22 Dead Little Bodies

by MacBride, Stuart

  ‘Any sign of foul play?’

  ‘Doubt it: your friend here choked on his own vomit. If you want my opinion, you’re looking at what happens when you spend your life downing litre bottles of supermarket vodka, whisky, and gin. Sooner or later it catches up with you.’ He straightened up with a groan and rubbed at the small of his back. ‘And with that, the brave Duty Doctor’s work was done, and he could get back to treating hypochondriac morons who think they know better than him because they’ve looked leprosy up on the internet.’

  The uniform with the spots held up the barrier tape and the undertaker’s plain grey van eased back out onto Harlaw Road. The driver nodded to Logan and drove off.

  Wheezy Doug was in conversation with a middle-aged man with a walking stick, two houses down. Stoney was at the far end of the street, nodding and taking notes as a mother of two waved her arms about, a pair of red-haired kids running screaming around her legs. DS Baird wandered up the road, hands in her pockets.

  She stopped beside Logan and nodded at the departing van. ‘That him off, then?’

  ‘You get anything?’

  ‘Far as we can tell, Gordon Taylor’s been hanging around here for about a fortnight. I got Control to pull anything relating to Harlaw Road and three streets either side. There’s been an increase in breaking and enterings: low-level stuff, shed padlocks forced, meths and white spirit nicked kind of thing. One stolen handbag – owner put it on the roof of her car while she unloaded the shopping, came back: no handbag. Loads of complaints of antisocial behaviour.’ She pulled out her notebook and flipped it open at the marker. ‘And I quote, “There’s a smelly tramp staggering up and down the street at all hours, singing filthy rugby songs and rummaging through the bins.”’ Baird turned the page. ‘Eight counts of public urination. No one ever caught him at it, but in the morning people’s doorways would smell of piddle. That lot,’ she pointed at a tidy house with an immaculate garden, where a little old lady was pruning a rosebush, ‘called the police eight times in the last week.’

  Well, the old dear wasn’t so much pruning the bush as nipping tiny bits off the one branch, probably using it as an excuse to have a nosy. She wasn’t the only one. At least half a dozen others were out, taking their time washing cars or raking the lawn. Pretending not to snoop.

  A glazier’s van sat outside the old lady’s house. The driver and his mate were in the cab, stuffing down chocolate biscuits and pouring tea from a thermos. Staring as if this was the most interesting thing to happen all day. An episode of Taggart, playing out right there in front of them.

  Logan turned his back on the gawkers. ‘So what happened?’

  Baird shrugged. ‘Patrol car did a drift by a couple of times, but you know what it’s like. Don’t have time to attend every moaning numpty.’

  True. But if they’d actually done something about it – if they’d turned up and arrested him – Gordon Taylor would probably still be alive today. Hard to drink yourself to death in a police cell.

  Something heavy settled behind Logan’s eyes, pulling his whole head down.

  And if he’d arrested Gordon Taylor on Saturday for being drunk and incapable, or done him for biting two security guards and a nurse, or for punching that other nurse on the nose…

  Pfff…

  ‘You OK, Guv?’

  A one-shouldered shrug. ‘Missed opportunities.’ He looked off down the road.

  Didn’t really matter in the end, did it? Lock Gordon Taylor up for a night, or a week, and he’d still hit the bottle as soon as he got out. All it would’ve done was delay the inevitable. Sooner or later, he’d be in the undertaker’s van on the way to the mortuary.

  Logan dragged in a deep breath, then let it out. Checked his watch. Might as well head back to the office and do something productive. ‘Get Wheezy to deliver the death message. He knows Gordon Taylor’s dad. Might be better if he finds out from a friend.’

  There was only so much you could do.

  Logan spat the last cold dregs of coffee back into his mug and shuddered. Time for a fresh cup.

  He’d got as far as his office door when his mobile launched into its anonymous ringtone. Please let it be anyone other than Mrs Sodding Black again.

  He hit the button. ‘McRae.’

  ‘Mr McRae? It’s Marjory from Willkie and Oxford, Solicitors? How are you doing? That’s great. I’ve had Mr and Mrs Moore on the phone again and they’re prepared to go as far as fifteen thousand below the valuation.’

  ‘Then Mr and Mrs Moore can go screw themselves.’

