Shatter the Bones lm-7

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘I…’ He rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘It’s…’

  ‘You bloody idiot! Soon as they question him, he’ll land you in it. Do you no’ remember what happened to Insch? They’ll lock you up, you daft bastard.’

  ‘Probably. Maybe. I don’t know.’ There was nothing funny about it, but Logan couldn’t help laughing, just a little bit, the sound bitter and cold. ‘Might not be a bad idea.’

  Steel hunched over her mug. ‘I can’t get you out of this one. I mean … fucking hell, Laz.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘ON THE FLOOR! ON THE FLOOR NOW!’

  They both turned and looked at the handset. ‘You sure they’re the ones who torched your flat?’

  ‘Find out soon enough.’

  She sighed. ‘Then what? You go for them in the cells? Get yourself up on a couple of murders as well as the assault? You really think that’s what Samantha wants?’

  ‘What would you do if someone tried to kill Susan, or Jasmine? Bake them a cake?’

  ‘GOOD. NOW MOVE AND I’LL BLOW YOUR ARSE OFF!’

  ‘I’d…’ She fiddled with her mug, making it click against the working surface. ‘Doesn’t make you any less of a daft bastard.’

  ‘Team One: clear.’

  ‘Team Four: clear.’

  He stared down at his hands. ‘Don’t think I can’t do this any more.’

  ‘Team Three: we have the suspects.’

  ‘Team Two: Guv, we’ve got enough smack, coke, speed, and weed up here to keep Keith Richards stoned off his tits till he’s ninety! Holy crap, Cath, you ever see so much weed in your life?’

  Steel dumped her teabag on the draining board. ‘Don’t be an arse: you can’t quit. What the hell would you do? Go be a rentacop down the Trinity Centre? Shoplifting and old ladies who’ve peed themselves?’

  ‘Believe it or not, I got a job offer this morning.’

  If you ever decide police work is no longer the career for you… Well, as I said, it would be nice to know that my legacy was in good hands.

  Go from a police officer to heading up Aberdeen’s biggest criminal empire… Let’s face it, he was already halfway there.

  Strange how much could change in just twenty-four hours.

  Chapter 42

  Logan straightened his tie. ‘OK.’

  Steel looked him up and down. ‘I still think you’re a bloody idiot. Get a Federation rep in there with you!’

  The summons to DCI Finnie’s lair had been sitting on his desk when he got in, gritty-eyed and yawning, feeling as if someone had replaced his insides with burning snakes. ‘MCRAE? MY OFFICE? ASAP!’

  ‘What good’s a rep going to do? If Shuggie’s made a complaint I’m screwed anyway.’

  Of course he’d complained — Urquhart was right, Shuggie Webster was a junkie… And he had every right to complain.

  Logan closed his eyes. They were going to suspend him, arrest him, and lock him away for four-to-six years. Maybe by the time he was up for parole, Samantha would have woken up.

  Deep breath.

  He knocked on the head of CID’s door.

  Finnie’s voice came from inside: ‘Enter.’

  Logan marched into the office, DI Steel slouching along behind him. ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

  Finnie glanced at the clock, mounted on the wall, then sat back in his seat and steepled his fingers.

  ‘Sir, I-’

  ‘DI Bell picked up your Marley brothers last night. They came gift-wrapped with half a million pounds’ worth of drugs. It’s significant result.’

  ‘With all due respect, sir-’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Finnie held up a hand. ‘You wanted to be there when the firearms team went in, running the operation. But I couldn’t allow it, not after everything you’d been through yesterday. You needed to go home and get some rest.’

  ‘But, sir-’

  ‘Don’t worry. Even though DI Bell made the arrests, we’re all aware that it’s only because you supplied the information. Nightshift ran their prints and DNA through the system: Robert and Jacob are wanted in connection with one death in Lothian and Borders, and two in Greater Manchester. Their capture represents a considerable feather in Grampian’s police cap, at a time when we’re not exactly covering ourselves in glory with the McGregor case.’

  The bastard was drawing it out, making him suffer.

  Logan shifted his feet. ‘I’d like to-’

  ‘Then there’s this.’ He held up that morning’s Press and Journal.

