22 Dead Little Bodies

by MacBride, Stuart

  Logan ran. Grabbed her by the arm and spun her around. ‘That’s enough!’

  She swung a fist at Logan’s head. So he slammed her into the side of her mum’s car, grabbed her wrist and put it into a lock hold. Applying pressure till her legs buckled. ‘AAAAAAAAGH! Get off me! GET OFF ME! RAPE! RAPE! HELP!’

  He pulled his cuffs out. ‘I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Procedure – Scotland – Act 1995, because I suspect you of having committed an offence punishable by imprisonment—’

  ‘RAPE! HELP! SOMEONE HELP ME! RAPE!’

  No one got out of their car.

  ‘You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say—’

  ‘HELP! HELP!’

  Deep breath: ‘WOULD YOU SHUT UP?’

  She went limp. Slumped forward until her forehead was resting on the new Mini’s roof. ‘It’s only a week old. She’ll never let me borrow it again.’

  Logan clicked the cuffs over her wrists. ‘But anything you do say will be noted down and may be used in evidence.’ Then steered her over to the pool car and stuffed her into the back. ‘Stay there. Don’t make it any worse.’

  He got out his phone again and dialled Control. ‘I need an ambulance to Cromwell Road, got an … Hold on.’

  Captain Scruffy had levered himself up onto his bum, wobbling there with blood pouring down his filthy face. Eyes bloodshot and blinking out of phase with one another.

  Logan squatted down in front of him. ‘Are you OK?’

  An aura of rotting vegetables, BO, and baked-on urine spread out like a fog.

  It took a bit, but eventually that big hairy head swung around to squint at him. ‘Broke my bottle…’ He clutched the carrier bag to his chest. Bits of broken glass stuck out through the plastic. ‘BROKE MY BOTTLE!’ The bottom lip trembled, then tears sparked up in those pinky-yellow eyes, tumbled down the filthy cheeks. ‘NOOOOOOOO!’

  ‘You’re a bloody idiot, you know that, don’t you?’ Back to the phone. ‘We’ve got an IC-One male who’s been hit by a car and assaulted.’ Logan nodded at him, trying not to breathe through his nose. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘My bottle … My lovely, lovely, bottle.’ He hauled in air, showing off a mouth full of twisted brown teeth. ‘BASTARDS! MY BOTTLE!’

  Yeah, it was definitely one of those days.

  4

  ‘Logan, we don’t normally see you here during the day.’ Claire stuck her book down on the nurses’ station desk and smiled at him, making two dimples in her smooth round cheeks. ‘To what do we owe the honour?’

  Logan pointed over his shoulder, back along the corridor. ‘Got a road-rage victim in A-and-E. Thought I’d pop past while they were stitching him up.’

  Claire squeezed one eye shut. ‘It’s not a hairy young gentleman with personal hygiene issues, is it? Only Donald from security was just in here moaning about being bitten.’

  Yeah, probably. ‘How’s Samantha today?’

  ‘Getting up to all sorts of hijinks.’ She stood and smoothed out the creases in her nurse’s scrubs. ‘You got time for a cup of tea?’

  ‘Wouldn’t say no.’

  ‘Oh, and this came for you this morning.’ Claire reached into a drawer and pulled out a grey envelope. ‘Think it’s from Sunny Glen.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He took it and wandered down the corridor to Samantha’s room.

  The blinds were drawn, shutting out most of the light, but it was still warm enough to make him yawn.

  He sank onto the edge of the bed, leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Cold and pale. ‘Hey, you.’

  She didn’t answer, but then she never did.

  Something about the gloom and her porcelain skin made the tattoos stand out even more than usual. Jagged and dark. Like something trying to crawl its way out of her body.

  He brushed a strand of brown hair from her face. ‘Got a reply from Sunny Glen.’ Logan held up the envelope. ‘What do you think?’

  No reply.

  ‘Yeah, me too.’ He ripped it open. ‘“Dear Mr McRae, thank you for the application for specialist residential care on behalf of your girlfriend Samantha Mackie. As you know, our Neurological Care Unit has a worldwide reputation for managing and treating those in long-term comas…” Blah, blah, blah.’ He turned the letter over. ‘Oh sodding hell. “Unfortunately we do not have any spaces available at the current time.” Could they not have said that in the first place?’ He crumpled the sheet of paper into a ball and lobbed it across the room at the bin. Missed. Slouched over and put it in properly. ‘Place is probably rubbish anyway. And it’s all the way up on the sodding coast, not exactly convenient, is it? Traipsing all the way up there. You’d have hated it.’