  A fake laugh came down the phone as Logan let himself out into the corridor, making for the stairwell. ‘Well, I had to let you know anyway. I’ll get back to their solicitor. And I wanted to know if you’re available this afternoon? We’ve had a call from a young man interested in viewing the property.’

  ‘I’m on duty.’ Which part of serving police officer did she not understand?

  ‘Right. Yes. Well, not to worry, I can show him around.’

  Nice to know she’d be doing something for her one-percent-cut of the price.

  He slid his phone back in its pocket and clumped up the stairs to the canteen. Froze in the doorway.

  DCI Steel sat at the table in front of the vending machine, working her way through a Curly Wurly and a tin of Coke. A large parcel lay on the floor at her feet, wrapped in brown paper and about a mile of packing tape. She hadn’t seen him yet – too busy chewing. All he had to do was back out of the door and—

  ‘Hoy, Laz, I’ll have a hazelnut latte if you’re buying.’

  Sodding hell.

  Too late. He stepped into the canteen. ‘Any luck tracking down John Skinner’s kids?’

  She took another bite of Curly Wurly, chewing with her mouth open. ‘Trust me, if there was you’d have heard about it. I’d be running through the station, bare-arse naked singing “Henry the Horny Hedgehog” at the top of my lungs.’

  A shudder riffled its way across Logan’s shoulders. ‘Gah…’

  ‘Oh like you’re a sodding catwalk model. Least I’m getting some, unlike you. Surprised your right arm’s no’ like Popeye’s by now.’ Her teeth ripped a chunk off the twisted chocolate. ‘And while we’re on the subject, where the sodding hell have you been? Got missing kids to find, remember?’

  He stared at her. ‘It’s your case. You took it over, remember?’

  ‘Don’t be so—’

  ‘And for your information, we’ve got enough on our plate as it is. Spent half the morning dealing with a sudden death.’ He bared his teeth. ‘So forgive me if I’m not available to run about after you all day.’

  Steel leaned back in her chair and waved her Curly Wurly at him. ‘Oh aye, I heard all about your “sudden death”. Two missing kids trumps one dead tramp.’ The Curly Wurly jabbed towards the canteen counter. ‘Now backside in gear, and tell them no’ to skimp on the chocolate sprinkles this time.’

  Typical.

  He got a coffee for himself, and Steel’s hazelnut latte. Brought them both back to the table. ‘I’ve spat in yours.’

  ‘No you didn’t.’ She took a sip. Sighed. ‘Got two dozen bodies manning the phones. Heidi and Toby Skinner have been spotted everywhere from Thurso to the Costa del Sol, via Peebles and Chipping Norton.’ The creases between her eyebrows deepened. ‘Getting a bad feeling about this one, Laz.’

  ‘Just because we haven’t found them yet, doesn’t mean we won’t.’

  ‘When are we ever that lucky?’ Steel sank back in her seat and scrubbed her face with her palms, pulling it about like pasty plasticene. Then let her arms drop. ‘In other news: tomorrow night. You and Jasmine, daddy–daughter time, with Despicable Me one and two.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re no’ watching a Disney film, Laz: I know you get aroused by all those princesses in their pretty dresses.’

  ‘I’m not being your unpaid babysitter.’

  ‘Come on: it’s our anniversary.’ Steel nudged the parcel with her toe. ‘G
ot Susan the perfect gift. Want to know what it is?’

  He glanced beneath the table. Large, rectangular, with a website address printed on the delivery label. ‘Something you’ve ordered off the internet? Nah, I’d rather not know.’ It was bound to be something filthy. Probably battery operated.

  ‘You’re no fun.’ She unwrapped the last inch of twirly toffee and jammed it in her mouth. ‘Tell you what: ten quid, cash. And a pizza. Can’t say fairer than that.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK: ten quid, a pizza, and a bottle of red…’ She narrowed her mouth to a little pale slit. ‘Uh-ho. Crucifixes at the ready, Laz, here comes Nosferatu Junior.’

  Logan turned and peered over his shoulder. Superintendent Young was marching across the green terrazzo floor towards their table. Dressed all in black, with a silver crown on each epaulette attached to his black T-shirt. The fabric stretched tight across his barrel chest.

  Steel hissed. Then stared at the tabletop, keeping her voice low. ‘Don’t move. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t even breathe. He’ll get confused and walk away.’ She took a deep breath.

  Young stopped at the head of the table. ‘Inspector. Chief Inspector.’

