‘What? ’
The radio wasn’t helping: ‘—siege enters its second hour, Grampian Police have cordoned off Fintray Road, and are asking Blackburn residents to remain indoors. We spoke to Mrs Gilmore, who lives next door. . .’
Mrs Gilmore sounded as if she’d just French-kissed a set of bagpipes. ‘Aye, and then there was this big bang and a policeman went flying over the hedge into our roses. It’s—’
Logan switched it off. ‘I didn’t hear a word of that.’
Rennie took a deep breath and came back twice as loud. ‘I said, the house at Rickarton is clear. Steel’s got the other four-man team on their way to the place outside Stonehaven. But it’s rush hour, so—’
‘What about the other two houses? ’
‘Sorry, Guv. We’re going as fast as we can.’
Sim tapped Logan on the shoulder as the car rolled through yet another outbreak of gravel-edged pits in the track. ‘There it is.’
House number two on the north-west of Aberdeen list was an ancient-looking farmhouse set back from the road, partially screened by a patchy beech hedge, the front garden a thicket of weeds. The walls were leper grey, the gable end streaked with rust from a buckled TV antenna. One chimney was missing a chunk off the corner and the slate roof was speckled with yellow lichen. Narrow dark windows glowered out at the surrounding fields. Behind it, a massive steading conversion was all fresh pointing and neat double glazing.
A bright green Willox and Smith ‘FOR SALE’ sign was driven into the jungle of dockens and brambles.
‘Get your team over to the next house and let me know if there’s any sign of Chalmers.’ Logan hung up and put his phone away.
Sim parked the car at the overgrown entrance to a small gravel drive. ‘No sign of a Mini.’
Well, they weren’t going to just leave it outside, were they?
He climbed out of the Fiat. The weeds in the driveway were partially flattened, as if a vehicle had been left there. . . Or they’d used it to reverse and turn around on the appalling track.
Sim joined him, pulling on her bowler. ‘What do you think? ’
‘Someone’s been here.’ He pointed. ‘See the trampled path through the weeds to the front door? ’
‘Unless it was sheep? ’
She unhooked the pepper-spray from her utility belt and handed it over. Then snapped out her extendable baton. ‘You want the front or the back? ’
Thistles and nettles bound together around the side of the property. All spiky and stingy. Logan fiddled with the pepper-spray. ‘Think I’ll . . . take the front.’
Sim sagged slightly. ‘Poop.’ Then she straightened up and waded her way through the undergrowth, elbows up at shoulder height, keeping her hands out of the danger zone.
Grass and broken dandelions squeaked under his shoes as he picked his way to the front door, hauling on a pair of blue nitrile gloves.
A scrunching crash sounded from the other side of the house, followed by, ‘Oh . . . pooping, bum-pooping poop!’
Logan peered in through the front window. The glass was thick with dirt, but there was enough light to see a mildew-speckled front room, the wallpaper peeling away in one corner and stained with damp. No furniture, just marks in the swirly seventies-style carpet where it used to be. The other front window was pretty much the same.
He tried the key in the lock. Opened the door. And stepped into a dank corridor that smelled like mouldy bread.
The house was in a much worse state than the first one they’d tried – a bungalow with a DIY jungle gym out the front. No wonder they’d had trouble selling it.
A staircase led almost straight up, ladder-style to a small landing, but down here there was a bathroom clarted in rust and mould, the two empty front rooms, and a tiny kitchen. Half the units were missing their doors, the other half had them hanging off. Big black stains spread across the ceiling.
Talk about a fixer-upper.
There was another crunch, then more ridiculous pseudo-swearing, and finally Sim’s face appeared at the kitchen window, cheeks flushed, mouth set into a hard line, a strand of sticky willy clinging to the brim of her bowler like a length of furry string.
Logan hauled open the back door and let her in.
She was covered in bits of greenery, sticky geordies all up her trousers, bits of bracken, green stains on her knees and elbows, scarlet scratches on the back of her hands and one cheek. She scowled at him. ‘Not one word.’
