Close to the Bone (Special Edition) (Logan McRae, Book 8)

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Sarcasm. Helpful. You try getting anything done when they reorganize your department every three sodding minutes, then lump you with a sodding software upgrade that throws false positive and negatives the whole time!’ A pause, filled with what sounded like angry breathing. Then a slow hissing noise. And finally he was back. ‘We’ve a ninety-nine percent match with a Mai Shi-tu, arrested half a dozen times for possession, housebreaking. Low-level drug dealer from Glasgow.’

  The double doors onto the rear podium burst open and Rennie swaggered in, then stuck his arms up, fingers making the victory signs. Like a young, blond, Richard Nixon. ‘Who’s the daddy? Oh yes!’

  ‘Yeah, well, that would’ve been really useful information yesterday when it actually mattered.’

  ‘There’s no need to be a dick about it, it’s not like—’

  ‘Next time we say ASAP, we mean ASAP.’ Logan hung up on him.

  A hunched figure hurpled in behind Rennie, leaning heavily on a walking stick, his left leg encased in a filthy cast from the knee down. His face was covered in scabs and scratches, his hair plastered to his head by the rain.

  Rennie waved at Logan. Grinned. Then turned and swept an arm towards his limping friend. ‘Ladies, and gentlemen, the one, the only, Mr Henry Scott!’

  Henry Scott stopped where he was, licking his chapped lips, eyes shifting left and right. ‘I’m sorry. . .? ’

  Rennie beamed at Logan again. ‘See: told you I could do it. Found him in Kincorth, hiding in a derelict building.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything. . .’

  The smile slipped from Rennie’s face. ‘I know you didn’t, Henry.’ He patted him on the shoulder. ‘I tracked down your sister, she’s been worried about you. Wants you to go live with her and the family in Perth. Help you get better.’ Then Rennie backed off a pace and sniffed the hand he’d just patted Henry Scott with. He shuddered. ‘But first, we need to get you a bath . . .’

  Logan stayed where he was while Rennie led Henry Scott away. As soon as they were out of sight, the sound of Rennie whistling ‘We Are the Champions’ echoed up the stairwell.

  He slid the hatch open on cell number three.

  Morgan Mitchell lay on her back on the mattress, staring up at the advert for Crimestoppers painted on the ceiling. She raised her head and frowned at him. Then sat up. ‘Well, well.’ A smile. ‘You going to give me a seeing-to with the rubber hoses now? ’

  ‘It was you.’

  She stood and padded her way across to the door. ‘Of course, we could start with some light spanking, if you’re not ready for the heavy stuff yet.’

  ‘Agnes Garfield didn’t necklace Roy Forman, you did.’

  ‘Little old me? ’ She bit her bottom lip. ‘Now that would deserve a sound thrashing. That’s what you Brits call it, right? ’

  ‘You were there on Friday, with Nichole Fyfe, when he went missing. What did you do: slip him a bottle of supermarket whisky so he’d go with you? So you’d know how it felt to do that to someone? ’

  A laugh. ‘Seriously? ’

  ‘This is a joke to you? ’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Better believe my art is not a joke.’

  ‘You burned a man to death so you could play a part in a film.’

  Morgan took a step back from the door. ‘I didn’t do anything of the kind. I didn’t hurt anyone. Yes, I was at the soup kitchen, but I was with Nichole the whole time, helping the homeless. And you can’t prove a damn thing.’

  ‘Oh believe me, we’ll—’

  ‘I did three seasons on CSI New Orleans, do you really think I wouldn’t know how to clean a crime scene? ’ A little shrug, then the smile was back. ‘You know, if I’d done this terrible thing.’

  He stared at her.

  ‘You’ve got nothing, Inspector. If you had something: you’d be charging me.’ She spun around on one foot, as if she was on a dance floor. Then settled back onto the mattress, one knee up, an arm behind her head. ‘Now, be a good cop and take a hike. I’ve got atmosphere to soak up.’

  51

  Insch paced up and down outside FHQ in the rain, grumbling into a mobile phone, an umbrella thrumming over his shiny bald head.

  Logan turned up his collar and hurried out through the automatic doors from reception, hopping his way between the puddles. He stopped just short of Insch. ‘You knew, didn’t you.’ It wasn’t a question.

