Shatter the Bones lm-7

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Did you do a check-up on Ricky Brown?’

  ‘Pass me the pack of gauze.’ She tore the plastic packet open with her teeth. ‘He wasn’t exactly the most cooperative of patients.’

  Dr Delaney laid a square of gauze across the huge gouges in Logan’s ankle. ‘Barely a scratch, I don’t know why you’re being such a whinge about it.’

  ‘He going to be OK?’

  ‘Nothing a decent meal and a bath wouldn’t sort out. Hospital did an excellent job on his stitches. I’ve got suits with worse needlework in them.’ She wrapped a bandage around the ankle, securing it with a claw-toothed metal thing on the end of a bit of elastic. ‘And I bet he made a lot less fuss than you did.’

  ‘Thanks Doc.’ Logan hopped down from the desk, then picked up his bloodstained sock and soggy shoe.

  ‘One more thing.’ She took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘I’m recommending they take him into permanent care. A family full of drug users is bad enough, but if his mum and … this Shuggie person are involved with Yardies…’

  Logan limped back to his desk, popped open the top drawer and stuck his newly-washed coffee mug and teaspoon inside, then locked them away. That was the trouble with working in a police station — all the thieving bastards.

  Biohazard Bob swivelled his seat around until he was facing the middle of the room. ‘Beer o’clock?’

  ‘Can’t.’ Doreen stayed hunched over her desk. ‘Superintendent Green wants details on every kidnapping in the area, going back five years.’

  ‘Logie the Bogie?’

  Logan switched off his computer. ‘Green needs taking out and shot. He’s got me digging out the same info for the last ten. I’ve got Rennie doing it now.’

  Doreen hunched her shoulders, grinding out the words, ‘Why — didn’t — you — say — that — three — hours — ago?’

  Biohazard poked the power button on his computer. ‘Well, another day spent hunting the elusive Stinky Tam has left me gasping for a pint.’ He picked up the slew of paperwork covering his desk, ruffled it into something approaching order, and jammed it in his pending-tray. ‘Anyone seen my stapler?’

  He hauled open his top desk drawer. ‘The hell’s this?’ Bob pulled out the pair of knickers Logan had stuffed in there last week — the ones he’d found clothespegged to his lamp along with all the socks.

  Bob turned them back and forth, flashing the brown streaks that covered the gusset. ‘Aye, aye, someone’s been a bittie manky.’

  Doreen straightened her back, pink rushing up her cheeks. ‘Well, don’t look at me!’

  The door banged open and DI Steel grumbled into the Wee Hoose. ‘Sergeant Marshall, why aren’t…’ She frowned. ‘What are you doing?’

  He twirled the skidmarked panties around his finger. ‘Just discussing personal hygiene with DS Taylor, here. Superintendent Green’s never going to want to jump in her pants if she’s left filthy bumscrapes-’

  Doreen hit him. ‘Detective Sergeant Robert Marshall, I’m warning you!’

  ‘Behave, the pair of you.’ Steel chucked a manila folder at Bob. ‘General Enquiry Division just turned up a body on Gairn Terrace.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He pulled out the paperwork, flipped through it. ‘I’ll get on it first thing tomorrow, Guv, it’ll…’ A sigh. ‘Shite.’ He held up a photograph — a man’s face: nose bloated like a pockmarked golf ball, scraggly beard full of bits, unkempt hair, dirty red Aberdeen Football Club bobble hat. ‘Stinky Tam.’

  ‘Aye, so get your filthy panty-whirling arse out there and bring the poor bastard in.’

  Bob went pink. ‘Yes, Guv.’ He hurried out the door, taking the folder with him.

  ‘And as for you,’ she turned and poked Logan with a finger, ‘what the hell were you thinking?’

  Doreen stood. ‘Well, I guess I should really be off-’

  ‘No’ so fast.’ Steel slammed her hand into the doorframe, blocking the way. ‘You tell your new boyfriend Green, I don’t need somebody running around checking my work like I’m a bloody probationer. And if I catch him spreading shite around about anyone on my team again, I’m going to jam my fist so far up his arse I’ll be working him like a fucking Muppet. Understand?’

  Doreen nodded. Steel lowered her hand and the DS crept out.

  Steel closed the door, slowly and quietly. Now it was just her and Logan.