The corners of his mouth twitched, but he got it under control. ‘I’ve done downstairs. No sign of anyone.’
Back to the front hall.
The stairs creaked as they climbed, the balustrade wobbling every time it was touched. There was no way Anthony Chung and Agnes Garfield would have holed up here. Not with so many other, cleaner, less . . . diseasy properties to choose from.
At the top of the stairs was a small landing with a row of knee-high cupboards built into the angle of the roof, just visible in the gloom of a filthy Velux window. Two doors led off into what had to be attic bedrooms.
Sim stopped on the top step. ‘Can you smell something? ’
Logan stood where he was, sniffing. Whatever it was, it was sweet: floral. Not heavy enough to be cloying, but completely out of place in a tiny house that was rotting away inside.
He put one gloved hand on the doorknob to the first bedroom, turned, and let it swing open. Inside, a single bed sat against the back wall, the plaster on the coombed ceilings disintegrating, showing the lathe beneath.
Door number two. . . The knob turned, but the door stuck. He pushed harder and a ripping noise – like two bits of Velcro being separated – came from around the door frame. Duct tape.
And then the smell fell out of the room on top of them, curdling its way into Logan’s throat and lungs, filling his nose with the stench of spoiled meat. His throat constricted, stomach lurching. ‘Oh Jesus. . .’
The room was every bit as tiny as the first, but instead of the single bed, there was a Ring Knot marked out on the floorboards in black wax. The body was male, its stomach and chest bloated with gas, naked skin peppered with green and orange mould – covered in tiny purple slits, all the hair shaved off. Just like Anthony Chung.
Blood made dark pools on the floorboards, disappearing through the cracks. . . That must be what made the dark stains on the kitchen ceiling downstairs.
Sim slapped a hand over her mouth and nose. ‘Jeepers!’
Logan hauled the door closed again. Took his phone out with trembling fingers. And called it in.
47
Insch’s dark baritone growled out of the phone. ‘What exactly are you playing at? ’
Logan perched on the end of the garden wall, one hand shielding his eyes from the pale golden sun. ‘I’m kind of in the middle of something, so. . .? ’
The Manky Mystery Machine sat on the overgrown gravel drive, its back doors hanging open while white-suited SEB techs humped boxes into the house. A cordon of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape snaked in the breeze. Two patrol cars blocked the rutted track up to the property, Logan’s rusty old Fiat parked behind them in the gateway to a field of luminous-yellow oilseed rape.
‘Do you have any idea how much money it costs to keep a production like this running? Because—’
‘Want to cut to the chase? ’
A pause. ‘You arrested Morgan Mitchell.’
Logan stared up at the slate-coloured clouds. Sighed. ‘I did not arrest her. She assaulted someone.’
‘Let her out.’
‘She assaulted someone.’
‘Logan, it. . .’ He took a deep breath. ‘What if I get the other party to drop the charges? ’
‘Don’t think your star will be too happy with that – she did it on purpose so she could spend a night in the cells. I believe the term you used was, “Method-acting nutjobs”? ’
‘I’m haemorrhaging money here, Logan. I can’t afford to have one of my main a
ctresses banged up in Craiginches for a month!’
PC Sim clambered over the barbed-wire fence just beyond the end of the beech hedge, waved at him, then picked her way past the parked patrol cars.
‘Ms Mitchell’s up in front of the Sheriff tomorrow. I’ll see if I can get you an early morning slot.’
‘I’m serious, this is—’
‘It’s the best I can do. She assaulted someone, she got arrested. I’m not bypassing the whole criminal justice system as a favour for you or anyone else.’
Silence.
Sim stopped right in front of him, then picked the little round lumps of stickie geordies from her trouser legs.
‘I didn’t mean you should break the law.’
‘I’ve got to go.’ Logan hung up and stuck the phone away. ‘Well? ’
Sim sighed. ‘You should see their house, it’s huge. Great big kitchen and a built-in machine for making coffee and everything. I had a latte.’
Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Do we have to have “the talk”? ’
‘Husband’s in London on business, but I spoke to the wife and the daughter. Didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything. The steading faces away from the house, and I checked the views from all the windows – you could hold an orgy in the front garden here and no one would know. As long as you kept the noise down. . . Ah.’
Logan opened his eyes again. ‘What? ’
Sim pointed down the track, where a Porsche Cayenne, a Mercedes, and a dented pool car lumped and bumped their way through the potholes. ‘Cavalry’s here.’
Isobel peeled back her white SOC suit’s hood. Her fringe stuck to her shiny forehead, cheeks glowing bright pink as she snapped off her gloves and puffed out a long breath. ‘I’d estimate two, three days at most. In this heat it’s difficult to be sure, but trapped up there with the door and window taped shut. . .’ She lowered herself onto the bonnet of the patrol car, rubbing at her pregnant bulge. ‘Pfff. . . MO appears identical to the Anthony Chung case.’
DI Leith groaned. A beige plaster stretched across the bridge of his nose, the skin already starting to darken around his eyes where Ding-Dong thumped him one. ‘Like I haven’t got enough on my plate. . .’ He dug his hands into his pockets. ‘Well, as Acting DI McRae found the body, I think he should be the one—’
‘Oh no you don’t.’ Logan glanced back over his shoulder, where the duty undertakers were carrying a stainless-steel coffin out through the front door. ‘This is all yours.’ He turned and started down the track. ‘I’ve got a missing police officer to find.’
Sim scurried up behind him. ‘What now? ’
‘Go home. Your shift finished two and a half hours ago.’
‘Peter’s taking the kids to see that new Disney film. They’ll come back full of caffeine and sugar.’ She smiled. ‘I’d rather be hunting down a murderer than deal with that.’
Logan got to the Fiat, pulled out his phone, and called Rennie. ‘Any news? ’
‘Found some loose cannabis in the place out by Rhynie, but other than that: nothing.’
All three houses north-west of Aberdeen and still no sign of Chalmers. And no sign of Agnes Garfield either. . . The weaselly little git at Willox and Smith lied to them. ‘Get over to the estate agent’s in Kintore, I want a list of everything they’ve got for sale north of the city.’
‘But they’ll be closed and—’
‘I don’t care if you’ve got to arrest Willox for having a stupid haircut, get me that bloody list.’
Rennie opened the passenger door and slid into the Fiat Punto. Then curled his top lip. ‘What smells in here? ’
Logan stared at him. ‘Did you get the list or not? ’
A grin. ‘Piece of the proverbial.’ He held up an A4-sized magazine, with a photo of Bennachie on it and the words ‘WILLOX & SMITH ~ THE PROPER PROPERTY PEOPLE’.
Logan took it and flicked through the photocopied pages.
‘They do one every two weeks. It’s separated into areas, and I got Mr Comb-over to mark everything that’s been on the market for more than six months.’
Which looked like most of them.
He passed the property magazine to Sim in the back. ‘Everything north-east of the city.’
‘Yes, Guv.’
Rennie shoogled in his seat. ‘Can’t we just, you know . . . beat it out of Duncan Cocker? ’
‘He’s lawyered up. According to Biohazard, everything’s “no comment” now.’
‘Little sod.’
Sim leaned through from the back. ‘What kind of price range am I looking for? ’
‘Doesn’t matter. Just has to be something liveable in, that’s off the beaten track, and been vacant for a while. Goulding says Agnes Garfield likes ruins, so it’ll probably have steadings, or outbuildings, something like that.’
‘Right, vague it is. . .’ She sat back again.
What else would Agnes Garfield want? Land? Nice garden? Central heating and double glazing?
Logan frowned. ‘Any churches for sale? ’
‘Churches, churches. . . There’s one in Peterhead? ’
Too far away. ‘Anything else? ’
‘Erm. . .’ The silence was broken only by the sound of flipping pages. ‘How about this: “Arquarthy Croft, Kirkton of Rayne. Excellent opportunity to purchase a development or renovation project in the heart of the Grampian countryside, within easy commuting distance of Aberdeen. This three-bedroom traditional farmhouse with extensive outbuildings and three acres of land believed suitable for equestrian use. . .” They always say that, don’t they? ’
‘You’re supposed to be looking for churches.’
