Rennie put a hand on Robin’s round shoulder. ‘What if something’s happened to her?’
‘Something…’
‘What if she’s fallen and hurt herself? What if Davina needs our help?’
‘Oh God, that would be terrible; I’ll get the key.’
Rennie waited until Robin disappeared into the room at the end of the corridor then grinning at Logan. ‘Said I’d make a great sidekick.’
She was back a minute later, clutching a key with a yellow-haired gonk dangling off the end of it. ‘Here.’ She passed it to Rennie, blushing slightly as her hand touched his.
Rennie slipped the key into the lock, turned it, then tried the door handle. ‘Open sesame!’
Logan knocked and stepped inside, then froze. The room was slightly bigger than the ones at Hillhead, with space for an Ikea-style single bed, cabinet, desk, wardrobe, and a little sink in the corner. The wall above the bed was covered with photographs: a mix of landscapes, portraits, and industrial wastelands… Most done in arty black-and-white.
He cleared his throat. ‘Robin, I think you should go back through to the kitchen.’
‘Is she OK? Davina? Are you OK? I didn’t want to unlock the door, but we thought you might be hurt and I thought-’
‘Rennie, take her back to the kitchen. Now.’
‘Why, what’s…’ Rennie peered over Logan’s shoulder, then backed up quickly. ‘OK: come on, Robin, why don’t we finish making that coffee?’
‘But I don’t-’
‘I know, but I’m really thirsty, aren’t you? I love your hair by the way…’
Logan listened to their voices fading down the corridor, then the clunk of the kitchen door shutting. He took another step, keeping his feet as close to the skirting board as possible.
Davina Pearce: BSc (Hons) Forensic Science with Law and Media Studies was sitting on the beige carpet with one leg tucked under her, the other sticking out into the middle of the room, her back against the wall. She was naked, except for the leather belt around her neck — one end fastened to the window catch. An orange in her mouth, juice sticky and drying on her chin. A black, rubbery vibrator lying on the floor by her knee.
Her skin was pale as butter, but the underside of her thighs and legs were stained dark pink where the blood had pooled after death. Eyes open, glassy, and bloodshot.
‘Fuck…’
Logan pulled out his phone and called it in.
She wriggles closer, tears hot on her damp cheeks. Her left foot is on fire, burning and stabbing like a million bee stings all in the one spot. She’s getting blood all over the mattress, but she doesn’t care.
Golden sunlight makes wiggly shapes across the floor, sneaking in through the cracks in the boarded-up windows.
Ice cream and lemonade in the garden, listening to the bees bumble and Mummy singing a song while Daddy makes a wooden thing for the kitchen. A sandpit full of castles, and princesses, and the little black poops left by next-door’s cat that Mummy can’t know about or she’ll get angry. Jenny likes next-door’s cat. She doesn’t want anything bad to happen to it.
The silvery tape is thick and sticky, but she manages to tease a corner free around Mummy’s mouth with her fingernails.
Jenny picks and pulls and tugs until Mummy takes in a huge breath and coughs. There’s a pink rectangle around her lips, tiny hairs sticking to the underside of the duct tape.
‘Oh God, oh my baby, I’m so sorry…’ Mummy’s crying. ‘We have to get out of here, we have to get out of here right now, before they come back! They’re not going to let us go…’
Jenny rests her head against Mummy’s chest, just for a moment, feeling the warm softness, the thumpita-thumpita of her heart.
‘You have to untie Mummy’s hands.’
It takes forever. Every time she finds an end it tears and rips and Mummy’s crying and Jenny’s crying and it’s hard and her foot hurts so much… And then the tape’s gone and Mummy’s sitting up.
Jenny is a Good Little Girl. She just needs to rest for a minute. Close her eyes and let the burny pain go away. Good Little Girl…
‘Sweetie?’
Someone shakes her shoulder. ‘Come on we need to go. Quickly.’ Mummy unwraps Jenny’s wrists. ‘Can you walk?’ She looks down. ‘Oh Christ, all that blood…’
Mummy rips the tape off Jenny’s face, it hurts for a bit, but not as much as her burning foot. ‘I want Daddy…’
‘We have to get out of here.’
‘I’m tired.’