  Still felt as if someone had used his soul as cat litter, though.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. We’ve got another three applications out there. Bound to be one who’ll take a hell-raiser like you.’

  Nothing.

  A knock on the door, and Claire stuck her head into the room. ‘I even managed to find a couple of biscuits for you. So…’ She frowned as Logan’s phone launched into its anonymous ringtone. ‘How many times do we have to talk about this?’

  ‘Only be a minute.’ He pulled it out and hit the button. ‘McRae.’

  A man’s voice, sounding out of breath. ‘You the joker who brought in Gordon Taylor?’

  Who the hell was Gordon Taylor? ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The homeless guy – got hit by a car. Someone gave him a kicking.’

  Ah, right. That Gordon Taylor. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s bitten two security guards and punched a nurse.’

  Wonderful. Another dollop added to the cat litter. ‘I’ll be right down.’ He put his phone away. Took the mug of tea from Claire and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Don’t let Samantha give you any trouble, OK? You know how feisty she gets.’

  The elevator juddered to a halt, and Logan stepped out into the familiar, depressing, scuffed green corridors. No paintings on the walls here, no community art projects, or murals, or anything to break the bleak industrial gloom. He followed the coloured lines set into the floor.

  Here and there, squares of duct tape held the peeling surface together. And everything smelled of disinfectant and over-boiled cauliflower.

  A porter bustled past, pushing a small child in a big bed. Drips and tubes and wires snaking from the little body to various bags and bits of equipment.

  Logan pulled out his phone and called Guthrie. ‘Any sign of Mrs Skinner yet?’

  ‘Sorry, Guv. I’ve checked all the neighbours again, but no one’s heard from her.’

  ‘OK.’ He stepped around the corner, and stopped outside the doors to Accident and Emergency. ‘Get onto Control and see if you can…’ A frown. ‘Have you been round the house? Peered in all the windows? Just in case.’

  ‘Yup. Even got her next-door to let me through so I could climb the garden fence and have a squint in the back. She’s not lying dead on the floor anywhere.’

  At least that was something.

  ‘Get Control to dig up the grandparents. They might know where she is.’

  ‘Will do.’ A pause. ‘Guv, did I ever tell you about what happened last time Snow White—’

  ‘Yes. And no more porn in the patrol car.’

  Logan hung up, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

  It wasn’t difficult to find Gordon Taylor, not with all the shouting and swearing going on. He was in a cubicle at the far end – crash, bang, wallop. A nurse squatted outside the curtains, head thrown back, a wad of tissues clamped against her nose stained bright red.

  ‘Hold still, you little sod…’

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Can someone hold his head so he won’t bite?’

  ‘Ow! Ow, ow, ow … Bloody hell…’

  Logan slipped through the curtains and stared at the human octopus wrestling with itself on the hospital bed. Arms, legs, hands, feet, all struggling to keep the figure on the bottom from getting u
p.

  One of the nurses yanked her arm into the air. ‘OW! He bit me!’

  ‘Don’t let go of his head!’

  Logan reached into his pocket, pulled out the little canister of CS gas, and walked over to the bed. ‘Let go of him.’

  A doctor turned and glared. ‘Are you off your head?’

  Click, the safety cover flipped off the top of the gas canister. ‘Then you probably want to cover your nose and mouth.’

  Gordon Taylor’s filthy, blood-caked face rose from between the medics’ arms, teeth snapping.

  Logan jammed the CS gas canister right between his eyes. Raised his voice over the crashing and banging, the grunting and swearing. ‘You’ve been gassed before, right, Gordon? Want to try it again?’

  A blink. Then he froze.

  ‘Good boy. Now you let these nice people examine you, or I’m going to gas you back to the Thatcher era, OK?’

  Gordon Taylor went limp.

  The doctor bowed his head for a moment. ‘Oh thank God…’ Then straightened up. ‘Right, we need blood tests and a sedative. Then get these filthy rags off him.’

