She steps back and the chair clatters to the floor.
Red blooms across his chest. ‘No, no, no, oh Jesus. . .’ He leaves a smear across the wall as he slumps sideways to the floor.
What I do in its service lights a fire in God’s name.
She opens the back door, steps out into the alley, then closes it behind her.
Time to run.
Logan rolled over onto his back, hissing a breath out between gritted teeth. Burning coals seared through his stomach, melting all the way through to his spine, filling his lungs with scalding embers and choking ash.
Holy Christ, that hurt.
The back door slammed.
He worked his way up to his hands and knees, forehead resting on the scratchy beige carpet tiles.
Up. Get up. Get after her. DON’T LET HER GET AWAY.
The ground wobbled beneath his feet as he dragged himself upright sending fresh needles jabbing into his belly.
Ma’s counterfeiting shop was a mess: tables overturned, chairs, a smear of blood on the back wall. . . Dildo was lying on the floor by the door, knees curled up against his chest, a pool of scarlet seeping out onto the floor. ‘No, no, no, no, no: I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die!’
PC Sim untangled herself from a swivel chair and lurched to her feet. Scarlet smears covered her mouth, twin trails glistened their way down the front of her stab-proof vest. ‘Gagh. . .’ She spat – frothy and red. ‘Bit my tongue.’ Then stared at Dildo. ‘Jeepers. Is he going to be—’
‘Don’t just stand there: GET AFTER HER!’
Sim blinked a couple of times, nodded, then charged over, wrenched open the back door and disappeared.
Logan limped across and sank down next to Dildo. ‘Tim, you’re going to be OK. We’re going to sort you out. It’s OK, it’s OK.’
Blood bubbles popped at the side of his mouth. ‘I don’t want to die. . .’
Logan dragged out his traitorous phone. ‘I need an ambulance and back-up to J. Stewart and Son bookmakers, Mastrick.’
‘One moment, I’ll just—’
‘Don’t you sodding dare put me on hold! I’ve got a Trading Standards Officer with stab wounds to the chest, Agnes Garfield is fleeing the scene, PC Sim is chasing her on foot.’
‘I don’t want to die. . .’
‘You’re not going to die, Tim, just calm down OK? Ambulance is on its way.’
‘All cars, this is Control, be on the lookout for an armed suspect, I-C-One female: Agnes Garfield—’
Dildo stared up at him, face the colour of skimmed milk, lips thin and purple. ‘Oh God, you called me “Tim”, I am dying.’
‘Don’t be a dick, you’re not dying.’ Back to the phone. ‘Where’s that bloody ambulance? ’
Logan peeled off his shirt and dumped it in the bathroom sink. Scarlet coils leeched out of the fabric into the cold water. He stuffed the whole thing under the surface, then dumped his socks and trousers in after them. Squelched it all together until the water was nearly scarlet, then drained it off and turned the tap on again. Left them to soak while he climbed into the shower.
Hot water pounded against his back, washing Dildo’s blood down the drain. Soothing the burning in Logan’s stomach.
By the time he was towelling himself dry, his mobile was singing Rennie’s theme tune. He snatched it up and pressed the button. ‘Any word? ’
‘Still in surgery, Guv. Doctors say he’s lucky to get off with a punctured lung – any higher and it would’ve nicked his heart.’
That was something at least. He pulled on a clean shirt, the fabric sticking to his damp back. ‘They find Agnes Garfield? ’
Silence. Then Rennie cleared his throat. ‘You’ve got an appointment with Professional Standards at noon. And Strathclyde are going to do the independent review. You know, as they’re up here anyway.’
‘And Steel couldn’t be bothered to tell me herself.’
‘She’s . . . kinda pissed-off at the moment. Last time I went past her office, sounded like she was battering the crap out of everything with a sledgehammer.’
Wonderful. Because today wasn’t bad enough already.
‘Not like it was your fault though, was it? You had to do what you could in the time that you had. Only other option was to let her get away. . . Erm. . . Sort of. We’ve got a lookout request on for Agnes Garfield.’
Logan picked his notebook off the bedside table and thumbed through it until he got to the last entry from Ma Stewart’s shop and read out the number for Agnes Garfield’s new mobile. ‘Get a GSM trace on that, pronto. She’s probably ditched it, but it’s worth a go.’