Mummy presses the palm of her hand against Jenny’s head. ‘You’re cold…’
She hauls her arms up and Mummy hugs her. Holds her so close she can’t breathe. But that’s OK. Just want to rest a while. Be warm. Be loved.
There’s a rattle, then the chain around her neck slithers away like a cold metal snake.
Another rattle. Jenny forces her eyes open and sees Mummy holding up a little shiny key. Top lip curled, showing off her teeth, like an angry dog.
‘They’re not so bloody clever after all. Are they?’ She stands and holds out her hand. ‘Let’s go.’
‘What a waste.’ Rennie’s shoulders slumped as the IB carried Davina Pearce out of the room in a white body-bag. He plucked a photo from the wall above the bed — Davina in arty black-and-white, posing in front of a big chunk of machinery. ‘She was pretty. I mean, it wouldn’t be OK if she was a munter, but … you know.’ He held the photo out to Logan. ‘Do we have to tell her parents?’
‘Depends where she’s from.’ Logan turned the photo over. Four little blobs of Blu-Tack lurked in each corner, around a laser-printed sticker: ‘SELF-PORTRAIT, B amp;W, 18-55MM 1/80SEC AT F/4? EQUIPMENT YARD WELLHEADS INDUSTRIAL ESTATE’ along with a date/time stamp. ‘It’s a bit convenient, isn’t it?’
‘Autoerotic asphyxiation? Don’t fancy it myself.’
‘No, you idiot, I mean, that’s two of Craig Peterson’s friends dead in less than a week. Bruce Sangster takes an overdose with a bag over his head, Davina Pearce has a “sexual accident”.’
‘I heard about sixty people snuff it during a strangle-wank every year. Silly sods. Only takes seven pounds of pressure to collapse your carotid artery and that’s you. True story.’
Logan stuck the photo back on the wall. Davina Pearce had a good eye for light and shadow, specializing in moody black-and-whites. Urban decay was a recurring theme — boarded-up tenements, rusting cars, skips full of random shapes, sagging chain-link fencing, a broken bottle, the sun setting over a burnt-out Volkswagen.
The portraits were good too, but they didn’t have the same intensity as the landscapes and still lifes. Davina did like to pose for her own photographs though. There was one of her in jeans and a bra, looking back over her shoulder at the camera in some derelict house: walls covered with graffiti, the floorboards stippled with bars of light. Artistic and a bit sinister at the same time. A tattoo sprawled across her shoulder, a Chinese dragon, breathing fire… Samantha would’ve loved it.
Logan pulled the photo off the wall.
Still not been up to see her today. Still not worked up the courage to sit in that little room and listen to the machines breathing for her. Hold her cold hand and pretend everything was going to be OK.
That was what happened when you were completely useless. When you couldn’t protect the people you loved. When you couldn’t even find the bastards responsible…
He stared at the photograph in his hands, felt his eyes widen. Maybe not quite so fucking useless after all.
Logan flipped it over, and there, between the blobs of Blu-Tack was another sticker: ‘SELF-PORTRAIT, B amp;W, 18-55MM 1/2SEC AT F/16? DERELICT INDUSTRIAL UNIT, FARBURN INDUSTRIAL PARK’.
He grabbed all the exterior shots, checking the stickers for one that matched the time stamp on the other image.
There was only one that came anywhere near: a high, padlocked gate outside a blocky grey building with boarded-up windows and one of those big up-and-over doors you could get a forklift
through. The company name was partially obscured by a birch tree growing through the fence. But that didn’t matter — all they had to do was drive through the industrial estate until they found the building in the picture.
He shoved the picture of Davina posing in the graffiti-covered room into Rennie’s hands. ‘Recognize the backdrop?’
The constable leaned forward, squinting. ‘Yeah… Erm, no. Kinda…?’
‘Here’s a clue for you: it was in the video where they cut off Jenny McGregor’s toes.’
Chapter 50
Every step’s like someone’s jamming burning ice into her feet, but she grits her teeth and swallows the screams down, keeping them deep inside where they can boil and shake.
Mummy holds a finger up to her lips and makes a ssssssssshing noise. Then opens the door slow and quiet. It’s another room, all covered in scribbles and paint like the one they had to stay in, but there’s no bed, just a bunch more doors. She marches over to one on the far side.
