Close to the Bone (5 page)

‘We’ll get him picked up, do him for assaulting a police officer – or what passes for one these days – and get him off the streets for a year or two. Can’t be bad, can it? ’ She tore open the sachets and squeezed them into the roll. ‘Should’ve let him punch you in the face ages ago.’

‘Have you not got flying monkeys to train or something? ’

Another bite left her with a smear of white on her cheek. ‘Where are we with the necklace guy? ’

‘No witnesses. The Joyriders’ Graveyard isn’t exactly
on
the beaten track, which was probably the point. We ran a check on all the burned-out cars. . .’ He waved a hand at his in-tray, then tipped his head back again. ‘Report’s on the top.’

‘Very good. Want to give me the quick version? ’

Sigh. ‘Forgot your glasses, did you? ’

‘Don’t need sodding glasses. Nothing wrong with my eyes, I’m just busy: so summarize.’

‘DVLA gave us plates to match the chassis numbers. Got DS Chalmers to check out the registered keepers on the police national computer.’

A yawn. ‘God, the suspense is killing me.’

‘A couple with form for drunk and disorderly. One guy’s done four years for assault. There’s nothing more than a handful of parking tickets between the rest of them.’

‘ID on the victim? ’

‘Face is gone, and his hands were chained behind him so the tyre dripped burning rubber all over them. They’re scorched; apparently we
might
get a partial off what’s left of the right thumb, but no one’s holding their breath. We could try matching dental records, but for that—’

‘We’d need to know who he was in the first place.’ Steel chewed in silence, scowling out of the window. ‘Do you have any idea what the CID budget’s like right now? Can’t buy a bag of crisps without the ACC’s say so. And you know what he’s like.’ She dropped her voice an octave and put on a posh Morningside accent. ‘I can assure you, Roberta, that the press are only too happy to make Grampian Police look like idiots on this. I would appreciate your team not helping them out on that front. We need a swift and decisive result!’ She let out a long wet raspberry. ‘Like we’re sitting about on our bumholes doing sod all about it.’

‘What do you mean,
“we”
? ’

‘Lucky our victim copped it on a Saturday night. Be all over the papers come Monday. Editorializing tosspots. . . Get your victim DNA tested, and if the ACC moans I’ll drop my breeks and tell him to pucker up.’ Steel stuck her feet up on Logan’s desk and polished off the last of the buttie. ‘Speaking of tosspots, have you done anything about Agnes sodding Garfield yet? ’ Steel dug into her pocket and hauled out a wad of ‘W
HILE
Y
OU
W
ERE
O
UT
’ stickies. She chucked them onto his desk. ‘All from the mother. Says she’s going to the papers if we don’t get our finger out and find her wee girl.’

Logan picked them up and dumped them in his bin. ‘She’s
not
a wee girl, she’s eighteen. And she’s not missing: she’s run away with her boyfriend.’

‘Don’t care if she’s sodded off to join the circus – her mum’s going to make a pain in the arse of herself till we find her. Can you no’ at least
look
as if you’re trying to find her? ’

Yeah, because he didn’t have anything better to do. ‘Is that it? Nothing else you want? ’

Steel sooked her fingers clean. ‘Could murder a cup of coffee.’

Logan groped for the office phone, then punched in DS Chalmers’s number.

She picked up on the second ring. ‘
Guv?
’

‘Got a minute? ’

‘
Be right through.
’

Steel waved at him. ‘Tell whoever it is to bring coffee!’

Logan blinked at the printout a couple of times, then handed it back. The bleeding had stopped, but burning army ants were marching through his sinuses, trying to force his eyes out of their sockets. A scrunched-up tail of white paper stuck out of each nostril, just in case his head started leaking again. ‘Nothing at all? ’

DS Chalmers stood to attention in front of his desk, her curly hair more or less under control in a lopsided ponytail. She consulted her notebook. ‘I chased them up at eight, on the dot; told them to put a rush on the DNA, and got an earful of moaning about the new procedures, and the re-organization, and the software upgrade, and it’s Sunday. . .’

Steel settled back in the visitor’s chair, eyes clamped on Chalmers’s buttocks. ‘You don’t say. . .’

‘Yeah, the SPSA got this big IT company in to rationalize everything, and nothing works anymore. Apparently there’s a pensioner in Dumfries that’s come back as a positive DNA match for eight murders, thirty-seven housebreakings, six arsons, and five rapes. Not bad for a woman in a wheelchair.’

