22 Dead Little Bodies

by MacBride, Stuart

  Logan squinted at him. ‘Wait a minute. Urquhart. Jonny Urquhart?’

  ‘Bingo!’ He stuck a thumb up.

  Oh sodding hell. No, no, no, no, no…

  ‘You bought my flat?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He glanced up at the building. ‘Cool, isn’t it? Starting my own property empire. Mr Mowat says a man’s got to put down proper business roots in the community.’

  Christ. What if Professional Standards found out?

  What if Napier found out he’d sold his flat to someone who worked for Wee Hamish Mowat, Aberdeen’s biggest bloody crime lord? And if that wasn’t bad enough, that they’d paid twenty thousand pounds over the asking price. Twenty thousand sodding pounds.

  Logan took a couple steps away, then back again. ‘You can’t buy my flat! What the hell were you thinking?’

  Jonny Urquhart’s eyebrows went up. ‘Eh? Steady on, it’s win-win, right?’

  ‘Win-win? WIN-WIN?’ He threw his arms out. ‘DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW THIS LOOKS?’

  ‘Don’t worry: the money’s clean. Laundered to a crisp and shiny white.’ He placed a hand against his chest, fingers spread, as if he was about to pledge allegiance to something. ‘Mr Mowat gives me a bonus for my loyal service. You get your flat sold. And your girlfriend gets to go to a nice private hospital with excellent facilities. Win-win-win.’

  ‘Oh God…’

  He was screwed. Completely and utterly screwed.

  18

  First would come the investigation. Then the accusations. Then the recriminations. Prosecution. And eight to twelve years in Glenochil Prison with all the other bribe-taking dodgy police officers.

  Oh God.

  Logan closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall. ‘Brilliant.’ He gave it a little thump. Then a harder one. ‘Sodding – bloody – brilliant.’ Banging his head with every word.

  Samantha’s static caravan had developed its familiar peppery soil-and-dust scent again. The smell of mil-dew and neglect. Served him right for not coming down here and airing it out more often. Boxes filled the living room and the bedroom. More piled up in the tiny galley kitchen, with the mouse droppings. Green-brown slime growing in the shower cabinet and across the bathroom tiles. A lovely view across the river to the sewage treatment plant.

  Welcome home.

  But it was better than a cell.

  Cthulhu clearly didn’t agree. Her cat carrier sat on the couch, amongst the pot plants, and she glowered out from its depths. Refusing to come out.

  Logan let out a long, rattling breath.

  Might be a good idea to head over to the B&Q in Bridge of Don and see if they had any anti-mildew paint, maybe a dehumidifier. And something to take away the smell.

  And maybe just enough rope to hang himself.

  ‘… because we’ve got hundreds of bargains, bargains, bargains!’ Whoever was on the store’s PA system, they needed battering over the head with a lump-hammer. Then stuffed in a sack with a couple of breezeblocks and dumped in the River Don. ‘There’s massive savings on tiles and laminate in our flooring department, right now!’

  Logan drifted along the aisle, hunched over his trolley. Phone to his ear, staring down at the three pots of paint, set of brushes, roller, and paint tray in there. ‘There’s no way? You’re sure? I mean, a hundred percent positive?’

  On the other end, Marjory sighed again. ‘Mr McRae, we’ve been over this. Missives have been exchanged, money’s changed hands. You signed the contract. You’ve handed over the keys. That’s it done.’

  ‘But … there has to be a loophole, or something. People wriggle out of contracts all the time.’ He turned the corner, slouching his trolley past burglar alarms and home CCTV systems. ‘I checked with my bank, the cash hasn’t come through yet, so he hasn’t—’

  ‘Mr Urquhart paid cash: it’s in our account. And as we’re your legal representatives, the minute that money hit our bank account it’s deemed to be paid to you. There’s nothing you can do.’ A sigh. ‘Now, I’m really going to have to go. The money will be in your account, less our fee, as soon as your bank clears our cheque. Goodbye, Mr McRae.’

  And she hung up on him. Unbelievable.

  The CCTV systems gave way to locks and bolts. Then padlocks. Then chains and ropes. For all your wholesale bondage-dungeon needs.

  Napier was bound to find out.

  Then Logan would be screwed.

  And probably in for a spanking.

  He stopped. Stared at the paint. Swore.