  ‘If you’re planning on shouting at me, don’t bother.’ Logan picked his jacket off the back of his seat and pulled it on. ‘I got enough of that from Napier and Finnie. I thought I could get the car back before anyone found out.’

  She poked him again. ‘If you’d bloody well called it in we could’ve tracked the car and grabbed Shuggie Webster before the Yardies got him! Probably hacked into a million pieces by now!’

  ‘It’s not like I handed him the keys to the bloody car and said, “Nah, you go ahead and borrow it, mate; I’ll just lie here in the pissing rain!” His dog nearly ripped my face off.’

  ‘See, you’ve got to keep your eye on wee shites like Shuggie.

  Got to keep them under control. Can’t bury your head in the clouds and expect them to behave themselves. That’s just common sense.’ She picked up her mug again, took a slurp. ‘You try a GSM trace?’

  ‘Of course I did. He’s only turning his mobile on for a couple of minutes at a time, then moving.’

  ‘No’ as daft as he looks.’ She sucked at her teeth for a bit, staring off into the middle distance. ‘Get a car organized.’

  ‘But the shift finished-’

  ‘We’re going to sort out your cock-up before it gets any worse.’

  Chapter 28

  Logan hauled on the handbrake. ‘How many more?’

  ‘Till we find him. And don’t be so sodding ungrateful.’ Logan groaned. ‘Shift finished two and a half hours ago, and I’ve not had a day off in weeks. What happened to the Working Time Directive?’

  ‘Pfff, Working Time Directive’s for poofs.’ Steel crumpled up the map and stuffed it into the already overflowing glove compartment. ‘Don’t see me complaining, do you?’ She climbed out into the evening light. Fiddled with her fake cigarette. ‘Anyway, you think Jenny and Alison McGregor don’t want a day off?’

  ‘Thought you said Susan was up for sex again — how come you’re not off-’

  Steel scowled. ‘Don’t be so fucking personal.’ She turned and stomped towards the building.

  It was a tenement in Hayton, a long row of four-storey apartment blocks: bland, grey-frontage with a stripe of red or blue paintwork marking out the stairwells. As if that was going to make the place look any better. A handful of tower blocks loomed over the buildings, rusty-oatmeal monoliths with balconies and satellite-dish acne. Someone was having a party in the nearest block, the music thumping out from an upper floor. A red balloon drifting away into the misty drizzle.

  Typical: when he was in with Napier, or getting a bollocking from Finnie, it was blazing sunshine, but the minute he stepped outside FHQ — sodding raining again.

  ‘You just going to stand there looking gormless?’ She pushed through the brown front door. ‘Chop bloody chop.’

  The smell of frying onions filled the stairwell, making Logan’s stomach growl as he followed Steel up the stairs. ‘I interviewed Victoria Murray today.’

  ‘Oh aye, and what was Vicious Vikki saying to it?’

  ‘Sounds like Alison McGregor isn’t the paragon of virtue everyone thinks. Turns out she-’

  ‘Used to vandalize stuff? Drink? Shagged about when she was still at school?’

  ‘Oh.’ Logan paused on the landing, but Steel kept climbing. ‘You interviewed her too, didn’t you?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Logan hurried after her. ‘You must have. It’s-’

  ‘Don’t be a prick, Laz: it was in all the papers. How’d you think Vicious Vikki got her nickname: embezzling the housekeeping? She sold their dirty wee childhood stories to the Daily Mail. Big cries of outrage. Then OK! magazine did a s
pread — “Alison’s secret schoolgirl shame: ‘I was a teenage tearaway’, admits BNBS semi-finalist.” Or some shite like that. Can you no’ at least try and keep up with popular culture?’

  Steel stopped on the third floor and puffed on her e-cigar ette for a bit. ‘Right, same as last time. Only try no’ to look like your arse is eating your face, eh?’

  ‘It’s not my fault Susan won’t shag you.’

  ‘Just knock on the bloody door.’

  Logan pulled a little nub of Blu-Tack from his pocket and squidged it over the peephole, stepped to the side, then knocked.

  Nothing.

  Logan banged the flat of his hand against the wood, making it shudder.

  Pause. ‘Maybe they’re not…’

  A voice from inside. ‘OK, OK, calm your fucking monkeys.’ There was a shuffly silence. That would be them peering through the peephole and seeing sod all. ‘Who is it?’

  Logan put a tremble in his voice. ‘Dave… Dave says you can … you know? Set us up and that?’