  The nurses bustled about with needles and scissors, faces contorted with disgust every time a new layer of clothes came off revealing a new odour.

  Logan kept the CS gas where Taylor could see it. ‘You’re an idiot, you know that, don’t you? Staggering about, blootered, abusing passers-by, falling into the road. Lucky you didn’t kill yourself.’

  Taylor didn’t move. Kept his eyes fixed on the gas canister.

  One of the nurses gagged, holding out a filthy shirt with her fingertips.

  Gordon Taylor’s arms were knots of ropey muscles, stretched taut across too-big bones. No fat on them. But the left one had a Gordon Highlanders tattoo, the ink barely visible beneath the filth. His torso was a mess of bruises – some fresh and red, some middle-aged purple-and-blue, some dying yellow-and-green.

  He jerked his chin up. ‘She broke my bottle.’ The slur had gone from his voice, but his breath was enough to make Logan back off a couple of steps.

  ‘You’re a drunken sodding menace to yourself and others, Gordon. What the hell were you thinking, staggering out into the road? What if a car swerves, trying to avoid your drunken backside, hits someone else and kills them? That what you want?’

  ‘A whole bottle of Bells that was!’ No wonder his breath was minging – his teeth looked like stubbed-out cigarettes.

  ‘I’ve arrested the woman who assaulted you. She’ll—’

  ‘Tell her! Tell her I’ll not press charges if she buys me a new bottle…’ Gordon Taylor’s eyes widened. ‘No, two bottles. Aye, and litre bottles, not tiny wee ones.’

  Nothing like getting your priorities straight.

  ‘That’s not how it works, Gordon. She has to—’ Logan’s phone burst into song in his pocket. ‘Sodding hell.’

  The doctor narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re not supposed to have your phone switched on in here.’

  ‘Police business.’ He pulled it out and hit the button, killing the noise. ‘For God’s sake, what now?’

  There was a moment of silence, then a deep voice rumbled out of the speakers. ‘I think you mean, “Good afternoon”, don’t you, Acting Detective Inspector McRae?’

  Oh no. Not this. Not now.

  Logan closed his eyes. ‘Superintendent Young. Sorry. I’m kind of in the middle of—’

  ‘I think you and I need to have a chat about a complaint that’s landed on my desk. Why don’t we say, my office? Any time in the next fifteen minutes is good.’

  Wonderful.

  5

  Superintendent Young was all dressed up in Nosferatu black – black T-shirt with epaulettes, black police-issue trousers, and black shoes. He sat back in his seat and tapped his pen against an A4 pad. Tap. Tap. Tap. ‘Are you denying the allegations?’

  The Professional Standards office was tombstone quiet. A wooden clock ticked away to itself on the wall beside Young’s desk. The chair creaked beneath Logan’s bum. A muffled scuffing sound as someone tried to sneak past outside – scared to make a noise in case someone inside heard them and came hunting. And the sinister sods didn’t burst into flame when exposed to sunlight or holy water, so you were never safe.

  Trophies made a little gilded plastic parade across the two filing cabinets in the corner, all the figures frozen in the execution of their chosen sport – clay-pigeon shooting, judo, boxing, ten-pin bowling, fly-fishing, curling. A framed print of The Monarch of the Glen above the printer.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  Quarter past five. Should be in the pub by now, not sitting here.

  Logan dumped the letter of complaint back on Young’s desk. ‘With all due respect to anyone unfortunate enough to suffer from mental illness, Marion Black is a complete and utter sodding nutter.’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  Logan shifted in the creaky chair. ‘While I do know a pornographer, he’s never offered me a bribe.’

  Young raised an eyebrow. ‘You actually know someone who makes dirty movies?’

  ‘Helps us out from time to time cleaning up CCTV footage. Moved into mainstream film a couple of years ago. Ever see Witchfire? That was him.’

  ‘And he used to make porn?’

  ‘You should ask DCI Steel to show you – she’s got the complete collection.’

  A tilt of the head, as if Young was considering doing just that. ‘What about drug dealers?’

  ‘Guv, Marion Black has accused nearly everyone in a three hundred mile radius of corruption at some point. She’s a menace. You know that.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter how many complaints an individual makes, Logan, we have to take every one of them seriously.’