  Insch curled his lip, the sagging skin on his neck stretching like a tortoise. ‘I’ll call you back.’ He stuck the phone in his pocket. ‘So you finally deign to speak to me.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything? ’

  ‘You’ll be happy to know, I’ve been speaking to Ma Stewart. We’re making her the authorized supplier for authentic Witchfire merchandise. It’s high quality, it’s locally produced, and it helps support Aberdeen’s elderly community.’

  ‘Morgan Mitchell.’

  ‘I have . . . spoken with the person she’s alleged to have assaulted. Turns out it was all a misunderstanding. He slipped and fell. Banged his head. And when she helped him up, he confused the order of events. He’s apologized and withdrawn the charges.’

  Logan stared at him. ‘What about Roy Forman? ’

  Insch dug a bag of carrot sticks from his pocket and stuffed one into his mouth, crunching and frowning at the same time. ‘The Hardgate Hobo? What about him? ’

  ‘She killed him. She lured him away with a bottle of booze, drove him out to the middle of nowhere, and burned him. All for your bloody film!’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot. The gentleman she allegedly assaulted has dropped the charges. Now let her get back to work.’

  Back to work. . .?

  Logan jabbed a finger in Insch’s chest. ‘You knew!’

  ‘I have no idea what—’

  ‘Don’t, OK? Just. . .’ He marched away half a dozen paces, then back again. ‘Roy Forman died, screaming in agony.’

  The only sound was the rain, making drum-rolls on Insch’s umbrella. ‘Morgan Mitchell – didn’t – kill – anyone.’

  ‘She was there the night he was abducted. She says she was with Nichole Fyfe, but what do you want to bet Nichole was so stoned you could’ve paraded half the circus up and down in front of her and she wouldn’t have noticed? ’

  Insch’s face was growing darker, the muscles along his jaw rippling. ‘And I’m telling you—’

  ‘All that bollocks about “You can’t just turn up and drone out your lines, you’ve got to inhabit the part. You’ve got to live it.” She killed Roy Forman just so she’d know what it felt like.’

  He clenched his eyes shut, two trembling fingers pressed against the folds of skin at his neck – taking his pulse. A thick vein throbbed on his forehead. ‘Morgan wouldn’t—’

  ‘You said it yourself.’ Logan poked him in the chest. ‘She’s a method-acting nutjob. She thinks this performance is going to catapult her to superstar—’

  ‘NO!’ Spittle flew from Insch’s mouth, accompanied by little flecks of chewed carrot. ‘MORGAN MITCHELL DIDN’T KILL ANYONE!’

  Logan took a step back. ‘She did it, and she thinks we can’t touch her.’

  ‘She. . .’ Air hissed in and out of his nose, like a broken bellows. ‘I’ve sunk everything I’ve got into this bloody film. We can’t afford to go back and reshoot every single scene Mrs Shepherd—’

  ‘What the hell happened to you? ’ Logan turned on his heel and marched back towards the station. ‘You used to be a police officer.’

  ‘Look, Inspector McRae, if you’re just going to sit there and scowl at my client, I don’t see any point in continuing this interview.’ Anthony Chung’s lawyer gathered together his paperwork.

  ‘Maybe if your client said something other than “no comment”, Mr Blake, we’d actually get somewhere.’

  Sitting on the other side of the table, Anthony Chung just smiled at him.

  Fine.

  ‘Constable Buchan: do the honours.
’

  ‘Interview suspended at ten fifty-two.’ She reached forward and switched the audio and video off.

  Blake stood, but his client stayed where he was.

  Anthony’s American accent was beginning to fray around the edges, a hint of Scottish creeping in. ‘You go. I want to have a word, with The Man. Off the record.’

  ‘I have to advise you not to say anything to the inspector—’

  ‘I’m cool.’ The smile became a grin. ‘They know I didn’t kill anyone.’

  ‘Don’t tell him anything.’ The lawyer pointed a chewed finger at Logan. ‘If I even think you’ve tried to coerce my client, I’ll have you suspended quicker than you can say “misconduct”.’