  Another pause. ‘How much?’

  It didn’t matter who they were, they always knew a Dave. ‘Fifty quid?’

  The clunk and rattle of deadbolts and chains. Then the door opened, and a short hairy man appeared with baggy jeans hanging down around his thighs, exposing his Calvin Klein’s, a muscle top stretched over a pot belly, fur sprouting out across his shoulders. Gold chains dangling around his neck. White powder dusting his thick moustache. ‘What’s your poison? We’ve got…’ His eyes went wide. ‘Fuck.’

  DI Steel jammed her foot in the opening. ‘Evening, Willy, how’s the wife and kids?’

  The smell of onions got stronger. ‘Fucking, fuck.’ Willy rubbed a hand under his nose, scrubbing the powder away. ‘It’s not what it looks like, I was just … baking a cake, well, a quiche, and… Erm…’

  ‘It’s your lucky day, Willy: I don’t give a toss about you violating your parole, or your dealing; just want a word with Shuggie. Know where he is?’

  The wee man’s eyes darted left. ‘I … haven’t seen him. For ages.’

  Steel smiled. ‘Then I take it back: it’s no’ your lucky day after all.’

  Logan pulled out his handcuffs. ‘William Cunningham, I’m arresting you on suspicion-’

  ‘He’s a mate, I can’t just-’

  Steel nodded. ‘I understand, Willy, very noble of you. Sergeant?’

  ‘Of possession of a controlled substance with intent to supply-’

  ‘Come on, Inspector, Molly’ll kill us: be reasonable.’

  ‘Willy, Willy, Willy — when have you ever known me to be reasonable?’

  He stared at the ground. ‘Shuggie’s in the kitchen. Look, could you at least barge in or something? Make it look … you know?’

  ‘Nope.’ Steel patted him on the furry shoulder. ‘Lead on, eh?’

  It was a nice flat. Not huge, but well laid out and tidy, painted in comforting shades with photos and prints on the walls. As they walked down the hall, Willy pulled the living room door shut, but not before Logan had seen a little kid dressed in a Spiderman costume and pink sparkly fairy wings, stomping about on stiff, chubby legs.

  Willy stopped with one hand on the kitchen door handle. ‘Give us a second, OK?’

  Steel gave him a shove.

  ‘In we go.’

  He staggered into the room, hands up. ‘Shuggie, I’m sorry. Didn’t have any choice…’

  Shuggie Webster was hunched over a small table, jammed into the space between the sink and the wall. A frying pan on the stove filled the room with the sweet meaty smell of caramelizing onions.

  It seemed to take Shuggie a while to drag his head up and around. His eyes looked like two black buttons sewn onto his pasty face. Bruising on his cheek and chin. His right hand was wrapped in stained bandages, speckled with red and yellow, only the thumb protruding from its grubby prison. There was a splash of dried blood on his hooded top.

  He blinked. Frowned. Blinked again. Then shook his head.

  Willy sidled over to the frying pan and stirred his onions. ‘Can’t let them burn.’ A pale pastry case sat on a chopping board next to him.

  Logan stepped into the little room. It was getting crowded. ‘Come on, Shuggie. Time to go down the station.’

  The kitchen was uncomfortably warm, but Shuggie shivered. ‘They killed my dog…’

  ‘That’s why you’ve got to tell us where they are.’

  Shuggie cradled his bloodied hand against his chest. ‘Poor wee Uzi…’

  Willy tipped his onions into the pastry case, then stuck the frying pan in the sink. ‘He’s a bit out of it. Took something for the pain, you know?’

  ‘Shuggie, they’ll keep coming after you. Look what happened to Trisha’s mum.’

  ‘Trisha…’ A frown. He rocked back and forwards, as if he was on one of those children’s rides outside a supermarket. ‘What if they hurt her again, or her kid?’

  ‘Don’t worry about Ricky, he’s safe, OK? Now you just have to-’

  ‘What about Trisha?’ He stopped rocking. ‘She safe?’

  ‘Well…’ Logan looked back at DI Steel. No help there. ‘Yeah, she’s fine.’

  Willy broke eggs into a Pyrex jug.

  Shuggie forced himself to his feet. ‘Lying fuck.’

  ‘See, you’ve got to get the mix of eggs and cream right, or-’

  He slammed his unbandaged hand down on the kitchen table, sending a tin of Special Brew spiralling to the lino. A spurt of foam. ‘Is — she — fucking — safe?’