  It’d take at least three days for the solicitor’s cheque to clear. Plus the ten days they’d already taken…

  Oh sodding hell. And it was Friday. So the useless greedy sods at the bank wouldn’t do anything about it till Monday.

  Which would be fifteen days, in total, since Dr Berrisford at Newtonmyre Specialist Care Centre said he’d keep Samantha’s bed open for two weeks.

  Sodding, buggering, bloody hell.

  He pulled out his phone and called Directory Enquiries. Got them to put him through to the centre. Maybe Dr Berrisford would give him a little leeway? He only needed a day. Twenty-four hours. Surely they could do that.

  The phone rang.

  Logan pushed his trolley around the corner, into an aisle lined on either side with hardware. Hammers. Pliers. Screwdrivers.

  Still ringing.

  A chirpy voice: ‘Newtonmyre Specialist Care Centre, how can I help you today?’

  ‘I need to speak to Dr Berrisford. It’s Logan McRae.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, but Dr Berrisford has gone home for the weekend. Would you like to leave a message?’

  ‘Yes. Tell him…’ Logan stared at the claw-hammers. ‘Tell him I’ll put the cheque for phase one in the post tomorrow. You should get it on Monday.’ After all, it would take their bank three days to clear it as well, wouldn’t it?

  ‘That’s lovely. You have a good weekend, Mr McRae.’

  ‘You too.’ He hung up.

  Oh – thank – God. They’d take the cheque, Samantha could go into the care centre, everything would be fine.

  All that panic, and there was nothing to worry about.

  Clunk.

  Logan’s trolley jerked in his hand as someone collided into it. He looked up to apologize, even though he’d been standing perfectly still, and froze.

  The man was huge, tall and wide, hands like bear-paws wrapped around his trolley’s handle. Face a mixture of scar tissue and fat, stitched together by a patchy beard. A nose that was little more than a gristly stump. He pulled on a piranha smile. ‘Well, well, well. Look who the cat coughed up.’

  Logan swallowed. Stood up straight, shoulders back. ‘Reuben.’

  He’d lost a bit of weight since last time – but not enough to shrink that massive frame – and ditched his usual grubby overalls for a dark-grey suit. Blood-red shirt. No tie. ‘Fancy running into you here. What are the chances, eh?’

  Logan didn’t move.

  ‘Aye, well, maybe no’ such a coincidence after all.’ He reached out and plucked a crowbar from the rack beside him. Shifted his grip, then smacked the chunk of metal down into the palm of his other hand. ‘What with me following you and everything.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘See, I don’t need to worry about you, do I?’ Smack. ‘Don’t need to worry about you at all.’ Smack.

  Don’t back off. Don’t stare at the crowbar. ‘Really.’

  Reuben’s trolley was stacked with rubble sacks. Duct tape. A bow saw. A hand axe. A box of compost accelerant. And a shovel. The smile graduated from piranha to great white. ‘See, if you try to move against me –’ smack, ‘– try to take what’s mine –’ smack, ‘– I’m no’ gonnae bother ripping your arms and legs off.’ Smack. ‘No’ gonnae haul out your teeth and cut off your tongue.’ Smack. ‘Gouge out your eyes. Nah. Don’t have to do any of that.’

  There was something worse?

  Reuben winked. ‘All I’ve got to do, is clype.’

  Something dark spread it
s claws through Logan’s chest. ‘Clype?’

  ‘Oh aye.’ He placed the crowbar in his trolley. ‘What, you think Jonny came up with the idea to buy your flat all on his own?’ A laugh barked out of that scar-ringed mouth. ‘Nah. See, some people think I’m thick. Think I’m all about the violence and no’ so much the brainpower. The planning. Nah.’

  Oh sodding hell. Sodding, buggering hell.

  The claws dug in deeper.

  ‘See, McRae, I own you. Get in my way and I’ll squash you like a baby’s skull. When Mr Mowat passes, I’m stepping up. And then we can talk about what kinda favours you’re gonnae do me to stay out of jail.’ One last wink, then Reuben walked his trolley past. Whistling The Dam Busters theme tune.

  Something happened to Logan’s knees. They didn’t want to hold him upright any more.

  Reuben knew. Reuben.

  No, no, no…

  Oh God.

  He rested his chest against the trolley’s handlebar. Let it take the weight for a bit. Closed his eyes.

  Agh…

  Think.

  There had to be a way out of this.

