Maybe not though.
A patrol car was coming the other way, up the hill. He flashed his lights at it, leaned on his horn … but they drove right past. Didn’t even clock him on his mobile phone. Lazy sods.
‘Wheezy, I need you to get onto Control, tell them…’
Blue lights flickered in his rearview mirror. The patrol car was doing a three-point turn.
‘Guv?’
‘Never mind. Meet me where they found the body, and make sure you bring some photos of Gordy Taylor with you.’
The patrol car pulled up alongside, lights flickering. The officer in the passenger seat wound down his window. ‘Sir, do you know it’s an offence to use your mobile phone while—’
‘Murder enquiry.’ Logan flashed his warrant card. ‘Get the blues-and-twos on. You’re escorting me to Harlaw Road.’ Nothing happened. ‘Now, Constable.’
The officer blinked a couple of times. ‘Yes, Guv.’
And they were off: siren roaring, lights blazing, carving a path through the oncoming traffic with Logan’s manky old Clio puttering along behind.
19
‘And they searched all round here?’ Logan pointed at the bushes behind and on either side of the council’s communal bins.
Wheezy nodded, rain drumming on the skin of his black umbrella. ‘Far as I know. Got a couple of condoms and some litter, but that was it.’
No empty whisky bottle.
Harlaw Road huddled beneath the slate-grey sky, all the colours muted by the downpour. The patrol car sat at the kerb, blue-and-whites spinning. A few of the residents stood in their front rooms, ogling out at the spectacle. But none felt the need to step out into the wet to satisfy their curiosity.
Logan brushed his hands on his jeans. ‘You’ve got the photos?’
Wheezy held them up. ‘We already did this, Guv.’
‘Then we’re doing it again, aren’t we?’ He led the way up the path to the house directly opposite where they’d found Gordy Taylor’s body. Leaned on the bell.
A tall woman, stooped forward by a rounding between her shoulder blades, peered out at them with sharp features. ‘Yes?’
Wheezy showed her two photos. One from way back, when Gordy was still in the army. A confident young man with a broad smile and shiny eyes, sitting on the bonnet of a military Land Rover. The other photo was from the ID database, the one they used to make books to show witnesses with a height chart in the background – long greasy hair and an unkempt beard, the shiny eyes turned narrow and suspicious, sunken into dark bags. ‘You seen this man?’
She barely glanced at the pictures – stared at the patrol car instead. ‘Do you have any idea what this is doing to property prices round here? Dead bodies, policemen, journalists.’ The last word was pronounced as if it smelled of raw sewage.
Wheezy tried again. ‘Have you seen him?’
‘Yes, I recognize him. He was the dead tramp they found over there. His face was in the papers. Now if there’s nothing else, I’ve got to get the dinner on.’
Logan stepped a bit closer. The porch was tiny, but it kept some of rain off his head. ‘Take another look.’
She shook her head, setting a severe brown bob wobbling. ‘Don’t need to. It was horrible. I mean the smell, and the shouting, and oh, my God, the singing. Well, if you could call that singing, I certainly couldn’t. It was like someone drowning parrots in the bath, it really was, and the language! Don’t speak to me about the language he used.’ She sniffed. Snuck a glance at the patrol car. Lowered her voice. ‘I know we’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but he made life unbearable for everyone. I mean, there are people here with small children! Well, it’s not wholesome, is it?’
The man in the suit frowned at the photos in Wheezy’s hand for a bit, then nodded. ‘It’s that poor sod, isn’t it? The one who drank himself to death behind the bins.’ A tut.
A wee voice sounded in the hallway behind him. ‘Daddy, you’re missing Peppa Pig!’
He turned. ‘I’ll be there in a minute, darling. Daddy’s speaking to the nice policemen right now.’ And back to Logan. ‘It’s a terrible thing, isn’t it? Of course, I blame society. These people don’t need Care in the Community, they need proper medical help…’
The woman blinked a couple of times, brushed a strand of grey hair away from her face. Then pulled on her glasses and had a good squint at the photographs, deepening the lines around her eyes. ‘Oh dear. He was such a wholesome looking young man.’ She took off her glasses and let them dangle on the chain around her neck. Then stared back at Logan. ‘I’m so sorry. I really am.’