  Logan poked the letter. It was a printout from a slightly blotchy inkjet, the words on the far left of the pages smudged. Densely packed type with no line breaks. ‘I met her at ten past three today, and spoke to her on the phone a little after four. And in that time she managed to write a three-page letter of complaint and deliver it to you lot. She’s probably got a dozen of them sitting on her computer ready to go at any time. Insert-some-poor-sod’s-name-here and off you go.’

  Young swivelled his chair from side to side a couple of times. ‘It’s not going to work, you know.’

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘This.’ Young spread his hands, taking in the whole room. ‘You think the easiest way to get shot of Mrs Black is to ignore her. You do nothing about her concerns, she makes a complaint about corruption, and you get to pass the Nutter Spoon of Doom on to the next poor sod without having to do any work.’

  Warmth prickled at the back of Logan’s neck. He licked his lips. ‘Nutter Spoon of Doom, Guv? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of—’

  ‘Oh don’t be ridiculous, we know all about it.’ He sat forward. ‘Let me make this abundantly clear, Acting Detective Inspector McRae: you have the spoon, and you’re going to personally deal with Mrs Black whether you like it or not.’ A finger came up, pointing at the middle of Logan’s chest. ‘Not one of your minions: you.’

  Logan threw his arms out, appealing to the ref. ‘I met her today at three o’clock! I’ve got a suicide, a road-rage incident, a spate of car vandalism, petty thefts, fire-raising, a shoplifting ring, three common assaults, and a bunch of other cases to deal with. When was I supposed to go visit her poo tree?’

  ‘Make time.’

  ‘I delegated the task to DC Andrews.’

  ‘I don’t care.’ Young sat back again. ‘And make sure you never speak to Mrs Black without another officer present. Preferably someone who can film it on their body-worn video.’

  Logan stared at the ceiling tiles for a moment. They were clean. New and pristine. ‘I’m not even supposed to be holding the spoon – it’s Wheezy Doug’s turn.’

  ‘My heart bleeds.’ Superintendent Young prodded the complaint file. ‘What about this man Mrs Black complained about in the first place…?’

  ‘Justin Robs
on. She claims to have seen him smoking cannabis in his garden two and a bit years ago. Says he’s now festooning her cherry tree with what she calls “dog mess”.’

  ‘I see.’ Young narrowed his eyes, tapped his fingertips against his pursed lips. ‘And how has CID investigated this unwelcomed act of garden embellishment?’

  Logan shrugged. ‘I told Wheezy Doug to go take a look this afternoon. Haven’t had time to catch up with him yet.’

  ‘Hmm…’

  Silence.

  Young pursed and tapped.

  Logan just sat there.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  More pursing and tapping. Then: ‘I think it’s about time someone looked into Mrs Black’s neighbour. I want you to have a word with this Justin Robson. Ask him, politely, to defuse his feud with Mrs Black. And tell him to stop decorating her tree with dog shit. Or at least wait until Christmas. It’s only August.’

  Wonderful. Makework. As if they didn’t have enough to do.

  ‘Guv, with all due respect, it—’

  ‘Get cracking this evening; I’ll authorize the overtime. Let’s see if we can’t at least look like we’re taking her seriously.’

  ‘Sorry, Guv, still no sign of Mrs Skinner or the kids.’ Guthrie sniffed down the phone. ‘You want me to hang on some more?’

  ‘Does she have her own car?’ Logan unbuckled his seatbelt, as DC Wheezy Doug Andrews parked the pool car behind a Volvo Estate.

  Pitmedden Court basked in the evening light. A long collection of grey harled houses, some in terraces of three or four, some semidetatched. Some with tiny portico porches, some without. A nice road. Tidy gardens and knee-high garden walls. Speed bumps. Hello, Mrs McGillivray, I hope your Jack’s doing well the day.

  ‘Hold on … Yes: dark-green Honda Jazz.’

  ‘Get a lookout request on the go. And make sure the Automatic Number Plate Recognition lot are keeping an eye out. Enough people filmed her husband jumping off the roof on their phones; I don’t want the poor woman seeing him splattered across the cobbles on the evening news.’

  ‘Guv.’

  ‘What about the grandparents?’

  ‘Got an address in Portlethen, and one in Stoneywood. You want me to pack it in here and go speak to them? Or hang about in case she comes home?’