Close to the Bone lm-8

by Stuart MacBride

  The Green was a lopsided rectangle, buried away in the foundations of the city, lined with tall granite buildings, their grey faces darkened by moisture, lights making glowing orbs in the misty drizzle. Some sort of birthday party was underway in the open-air eating area outside Cafe 52, everyone huddled under a big green patio umbrella as they belted out ‘Happy Birthday To You’, a cake topped with dozens of candles blazing away.

  Logan kept going, across the slippery cobblestones, towards the back end of Aberdeen Market — a semicircular lump of seventies concrete, its windows dark, everyone shut up for the night. Down one side, Correction Wynd cut straight under Union Street, a handful of restaurants glowing in the shadow of St Nicholas Kirk. But right ahead, the road disappeared into the gloom.

  Seagulls screamed abuse from the slate rooftops far above as he followed East Green into the bowels of the city and out of the rain.

  A row of neon squiggles glowed around the entrance to Blofeld’s Secret Underground Lair, casting multicoloured light on a big bald bloke in a white shirt and bow tie, standing all on his own. Looking for someone to bounce as dance music thunked out of the door behind him.

  At the end of the road, where it hooked around before climbing back up onto Nether Kirkgate, a mobile catering unit was parked up on the narrow kerb. The thing was a rec-tangular white trailer with a fold-down flap on the front beneath a sign ‘LOLA amp; RUDY’S TASTY TREATS’. Steam curled from the open hatch, and a handful of figures formed an orderly queue in front of it. About a dozen others were gathered in small groups, eating and talking over the growl of a diesel generator. At least three of them were nightshift CID, blending in like lumps of coal in a bowl of porridge.

  They weren’t the only ones: a brick outhouse with a crew cut, dressed in black jeans and a red T-shirt, stood guard a hundred yards from the catering unit: Mr Muscle from the hotel. The one who spoke like he was giving evidence. Another heavy stood at the far end, hands folded in front of his groin, narrow eyes constantly moving back and forth.

  No way Agnes Garfield would come anywhere near the place with that kind of security hanging around.

  Logan took two steps towards them, then stopped.

  Someone was moving in the shadows, halfway between the nightclub and the soup kitchen, lurking in one of the barrel arches that lined the road. Too dim to make out who. . Logan wandered across the road, nice and casual, hands in his pockets, keeping the figure in the corner of his eye. Then turned and walked slowly and quietly up behind them.

  Whoever it was, they were layered up in a padded parka jacket with a hoodie on underneath, tracksuit bottoms. A woolly hat pulled down over their ears. Then they shuffled to the side and the lights spilling out from the nightclub caught the once-white case of a plaster cast — left leg, from the knee all the way down. His foot was encased in a shapeless black leather boot to keep the cast out of the dirt and damp.

  So it wasn’t Agnes in disguise, it was Henry Scott, AKA: Scotty Scabs, from the Gilcomston Church steps. The only tramp Rennie needed to complete his set.

  Logan stopped creeping. ‘You avoiding someone, Henry? ’

  The wee man flinched, spun around, then backed away until he was hard up against the brick wall. ‘He’s deid. .’

  ‘Did you see her again: Agnes Garfield? The woman who took Roy Forman? ’

  Henry blinked at him, eyes gleaming in the darkness. ‘She killed him. He’s deid.’

  OK. So much for that. ‘Are you hungry? Why don’t you go get yourself a nice bowl of soup or something? ’

  ‘What if the witch gets me? I don’t want to be deid. .’

  ‘She’s not really a witch, Henry, she’s just lost and sick and can’t tell what’s real any more.’

  The rubber tips of Henry’s crutches squeaked on the cobblestones. A little sob caught in his throat. ‘She killed him. .’

  ‘You want me to go get you something to eat? Would you like that, Henry? ’

  ‘If she catches me, she’ll kill me too. .’

  Logan came within an inch of patting him on the shoulder, but Henry flinched away again. ‘OK, it’s OK. . You stay here and keep an eye out, and I’ll go get you some soup.’

  Poor sod needed more than soup. Like somewhere safe to sleep, medication, therapy, and a bath.

  Logan made for the mobile catering unit, joining the queue. Only five people to go and it’d be his turn.

