22 Dead Little Bodies

by MacBride, Stuart

Logan dug a spoon into the coffee, breaking the kitty-litter clumps back into their individual grains. ‘How many times do I have to tell people not to put damp spoons in the jar?’

  ‘Like you’re making it up to spite them.’ A sigh. ‘Can’t really blame the family, though, can you?’

  The office phone rang, and she picked it up. ‘CID: DS Baird.’ Then her expression curdled. ‘Not again … Really?… Uh-huh…’

  Two sugars in one mug, milk in the other.

  ‘No. I can’t … He’s not here.’

  Logan put the black coffee on her desk. She looked up and gave him a grimace in return. Put the phone against her chest, smothering the mouthpiece. ‘Sorry, Guv, but Mrs Black’s downstairs again.’

  He took a sip of his own coffee. ‘Which brave soul doth possess the Nutter Spoon of Doom upon this dark day?’

  Baird scooted her chair over to DC Andrews’s desk and pulled a wooden spoon from the top drawer. It had a photo of a woman’s face stuck to the bowl end: grey hair, squinty eyes, long nose, mouth stretched out and down, as if she’d taken a bite out of something foul.

  ‘Ooh…’ Logan sooked a breath in through his teeth. ‘Looks like it’s not your lucky day, Denise, for whomever wields the Nutter Spoon of Doom must—’

  ‘I’m on the no-go list. Apparently I’m in collusion with McLennan Homes and the Planning Department to launder drug money for the Taliban.’ She held out the spoon with its glowering stuck-on face. ‘Sorry, Guv.’

  Logan backed away from it. ‘Maybe someone in uniform could—’

  ‘They’re all banned from talking to her. She’s got complaints in against everyone else.’

  ‘Everyone?’

  ‘Yes, but…’ Baird waggled the spoon at him. ‘Maybe she’ll like you?’

  Logan took the Nutter Spoon of Doom. It was only a little bit of wood with a photo Sellotaped to the end, but it felt as if it was carved from lead.

  Oh joy.

  3

  Logan stopped outside the visiting-room door. Took a deep breath. Didn’t open it.

  The reception area was quiet. A bored PC slumped behind the bulletproof glass that topped the curved desk, poking away at a smartphone. Posters clarted the walls, warning against drug farms in cul-de-sacs and walking home alone at night. An information point cycled through views of Aberdeen. And a strange smell of mouldy cheese permeated the room.

  No point putting it off any longer.

  He shifted his grip on the thick manila folder tucked under his arm, opened the door, and stepped inside. It wasn’t much bigger than a cupboard, with a couple of filing cabinets on one wall and a small opaque window that didn’t really overlook the rear-podium car park.

  Mrs Black was sitting on the other side of the small table that took up most of the available space. She narrowed her eyes, tugged at the hem of her skirt, and sniffed – turning that long nose up towards the ceiling. Her short grey hair shimmered as if it had been conditioned within an inch of its existence. Then the glasses came out of the bag clutched to her chest. Slipped on with all the pomp and circumstance of a royal wedding. Voice clipped and dark. ‘I have been waiting here for nearly an hour.’

  Logan suppressed a sigh. Did his best to keep his voice polite and neutral. ‘Mrs Black.’ Stepped inside and closed the visiting-room door. ‘I’m sorry if my trying to catch criminals and keep the streets safe has inconvenienced you in any way.’

  Her lips pursed. Pause. Two. Three. Four. ‘He’s doing it again.’

  Of course he is.

  Logan thumped the manila folder down on the little table. It was about as thick as a house brick, bulging with paperwork; a red elastic band wrapped around it to keep everything in. Then he settled into the room’s remaining seat and took out his notebook. ‘Right, we’d better take it from the beginning. You said, “He’s doing it again.” Who is?’

  Mrs Black folded her arms across her chest and scowled. ‘You know very well, “Who”.’ A small shudder. ‘Justin Robson.’ The name came out as if it tasted of sick. ‘He’s … He’s covering my cherry tree with … dog mess.’

  ‘Dog mess.’

  ‘That’s right: dog mess. I want him arrested.’

  Logan tapped his pen against the folder. ‘And you’ve seen him doing it?’

  ‘Of course not. He’s too careful for that. Does it in the middle of the night when Mr Black and I are sleeping.’ Another shudder. ‘Up till all hours listening to that horrible rap music of his, with all the swearing and violence. I’ve complained to the council, but do they do anything? Of course they don’t.’