She didn’t glance over his shoulder at the patrol car with its spinning lights. Kept her eyes on Logan instead.
He tilted his head to one side. Why did she look familiar?
Right – she was the nosy old bat pretending to prune her rosebush the first time he was there. The one with the double-glazing van parked outside. The one who’d called the police to complain about Gordy Taylor three times in one week.
‘You weren’t very happy about him being here, were you, Mrs…?’
‘Please, call me Olivia.’ A blink. ‘And no, I wasn’t really. Would you be?’
Logan pulled on his brightest smile. ‘Sorry to bother you, Olivia, but is there any chance my Detective Constable could use your toilet? Standing out in the rain, you know how it is.’
She moved to block the door. Then pursed her lips. And pulled on a smile of her own. ‘No, of course. Do come in.’ She backed away, top lip curling slightly as Logan and Wheezy Doug stepped over the threshold and dripped on the polished floorboards. ‘First on the right.’
The hallway was beige, with a smattering of photographs and a framed poster advertising a railway journey from the fifties. Panel doors. A dado rail.
Wheezy excused himself and squeezed past, into the downstairs loo.
Logan gave it a pause, then clapped his hands together. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance of a cup of tea as well?’
The smile brittled. ‘Of course. Where are my manners.’
She led him through to an immaculate kitchen. More beige. A large, stripy, ginger cat lay full length along the radiator, tail twitching. The cat turned and peered at him with emerald eyes.
Logan closed the kitchen door. ‘Lovely home you have here.’
‘Thank you.’ The kettle went on, and three china mugs appeared from a cupboard. ‘My Ronald was in the building trade for years, so we were able to get a lot of things done.’
A creak from outside, in the corridor. That would be Wheezy going for a poke about.
Logan raised his voice a bit to cover the noise. ‘I like the patio doors. Very stylish.’
The white PVC monstrosities overlooked a perfect lawn, lined with perfect bushes, and perfect apple trees groaning with fruit. A nice little seating area, with a wrought-iron table, four chairs, and a barbecue.
‘They’re French doors, not patio.’ She dumped teabags in the mugs. ‘Patio doors slide, French doors are hinged.’
‘My mistake.’ He tried the handle. They weren’t locked, so he pulled the door open, letting in the hiss of rain through the leaves. ‘Very swish. Look brand new.’
‘Yes, well.’ She curled her lip again. ‘We had to get them replaced.’
‘Ah, right.’ The only thing not perfect about the lawn was the pigeon staggering along the fenceline. One wing flapping, head lolling. ‘I saw the glazier’s van. Was it an accident?’
The kettle’s rumble hit its crescendo, then click, it fell silent.
Olivia brought her chin up. ‘Someone tried to break in.’
‘I see.’ He stepped over to the ginger cat and ran a hand along its back. The tail went straight up, then the cat hopped down from its radiator and sauntered towards the open French doors. Paused to stretch with its bum in the air. ‘Did you report anything? Any stolen property? Ooh, I don’t know … Sleeping pills, painkillers, big bottle of whisky – that kind of thing?’
Her back
stiffened. ‘I don’t think I like your tone.’
Logan nodded toward the mugs. ‘Just milk for me, thank you. Detective Constable Andrews is milk and three: he’s got a sweet tooth.’
She put the kettle back on its base unit. ‘I think I’d like you to go now.’
‘What did you do with the empty whisky bottle?’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘No, let me guess: it went out with the recycling.’
The ginger cat slipped out into the rain and padded across the lawn, making straight for the struggling pigeon.
Colour rushed up Olivia’s cheeks. ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ She pushed past him, through the patio doors, sandals slapping on the wet paving slabs. ‘Paddington! You come back here this instant, young man!’
The cat didn’t seem to care. It hunkered down on its front legs, bum wiggling in the air, then pounced.
‘NO!’ Olivia lunged, but she was too slow to grab Paddington before he crashed his orange-stripy weight down on top of the pigeon. ‘Don’t you dare eat that!’
Logan stepped out into the garden as she wrestled the pigeon away from her cat.
