the bed again.’

  Two weeks. Could probably get a second mortgage organized on the flat by then, couldn’t he?

  Or he could take Wee Hamish Mowat up on his offer. Borrow enough money to pay the care centre’s fees till the mortgage came through.

  Sweat prickled the back of Logan’s neck. Cross that line and there was no going back. No ‘plausible deniability’. He’d be in Wee Hamish’s pocket, and that would be that.

  Logan’s eyes widened. Oh crap…

  Wee Hamish.

  He’d taken an interest in Samantha’s care. Said he’d put in a word. What if he’d done more than that? What if he’d made the opportunity.

  ‘Mr McRae? Hello?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Logan licked his lips. ‘Dr Berrisford, the person who died, how did … Was it…?’

  ‘Pneumonia. She was due to come up from Ninewells Hospital three weeks ago, but there were complications.’ A sigh. ‘It’s often the case with people in long-term unresponsive states. Chest infections are very difficult for them to deal with and, sadly, she was simply too weak to fight this one off.’

  The breath whoomphed out of Logan, leaving him with eyes closed, one hand clasped to his forehead. Thank God for that. At least Wee Hamish didn’t have her killed.

  ‘I see. Right. Two weeks.’

  ‘Let me know if that’s not going to be possible, though, OK?’

  ‘No, yes. Right. Thanks.’

  He listened till the line went dead, then clicked the phone back in its charger.

  Two weeks.

  Another deep breath. First thing tomorrow – get an appointment with the bank. See what they could do.

  Two weeks.

  It was as if something huge and heavy was sitting on his chest.

  Logan pressed play on the answering machine again.

  ‘Message two:’ Bleeeeeep.

  ‘Logan? What exactly is wrong with you? I’m your mother and I deserve—’

  ‘You can sod off too.’ Poke.

  ‘Message deleted. Message three:’ Bleeeeeep.

  ‘Guv? It’s Rennie. We’re in Archie’s, where are you?’ The sound of singing and cheering drowned him out for a moment. ‘… buck naked. Anyway, we’re having another couple here, then maybe grabbing a curry. Give us a call, OK?’

  ‘Message deleted. Message four:’ Bleeeeeep.

  ‘Aye, DI McRae? It’s Alfie here from Control. Yon horrible wifie Mrs Black’s bin on the phone aboot a dozen times, moaning aboot her neighbour. Are you—’

  ‘Message deleted. Message five:’ Bleeeeeep.

  ‘Mr McRae, it’s Marjory from Willkie and Oxford, Solicitors again. Hello. I’ve been trying to get in touch about the young man who came round to view the property this afternoon. He loves the flat and he’s made an offer…’ She left a dramatic pause.

  That was the trouble with people these days – too much time spent watching Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, and Celebrity MasterChef, and Strictly Come Sodding Dancing. They couldn’t just come out and say something, they had to build it into a big production number.

  ‘Mr Urquhart wants to know if you’ll take the property off the market for twenty thousand pounds over the valuation.’

  Logan stared at the machine. ‘How much?’

  ‘Anyway, it’s nearly five o’clock, so if you want to give me a call back tomorrow morning, we can see how you’d like to proceed. OK. Thanks. Bye.’

  Bleeeeeep.

  ‘How much?’ He pressed the button to play the message again.

  ‘Mr Urquhart wants to know if you’ll take the property off the market for twenty thousand pounds over the valuation.’

  Damn right he would.

  He played the message three more times. Then kissed Cthulhu on the head, popped her down on the couch, and toasted her with the tin of Stella. ‘Daddy’s sold the flat!’

  God knew it was about time something went right.

  — every silver lining —

  13

  ‘OK, any questions?’ Standing at the front of the MIT office, Steel clicked the remote and the screen behind her filled with the photos of Heidi and Toby Skinner.

  A hand went up at the back. ‘We still looking for live kids, or is it kids’ bodies now?’

  Steel scowled through the gathered ranks of uniform and plain-clothes officers. ‘You looking for a shoe-leather suppository, McHardy? Cos I don’t use lubricant.’

  He lowered his hand. ‘Only asking.’

  ‘Well don’t.’ She turned to the crowd again. ‘Heidi is seven. Toby is six. They’re only wee, and we are damn well going to find them while they’re still alive. Am I clear?’

  A muffled chorus rippled around the room.

  ‘I said: am I sodding clear?’

  This time the answer rattled the ceiling tiles. ‘Guv, yes, Guv!’

  ‘Better.’ She straightened the hem of her shirt, pulling it down and increasing the amount of wrinkly cleavage on view by about an inch. ‘Now our beloved Divisional Commander is going to say a few inspirational words.’ She jerked her head towards a big man with a baldy head and hands like a gorilla. ‘Come on, Tony, fill your boots.’