  ‘You do know that we can’t arrest someone without proof, don’t you?’

  Both hands slapped down on the desk. ‘You know he did it. I know he did it. Ever since I did my public duty and reported him he’s been completely intolerable.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ Logan removed the elastic band and opened the folder. Took out the top chunk of paperwork. ‘Here we are. On the thirteenth of April, two years ago, you claimed to have seen Mr Robson smoking cannabis in the garden outside his house.’

  The nose went up again. ‘And did anyone arrest him for it? Of course they didn’t.’

  ‘This isn’t a totalitarian state, we can’t just—’

  ‘Are you going to arrest him or not?’

  ‘We need evidence before—’

  She jabbed the desk with a finger. ‘I had thought you might be different. That you’d be an honest policeman for a change, unlike the rest of these corrupt—’

  ‘Now hold on, that’s—’

  ‘—clearly in the pocket of drug dealers and pornographers!’

  Logan shuffled his chair back from the table an inch. ‘Pornographers?’

  ‘Justin Robson posted an obscene publication through my door; a magazine full of women performing the most revolting acts.’ Her mouth puckered like a chicken’s bum. A sniff. ‘Mr Black had to burn it in the back garden. Well, it’s not as if we could’ve put it in the recycling, what would the binmen think?’

  ‘Mrs Black, I can assure you that neither I, nor any of my team are being paid off by drug dealers or pornographers. We can’t arrest Mr Robson for smoking marijuana two years ago, because there’s no evidence.’

  She hissed a breath out through that long raised nose. ‘I saw him with my own eyes!’

  ‘I see.’ Logan wrote that down in his notebook. ‘And how did you determine that what he was smoking was actually marijuana? Did you perform a chemical analysis on the roach? Did you see him roll it?’

  ‘Don’t be facetious.’

  ‘I’m not being facetious, I’m trying to understand why you think he was smoking—’

  ‘You’re not going to do anything about him putting dog mess on my cherry tree, are you? You’re going to sit there and do nothing, because you’re as corrupt as all the rest.’

  Slow, calm breaths.

  Logan opened the folder and pulled out the thick wad of paperwork. ‘Mrs Black, in the last two years, you’ve made five hundred and seventeen complaints against Mr Robson; the local council; the Scottish Government; the Prince of Wales; Jimmy Shand; Ewan McGregor; the whole Westminster cabinet; our local MP, MSP, and MEP; and nearly every police officer in Aberdeen Division.’

  ‘I have a moral obligation, and a right, to report corruption wherever I find it!’

  ‘OK.’ He reached beneath the desk and pulled a fresh complaint form from the bottom of the pile. Placed it in front of her. ‘If you’d like to report me for taking money from drug dealers and pornographers, you should speak to someone from Professional Standards. I can give you their number.’

  She curled her top lip. ‘What makes you think they’re not all corrupt too?’

  Logan pushed through the double doors, out onto the rear-podium car park. The bulk of Divisional Headquarters formed walls of concrete and glass on three sides, the back of the next street over closing the gap, turning it into a sun trap. Which meant the pool car was like a sodding oven when he unlocked the door.
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br />   Then froze.

  Scowled.

  Leaned back against the bonnet and crossed his arms as a dented brown Vauxhall spluttered its way up the ramp and into the parking space opposite.

  The driver gave Logan a smile and a wave as he climbed out into the sunshine. Broad face with ruddy cheeks, no neck, greying hair that wasn’t as fond of his head as it had been twenty years ago. A proper farmer’s face. ‘Fine day, the day, Guv. Do—’

  ‘Wheezy! Where the bloody hell have you been?’

  DC Andrews’s mouth clicked shut, then his eyebrows peaked in the middle. ‘I’ve been taking witness—’

  ‘I had to interview Marion Sodding Black!’

  ‘It’s not my fault, I wasn’t even here!’ He cleared his throat. Coughed. Covered his mouth and hacked out a couple of barks that ended with a glob of phlegm being spat against the tarmac. Leaving his ruddy farmer’s face red and swollen. ‘Gah…’ Deep, groaning breaths.

  Then Logan closed his eyes. Counted to three. Wheezy was right – it wasn’t his fault he was out working when Mrs Black turned up. ‘OK. I’m sorry. That was unfair.’ He straightened his jacket. ‘Did you find anything out at Garthdee?’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ Wheezy Doug locked his pool car. ‘Fiver says it was Bobby Greig. Security camera’s didn’t get his face, but I’d recognize that manky BMX bike of his anywhere.’