  She didn’t move.

  Logan nodded. ‘Superintendent.’

  He pulled up a chair. ‘Mrs Black has made another complaint.’

  What a surprise. ‘Let me guess – Wheezy and I are corrupt because we didn’t arrest Justin Robson this morning?’

  ‘Apparently he’s bribed you with drugs and dirty magazines. He…’ A frown. ‘Why is Chief Inspector Steel going purple?’

  ‘Because she’s not right in the head.’ Logan took a sip of coffee. ‘And for the record, there was nothing we could do. Robson killed Mrs Black’s parakeets – no doubt about that – but he burned all the evidence. Even his shoes.’

  ‘I see. And is DCI Steel planning on holding her breath till she passes out?’

  ‘Probably. Look, we can’t arrest Robson, because we’ve got nothing on him that’ll stand up in court. I’ve sent the dead parakeets off to the labs, but you know what the budget’s like. Assuming we can even get past the backlog.’

  ‘But you’re not hopeful, are…’ A sigh. Then Young leaned over and poked Steel hard in the ribs. ‘Breathe, you idiot.’

  Air exploded out of her, then she grabbed the table and hauled in a deep shuddering breath. ‘Aaaaaa…’

  ‘I understand you could’ve arrested the pair of them last night, but didn’t.’

  ‘Oooh, the world’s gone all swimmy…’

  Logan twisted the coffee cup in his hands. ‘We felt it was more appropriate to try and defuse the situation with a warning.’

  ‘But Mr Robson didn’t take it.’

  ‘Not so much.’ A shrug. ‘Mrs Black poured paint all over his car and carved “Drug Dealer” into the doors. Probably have to get it completely resprayed. Going to cost him, what – three, maybe four grand?’

  Steel blinked. Shook her head. ‘Wow. That’s a hell of a lot cheaper than a bottle of chardonnay.’

  ‘And in light of this morning’s actions?’

  Logan raised one hand and rocked it from side to side. ‘The aggravated assault and vandalism got no-crimed. I doubt the PF would let us go back and do the pair of them retrospectively.’

  ‘Going to try that again.’ Steel took another huge breath and scrunched her face up.

  Young frowned at her for a while. ‘Has she always been this bad?’

  ‘No, she’s getting worse.’

  He poked her again. ‘We’ve got twelve different news organizations camped outside the front door, do you think you could try acting a bit more like a grown-up?’

  She scowled at him. ‘Doing everything we can, OK?’ She held up a hand, counting the points off on her fingers. ‘National appeal in the media. Whole team going through all Heidi and Toby’s friends. Posters up at every train station, bus station, airport, and ferry terminal. We did three complete door-to-doors where they live. And…’ Steel wiggled the one remaining finger. ‘Erm … This little piggy’s being held in reserve in case of emergency.’

  ‘Piggies are toes.’

  ‘Whatever.’ She put her hand away. ‘If you’ve got any helpful suggestions, I’ll take them under consideration.’

  Young shifted in his seat.

  ‘Aye, didn’t think so.’

  He stood, slid his chair back into place. Straightened his T-shirt. Stuck a huge, warm, scarred hand on Logan’s shoulder. ‘And make sure you’re getting every encounter with Mrs Black on video. I’ve got the nasty feeling this is going to blow up in our faces.’

  DS Rennie popped his coiffured head around Logan’s door. His mouth stretched out and down, like someone had stolen his pony. ‘Guv, you got a minute?’

  Logan shoved the keyboard to one side. ‘If it’s more interesting than budget projections for the next quarter, I’ve got dozens of them.’

  ‘Cool.’ He stepped into the office and sank into a visitor’s chair. Unbuttoned his suit jacket, then pulled out his notebook. ‘I spoke to the janitor at Heidi and Toby Skinner’s school, and—’

  ‘Going to stop you right there.’ Logan held up a hand. ‘Don’t tell me, tell Steel. She’s running the case.’

  A shrug. ‘Yeah, but she’s doing a press conference, and this was sitting on her desk.’ He held up a sheet of A4 with, ‘OFF BEING A MEDIA TART – ANYTHING COMES UP, TELL DI MCRAE.’

  Typical. Couldn’t have given the reins to one of her minions, could she? No, of course not. Not when she could make Logan’s life more difficult.