Logan ran a finger along the side of his nose, gently probing the edge of the plaster that crossed the bridge. Sore. ‘Did they get anything off that partial thumb? ’

‘Gave it a go, but nothing came back. Which
could
mean the victim’s not in the database.’ She put the notebook away. ‘So, maybe it’s not gang-related after all? If he was a dealer we’d have his prints in the system, right? ’

‘Not if he’d never been caught.’

Steel took one last look at Chalmers’s bum then sat up straight. ‘Aye, well someone caught him yesterday, didn’t they.’

5

Isobel hauled off her purple nitrile gloves and dropped them in the pedal bin, then dumped her green plastic apron in after them. Then stood with her back arched, pregnant bulges sticking out, hands rubbing at the base of her spine. Eyes closed, teeth gritted. ‘Ungh. . . You know, when I had Sean I held off going on maternity leave until the last possible moment. Won’t be making
that
mistake again.’

Behind her, the Anatomical Pathology Technician was slotting the victim’s ribcage back into place, whistling the theme tune to
Dr Who
as she worked.

Logan dropped his facemask and gloves in the bin. Then unzipped his SOC suit. ‘Cause of death? ’

‘I need a sit down first.’ She waddled towards the door. ‘And maybe a nice cup of camomile tea.’

Logan followed her through into the pathologists’ office – a small room with two desks facing opposite walls. One was covered with stacks of paperwork, the other completely clear, except for a power-lead and an empty in-tray.

Isobel groaned her way into the seat and puffed out her cheeks. Stuck her legs out and rotated the feet at the ankles. First one way, and then the other. ‘Are you sure you don’t want an analgesic? ’

He shrugged one shoulder. ‘The only benefit of a punch on the nose – can’t smell the post mortem. And I had some paracetamol before we started.’

‘You always were such a martyr.’ She opened a desk drawer and pulled out a blister pack of pills. ‘Take two. No alcohol for six hours.’

Logan popped a couple of tablets out onto his palm, then knocked them back dry. Like a pro.

Isobel nodded. ‘Damage above the fire line was extensive, the dermis and epidermis are virtually gone. But it looks as if whoever killed him shaved him first. No hair on the head, groin, armpits, or chest, and they didn’t do a particularly smooth job of it either.’

She dumped the pills back in her desk. ‘In addition to the shaving and burning tyre, your victim was stabbed three times, left-hand side. Twice between the fourth and fifth rib, once between the fifth and sixth. The first two punctured the lung; the third went straight into the left ventricle, rupturing the heart.’ She levered her right shoe off with the toe of the left. Let it clunk to the threadbare carpet tiles. ‘Oh, that’s better. . .’

An off-white kettle sat on top of a filing cabinet. Logan stuck it on to boil. ‘So the burning didn’t kill him? ’

‘The ribcage was full of blood, so the knife wound was definitely ante-mortem. Mind you, given the state of his liver, he would probably have been dead within eighteen months. Your victim was a
very
heavy drinker: his stomach had nothing but alcohol in it. Something else – the hyoid bone was cracked.’

‘Stabbed, burned,
and
strangled? ’

‘No. Strangulation is a binary state, you’re either strangled, or you’re alive. Your victim aspirated smoke into his lungs, so he was still breathing when the tyre was set alight.’ She levered off her other shoe. ‘So it’s more like: burned, strangled,
then
stabbed.’

‘Hmmm. . .’

The kettle rumbled and rattled, then clicked and went quiet again. Logan popped a camomile teabag in a bone-china mug. It was decorated with a kid’s drawing – a skeleton lying on a table, while a stick-figure woman in a green dress stood over it with a big bloody knife. The words ‘
MUMMY AT WORK
’ picked out in wobbly lowercase. He poured boiled water into the mug, filling the room with the smell of dead flowers, then handed it over. ‘It’d have to be
strangled
, burned, then stabbed. No one’s going to be daft enough to strangle someone who’s on fire, are they? ’

‘Unless the hyoid bone was damaged by heat, rather than compression. It’s an incredibly delicate structure, we’re lucky it survived at all.’ Isobel blew steam from the surface of her tea before taking a sip. ‘I hear you’re having problems identifying the body? ’

‘Still waiting on DNA. Bloody SPSA reorganization means everything takes three times as long.’ He spooned some instant coffee granules into a second mug.