  OK, so he couldn’t break the contract. At least there was a chance of proving that he’d tried to. Get Marjory from Willkie and Oxford up on the stand and question her under oath. ‘Yes, Mr McRae tried to weasel his way out of the contract.’ That would help, wouldn’t it?

  Might cut a year or two off his sentence…

  Oh God.

  Why did it have to be Reuben?

  He was completely and utterly screwed.

  A woman’s voice: ‘Are you OK?’

  Deep breath.

  Logan blinked a couple of times. Straightened up. ‘Sorry. Having a bit of a day.’

  She was tiny, with long red hair and round freckled cheeks. According to the name badge pinned to her bright-orange apron, this was Stacey. Stacey smiled at him. ‘Anything I can help you with?’

  He sighed. Pulled out the envelope he’d jotted everything down on and frowned at it. ‘Mildew, damp stuff, paint, mice, and something to clean grout with.’ He held the list out.

  ‘Right, OK. Well, we can cross out “paint”. Is your damp coming through a wall, or is it condensation?’

  ‘Condensation. Probably. Maybe.’

  ‘Right, follow me then!’ She led the way, down to the end of the aisles, then over another two.

  Maybe he should take Wee Hamish up on his offer after all? If Reuben was face down in a shallow grave, he couldn’t tell anyone, could he? Or better yet – fed to the pigs. They wouldn’t care how ugly he was, they’d chomp through flesh and bone, leaving nothing but Reuben’s teeth behind.

  Stacey came to a halt, and swept a hand up. ‘Here we go.’ The shelves were filled with bottles, jars, sprays, and tubs, beneath a sign marked ‘DAMP, MOULD, AND MILDEW CONTROL’.

  She scanned the rows of products. ‘You’re going to need some of this…’ She hefted a ten-litre pot of anti-mould paint into the trolley. Added a second one. ‘Just in case. Nothing worse than getting halfway through a job and having to come back.’

  Mind you, might be a better idea to go DIY with Reuben too. The more people who knew, the more chance of getting caught. Wee Hamish wasn’t going to kill his right-hand man himself, was he? In the old days, maybe. But now? Lying on his back, wired up to drips and monitors, being devoured by cancer? He’d have to farm it out.

  Stacey grabbed half a dozen plastic tubs containing silica gel that promised to suck moisture out of the atmosphere. ‘You want to keep these in the cupboards where the mildew is.’ She checked the list again. ‘Right: grout cleaner.’

  Maybe he should head back and pick up a crowbar of his own? Or a lump hammer. Something to crack Reuben’s head open with. Too risky trying to get his hands on a gun…

  Who was he trying to kid?

  He couldn’t kill Reuben. Couldn’t.

  That hollowed him out, left him standing there in the middle of B&Q, with a hole in his chest the size of a watermelon.

  He was going to prison…

  Oh God.

  Stacey teetered down the aisle a bit and plucked a spray bottle from a shelf. ‘That should help. So I think that leaves “mice”, right? You want to keep them as pets, or get rid of them?’

  ‘Rid.’ Then again, why bother? Why do up a manky static caravan, when he was going to spend the next eight years in a cell anyway?

  ‘Follow me.’

  Two aisles along she stopped and pointed. ‘We’ve got humane traps, normal traps, and inhumane traps.’ She picked up a couple of plastic things that looked as if they could take a finger off. ‘These are pretty much instant death, so the mouse won’t suffer much.’

  Lucky mice. A quick and painless death…

  Might not be a bad idea. He could jump off something tall, like John Skinner. Ten storeys, straight down. Goodbye cruel world. Splat.

  ‘These are the humane ones.’ She held up what looked like a small, bent, rectangular telescope. ‘They get stuck inside, and can’t get out. Then you drive at least four miles away and release them into the wild.’ Her mouth turned down at the ends. ‘Or you could go inhumane and poison them.’ She poked a box marked ‘BAIT STATION BRAVO!’ with a finger.

  Sitting next to it was a tub with a red lid and a warning sticker across the top and ‘BROMADIOLONE-TREATED WHOLE WHEAT’ down the side.

  Rat poison.

  Logan picked it off the shelf. Turned it over in his hands. The contents hissed against the plastic innards.

  ‘My bet? Gordy fell out with one of his mates and they poisoned him.’