  ‘Anyway…’ Rennie went back to his notebook. ‘So I spoke to the janitor, the professor from Aberdeen Uni who runs the Saturday maths club, and a really camp Geordie who takes the ballet class. All say the same thing: John Skinner picked Heidi and Toby up at midday.’

  ‘Damn it.’ Logan frowned at the screen, ignoring the spreadsheet and its irritating little numbers. Skinner picked up the kids. Did he do it before, or after he killed their mother? Did he make them watch? ‘What about family and friends?’

  Rennie flipped the page. ‘Teams been going through them all morning, but no one’s seen the kids.’

  And John Skinner’s car was still missing.

  ‘OK: if you haven’t already done it, get a lookout request on Skinner’s BMW. Tell traffic and every patrol-car team it’s category one. I want it found. Might be something in there that’ll tell us what he’s done with Heidi and Toby. Make sure the SEB sample any dirt in the footwells – get it off for soil analysis.’ He tapped his fingertips along the edge of the desk, frowning at those horrible little numbers. ‘Maybe it’s parked on a side street somewhere near where he dropped the kids?’ After all, that’s how they’d found Emma Skinner. Not that it’d done her any good.

  ‘Yes, Guv.’ Rennie stood. ‘So … you in charge till Steel gets back?’

  Logan folded over and banged his head on the desk a couple of times.

  ‘Guv?’

  Of course he sodding was.

  Because DCI Steel had struck again.

  11

  ‘OK, thanks Denise.’ Rennie put the phone down.

  Logan looked at him. ‘Well?’

  ‘Sod all.’

  ‘Pffff…’

  The Major Inquiry Team room was a lot grander than the manky hole CID had to work out of. New carpet tiles that were all the same colour, swanky new computers that probably didn’t run on elastic bands and arthritic hamsters, electronic whiteboards, a colour printer, a fancy coffee machine that took little pods, and ceiling tiles that didn’t look as if they’d spent three months on the floor of a dysentery ward.

  How the other half lived.

  A handful of officers were on the phones, talking in hushed voices and scribbling down notes.

  Logan picked up one of the interactive markers and drew a circle on the whiteboard. There was a small lag, then a red circle appeared on the map of Aberdeen that filled the screen, taking in a chunk of the ci
ty centre around the casino. ‘John Skinner didn’t park in the Chapel Street multistorey and walk the length of Union Street to kill himself. He was clarted in blood – someone would’ve noticed.’

  DS Biohazard Bob crossed his arms and poked out his top lip, as if he was trying to sniff it. It wasn’t a good look: with his sticky-out ears, bald patch, and single thick hairy eyebrow, he bore more than a passing resemblance to a chimpanzee at the best of times. ‘What about the NCP on Virginia Street? It’s just round the corner.’

  Rennie shook his head. ‘The one on Shiprow’s closer.’

  ‘Pair of twits. It’s the same car park.’ Logan drew a red ‘X’ on the screen. ‘Doesn’t matter – logbook says it’s been searched. No dark-blue BMW M5.’

  Biohazard had a scratch. ‘There’s a council one on Mearns Street, that’s pretty close too. Or Union Square?’

  ‘Or…’ Rennie pointed at the map. ‘What if he had a long coat on? Like a mac, or something. Could cover up the bloodstains and no one would notice. Dump it when he gets onto the roof of the casino.’

  ‘Nah.’ Biohazard shook his head. ‘We would’ve found it on the roof.’

  ‘Not if the wind got hold of it. Could be in Norway by now.’

  ‘True.’

  Logan took the pen and marked on all the public car parks within a fifteen-minute walk. ‘Rennie – get down to the CCTV room and tell them to go over the footage from Saturday. Any route to the casino from any of these car parks. See if they can find John Skinner.’

  ‘Guv.’

  ‘Biohazard – grab some bodies and work your way through the car parks, find that BMW. Start with the closest, work your way out.’

  ‘Guv.’

  The pair of them turned and marched off, leaving nothing but a cloying eggy reek behind.

  Logan gagged, wafted a hand in front of his face. ‘Biohazard!’

  Giggling faded away down the corridor.

  ‘That’s us done Union Square. Got a dark-blue beamer, but it’s not his. I’m … Hold on.’ Biohazard Bob’s voice went all muffled, barely audible. ‘I don’t care. You should’ve gone before we left the station.’ Then he was back. ‘Sorry, Guv, logistical problems.’