‘Will do.’ Pause. ‘Dildo’s going to be OK. It wasn’t your fault.’
‘Just get your arse over here and give me a lift back to the station.’ Logan hung up. Returned the phone and the notebook to the table. Sank down on the edge of the bed and stared at the crumpled sheet of paper taped to the wardrobe mirror.
‘LIKE IT OR NOT, YOU’RE STILL ALIVE’
His phone trilled and buzzed at him.
Couldn’t even leave him alone for five minutes. . .
‘What? ’
‘Mr McRae? Yes, hi, it’s Kwik Fit, you left a car outside the garage this morning? ’
Nursing it slowly around the massive bulk of Mounthooly roundabout with a firm grip on the handbrake.
He stared at the ceiling. ‘How much is it going to cost? ’
‘Well, you need two new brake lines, and all your brake fluid needs replaced. The disc and the drums on the rear wheels are corroded, the suspension arm on the passenger-side front is almost rusted through, back tyres are worn almost to the canvas, the exhaust is—’
‘The brakes. How much to fix the brakes? ’
‘Right, sorry.’ Some rustling. ‘You know, you’re lucky they didn’t give out on the motorway, or a junction or something. Really nasty thing to do to someone. . . Right, OK, just to fix the brakes is going to be—’
‘Hold on: “nasty thing to do to someone”? ’
‘Well, yes. Cut their brake lines. It’s really irresponsible. And indiscriminate too, you don’t just hurt the person in the car, anyone they hit—’
‘Someone cut my brake lines? ’
40
‘How can she still not be in? ’ Logan scowled out of the passenger window at the bulky three-storey tenements of Sandilands as they drifted slowly by. The ones nearest the road had been given a fresh coat of paint, but it wasn’t helping.
Rennie tootled the pool car along behind a number seventeen bus. ‘’Cos she’s special and clever and doesn’t have to actually work like the rest of us? ’
‘Oh, is she. . .’ He pulled out his phone, found her number in the contact list, and thumbed the button. Then listened to it ring.
‘When this is all over, think I’m going to take Emma to Paris for a long weekend.’
Logan frowned. ‘PC Sim? ’
‘No, not that Emma, my Emma. Why would I take Sim on holiday? ’
‘Because you’re a—’
A click and Chalmers’s voice came on the line. ‘You’ve reached Lorna Chalmers. I can’t come to the phone right now, but you can leave a message after the beep.’
‘This is DI McRae. When we discussed you joining the soup-kitchen team, I don’t remember saying anything about you having the morning off afterwards! Get your arse into the station now, Sergeant.’ He hung up.
Rennie whistled. ‘Oooh, someone’s in trouble.’
‘Don’t be a dick.’
That just got him a grin.
The number seventeen hissed to a halt, indicator blinking as a couple of middle-aged ladies dressed like oversexed teenagers clambered onboard.
A nasal Doric accent crackled out of the pool car’s radio. ‘Charlie Six, from Control, over? ’
Rennie flipped the switch. ‘Morning, Jimmy.’
‘Aye-aye, loon, you got DI McRae with you? ’
He looked a
cross the car and mouthed the words, ‘Are you here? ’
Idiot.
Logan stuck his phone back in his pocket. ‘What do you want, Jimmy? ’
‘We’ve had a wee call from someone says they know who your clay-head thingy is.’
He grabbed his notebook. ‘You got an address? ’
Rennie sniffed, wrinkled his nose, then did a slow three-sixty. ‘Smells like someone’s burning old nappies.’
The house was on the end of a row of three terraced cottages, all huddled together at the edge of a patch of woodland on the Kemnay Road. Bennachie was just visible through jagged pine-tree branches, the shadows beneath them dark and deep. Throw in a gingerbread house and Hansel and Gretel would have flashbacks.
Cottages one and two bore satellite dishes and maintenance-free swathes of gravel where front gardens should have been, but number three was a riot of colour – flowers and shrubs and herbs laid out in intricate patterns around a winding bark path.
Logan opened the heavy wooden gate and stepped onto scrunchy chips of brown, surrounded by tall spiky leaves. Should’ve brought some breadcrumbs to scatter behind him. . .
Rennie stuck his hands in his pockets and meandered after him, stopping to sniff the flowers along the way.