  No chance. What, someone living on the streets marched into B&Q, bought themselves a thirty-quid tub of this stuff, then a litre of whisky, mixed them together and let them sit till the poison was all leached out, put it back in the bottle, and gave it to Gordy Taylor as a gift? Why not drink the whisky yourself and batter his head in with the empty bottle? Why go to all that trouble?

  ‘Rennie’s latest theory is we’ve got a serial killer stalking the streets, knocking off tramps.’

  Yeah, but Rennie was an idiot.

  But there was something a lot more likely. What if—

  ‘Hello? Excuse me?’ Stacey was tugging at his sleeve.

  Logan blinked at her. ‘Sorry, miles away.’

  She shook her head. ‘You’ve got a cat, haven’t you? I can tell by the hairs all over your jeans.’ Stacey looked up at him, still holding on to his arm. ‘If it was me, if I had a cat, I wouldn’t want poisoned mice staggering around the house looking to get caught and eaten. Would you?’

  ‘Ah…’ He slid the tub back onto the shelf. ‘No.’

  Then stopped, fingertips just touching the label.

  Poisoned mice staggering around.

  All you have to do is put the stuff where they can find it. They eat it, because it’s in their nature to eat whatever they can get their paws on. It’s what mice do. Make the poison tasty enough and they’ll do all the hard work for you…

  Stacey tugged at his sleeve again. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

  Logan grabbed four of the finger-snappers. ‘Thanks for your help: gotta go.’ Then marched the trolley away to the tills.

  ‘Guv?’ Wheezy paused for a cough. ‘Thought you were having a day off.’

  The Clio crawled along the Parkway, around the back of Danestone in the rain. Fields on one side, identikit houses on the other, with a long slow-moving clot of rush-hour traffic in-between.

  It was only four thirty-five. All these sods should still have been at work instead of clogging up the bloody roads.

  Logan switched the phone to his other ear and put the car in gear again. Easing forward another six feet as the windscreen wipers groaned across the glass. ‘When we did the door-to-doors on Harlaw Road, did you check everyone’s alibis?’

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘When Gordy Taylor died. We questioned all the residents – did someone chase up the alibis? Was everyone where they said they were?’ A gap had opened
up in front of the Nissan he was grinding along behind – had to be at least three car-lengths and the silly sod in front still hadn’t moved. Logan leaned on the horn. ‘COME ON, GRANDAD!’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Not you, Wheezy, this pillock in front.’

  ‘It wasn’t a murder when we were in charge, it was a sudden death. There wasn’t any reason to check. Then the MIT took it over.’

  The Nissan finally got its bum in gear and they all inched forward a bit.

  ‘What about Steel’s team then, did they check alibis?’

  ‘Er, hold on.’ There was some clunking and rattling. The cars drifted forward another two lengths. Rustling. A thump. Then the sound of fingers punishing a keyboard, and Wheezy was back. ‘Right. According to the system, pretty much everyone was home that night. A couple families were at the cinema, two went to the theatre, and one guy was on a works night out. Looks like the MIT followed up and everything checked out. Why?’

  ‘Thinking.’ Logan tapped the fingers of his free hand along the top of the steering wheel. ‘What if DCI Steel’s right, and Gordy did poison himself? Just not on purpose. He thinks his ship’s come in – a whole litre of whisky, all to himself. So he crawls off behind the bins and swigs it down. But he doesn’t know it’s laced with bromadiolone.’

  Someone behind leaned on their horn, and Logan looked up to see a four car-length gap between himself and the Nissan in front. Another bleeeeeeeeeep.

  Impatient git.

  Logan eased forward into the space. ‘Did you get any prints off the bottle?’

  ‘What bottle?’

  ‘The bottle of whisky Gordy drank: did you get fingerprints?’

  ‘There wasn’t one. Don’t think so, anyway.’ The rattle of fingers on a keyboard sounded in the background. ‘Nothing got signed into evidence.’

  They’d finally reached the corner where the Parkway turned downhill towards the Persley roundabout. The traffic snaked away in a solid ribbon ahead, trapped single-file by the double white lines protecting the overtaking lane on the other side of the road. And once he’d managed to fight his way through all this, there would be the Haudagain. And then Anderson Drive to traverse. At rush hour. It would take hours.

  Maybe not though.

  A patrol car was coming the other way, up the hill. He flashed his lights at it, leaned on his horn … but they drove right past. Didn’t even clock him on his mobile phone. Lazy sods.