‘A forensic anthropologist could work up a facial reconstruction from the remains. That would help, wouldn’t it? ’

Logan pulled a face. ‘Steel’s already got a wasp in her pants about the CID budget. We’re not to authorize anything without her say-so. And I’m guessing forensic anthropologists don’t come cheap.’

‘About the same as a decent childminder.’ A scowl. ‘Or a thieving au pair.’

‘What do I look like, made of money? ’ DCI Steel’s voice echoed around the office. ‘DNA’s still our best bet – you don’t get bumped off like that in a mob hit and not be dirty.’

‘But a forensic anthropologist—’

‘No. N.O. spells: “shut up and stop bugging me about forensic anthropologists.”’ She slumped back in her office chair. ‘Take the sodding hint.’

‘But Isobel—’

‘I don’t care if the Ice Queen wants raspberry ripple ice cream with brown sauce and gherkins, we’re waiting for the DNA.’ Steel scrubbed at her face with her hands. ‘He’ll
be
in the system.’

Ah well, can’t say he hadn’t tried.

‘What about Reuben? ’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘What about him? ’

For God’s sake. ‘Have they picked him up yet? ’

‘Do you
really
think I’ve no’ got more important things to worry about than who punched you on the bloody nose? You probably deserved it.’ She held up a hand, thumb and forefinger squeezed tightly together. ‘Hell, I’m this far away from doing it myself!’

‘Thanks. Thanks for the support. Really appreciate it.’ Logan marched out of her office and slammed the door behind him. ‘Cow.’

‘I heard that!’

Of course she did. Ears like a bloody vampire bat. He stuck two fingers up at the wood.

The corridor funnelled the noise from the main CID room, open-plan muttering and barely controlled chaos. Greasy coils of garlic, salami, and cheese tentacled through the air carrying with them the ghosts of pizzas past. His stomach gurgled.

Somewhere, deep within his head, someone was doing a Steve McQueen impersonation from the
Great Escape
, hurling that bloody baseball against the walls of the cooler. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

He turned his back on the siren scent and slouched through to his own office instead. A lanky figure with sticky-up blond hair was draped all over the visitor’s chair, feet up on Logan’s desk. Eyes closed, head back, mouth hanging open, making little grunting noises.

Logan opened one of the filing cabinet drawers, then slammed it shut.

‘Gaaah!’ DS Rennie jerked upright in his seat, eyes like nervous pingpong balls, jittering feet sending a pile of forms scattering to the carpet. ‘I’m awake, I’m awake.’

‘What are you still doing here? ’ The old office chair creaked as Logan settled into it. ‘You were snoring.’

Rennie stretched: arms up to the ceiling, legs hovering an inch over the tabletop. ‘You’ve been ages. . .’

‘Post mortem.’ What the hell happened to his desk? The whole thing was covered in other people’s paperwork. Why did every lazy sod in CID think
this
was the perfect place to dump their crap? ‘Now get your bloody feet off my desk.’

‘Sorry, Guv.’ Rennie screwed the palm of one hand into his eye socket, yawned again, shuddered, then sagged in the chair like someone had stolen all of his bones. ‘Went through all the witness statements and CCTV footage from the jewellery heist: three males, all in their late teens – early twenties. Local accents. Initial getaway car from the scene was a VW Golf.’ He hunched his shoulders and dug his hands into his armpits. ‘Cold in here.’

Logan picked the forms up from the floor, added them to the rest, then started separating them out into piles for whoever touched them last. ‘Number plate? ’

‘Fake. Well, not fake-fake – they’d nicked it off a blue Citroën Berlingo in Mannofield.’ Another yawn. ‘Bet you a fiver they abandoned the Golf and torched it before going on in a second car. So we’ll get nothing off it, even if we can find. . .’ He blinked at Logan, then frowned. ‘What? ’ Brushed a hand across his cheek. ‘Have I got pizza on my face? ’

‘We found a burned-out VW Golf in the Joyriders’ Graveyard: reported stolen Saturday morning – last seen by the owner, Friday tea-time. It was still warm.’

‘Plenty of time to get to the jewellers, cut the alarm cables, get in, tie up the proprietor and his bit on the side, rob everything, then sod off into the night.’

Logan took a biro from the mess on his desk and tapped it against his chin. ‘Interesting.’

‘Ooh,’ Rennie sat forward in the chair. ‘Maybe your victim’s one of the team? Someone got greedy, or they thought he was a snitch? ’

‘Would explain the gangland execution, wouldn’t it? ’