The doorbell sounded deep inside the house, a faint diiiiiing-donnnnnng just audible through the wooden front door.
A bee bumbled from one purple foxglove to the next. A pigeon cooed. Rennie rocked on his heels.
Logan tried the bell again. ‘You sure they know we’re coming? ’
‘Yup.’
Two minutes later, the door creaked open and a pale lined face peered up at them, eyes squinted almost shut. She couldn’t have been an inch over four foot five, grey hair up in a lopsided bun, neck like a deformed sock puppet. She smiled, showing off perfect rectangular white teeth. You could’ve stood on her Teuchter accent, it was that thick: ‘Can I help you? ’
Logan checked his notes. ‘Miss Mary Gray?’
The squint got even more pronounced. ‘Are you the man from the council? ’
‘Police. You called about a facial reconstruction? ’
‘Oh, the head! Yes, yes, of course, you’ll have to come in, I’m a little deaf when I don’t have my glasses on.’
Sweat prickled across the back of Logan’s neck. A three-bar fire glowed malevolently in the fireplace, turning the small room into a furnace. Sunlight streamed through the lounge window, two massive spotty cats curled up on the sill, ears fixed in his direction.
Three more cats slumbered in front of the electric fire; a pair of Siamese on the sofa; one on top of a bookcase full of ancient leather-bound volumes, their titles picked out in crumbling gold leaf. A bronze urn gleamed on the mantelpiece, between black-and-white photographs of unsmiling women in heavy black frames.
The sound of tea things clattered through the open door.
Another little old lady snored away in a chair by the fire, mouth hanging open like a damp pink cave, a tartan blanket draped over her knees. A stripy ginger cat sat on her lap, glowering at Logan with emerald eyes when it took a pause from washing its bum.
Mary Gray shuffled back into the room. Rennie was right behind her, carrying a silver tray covered in cups and saucers and a plate of cakes and a big china teapot. He stopped in the middle of the room and looked around him. ‘Erm, where. . .? ’
Mary waved a hand at a black-and-brown tortoiseshell curled up on the coffee table. ‘Shipman! Come on, you naughty monkey, move for the nice man.’ She shooed him away and Rennie lowered the tray in the cat’s place.
‘Miss Gray, you said—’
‘Please, sit, sit.’ A wide grin. ‘Don’t mind Sutcliffe and Chikatilo, their bark’s worse than their bite.’
Logan nudged one of the Siamese out of the way and sat. It stuck its tail in the air then hopped down to lurk under the coffee table. Rennie perched on the other end of the sofa, right at the edge so as not to disturb the other cat.
‘You said you can identify our reconstruction.’
‘Oh yes.’ She gave the sleeping woman a poke in the shoulder. ‘Effie? Effie, do you want some tea and a slice of Battenberg? ’
The snoring stopped. ‘Eh? Who’s that? ’ Her voice was wet and shapeless, slurred by a lack of teeth.
‘Do you want tea and cake, Effie? ’
‘Oh. . . Is it Thursday? ’
Logan pulled out the media department’s poster and held it out. ‘We haven’t even got these up yet.’
Mary poured five cups of tea with the delicate precision of a neurosurgeon. ‘Now, you help yourself to milk and sugar.’ Then she turned, took a deep breath, and bellowed out a cry that would have shattered concrete. ‘INA! INA, THE TEA’S MADE!’ Mary picked up the plate and squinted at it. Then handed it to Logan, swapping it for the poster.
Battenberg and scones and shortbread. Always a sucker for homemade shortbread.
Crumbs tumbled down his front as he bit into it. ‘You know her? ’
The squinting got so fierce it looked as if her whole face was going to implode. ‘Can’t see a thing without my glasses.’ Another deep breath. ‘INA!’
A large grey cat with dark markings hopped up onto Logan’s lap, stared at him, then plonked itself down. A throaty burring noise, and the whole thing started vibrating.
Mary beamed. ‘My, my: Lopez doesn’t usually like men, you’re honoured.’
‘Yeah. . .’ The large furry body leached heat into his trousers, like a hairy hot-water bottle.
‘Just don’t touch his tummy, or he’ll have your hand in shreds.’ One more huge breath. ‘INA! FOR GOODNESS’ SAKE!’