‘Dirty! Bad Paddington!’
An outraged meow, then Paddington turned and stalked off to lurk under the bench by the back wall.
The pigeon may have been half-dead to begin with, but it was all-the-way dead now. It dangled in Olivia’s hands, head swaying on the end of its neck like a soggy pendulum.
‘Honestly.’ She glowered after the cat. ‘You know these make you sick.’ Then Olivia yanked the lid off the dustbin and dumped the dead little body inside. Clanged the lid shut again.
Logan stared at the bin.
Stacey looked up at him, still holding on to his arm. ‘If it was me, if I had a cat, I wouldn’t want poisoned mice staggering around the house looking to get caught and eaten. Would you?’
‘The pigeons make him sick?’
Olivia pulled her shoulders back. ‘That’s why I don’t let Paddington eat them. They’re foul little things; who knows where they’ve been?’ She sniffed. ‘Why those idiots next door insist on feeding them, is beyond me. They don’t even like pigeons.’
The idiots next door – Mr Sensitive, with his Peppa Pig obsessed little girl.
Logan crossed to the fence and peered into the adjoining garden.
A bird table poked out of the lawn. Not your standard wee house on a stick, this was a fancy wrought-iron thing with different levels, all suspended around a central pole. One layer had a wide, round base and a pitched roof over it to keep the bird feed dry. Whole wheat birdseed, from the look of it. Whole wheat and bright blue.
He turned and hurried back into the house. Banged his hand on the kitchen door as he barrelled through it. ‘WHEEZY! WE’VE GOT THE WRONG HOUSE!’
20
Logan leaned on the bell again while Wheezy dragged the two officers from the patrol car. One blinking and scrubbing at her face as if she’d been catching a nap in the passenger seat.
The door popped open, as they started up the path.
Mr Sensitive pulled on his smile. ‘Can I help you?’
Logan wedged his foot in the open door, stopping it from closing. Stared back. ‘We know.’
The smile slipped. Then fell. Mr Sensitive licked his lips. ‘Really? That’s…’ He cleared his throat. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Rat poison and whisky.’
A breath huffed out of him. Then he clicked his mouth shut. Blinked at the police officers looming in front of his house. Swallowed.
The same little voice sounded in the hall behind him. ‘Daddy, you’re missing it!’
Fingers trembled across his lips. ‘Oh God…’
‘Daddy!’
‘I think you’d better come with us, don’t you, sir?’
He closed his eyes and swore.
Mark Cameron stared down at his hands – coiled into claws on the interview room table. The skin nearly as pale as the white Formica top. ‘Does my daughter have to know?’
Logan shrugged. ‘Probably. It’s going to be in the papers. On the news. Someone will say something.’
A shudder. ‘I don’t want her to know.’
The camera lens stared down at them, the red light glaring in judgement.
‘Are you sure you don’t want a lawyer, Mark?’
A nod.
‘For the record, Mr Cameron is nodding his head.’
A deep breath, then he spread his claws. ‘That … man was hanging out on the street for days. Going through the bins. Shouting. Swearing. Singing. Then one day he pushed Jenny off her bike. Probably didn’t do it on purpose, probably too drunk to know what he was doing, but he did it.’
Logan folded his arms. ‘Is that why you killed him, Mark? Because he hurt Jenny?’
Cameron shook his head. ‘I was…’ He blinked. Wiped the back of one hand across his eyes. ‘We were asleep. Must’ve been about two in the morning, when there’s this crashing noise. And Angie’s convinced someone’s in the house.’
The digital recorder whirred away to itself.
Outside in the corridor, someone laughed.
A car drove by.
Then Mark Cameron licked his lips. ‘So I got up. And it was him. Broke one of the conservatory windows and got into our house.’ Mark looked away. ‘He was outside Jenny’s room when I found him and I lost it. I punched him and kicked him and kicked him and stamped on his filthy head…’ A shuddering breath. ‘I wanted to kill him. But I couldn’t. Not like that. Not like an animal.’
What was probably meant to be a smile twisted Cameron’s face. ‘So I apologized. I begged him not to report me to the police. And I gave him something for the pain – stuff Angie gets for her migraines.’