  And here it was: ‘POLICE DISGRACE AS FORMER HERO HOSPITALIZES ADDICT IN REVENGE ATTACK…’ only that wasn’t the headline. The front page read, ‘MOTHER ABDUCTED FROM KINCORTH STREET’. There was a photo of a smiling teenager, one eye squinted shut, a bottle of beer in her hand. It almost looked like- Finnie ruffled the paper. ‘Trisha Brown’s mother is telling everyone we’re not taking her daughter’s disappearance seriously. That while Alison McGregor gets TV tributes and the Chief Constable making statements, all her daughter gets is one lowly sergeant.’

  Logan frowned at the photo again. It was her: Trisha Brown, taken before the heroin sank its manky-brown claws into her. She couldn’t have been much older than thirteen.

  Finnie’s face curled down at the edges. ‘Not exactly a step in the right direction, is it?’

  ‘Sir, I want to explain-’

  ‘And then there’s Shuggie Webster. DI Bell went up to the hospital and took his statement last night.’

  Too slow. No point jumping when you’ve already been pushed.

  Logan raised his chin and straightened his shoulders, staring out through the window behind Finnie’s head. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Goodbye career: hello suspension, arrest, prosecution, and jail time.

  ‘Mr Webster has been kind enough to give us the names and addresses of three of his other suppliers and half a dozen dealers, as well as coughing to nearly twenty unlawful removals.’ Finnie smiled. ‘Isn’t that nice of him?’

  Logan closed his eyes, waiting for the punchline. ‘I understand Mr Webster told DI Bell that you’d convinced him to turn his life around and come clean.’

  Logan risked one eye. ‘He did?’

  ‘Yes. Said you were very persuasive when you rescued him from the three hoodies who attacked him yesterday morning.’

  Hoodies…?

  ‘…so remember: tempers are going to be running high today. All it’ll take is one idiot and we could have a riot on our hands.’ Acting DI Mark McDonald shuffled the papers in his hands, and shifted from foot to foot at the front of the crowded briefing room — every single member of day-shift CID, and more than two-dozen uniformed constables staring at him. ‘The media are out in force, waiting for something to kick off, so please make sure you keep your eyes and ears open.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Thank you.’ Then sat down.

  Someone had updated the countdown on the whiteboard behind him. Now it read, ‘DEADLINE: TOMORROW!!!’

  Finnie got to his feet. ‘As Acting Detective Inspector MacDonald says, the media are wetting themselves with anticipation. But that does not excuse this.’ He clicked the remote and the front page of today’s Aberdeen Examiner filled the projection screen. ‘DID MISSING PAEDOPHILE KIDNAP ALISON AND JENNY?’ above a photo of Frank Baker.

  Finnie glowered around the room. ‘When I find out which unprofessional, unscrupulous bastard talked to the press I will make Hannibal Lecter look like Tinky-Bloody-Winky. Do I make myself clear?’

  Uncomfortable silence.

  He curled his top lip. ‘Need I remind you boys and girls that we have less than twenty-four hours to find Alison and Jenny McGregor? Let’s try to concentrate on doing our jobs.’

  Rennie stuck his hand up. ‘What if the kidnappers decide we haven’t raised enough cash?’

  ‘Mr Maguire from Blue-Fish-Two-Fish informs me that the official freedom fund now stands at just over six million pounds.’

  Someone whistled.

  ‘If we fail to find these people it’s g
oing to be open season on every D-list celebrity in the country. After all, if the guys who snatched Alison and Jenny can get away with six point three million pounds, maybe I can too?’

  Finnie glowered at them all again. ‘Now tell me, ladies and gentlemen, do we really want to be responsible for that, because I don’t think we do. Do you?’

  No one answered that.

  He nodded at Superintendent Green and the man from SOCA stood. ‘As soon as Jenny and Alison McGregor are released, a report will be submitted to the Independent Police Complaints Commission asking them to review Grampian Police’s handling of the investigation, which is standard policy for high-profile cases like this.’ Green held up his hands, as if he was about to bless them all, instead of crap on them from a great height. ‘The Serious Organized Crime Agency will, at that point, move from an advisory capacity to an executive role.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ DI Steel hauled up her trousers, ‘that means you’re going to take over.’

  Angry noises filled the briefing room.