Another little old lady shambled into the room, tugging a pastel-blue cardigan around her shoulders. She had to be at least ten years older than her sister, liver-spotted scalp clearly visible through her thinning hair. A milk-bottle-bottomed pair of glasses perched on the end of her nose, the legs attached to a gold chain around her neck. ‘All right, all right, I’m not deaf.’
‘Do you want some tea? ’
She peered at Logan through her glasses; they made her eyes huge. ‘You don’t look like the police.’
He hauled out his warrant card and she took it with a trembling clawed hand, the fingers arthritic and twisted.
‘Ah. You’ll be here about that clay-head thing.’
Finally. ‘You know who it is? ’
‘Oh aye.’ She took off the glasses and handed them to Mary. ‘See? ’
Mary slipped them on and blinked at the poster she was holding. ‘Oh, that’s much better, I can hear everything now.’ Then she passed the glasses and the picture of Dr Graham’s facial reconstruction to the old lady in the corner. ‘Look, Effie, isn’t that something? ’
‘I had another vision.’ In the magnifying lenses Effie’s left eye was a sea of red, the iris pale and watery.
‘Put your teeth in, Effie. No one can understand a word you’re saying.’
Ina hobbled over to the bookcase and pulled out a photo album. She opened it, smiled, then ran a hand across the pages. ‘I need the glasses.’
They were passed back along the line. ‘Right. . .’ She flipped forward a couple of pages, then placed the album on the coffee table, next to the tea things. ‘There you go.’
A woman stared out of the album, with seventies hair and sixties glasses, the colours faded to pale yellows, orange and brown. She was the spitting image of the clay head. Dr Graham was good.
Under the stern, lined face, were the words, ‘A HAPPY HOLIDAY IN LOSSIEMOUTH, JUNE 1978’.
And now the family resemblance was clear: Ina, Effie, and Mary were sisters.
‘She’s your mother.’
‘Oh aye, Agnes Gray: scourge of the parish. She was a firebrand, that one.’
Agnes. Same name as their missing teenager.
Effie rattled her cup in her saucer. ‘Does anyone want to hear my vision or not? ’
Ina set
tled onto the couch next to Logan. ‘Effie’s visions are remarkably accurate.’
‘How did you know it was her? The picture’s not even been on the news yet.’
‘Oh, Mary heard about it on the radio and I looked it up on the internet. We do most of our business online these days.’
Effie cleared her throat. ‘I walked across a field of gold, towards a huge dog with knives for teeth. Five leaves I counted in the glaring light and five doors too. I fought with a ghost for the price of my soul, but they beat me. Bound me. And drowned me in the pale white deep.’
Silence settled into the baking hot room.
What a load of old bollocks.
Logan finished his shortbread. ‘Can you tell me where your mother was buried? ’
Ina patted him on the knee. ‘She was a very influential witch, you know. Agnes Gray was a power in this land.’
Mary nodded. ‘People came from as far away as Rhynie and Oldmeldrum seeking her help.’
‘Of course, things are different now.’ Ina peeled the marzipan from a slice of Battenberg. ‘The internet’s a wonderful thing – we do spells for people in Australia and California and Moscow.’
Logan put his tea down. ‘Spells. . .’
Mary held up her hand as her sister, Effie, drifted off to sleep again. ‘Don’t worry, we always use our powers for good. And we only ever curse people who deserve it, don’t we, Ina? ’
‘Oh yes, we’re very responsible that way. Saddam Hussein, was one of Effie’s.’
Nuttier than a bag of squirrels.
‘Do you remember where your mother was buried? ’
The strip of marzipan was rolled up into a ball, then popped in whole. ‘She dug Mother up, didn’t she: the Garfield girl? ’
‘You know her? ’
Ina laughed, setting the loose skin under her chin wobbling. ‘Oh, our wee Agnes is something, isn’t she? ’
Mary sighed. ‘So much talent for someone so young. She’d read all about Mother in the library. Well, ever since that dreadful Witchfire book came out, everyone wants to know about our family. . . Agnes was convinced she and Mother were spiritually linked, because they had the same first name. So we took her under our wings.’
‘Taught her the importance of herbs, the secrets of consecrated ground, and the power of bones.’
Close to the Bone (Special Edition) (Logan McRae, Book 8) Page 37