‘Didn’t let me finish. “. . .believed suitable for equestrian use. Includes a derelict chapel with outline planning permission to create a four-bedroom family home with double garage. Four hundred and sixty thousand.”’
‘Ouch.’ Rennie puckered up. ‘Soon as it says “outline planning permission” you know you’re about to be screwed.’
Logan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Anything else? ’
Sim shook her head. ‘That’s your lot.’
Did a derelict chapel still count as consecrated ground?
Worth a try.
Logan turned the key in the ignition.
‘—with gunmen in a four-hour standoff. Sources close to the operation say the suspected cannabis farmers are demanding a helicopter to take them, and their hostage, to Aberdeen Airport—’
Rennie peered through the windscreen as the wipers squealed their way back and forth across the pitted glass. ‘Still don’t see why we couldn’t take the pool car.’
‘—flight to Thailand. We spoke to Chief Constable—’
‘Stop moaning.’ Logan pulled the car into a small lane that disappeared into a forest of identical pine trees, all laid out in a grid, and killed the engine.
Sim clambered around till she was kneeling on the back seat, looking out the rear window. ‘That’s definitely it this time.’
Sodding estate agents and their crappy directions.
Rennie checked his watch. ‘Maybe we should call for armed backup? ’
‘It’ll take them at least half an hour to get here. What if Chalmers is staked out in the kitchen being tortured right now? ’
‘Yeah, but. . .’ A shrug. ‘And it’s raining.’
Logan climbed out into the drizzle. ‘Fine. Stay here then.’
Sim clambered out after him.
Arquarthy Croft sat on a small hill in the middle distance, surrounded by billowing golden fields of rapeseed. The house itself was in a rectangular patch of weeds and rhododendron bushes, dotted with about a dozen elderly trees, their branches heavy and drooping. The place was in slightly better shape than the last one, but not by much: a dirty grey north-east farmhouse with gable ends and dormer windows in the sagging slate roof. Off to one side sat a long L-shaped steading. The chunk furthest away from the house was
little more than a ruin, the roof caved in, beams showing like ribs on a rotting body.
Sim pointed. ‘Must be the chapel.’
Three stone walls, one with an arched window in it, the rest a pile of rubble.
Logan turned his jacket collar up against the rain. ‘Right, we keep to the tree-line. Sneak up on them from the back of the property.’
She nodded, then handed him the pepper-spray. ‘Just in case.’
Logan stuck it in his pocket, then hurried across the road, over a barbed-wire fence, and into a field of rapeseed bordered by gnarled beech and oak. The thigh-high crop rustled against his trouser legs, filling the air with the smell of honey as he squeezed down the narrow gap between it and the drystane dyke. Soft earth squelched and sucked at his shoes.
Halfway along he stopped and hid behind a wall.
Sim hunkered down beside him and peered between the trees. ‘Don’t see any movement.’
‘Probably inside getting stoned.’
Assuming they were even there at all.
From here the tumbledown end of the steading was directly between them and the house. Blocking the view.
‘You ready? ’
Rennie puffed and panted along the edge of the field, running hunched over as if he was in an American war film. He slithered to a halt and ducked down. ‘Phoned Control and told them we needed armed backup.’
Great. So now—
Logan’s phone bellowed out Steel’s sinister theme tune. Right on cue. He pulled it out.
‘What the sodding arseholes of cock are you playing at? ’
‘It’s a precaution, OK? Nothing more.’ He skimmed through his phone’s menu and stuck the ringer on to vibrate only.
‘Don’t you bloody “precaution” me. I’m no’ having another armed sodding standoff!’
Logan climbed over the drystane dyke, sticking to the edge of the next field – more rapeseed – making for the steading. He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘What do you want me to do: sit on my backside waiting for you to turn up with the gun brigade? That’ll make great headlines, won’t it: “Police waste time while female officer is tortured to death.”’
Close to the Bone (Special Edition) (Logan McRae, Book 8) Page 43