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Guv? ’ Rennie, wearing his leather jacket and a scarlet T-shirt, a paper soup bowl in one hand and a plastic spork in the other. ‘Thought you were going home? ’

  A shrug. ‘Any luck? ’

  ‘Yeah: the chicken and chorizo casserole is bloody lovely. I’m having thirds.’

  ‘Any luck with Agnes Garfield, you idiot.’

  Rennie scooped up a sporkful of butter beans and chunks of sausage. ‘Nope.’ Then stuffed it in and chewed. ‘Spoken to all of the regulars, and the organizers, and the volunteers, and you’ll never guess what. .’ He leaned in close, enveloping Logan in a waft of herbs and spices. ‘See that tall thin bloke over there,’ he pointed to a figure doling out hot drinks from a catering-sized thermos, ‘the one who looks like he’s two sizes too small for his skin? That’s DI Insch! Can you believe it? ’

  ‘If you’re looking for a pat on the head, you’re too late: I know.’ Logan had another peer around. ‘Where’s Chalmers? ’

  ‘Pffffff. .’ The last of the stew disappeared, then Rennie licked his piece of plastic cutlery clean. ‘Sloped off, didn’t she. Want to bet she puts in for a whole night’s overtime anyway? Can’t trust people like-’

  ‘If you spoke to all the regulars, you’ll know where Henry Scott is, won’t you? ’

  Rennie’s mouth popped open for a moment, then he closed it again with a clack. ‘Scotty Scabs? He’s here? ’

  ‘If you spent more time doing your job and less time stuffing your face, you’d know.’

  ‘Why didn’t you arrest him? ’

  Seriously? ‘Because I’m trying to catch a murderer: I couldn’t give a toss about shoplifted bacon and cheese. You want him? Go get him.’

  ‘Ah, right. .’ Rennie dumped his paper bowl in the bin fixed to the side of the catering unit, then scurried off, doing a tour of the little groups of people.

  Idiot.

  Three more minutes and Logan was at the head of the line.

  A dark face smiled back at him from the hatch, perfect teeth and a white goatee. ‘What can we do for you, my man? ’

  Logan pulled a copy of the ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN’ poster from his pocket and held it out. ‘Have you seen-’

  A deep, rumbling voice sounded at his shoulder. ‘You’re too late: DI Bell’s already been around with the photographs. Do you not trust him, or are you just trying to muscle in on his operation? ’ Insch hefted his thermos up onto the counter. ‘We’re out of coffee, Rudy.’

  ‘No problem, boss.’

  Logan shifted his shoulders. ‘I’m not muscling in on anything, I’m just-’

  ‘Everyone knows to keep an eye out for Agnes Garfield. We’re not idiots.’ Insch took the poster from Logan, folded it up, and handed it back. ‘Rudy and Lola do the cast and crew catering. That’s why everyone’s getting free-range chicken and chorizo casserole, penne arrabiata, Cullen skink, and tiramisu, instead of watery vegetable soup and a stale roll. Costing us a bloody fortune, but Zander insists. We’re giving something back to the local community, once a week.’

  ‘And it’s always a Tuesday? ’

  ‘Everyone on the film knows to look out for the Garfield woman. I’m not having her anywhere near my people.’

  Which explained the secret-service-style muscle.

  A pale woman appeared in the hatch, wearing far too much eye makeup, her spiky ash-blonde hair sticking up in all directions. ‘What can we get you, my darling? ’

  ‘I don’t know. . Chicken? ’

  ‘Coming right up.’

  Insch scowled at him. ‘I forg
ot what a bunch of freeloading bastards CID-’

  ‘It’s not for me, it’s for someone too terrified to come over, in case he gets grabbed and killed like Roy Forman.’ Logan pointed at the pair of heavies with the earpieces. ‘Or maybe it’s your rent-a-thugs scaring him away? ’

  The scowl didn’t shift. ‘Your bloody colleagues act like they’ve never seen food before. I swear some of them are having seconds. And it’s supposed to be for the homeless!’

  Rudy reappeared with the huge thermos and a stack of polystyrene cups in a plastic sleeve. ‘There you go, boss: hazelnut latte.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Insch took them both, cradling the sleeve against his chest. ‘McRae: walk with me.’

  The spiky-haired woman placed a paper bowl heaped with glistening beans, chunks of amber sausage, and slivers of chicken, on the counter. A spork stuck out of the top, like an antenna. ‘Watch, it’s hot.’