  ‘Constable Buchan, escort Mr Blake to the canteen. And make sure he doesn’t steal any spoons.’

  As soon as the door closed again, Anthony sat forward in his seat. ‘Is she OK? Rowan? ’

  ‘Bit late to worry about that now, isn’t it? After what you made her do? ’

  ‘She was so . . . happy, yeah? All these years her mom’s treated her like she’s a little kid or something: telling her where she can go, who she can speak to, who she can love.’ Anthony shook his head. ‘You know she slit her wrists when the old bitch said she couldn’t see me any more? The pills weren’t working, she was miserable the whole time. So yeah: I made her happy.’

  ‘Is there a point to this, Anthony? Or are you just showing off as usual.’

  ‘She was like a zombie on the pills, she hated it. Lumbering through the weeks like she wasn’t even there.’ He wriggled forward in his seat. ‘You never love someone enough that you’ll do anything for them? And I’m not talking about a box of candy and some flowers, or dinner and a movie, I mean change the whole world just ’cos it makes them glow? ’

  ‘You made her kill people.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re all outraged and shit, but I’ve never seen her that alive before. You know? She’s living the dream.’ He smiled. ‘And you can’t do her for the murders – she wasn’t in her right mind. It’s not her fault.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ Logan stood. ‘It’s yours. And do you know what? As we’re off the record: you’re going down for at least eight years, and the people you stole from? They’ll have someone inside waiting for you.’ He held up his hands. ‘I’m not trying to threaten you, or pressure you into making a deal, I’m just letting you know you’re well and truly screwed. You’re responsible for every one of those deaths, and the poor sods who got crippled. You won’t last a month.’

  Anthony picked at a chip on the tabletop. ‘I. . .’ He licked his lips. Looked up at the camera, sitting dead high up on the wall. ‘I did it all for her.’

  ‘You tell the guys in the shower block that. The ones with the homemade knives.’

  A little chunk of Formica peeled away beneath his fingernails. ‘I need you to look after my mom and dad.’

  Logan leaned back against the door and folded his arms.

  ‘I mean, when the McLeods find out it was me stealing from them, they’re going to go after him, aren’t they? ’ Anthony gave a little laugh. ‘Course they are. They’ll think he told me where the other farms were, but he didn’t. I followed him to work one day, saw who he spoke to. Then I followed them. Took a couple of weeks, but I worked out how the operation fits together.’

  ‘Your dad works for the McLeods? ’

  Of course he did. Simon McLeod said he’d paid a fortune getting the best in the business over to grow for him, and according to the US Justice Department, Raymond Chung had form for growing cannabis in San Francisco.

  Logan groaned. ‘Is that why your father told us the body we found was yours? He wanted his masters to think you were dead, so they wouldn’t go after you? ’

  Anthony stopped picking. ‘I never stole from Dad’s farm. Simon and Creepy Colin McLeod – you wouldn’t believe how bad they’ll mess you up if they think you’re not looking after their merchandise. That’s why I never touched the weed Dad was growing.’

  ‘Let me guess: everyone else was fair game? ’

  ‘He had nothing to do with the thefts, it was all me.’

  ‘What a great son you are. Very thoughtful.’

  ‘He doesn’t deserve to get fed to the pigs.’ Anthony drew himself up. Shoulders back. ‘You get him and Mom into witness protection, and I’ll totally tell you where all the McLeods’ farms are. You can shut down the whole operation. That’s got to be worth something, right? ’

  Rennie whistled. ‘And he’s giving us everything? The McLeods are going to love that.’

  Logan kept going up the stairs. ‘Every time he targeted a new farm, he’d ID one of the drones and get Agnes to pay them a visit. Told her they were witches so she’d torture the details out of them. Then they go in, avoid the booby traps, and steal all the cannabis they could fit in their truck.’

  ‘They’re going to rip him a new one the minute he sets foot in Craiginches, aren’t they? ’

  ‘Of course they are. That’s why I’ve got him going in as a vulnerable prisoner.’ Logan pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it over. ‘You’re always moaning that you never get the credit for anything, so I’m giving you the happy job of going out there and telling Mr and Mrs Chung their little boy’s not dead after all. And then take the two of them into custody. It’s—’ The phone blared. Logan pulled it out. ‘McRae.’