  While Big Tony Campbell was banging on about civic responsibility and the weight of the public’s expectations, Logan flicked through the short stack of Post-it notes that had been stuck to his monitor when he got in. All pretty much the same: ‘MRS BLACK CALLED AT 21:05 COMPLAINING ABOUT THE NOISE FROM NEXT DOOR (RAP MUSIC).’, ‘MRS BLACK CALLED AT 21:30 STILL COMPLAINING ABOUT THE NOISE.’, ‘MRS BLACK CALLED AT 22:05 COMPLAINING ABOUT RAP MUSIC AND S
WEARING FROM NEXT DOOR (AGAIN). SOUNDED DRUNK.’ The next six were the same – every fifteen to twenty minutes she’d call up to moan about Justin Robson, apparently sounding more and more blootered each time.

  Suppose they’d have to go around there again and read them both the riot act.

  So much for the ceasefire.

  Big Tony Campbell still hadn’t finished being motivational: the power to make a difference, serving the community, proving our detractors wrong. Blah, Blah, Blah.

  Steel sidled her way around the outside of the room, till she was standing next to Logan.

  Keeping most of her mouth clamped shut, she hissed at him out of one side. ‘Don’t forget – you’re on babysitting duty tonight.’

  He kept his face front, expressionless.

  She sighed. ‘OK: a tenner, a pizza, a bottle of red, and a tub of Mackie’s.’

  Logan didn’t move his mouth. ‘What kind of pizza?’

  ‘Microwave.’

  ‘Get stuffed.’

  Up at the front, Big Tony Campbell came to the end of his speech and held up his hands in blessing. ‘Now get out there and find those children. I know you can do it.’

  The younger members of the audience launched into a round of applause. That petered out under the withering stares of the older hands. Some embarrassed clearing of throats and shuffling of feet. Then they started drifting out of the MIT office, heading off on their allotted tasks.

  Rennie appeared at Steel’s shoulder, stifling a yawn. ‘All set, Guv. Both lots of grandparents are on their way for the press conference at eight.’

  She didn’t look at him. ‘I know when the press conference is.’

  ‘You knew when the last one was, and you were still fifteen minutes late.’

  Her lips pursed, wrinkles deepening at the corners as her eyes narrowed. ‘Coffee. Milk and two sugars. And a bacon buttie. Now, Sergeant.’ Soon as he was gone, she tugged at her shirt again. Any further and there’d be bra on show. ‘Cheeky wee sod that he is.’

  Logan stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Thought you weren’t using John Skinner’s parents.’

  ‘United front, Laz. We want them kids back. Our beloved Divisional Commander thinks if we stick both sets up there, the public’s more likely to help hunt down John Skinner’s beamer.’

  ‘OK, well, have you got a team going door-to-door on Newburgh Road, where we found the wife’s car?’

  She closed one eye and squinted at him. ‘Do I look like a complete and utter numpty to you? Course I have.’

  ‘If someone saw John Skinner turn up to murder his wife, maybe they saw someone else in the car? An accomplice.’

  ‘Yeah, I did actually think of that. It’s no’ my first murder, thank you very much.’ A sniff, then another shirt tug, revealing a line of black lace. ‘Tell you, Laz, that nasty feeling of mine’s getting worse.’

  ‘You’re not the only one. I— Sodding hell.’ His phone was going again, playing that same irritating anonymous ringtone. ‘Sorry.’ He pulled it out and pressed the button. ‘Hello?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Hello?’

  A woman’s voice, thin and trembling. ‘Is this … Are you Sergeant McRae?’

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘It’s over.’

  OK. He took a couple of steps away and stuck a finger in his other ear. ‘Who am I talking to?’

  ‘It’s over. It’s finally over. I’m free.’

  ‘That’s great. Now, who am I speaking to?’ The voice was kind of familiar, but not enough to put a name to it. Distorted and distant, as if whoever it was wasn’t really there. ‘Hello?’

  ‘I’m free.’ Then nothing but silence. She’d hung up.

  Nutters. The world was full of nutters.

  He checked his call history: 01224 area code – didn’t help much, that covered nearly everything from Kingswells to Portlethen and all points in between. Including the whole of Aberdeen. He dialled the number back. Listened to it ring. And ring. And ring. And ring. More soup. And ring…

  ‘Hi, this is Justin’s answering machine. I’m afraid he’s too busy to come to the phone right now, but you know what to do when you hear the…’ Followed by a long bleeeeeep.

  ‘Hello? Anyone there? Hello?’ Nothing. ‘Hello?’ Silence. Logan hung up. Frowned down at his phone: Justin.

  But it had been a woman’s voice he’d heard: It’s over. It’s finally over. I’m free.

  Logan’s eyes widened: Justin.

  Sodding hell.

  He ran for the door.

  Grey houses streaked by the pool car’s windows. The siren wailed, lights flashing, parting the early morning traffic as Logan tore up Union Street doing fifty. ‘Call Control – whoever’s closest, I want a safe-and-well check on Justin Robson. Grade one!’

  Sitting in the passenger seat, Wheezy Doug dug out his mobile and dialled. Braced himself with his other hand as the pool car jinked around a bendy bus. ‘Control from Sierra Charlie Six, I need a safe-and-well check…’

  The Music Hall flashed by on the right, pedestrians stopping on the pavement to gawp as the car screamed past.