  Heat leached into his hands as he followed DI Insch away down the tunnel, back towards the nightclub. ‘Well? ’

  ‘I need you to do something about this counterfeit Witchfire merchandise. I don’t care if it is high quality: I’m not having some thieving git making fake stuff and flogging it. They’re doing replica props from the film, and we haven’t even finished shooting it yet!’

  ‘Seriously? ’

  ‘Why aren’t you doing anything about it? I told Mair to liaise with you, because you’re the only one in CID who isn’t going to sod it up. The rest of these idiots couldn’t investigate their own feet for toes.’

  35

  Insch stopped at a knot of three men, all stick-thin and trembling, long sleeves pulled down to their fingertips, hiding the needletracks. He gave each one a polystyrene cup, then filled it with frothy pale coffee. ‘Here you go. .’

  Logan stared at him. ‘You do know I’m trying to catch someone who’s killed at least two people, don’t you? Never mind the grave robbing.’

  They moved on to the next group, Insch doling out more hazelnut latte. ‘Do you have any idea how much money I’ve sunk into this thing? Every bloody penny. I don’t need people stealing from me as well! And counterfeiting is theft.’

  Insch kept walking, on towards a couple of women in shapeless grey jogging bottoms and hooded tops, his voice dropped to a rumbling whisper. ‘Now try not to act like a lovesick teenager this time.’

  ‘Why would I-’

  ‘Ladies: I come bearing hazelnut lattes!’

  Both women turned, one holding a black plastic bin-bag in her gloved hands, the other holding a long-handled grabber. She used it to pluck an empty crisp packet from the pavement and dropped it into the open bin-bag. Nichole Fyfe. ‘Ah, David, you’re an absolute lifesaver!’

  The other one dumped the bag at her feet and pulled off her gloves. ‘Lovely.’ She peeled back her hood, exposing a curly mass of scarlet curls, every bit as post-box red as Samantha’s. That would be Morgan Thingummy — the one on the TV Sunday morning making come-to-bed-for-kinky-fun eyes at the camera.

  Insch handed them each a polystyrene cup, grinning away like a proud parent. ‘Slumming it, I’m afraid: we left the bone china back at the studio.’ He pressed the plunger on the thermos and the sticky sweet scent of roasted coffee and hazelnut syrup coiled around them. ‘Logan, this is Morgan Mitchell, she’s our incredibly scary Mrs Shepherd. Morgan, this is DI McRae.’

  She curled her hands around the polystyrene cup, peering at him over the edge. Her accent was pure New York, a lot stronger than the one she’d used on the TV and completely unlike the voice she’d used on film, necklacing the man whose face wasn’t composited properly. ‘Well, well, well. .’ A slow, naughty smile. ‘Nichole, you said he was cute, but you didn’t tell me he was a hunk too.’

  It got very hot between Logan’s neck and his collar. ‘Well, it. . I. .’

  ‘That’s some pair of black eyes you got there. Makes me think of Fight Club, God I loved that film. Very sexy.’ She stuck out her hand for shaking. ‘McRae. . You’re the guy who used to be David’s protege, right? ’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if I’d-’

  Insch thumped Logan on the back. ‘Of course you were.’ The grin changed into a frown as he hunched forward in front of his stars. ‘Now, are you both OK? Need anything? ’

  Nichole smiled at him. ‘We’re fine, honestly.’ Then she slipped her arm through Logan’s. Looking up at him with those pale-blue eyes, the pupils large, dark, and shiny as buttons. ‘So, DI McRae, have you come here to sample Rudy and Lola’s chicken casserole, or. .? ’

  It was definitely getting warmer out here. ‘We need to find anyone who’s seen Agnes Garfield, or knows where she is.’

  ‘God, Agnes. .’ Morgan made choking noises. ‘Don’t get me wrong, lovely girl, but jeesh, she could be intense.’

  Nichole gave his arm a squeeze. ‘It was such a shame, she was so desperate to get into film. It was her life’s ambition.’

  Insch cleared his throat. ‘Yes, well. .’

  ‘Zander was going to give her a trial as my body double. She was so excited. And then she just. .’ Nichole shrugged. The movement rubbed Logan’s arm up, then down the side of her breast.

  ‘She flipped. Wigged out.’ Morgan bugged her eyes. ‘Went totally pill-popping crazy. I came back from makeup one time, and she was in my trailer trying on my underwear. True story. Then she has a complete fit because she says I’m not doing Mrs Shepherd’s lines right and the character has to be more creepy, and I’m like, you’re the creepy one: get out of my bra!’