  Finnie banged his coffee mug on the nearest desk. ‘All right, that’s enough. Let’s try to behave like grown-ups and professionals.’

  Superintendent Green sat back down again. ‘We have one last item of business.’ A smile spread across Finnie’s face. ‘You’ll have heard we made a significant seizure of drugs last night — thanks to DS McRae — and expect to make further inroads into the supply chain over the next few days. You’ll also have heard that DI McPherson met with an unfortunate accident yesterday. As he’s going to be out of commission for at least three weeks, I’m promoting DS McRae to the rank of Detective Inspector effective immediately. I’m sure you’ll all…’ he turned his smile on Green for a moment, then back to the rest of the room, ‘join me in wishing him every success in this challenging role.’

  Logan stared. ‘What…?’

  ‘Woohoo!’ Rennie started a round of applause that rippled around the room, then grew.

  Logan stared at his hands. The knuckles were still slightly swollen, the skin around them mottled with faint bruises. That was what they were clapping for — because he beat the crap out Shuggie Webster, a crippled junkie with his hands cable-tied behind his back.

  Go Team Logan.

  He should have resigned when he’d had the chance.

  ‘I know, OK?’ Logan covered his head with his hands, then slumped back in his seat in the make-shift office. ‘It’s not like I planned it, is it?’

  He could hear Steel sighing. ‘You’re a sodding lucky bugger, Laz. But if Shuggie changes his mind…’

  ‘He won’t.’ Not unless he wanted to feel the wrath of Wee Hamish Mowat. And Jonny Urquhart had made it quite clear what would that would involve.

  There was a pause. Then her voice went cold. ‘That what you were doing up the hospital yesterday afternoon? Threatening him to keep his gob shut?’

  ‘No…’ Logan crumpled forward until his elbows touched the desk. ‘I spoke to Trisha’s mum, I sat with Samantha. That’s all.’

  ‘You used to be…’ Steel grunted. He could picture her, standing behind him, shaking her head, eyes closed, chewing on her top lip. ‘Fuck’s sake, Laz.’

  The door banged open. ‘Celebrations!’ Rennie danced into the room — a one man conga line. ‘Da-da-dada-da, da! Da-da-dada-da, da!’

  He grabbed Steel’s hips and kept on dancing. ‘Da-da-dada-da, da! Da-da-dada-da, da!’

  ‘Get off me you daft wee sod!’ She smacked his hands away. ‘Oh, come on Guv, not every day one of our own gets bumped up the ranks.’ He performed a little curtsey. ‘Detective Inspector McRae, may I be the first to tell you how gargantuanly sexy you look as a DI, and if you ever need a sidekick-’

  ‘Thanks, but-’

  ‘I think Detective Sergeant Simon Rennie has a certain ring to it, don’t you? I mean, if you’re being promoted, they’ll need someone to fill in for you at the Wee Hoose, yeah?’ He grinned, his teeth sparkling white against the unnaturally orange tan. ‘Then I can get some poor sod to make the tea for a change.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Steel clicked her e-cigarette into life and sooked on it. ‘Latte: three sugars, extra chocolate, and some of that hazelnut syrup if they’ve got it. DI McRae’ll have decaf: two and a coo.’

  Rennie’s grin slipped. ‘Can’t I get someone else to-’

  ‘If you’re no’ back in two minutes with those coffees, you’re going to spend the rest of the day as Biohazard’s bitch, understand?’

  Rennie pretty much sprinted from the room.

  Steel waited until the door was closed and they were alone once more. ‘I’m no’ going to say this twice, so pin back your lugs: you ever, ever do anything like this again, I’ll hang your arse out like a pair of scabby knickers, understand?’

  ‘Then let me quit.’

  She thumped him on the shoulder. ‘You’re no’ getting off that lightly.’

  Of course he wasn’t. ‘Now what?’

  Steel sent a perfect smoke ring crashing against his computer monitor. ‘I mean it, Laz. I’ll no have wee Jasmine growing up with a bent copper for a dad.’

  Logan logged into his email, scrolling through the backlog of messages. ‘Anything else?’ Not looking at her.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What?’ He clicked on an email from DI Bell — an update on the interviews conducted overnight with the ‘Marley brothers’.