This time the pause didn’t last for nearly as long. ‘Only that wasn’t enough, was it? Next day he came back demanding more painkillers. And booze. The day after that too. And the next. Every evening, there he’d be with his hand out.’ Mark Cameron closed his eyes. ‘I couldn’t kill him like an animal, because he wasn’t an animal – he was vermin. And we all know what you use to kill vermin.’
‘Well?’ DCI Steel was waiting outside Interview Room Number Three, one hand jammed into her armpit, an e-cigarette poking out the corner of her mouth.
Logan closed the interview room door, shutting out the sobbing. Then started down the corridor. ‘Didn’t have to burst him, he burst himself.’
‘He definitely killed Gordy Taylor?’
‘Got it all on tape.’
‘Ya beauty.’ She slammed a hand into Logan’s back. ‘Well done, that man! I’m impressed.’
‘I’m going home. Get some unpacking done.’
‘Don’t be daft.’ Steel linked her arm through his, gave it a little squeeze. ‘You’ve got to celebrate! Big win like this calls for something special. Like a bit of quality daddy–daughter time.’ A wink. ‘Susan’s taking me out to see a film. Don’t know when we’ll be back, but don’t wait up, eh? Might get lucky in the back seat of the cinema.’
Logan stopped in the middle of the corridor, stared up at the ceiling and swore. ‘I just moved house; I need to unpack.’ And to sit in the dark for a bit, drinking whisky and trying to figure out what the hell he was going to do about Reuben.
‘Nah, what you need’s a pizza, a tenner, a bottle of red wine, and to babysit your daughter.’ She gave his arm another squeeze. ‘You ever watched Peppa Pig?’
‘Oh God…’
Without Whom
As always I relied on a lot of clever people while I was writing this book, so I’d like to take this opportunity to thank: Sergeant Bruce Crawford and everyone in B Division; Sarah, Jane, Julia, Louise, Oli, Laura, Roger, Kate (E), Oliver, Lucy, Damon, Charlie, Tom, Kate (S), Eleanor, Dom, Marie, the DC Bishopbriggs Pure-Dead-Brilliant Brigade, and everyone at HarperCollins, for doing such a great job; Lee, Graham, Angie, Pete, Lizzy, Chuck, Toby, Wayne, Liza, Kevin, Lorraine, Sarah, Charlie, Joe, Steph, David, Ann, Ross, James, Maggie, Susan, Chris, Joe and all
the excellent booksellers and librarians out there – every one of you, most certainly, rock; Phil Patterson and the team at Marjacq Scripts, for keeping my cat in shoes all these years.
More thanks go to Allan, Lola, and Rudi for the feedback and input; Twinkle, Jean, Brenda, and Dolly Bellfield for the eggs; and Gherkin for the mice.
And saving the best for last – as always – Fiona and Grendel.
The new Logan McRae novel…
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About the Author
Stuart MacBride is the No.1 bestselling author of the DS Logan McRae series and the Ash Henderson novels.
His novels have won him the CWA Dagger in the Library, the Barry Award for Best Debut Novel, and Best Breakthrough Author at the ITV3 Crime Thriller awards. In 2012 Stuart was inducted into the ITV3 Crime Thriller Hall of Fame. He was crowned World Stovies Champion 2014.
He lives in the north-east of Scotland with his wife, Fiona, and cat, Grendel.
For more information visit StuartMacBride.com
By Stuart MacBride
The Logan McRae Novels
Cold Granite
Dying Light
Broken Skin
Flesh House
Blind Eye
Dark Blood
Shatter the Bones
Close to the Bone
22 Dead Little Bodies
The Missing and the Dead
The Ash Henderson Novels
Birthdays for the Dead
A Song for the Dying
Other Works
Sawbones (a novella)
12 Days of Winter (short stories)
Partners in Crime (Two Logan and Steel short stories)
The 45% Hangover (a Logan and Steel novella)
The Completely Wholesome Adventures of Skeleton Bob (a picture book)
Writing as Stuart B. MacBride
Halfhead
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
http://www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor
22 Dead Little Bodies (A Logan and Steel short novel) Page 14