  Nichole took a sip of coffee. ‘Well, to be fair, she did a lot of good too. We wouldn’t be doing this right now if it wasn’t for her. Giving something back to the community’s really important and she set it all up.’

  Morgan rolled her eyes. ‘Ack, you’re so nice I could stab you.’

  Logan pulled out his poster again. ‘Have you seen her recently? She might have changed her appearance, dyed her hair? ’

  Morgan squinted at it. ‘Wow. Is it just me, or does she look like she’s trying to turn herself into Rowan? All she needs is the scar. .’

  Nichole looked away, back down the tunnel towards the soup kitchen. ‘She was here last Friday night. Morgan and I like to help out down here when we can — the usual food’s nowhere near as good as tonight’s, but the people making it really care about the homeless. I was on bread-and-butter duty and I. .’ A frown painted little creases between her eyebrows. ‘I thought I saw someone watching from the shadows. As if they were afraid to come out into the light.’ She shrugged. ‘So I went over to say hello, see if they needed help. It was Agnes, she. . She said some pretty hurtful things, then she ran away. I went after her, tried to make her see it was OK, but she lost me in the St Nicholas Kirk graveyard.’

  Wonderful. ‘Why didn’t you come forward? ’

  ‘What good would it have done? I didn’t know where she was, I didn’t know where she was going, how could that help? ’

  Morgan took a step closer, gazing up into his eyes. Boxing him in. Her pupils were massive too. . That familiar sweet, slightly sweaty, smell of smoke coming off her. ‘I know this is kinda out of left field, but if I asked very nicely, would you arrest me? I could smash something, or, you know, hit someone, but I just want to spend a night in the cells. See what it’s like? ’

  ‘Agnes isn’t well, Inspector McRae, she needs someone to stand up for her, not betray her.’

  ‘See, I gotta film after this one, where I’m this lap-dancer who gets kidnapped by a serial killer, and I figure she must’ve done time, right? She’s hard-as-nails on the outside, but there’s this core of vulnerability to her, and I think the experience of getting arrested would really help me connect with her? ’ Morgan placed a hand on Logan’s chest. ‘On an emotional level? ’

  He closed his eyes, massaged his throbbing temples. ‘I’m not arresting you.’

  ‘I played a veterinarian once, and spent a month working in an animal pound. Informed my whole interpretation of the character. It was
a very powerful performance, I-’

  ‘If you see Agnes, if she tries to get in touch, I want you to call me: day or night, don’t care.’ He pulled out a couple of Grampian Police business cards and printed his mobile number on the back of each. Then handed them out. ‘We can’t help Agnes if we can’t find her.’

  He’d taken half a dozen steps away towards where he’d left Henry Scott, when Morgan’s voice echoed out behind him. ‘OK, so if getting arrested’s out, how about a good spanking instead? I’ll let you tie me up and everything.’ Followed by raucous, filthy laughter.

  For God’s sake. . Logan kept going.

  Insch huffed up beside him, the grin replaced by a loose-jowled scowl. ‘What did I tell you about chatting up my actresses? ’

  ‘In what way was that my fault? ’ Logan stopped opposite the barrelled archway where Henry Scott had been cowering. It was empty now, just a lingering sour odour of unwashed clothes and BO to show that he’d been there at all. The little sod could’ve waited — Logan had fetched his bloody dinner for him. ‘Thanks, Henry.’

  ‘I’m serious.’ Insch glanced back over his shoulder. Nichole and Morgan waved at him. He waved back, then lowered his voice. ‘Do you have any idea how difficult it is to keep everyone happy and motivated? ’

  ‘That why they’re stoned all the time? ’

  Insch stared at him. ‘I have no idea what you’re-’

  ‘Oh come off it, the pair of them have pupils the size of doorknobs. I’m not an idiot.’

  Silence. ‘You know as well as I do: criminalizing cannabis usage is a waste of police time and doesn’t-’

  ‘Trust me, I’ve got bigger things to worry about than what your stars are smoking.’

  Insch closed his eyes and massaged his temples, breath hissing in and out through his nose. ‘Look, I know you’re busy, I know you’ve got other things on, but I really need you to stop this counterfeiting ring. It’s important.’