Jenny wipes her damp eyes with her grubby sleeve, takes a deep wobbly breath and shuffles after her. The bandage on her left foot’s soggy, like she’s stepped in a puddle of tomato sauce, every step leaving a smeared footprint on the dirty carpet.
And it hurts.
‘Come on, baby; nearly there; who’s Mummy’s good little girl?’
Good Little Girl. She’s a Good Little Girl.
Jenny stops for a moment, breath hissing in and out between her teeth, tears rolling down her cheeks.
Mummy tries the door, then says a bad word. She grabs the handle and twists it left and right, pulls, snarls, shakes it back and forward. Then steps back and gives the door a kick with her bare foot.
She tries another door. Locked. And another. It’s locked too. ‘You BASTARD!’ Mummy slams her hand into the wood and it BOOMs around the dark, smelly room.
Then a cold metal voice rattles in the shadows. ‘Come on, I mean: you’ve got to be fucking kidding, right?’ A monster steps out of the gloom, his white suit glowing as he moves into a beam of sunlight. His name badge says ROGER. ‘Like I’m going to leave the place unlocked so you can just walk out? How thick do you think I am, Alison?’
Mummy turns and flattens herself against the door. ‘You have to let us go.’
‘I have to do fuck all.’ He holds up a shiny thing. It takes Jenny a moment to realize it’s a big knife. ‘Now, are you going to get back in your room like a good little girl, or do I have to drag you back there in bits?’
Logan grabbed the handle above the passenger door as Rennie threw the car into a hard left, the Vauxhall’s back end drifting out as they jumped the lights onto George Street. A white van blared its horn, an old lady in a Mini made wanking gestures.
‘Repeat, we need a firearms team out at Farburn Industrial Estate, Stoneywood ASAP.’
‘Hud oan…’
There was a click, a pause, and then Finnie’s voice boomed out of the Airwave handset. ‘What’s going on?’
Logan told him about the photograph from Davina Pearce’s wall.
‘And you think that’s enough to get a fi rearms team scurrying-’
‘I’m telling you, it’s the exact same room from the video- Watch out for the bus!’
‘You sure I can’t use the siren?’ The car jerked out into the middle of the road and back again. Shops and taxis and lorries and people blurred past the passenger window.
‘Look, it’s half-seven: we’ve got less than five hours till the deadline. If they’re-’
‘Hold on.’ The line went quiet. And then Finnie was back: ‘This better not be another wild goose chase like Stephen Clayton.’
‘Tell you what: if it is you’ve got my resignation on your desk first thing tomorrow.’ Not as if he was throwing much away with that one.
Another pause. ‘Deal. A fi rearms team is on its way.’
‘How about that one?’ Rennie pointed through the wind-screen at a disused mini-warehouse.
Logan compared it to the photograph. ‘Keep going.’
The pool car kerb-crawled its way through the industrial estate. That was the trouble with somewhere like this at quarter to eight on a Wednesday evening — almost every single building looked deserted: everything closed up and dark, chain-link fences and padlocked gates.
The purple-black clouds had spread across the sky, a faint drizzle specked the car windows, a rainbow arcing over the massive, ugly, abandoned 1970s-style complex of concrete and glass that used to house BP.
‘Charlie Delta Twelve, this is Foxtrot Tango Two … where the hell are you?’
Logan thumbed the button. ‘Wellheads Road. Still looking for the target unit.’
‘Turning onto Riverview Drive now.’ The voice on the other end dropped to a whisper. ‘Word to the wise: we’ve got that SOCA tosser following in a car with DS Taylor, Steel, and Finnie. Just so you know.’
Steel and Green in a car together — poor bloody Doreen, there was no way that would end well.
Rennie took a left, down a little road between two hulking warehouses. ‘You know, Guv, we could always engineer a wee incident where someone accidentally shoots Green in the bollocks. In all the confusion.’
‘Don’t tempt me… There!’ Logan smacked his hand on the dashboard. ‘There: the one with the green roof!’
It even had the tree growing through the fence.
A big faded sign was bolted to the front of the building, ‘CAMBERTOOLS? THE DOWNHOLE E.O.R. SOLUTION SPECIALISTS’. The bottom floor was harled in dirty grey; a couple of boarded-up windows stared blindly out into the rubbish-strewn car park. The upper floor was clad in the same green corrugated iron as the roof, the paint chipped and peeling in places, stained with seagull droppings. The big warehouse door wore a dirt-streaked sign, ‘CONDEMNED BUILDING. NO ENTRY’. The one on the fence read, ‘WARNING: THIS SITE PATROLLED BY GUARD DOGS’.