  ‘Is this ASAP enough for you? ’ It was the forensic lab guy he’d given a hard time to earlier.

  Logan stuck the phone against his chest and shooed Rennie away. ‘Don’t just stand there.’

  He waited until Rennie scurried off before going back to his mobile. ‘Look, I’m sorry about—’

  ‘We got a DNA match off your necklacing victim. And before you get all sarcastic again, I know the samples went in on Sunday, but the one we matched it to didn’t hit the system till yesterday evening.’

  All the moisture disappeared from Logan’s mouth. ‘Yesterday evening? ’

  Please. . .

  ‘A Morgan Mitchell.’

  He grinned. Maybe there was a God after all.

  She kicked and screamed, teeth bared, snapping at the arm of the uniform dragging her off the set. Scarlet hair flashing in the movie spotlights.

  Zander Clark slumped in his director’s chair, hands over his head.

  The rest of the cast and crew just stared.

  Insch marched over, throwing his arms in the air, shouting.

  And Logan stood there, in the middle of Soundstage Three. ‘Morgan Mitchell, 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, namely the murder by burning of one Roy Forman. . .’

  Chalmers sat propped up on a barricade of scratchy NHS pillows. The bruising down the left side of her face was aubergine dark, yellows and greens just visible at the edges. An IV line disappeared into a shunt in the back of one hand, little square patches of gauze and cotton wool poking out above the neckline of her hospital gown. A faint dusting of grey coloured the skin of her shaved head, between the tie-dye bruises and scabs.

  The other three beds in the ward were occupied: one woman lying flat on her back, snoring; another reading a crime novel the size of a breezeblock; one more lying on her side, shoulders quivering as she cried.

  ‘No, I’m fine. Never better.’ Chalmers fiddled with the nurse call button, turning it round and back again in her hand. Never quite pressing it.

  ‘Really? ’

  She blinked. Pulled on a smile that didn’t go anywhere near her pink, watery eyes. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks. . .’

  ‘You got stabbed twenty times with a pricking blade, and then she tried to drown you.’

  Chalmers stared at the call button. ‘I’m fine.’

  The hospital’s background hum droned on, broken by the snores and choked-back tears from the other beds.


  Logan laced his fingers together. ‘They’re going to invalid you out.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m. . .’ Then wiped a hand across her eyes. ‘You got over it, didn’t you. You told me. I just need to do what you did: see a psychologist. Try that “talking therapy” thing. I can get over this.’

  The ward door banged open and she flinched.

  An old lady in a black T-shirt and red tabard reversed into the room, pulling a trolley with tea things on it.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘You’re not getting the choice. You take the early retirement or they instigate disciplinary proceedings. A little ambition’s a good thing, but loose cannons only work on TV and in books. People nearly died, just so you could further your career.’

  Chalmers sat upright. ‘But I can—’

  ‘You’re done.’

  ‘Pffff. . .’ Logan eased back into the visitor’s chair. ‘My back is killing me.’ He wriggled from side to side, pushing the bruises until they snarled.

  Someone had tidied Samantha’s bedside cabinets, lining up the Lucozade bottles like soldiers on parade, the stack of unread magazines perfectly centred on the veneer surface, the copy of Witchfire perched on top of them like a brick.

  ‘So, she pleaded for a bit, then she cried, and then she called for the nurse.’ He levered his shoes off and let them thump to the floor. Wiggled his toes. One of them poked through the hole in his right sock. He stuck both feet up on the bed and stifled a yawn. ‘So how was your day? ’

  No reply, just the hiss of the ventilator.

  ‘Yeah, me too. Did I tell you Morgan Mitchell’s still denying everything? Doesn’t matter – we’ve impounded the car she was driving Friday night. It’s going to have traces of Roy Forman in it. And accelerant.’

  A knock on the door, and Nurse Claire popped her head in, eyebrows up as if she’d just sat on something sharp. She slipped into the room, with one hand behind her back, the other holding a finger up to her lips.

  Logan smiled. ‘Before you say anything: I need to buy more socks. I know.’

  She bumped the door closed with her bum. ‘If anyone finds out, I’ll be for it, so this is just between us, OK? ’