  ‘Good. That’s good.’ Logan went for an innocent smile. ‘So you’re free right now?’

  ‘As I can be. Need to get a search warrant and…’ Wheezy Doug pulled his chin in, giving himself a ripple of neck wrinkles. Narrowed his eyes. ‘Wait a minute: why?’

  ‘Oh, just asking.’

  He backed off a pace. ‘No you’re not. You’ve got something horrible needs doing, don’t you?’

  ‘Me? No. Not a bit of it. I want you to go visit Pitmedden Court for me. Take a look at a cherry tree for me.’

  Wheezy Doug’s face unclenched. ‘Oh, that’s OK then. Thought for a moment there you…’ And then it was back again. ‘Pitmedden Court? Gah…’ He covered his eyes with his hands. ‘Noooooo … It’s her, isn’t it?’

  The innocent smile turned into a grin. ‘Mrs Black says her neighbour’s sticking dog poo in her tree. And you’re officially in possession of the Nutter Spoon of Doom.’

  ‘Mrs Black’s a pain in the hoop.’

  ‘Yup, but right now she’s your pain. Now get your hoop in gear and go check out her tree.’

  Logan tucked his phone between his ear and his shoulder, then locked the pool car’s door. ‘Nah, same nonsense as usual. Everyone’s corrupt. Everyone’s out to get her. Her neighbour’s hanging bags of dog crap in her cherry tree.’

  On the other end, DS Baird groaned. ‘Dog crap? I must’ve missed that issue of Better Homes and Gardens. Stoney’s back – says are you coming to the pub after work?’

  Quick check of the watch: five to four.

  ‘Depends how long I am here. Yeah. Well, probably.’

  Wind rustled through the thick green crown of a sycamore tree, dropping helicopter seed pods onto the pool car’s bonnet to lie amongst the dappled sunlight. Buchanan Street’s grey terraces faced each other across a short stretch of divoted tarmac. Eight houses on each side in utilitarian granite, unadorned by anything fancier than UPVC windows and doors. Most of the gardens had been converted into off-street parking, bordered by knee-high walls and the occasional browning hedge.

  Number Fourteen’s parking area was empty, but a useless Police Constable and his patrol car idled outside – blocking the drive.

  The house didn’t look any different to its neighbours. As if nothing had happened. As if the guy who lived there hadn’t jumped off the casino roof and splattered himself across Exchequer Row.

  Logan hung up and wandered over to the patrol car. Knocked on the driver’s window.

  Sitting behind the wheel, PC Guthrie gave a little squeak and sat bolt upright, stuffing a magazine into the footwell before Logan could get a good look at it. He turned and hauled on a pained smile, pink blooming on his cheeks as he buzzed down the window. ‘Sorry, Guv. Frightened the life out of me.’

  Logan leaned on the roof of the car, looming through the open window. ‘That better not have been porn, Sunshine, or I swear to God…’

  The blush deepened. ‘Porn? No. No, course not.’ He cleared his throat then grabbed his hat and climbed out into the afternoon. ‘I’ve been round all the neighbours: no one’s seen Mrs Skinner since she took the kids to school this morning.’

  Logan turned on the spot. Sixteen houses, all crushed together. ‘It’s Saturday, why was she taking the kids to school?’

  ‘Ballet classes for the wee boy, and maths club for the girl. He’s six, she’s seven.’

  Made sense. ‘You tried the school?’

  A shrug. ‘Closes at two on a Saturday.’

  Well, it wasn’t as if they’d still be there anyway. Not now. ‘OK. Any of the neighbours got a contact number for Mrs Skinner?’

  Guthrie pulled out his notepad and flicked through to the marker. Passed it over. ‘Mobile: goes straight to voicemail.’

  Logan tried it anyway.

  Click. ‘Hello, this is Emma, I can’t do the phone thing right now, so make messages after the bleep.’ Beeeeeep.

  ‘Mrs Skinner, this is Detective Inspector Logan McRae of Police Scotland. Can you give me a call when you get this, please? You can get back to me on this number, or call one-zero-one and ask them to put you through. Thanks.’ He hung up. Put his phone away.

  Guthrie sniffed, then slid the back of a finger underneath his nose, as if trying to catch a drip. ‘Shame we can’t deliver the death message by text, isn’t it?’