  ‘I’m sorry about Samantha. If you need to talk to anyone…’

  ‘I don’t need to-’

  ‘’Cause if you do, you can call your pet psychologist. All that touchy-feely bollocks gives me the dry boak.’ She sniffed. ‘Now, maybe we should-’

  Logan’s mobile burst into song. ‘Laz?’ Colin Miller. ‘We got another message from the wankers in the white sperm-suits. You near your computer?’

  The email package chimed at him, a little window popping up in the bottom left corner of the screen: ‘COLIN MILLER.

  FWD: ONE DAY TO GO.’

  The door banged open and Rennie lurched over the threshold, breathing like a pervert, clutching his side. ‘They’ve… They’ve got a … got a … a new video!’

  Logan opened the message: a link to YouTube. He clicked on it.

  ‘No’ more toes, is it?’ Steel pulled the fake cigarette from her mouth.

  The video finally downloaded enough to start playing. Logan hauled the headphones out of the socket and the speakers crackled with static, then that cold computer voice boomed into the room.

  Chapter 43

  Steel tapped the screen. ‘Play it again.’

  ‘You have twenty-four hours left to save Jenny’s life.’

  On the screen a fuzzy image snapped into focus — Jenny McGregor lying curled up on a bare mattress. A chain was wrapped around her neck, the other end padlocked to the metal bed frame. Her Winnie the Pooh pyjamas were grubby, but the bandages on her feet looked fresh — a faint stain marking where her little toes had been hacked off.

  Steel bared her teeth. ‘Bastards.’

  ‘Some newspapers insist on telling you that this is all a hoax: it is not. I promise you Jenny will die if you fail to raise enough money.’

  A figure stepped into shot, dressed in the familiar white SOC outfit with gloves and a plastic mask that distorted their features. They held up an eight-inch carving knife.

  ‘She will die, and the police will receive a different part of her dismembered body every day for fourteen days: one piece for every day you failed to raise enough money.’

  The speakers crackled. A woman screamed, ‘Don’t hurt my baby!’ and the camera swung around to show Alison McGregor, scrabbling at the bare floorboards with her finger-nails, trying to drag herself away from the radiator they’d chained her to. Her hair was a mess, face bright pink, tears streaming down her cheeks. Then the sound cut off, leaving Alison screaming and shouting in silence.

  Jenny filled the screen again.

  ‘If you fail her, she will die. Then we will start the process all over again w
ith her mother.’

  The white-suited figure took a handful of hair and hauled the little girl’s head up, then held the knife against her throat.

  The picture zoomed in. Jenny’s nose bright pink and shiny, her bottom lip trembling. Her eyes darted up to the right, probably looking at the bastard with the knife, then she nodded. It wasn’t a big nod, but it was still enough for the blade to make a little crease in her skin. She looked straight into the lens, and fat tears sparked in the corners of her eyes.

  Her voice came from the laptop’s speakers, small and trembling. ‘I don’t… I don’t want … to die…’

  ‘You have until midnight.’

  The screen went dark, then YouTube’s little line of ‘if you liked that, you’ll love these’ videos appeared, along with an option to play the thing again.

  ‘Lights.’ DCI Finnie pointed the remote at the projector mounted on the roof of the briefing room, freezing the picture as the man in the SOC suit pressed the knife against Jenny’s throat.

  Someone flipped the switch and a cold fluorescent glow filled the room. The audience shifted in their seats. It was a much more select group than earlier, just the top brass and senior CID officers.

  Finnie placed the remote down on the lectern next to him. ‘At least we now have a timeframe: midnight.’

  Chief Constable Anderson swore, light glinting off the polished silver buttons on his dress uniform and the top of his shiny head. ‘What’s the pot standing at?’

  ‘Er…’ Acting DI Mark McDonald fidgeted his way through a small stack of paper. ‘It’s about-’

  ‘Six point three million.’ Superintendent Green lounged in his chair, staring up at the screen. ‘Conservative estimates put the total at about seven million by midnight.’

  ‘Dear lord.’ The Chief Constable shook his head. ‘Any idea how they’re planning on getting their hands on the money?’

  ‘It has to be electronic transfer.’ Green tapped his pen against the palm of his hand. ‘They can’t ask for it in cash — we can’t get that much together by midnight; then they’d have to launder it. Not to mention the risk involved with picking it up.’