  ‘… Justin Robson. … No, Robson: Romeo – Oscar – Bravo – Sierra – Oscar – November. … Yes, Robson.’

  Shops and traffic blurred past. Across the box junction by the old Capitol Cinema.

  ‘Don’t care, Control, as long as they get there now. We’re en route.’

  A hard left onto Holburn Street. A van driver’s eyes bulged as he wrenched his Transit up onto the kerb. Silly sod should’ve been on his own side of the road in the first place. The needle crept up to sixty.

  ‘OK.’ Wheezy pinned the mobile to his chest, covering the mouthpiece. ‘Control want to know what are they sending a car into?’

  ‘Something horrible. Now tell them to get their backsides in gear!’

  ‘Guv.’ And he was back on the phone again.

  The needle hit sixty-five.

  Logan abandoned the Vauxhall sideways across the road, behind a patrol car, and bolted for Justin Robson’s house. The front door was wide open, raised voices coming from inside: ‘I don’t care what they’re doing, tell the Scenes Examination Branch to get their backsides over here.’

  He battered into the hall. ‘Hello?’

  A uniformed officer appeared in the kitchen doorway, hair scraped back, tattoos poking out from the sleeves of her police-issue T-shirt. She had her Airwave up to her ear. ‘OK, make sure they do.’ Then she twisted it back onto one of the clips on her stabproof vest and nodded at him. ‘Sir.’ Her mouth turned down at the edges. ‘Sorry.’

  Logan jogged to a halt. ‘Is he…?’

  She jerked her head back and to the side. ‘Through there.’ Then stood back to let Logan in.

  Justin Robson’s immaculate kitchen wasn’t immaculate any more. Bright scarlet smeared the granite worktops. More on the big American fridge freezer. More on the walls. A few drops on the ceiling.

  Robson sat on the tiled floor, with his back against one of the units. Legs at twenty-five to four. One arm curled in his lap, palm up, fingers out, the other loose and twisted at his side. Head back, mouth open, eyes staring at the rack lighting. Skin pale as skimmed milk.

  He was dressed for work: brand-new trainers, blue jeans, shirt, and tie. Everything between his neck and his knees was stained dark, dark crimson. One of his own huge, and probably very expensive, kitchen knives stuck out of his chest, buried at least halfway in. It wasn’t the only wound – his torso was covered with them.

  The PC eased into the room and stood well back from the spatter marks with her arms folded. Staring down at the body. ‘He’s still warm. I’ve called an ambulance, but look at him. Has to be stabbed at least thirty, forty times? No pulse.’

  Logan cleared his throat. ‘Where’s Marion Black?’

  She was in the living room, sitting on Justin Robson’s couch. Red and brown streaks covered both arms, the black leather seat beside her clarty with more blood. Her tartan jimjams wer
e frayed at the cuffs, the front spattered and smeared.

  Logan beckoned the PC over. ‘Your body-worn video working?’

  She tapped the credit-card-style cover. ‘Already running.’

  ‘Good. Stay there.’ He stepped in front of Mrs Black – where the BWV would catch them both. ‘You phoned me.’

  She looked up and smiled. Slow and happy. Peaceful. Like her voice. ‘Isn’t it lovely and quiet?’ Her pupils were huge and dark, shiny as buttons.

  ‘Mrs Black, Justin Robson’s dead.’

  ‘I know, isn’t it wonderful? He’s dead and gone and it’s all lovely and quiet.’ Her fingers made tacky sticky noises on the leather couch. ‘He killed my babies and then…’ A frown. ‘That horrible music at all hours. Pounding away through the walls. Boom, boom, boom…’

  ‘Mrs Black, what—’

  ‘I asked him to turn it down, and he laughed in my face. He killed my babies, and laughed at me. Played that horrible music till I couldn’t…’ She looked down at her blood-smeared fingers. The nails were almost black. ‘And now he’s dead and it’s lovely and quiet again. We can all live happily ever after.’

  ‘I’m going to need you to come with me.’

  She waved a hand at the huge flatscreen TV and the games consoles. ‘Why would a grown man need all this stuff?’

  ‘Marion Black, I am detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Procedure – Scotland – Act 1995, because I suspect you of having committed an offence punishable by imprisonment: namely the murder by stabbing of Justin Robson.’

  ‘It’s pathetic, isn’t it? All this stuff. All that money. And what good did it do him?’

  ‘You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say will be noted down and may be used in evidence. Stand up, please.’

  She unfolded herself from the couch. Rubbed each thumb along the tips of her filthy fingers. Caught, literally, red-handed. A frown. ‘I’m glad he’s dead.’ Then the smile was back. ‘Now I can sleep.’

  14

  Steel stood on her tiptoes and peered over Logan’s shoulder into the interview room. ‘She cop to it?’

  ‘Yes and no.’ He eased the door closed, leaving Mrs Black alone with DS Baird and the PC from the house. ‘We’ve got her on BWV admitting she killed him, but in there? She “can’t remember”. She’s “confused”. And now she’s decided she does want a lawyer after all.’