  Logan stared at him, until the blush came back. ‘For that little moment of compassion, you can stay here till she comes home.’

  His shoulders dipped. ‘Guv.’

  ‘And stop reading porn in the patrol car!’

  Logan pulled in to the kerb and swore his mobile phone out of his pocket. Checked the display. No idea who the number belonged to. Might be Mrs Skinner calling back?

  He hit the button. ‘DI McRae.’

  Harlaw playing fields lay flat and green behind their high wire fence. Three cricket matches, and a game of rugby, grunting and thwacking away in the afternoon light.

  Logan tried again. ‘Hello?’

  A familiar dark, clipped female voice sounded in his ear: ‘You were supposed to be investigating my tree.’

  ‘Mrs Black.’ Oh joy.

  ‘I’ll be putting in a formal complaint. I know my rights! You have to—’

  ‘We are investigating, Mrs Black.’ Keep it calm and level. No shouting. No swearing or telling her what she can do with her sodding complaints. Don’t sigh. ‘I’ve sent an officer round there. He will be taking statements. He will be photographing any evidence. OK?’ You vile, rancid, old battle-axe.

  Silence.

  Outside, a scruffy man with a beard down to the middle of his chest and hair like a diseased scarecrow lurched along the pavement. Scruffy overcoat, suit trousers, hiking boots, trilby hat. Not the best fashion statement in the world.

  A carrier bag swung from one hand, like a pendulum. Something heavy in there. And from the look of him, it was probably cheap and very alcoholic.

  Then Mrs Black was back. ‘That man is making my life a living hell and you’re doing nothing to prevent it. What about my human rights? I demand you do something!’

  Seriously?

  Deep breath. ‘We are doing something. We’re investigating.’ Logan coiled his other hand around the steering wheel. Strangling it. ‘Mrs Black, if Mr Robson’s done something illegal under Scottish law, we’ll arrest him. Putting dog mess in someone’s tree is antisocial, but it isn’t illegal.’

  ‘Of course it’s illegal! How could it not be illegal?’ She was getting louder and shriller. ‘I can’t sleep, I can’t breathe, I can’t … Mr Black…’ A deep breath. ‘It’s the law. He’s harassing me. He’s putting do
g mess in my cherry tree!’

  Captain Scruffy stumbled into the path of a large woman wheeling a pushchair along the pavement.

  She flinched to a halt, detoured around him. Shuddering as she marched off.

  He wobbled in place, plastic bag clutched to his chest, yelling slurred obscenities after her.

  ‘I demand you arrest that Robson creature!’

  ‘Mrs Black, this is a civil matter, not a criminal one. You need to get yourself a lawyer and sue him.’

  ‘Why should I spend all that money on a lawyer, when it’s your job to arrest him? I demand you do your job!’

  Captain Scruffy shook his fist at the escaping woman. The motion sent him off again: one step to the right. One to the left. Two to the right. And on his backside in three, two…

  ‘Are you even listening to me?’

  The next stagger took him backwards, off the kerb and into the traffic.

  Sodding hell.

  A blare of horns. An Audi estate swerved, barely missing him with its front bumper. A Range Rover slammed on its brakes.

  Captain Scruffy pirouetted, carrier bag swinging out with the motion.

  BANG. A bright-orange Mini caught the bag, right on the bonnet, spinning him around and bouncing him off the windscreen. Sending him clattering to the tarmac like a bag of dirty laundry.

  ‘Why won’t anyone there take me seriously? I pay my taxes! I have rights! How dare you ignore me!’

  Logan clicked off his seatbelt.

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Don’t you dare hang up on me, I—’

  He hung up on her and scrambled out into the warm afternoon.

  The Mini was slewed at thirty degrees across both lanes, its driver already out of the car staring at the bonnet. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God…’ She had a hand to her mouth, eyes wide, knees trembling. Didn’t seem to be even vaguely interested in the man lying on his back in the middle of the road behind her.

  Then she turned on him. ‘YOU BLOODY IDIOT! WHAT’S MUM GOING TO SAY?’ Two fast steps, then she slammed a trainer into the fallen man’s stomach. ‘SHE’S ONLY HAD IT A WEEK!’ Another kick, this one catching him on the side of the head, sending that stupid little hat flying.

  The other drivers stayed where they were, in their cars. No one helped, but a couple dragged out their mobile phones to film it, so that was all right.