  ‘Aww, Shuggie! It’s all over the floor.’

  Logan backed up a pace. ‘She’s probably fine-’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘At least put a tea-towel down or something.’

  ‘She left Ricky at her mum’s house yesterday. She’s not been back yet, but I’m-’

  Another slam. ‘They fucking raped her!’

  ‘Hey, come on, man,’ Willy held up the fork he’d been beating the eggs with, ‘cool the beans, eh? My wee girl’s through the house.’

  Shuggie nodded, buried his face in his cupped hand. ‘Sorry, it’s just…’ His shoulders shook. Silence. Then a deep breath.

  OK, so at least this was going to be a lot easier than last time.

  Logan stepped forward and placed a hand on Shuggie’s arm, gave it a little squeeze. ‘It’s going to be OK.’

  The big man looked up, tears dripping from his pink eyes. ‘Will it FUCK!’

  A shove, and Logan went staggering back. Then Shuggie grabbed a carton of milk from the working surface and hurled it. It went wide, crashing against the tiles, spurting out across the fridge.

  ‘God’s sake, Shuggie, calm the-’ A fist battered into Willy’s face, cracking him back into the cooker.

  A carton of double cream flew across the room.

  Logan ducked: it sailed over his head.

  A chair followed it.

  He scrabbled in his pocket for the pepper-spray.

  Too slow.

  Shuggie took hold of the table in his good hand and flipped it, slamming the Formica into Logan’s chest, sending him sprawling against the units. Something crunched under his foot — the beer can — and he went down, elbow bashing into the linoleum as he hit the floor.

  Jagged pain rushed up his arm, like cramp and pins-and-needles all at the same time. ‘Bastard!’

  Shuggie dived on top of him … or on top of the upturned table. The bottom edge cracked into Logan’s shin, the upper edge hard across his chest. Shuggie drew back a massive fist and swung.

  Logan wrapped his arms around his head, ducking down behind his forearms like a boxer, eyes screwed shut as the punch hammered into his right bicep. Then another one, catching him in the right armpit.

  ‘Aaaagh, get off, you-’

  One more on his right elbow, thumping his head back into the kitchen units.

  ‘This is all your fault!’ Another punch. ‘I want them fucking drugs back!’

  The next one slammed into
Logan’s arm again.

  Always on the right side — Shuggie was using his left fist, saving his right…

  Logan’s head bounced off the units, but this time he dropped his guard and grabbed the bloody bandage, wrapped his fingers around Shuggie’s right hand and squeezed hard.

  Chapter 29

  ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!’ Shuggie’s face went pale.

  Logan jerked the hand to the side, digging his nails in.

  ‘FUCK!’ The big man slapped at Logan’s wrist, scrabbled backwards. Out of reach. ‘FUCK!’ Eyes wide, a string of spittle spiralling down from his open mouth. And then he lurched forward and stomped on the table, sending Logan crashing back to the linoleum.

  ‘Fuck…’ Shuggie lurched out of the room, clutching his bloody hand to his chest.

  Logan could hear him staggering down the hall, bumping into the wall, the crash and tinkle of framed pictures hitting the floor. Then the front door slammed.

  So much for everything going easier than last time.

  Get up. Get up and charge after him. Tackle him on the stairs and crack the bastard’s head off the concrete walls. Slap the cuffs on. Then kick him in the balls…

  Logan slumped back against the soggy lino.

  Sod that.

  Just lie here a minute. Catch his breath.

  His right arm throbbed.

  Willy Cunningham’s hairy face appeared above him, one eye already heading from lurid pink to post-box red, the skin around it swelling and darkening. ‘You OK?’

  ‘No.’ He shoved the table away, and struggled to his feet. Then stood for a minute, holding onto the working surface.

  ‘Bloody hell…’ Willy turned on the spot, arms held out from his sides. ‘Look at the place. Molly’s going to kill me!’

  DI Steel’s gravelly voice came from the hallway. ‘Little help?’

  Logan cradled his battered arm, scowling. ‘Where the hell were you?’

  A single black-shoed foot appeared in the doorway, about two-feet off the ground, toe pointing upward, followed by a short length of crumpled sock, a flash of bare ankle, then a wrinkled grey trouser leg. ‘Argh.’

  He picked his way across the beer-and-milk-slicked linoleum to the door.