‘Foxtrot Tango Two, we have a winner.’ Logan gave the firearms team directions then told Rennie to park fifty yards down the street, behind a locked-up burger van.
‘What now?’ Rennie massaged the steering wheel. ‘We go charging in like the A-team, beat up all the bad guys, rescue Alison and Jenny.’
He sat up straight, eyes shining. ‘Cool! We can-’
Logan hit him. ‘Don’t be a prick. We wait for the firearms team, we set up a perimeter, and we figure out how to get the hostages out without killing anyone. What’s wrong with you?’
‘Well, it… Ahem…’ He turned off the engine. ‘Yes, Guv.’ Three minutes later a filthy, unmarked Transit van growled into sight. It drifted to a halt in front of the pool car and a plainclothes officer grinned and waved through the wind-shield at Logan. ‘Aye, aye. Nice day for a shoot-out?’
‘You know what’s going to happen if Finnie hears you, don’t you, Brian?’
An unmarked Vauxhall pulled up on the other side of the road. The grin disappeared from Brian’s face. ‘Speak of the Devil.’
Logan climbed out of the pool car and hurried over to the back of the Transit van, keeping the burger van between himself and the Cambertools industrial unit. Finnie, Green, and Steel got out of the other car. Doreen stayed behind, waiting until her passengers weren’t looking before bouncing her head off the steering wheel.
The man from SOCA stuck his chest out, then snapped his fingers. ‘Situation Report?’
You’re a wanker. Logan pointed at the industrial unit. ‘We think that’s where they shot the video after amputating Jenny McGregor’s toes.’
‘I see. And you haven’t ascertained if the suspects are in the building yet?’
Steel twisted her e-cigarette on and set it dangling from the corner of her mouth. ‘When exactly were they meant to do that? They only got here a minute before us. Want to whinge about how we’re no’ psychic enough now?’
‘I’m getting pretty bloody tired of your attitude, Inspector.’
‘You’ve moaned about everything else.’ She sent a plume of fake cigarette smoke his way.
�
�Was fi ve minutes too much to ask for?’ Finnie looked at the sky for a moment, then back to earth. ‘DI McRae, I want a risk analysis: what’s the layout of the building, where are the points of entry and exit, where are our victims likely to be held, how many targets are we looking at, what kind of weapons are they likely to-’
‘We don’t have time for this.’ Green unbuttoned his jacket, slipped it off, and thrust it at Logan. He was wearing a bullet-proof vest underneath, and a shoulder holster.
‘Shouldn’t we-’
‘Cover me!’ The superintendent pulled a snub-nosed semi-automatic from his holster and ran in a crouch towards the padlocked gates.
‘Come back here!’ Finnie’s eyes bugged, his mouth crimped into an angry cat’s bum as Green kept on going. ‘Who gave him a bloody gun?’
A clink and Green was through the gates, heading for the main doors.
‘Oh you silly bastard…’ Logan dumped the tailored jacket on the damp road and banged on the side of the Transit van. ‘OPEN UP!’ He stuck his head around the side. ‘RENNIE!’
‘On it, Guv.’
The van’s back doors popped open and a sweaty fire-arms-trained officer wheezed out into the light drizzle. He was dressed from head to toe in black, from his heavy-duty steel-toecapped boots to his thick bulletproof vest and crash helmet, a submachine gun dangling on a strap around his neck. ‘Bloody roasting in there.’
‘Give me your sidearm.’ Logan stuck his hand out.
The man in black backed off a step. ‘What?’
‘Give me your gun!’
He unholstered his Glock, a chunky rectangular thing that smelled of warm oil and plastic, holding it close to his chest. ‘Erm… Actually, I had to sign for this, so-’
Logan grabbed it. Ejected the clip. It was full, so he slid it back into the handgrip and hauled the slide back, racking the first round into the breach.
Finnie tapped him on the shoulder. ‘DI McRae, what exactly do you think you’re doing? We need a plan, a strategy!’
Shatter the Bones lm-7 Page 37
