Shatter the Bones (22 page)

‘When I joined CID there was a DI: right bastard, always storming about shouting at everyone. Had to deliver a death message to this drug dealer’s family – their son managed to choke on his own vomit in custody.’ Logan stood. ‘So while DI Cole’s inside breaking the bad news, their other kid nips outside and jams a wodge of chewing gum right up under the door handle where you can’t see it.’

The constable shrugged. ‘Could be worse, dog shite would—’

‘Then he stuck a dirty razorblade in the chewing gum. DI Cole swapped the tips of two fingers for a dose of Hepatitis C.’ Logan clunked the car door open. ‘Never hurts to check.’

Inside, Charlie Delta Seven looked every bit as crappy as it had when Shuggie nicked it. Only now it stank of wet dog.

‘So, you think he’s still about somewhere?’ Rennie clacked open his extendible baton. ‘SHUGGIE! SHUGGIE WEBSTER: COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!’

Logan stood. Laid a hand on the bonnet. It was cold. ‘Car’s been here at least an hour.’ He turned around, looking out at the damp brown earth of the car park. ‘Must have had a back-up vehicle here… Or maybe someone was off having a walk in the woods, and he nicked theirs instead. Or he was meeting someone…’

Rennie collapsed his truncheon again. ‘Want me to call it in?’

‘What, and let everyone know Shuggie Webster stole my pool car? No thanks. What Professional Standards don’t know, won’t hurt them.’ Logan stepped out from under the canopy of green needles. The rain was getting heavier again, pitter-pattering against the undergrowth. ‘Can you smell something?’

‘What if Shuggie’s knocked down some old dear, or something?’

He held a finger to his lips. ‘Shh…’ The car park was surrounded with dense green ferns, their long fractal fronds waving in the thickening rain. Someone had forced a path into them, at thirty degrees to the official trail that led off into the woods.

Logan picked his way around a puddle. Dark stains turned the mud black around the trampled ferns. He stepped to the side, making sure he wasn’t treading on anything that looked important as he crept closer.

‘Sarge?’

He waved Rennie back. ‘Give us a second.’

Standing on his tiptoes, he could just see into a little flattened clearing at the end of the path. It couldn’t have been much more than five-foot across, the undergrowth trampled, ferns and grass stained a shiny black.

Something lay off to one side: a dark mound, torn open, chunks of red, purple and white poking out. A curl of grey tubes, glistening on the darkened grass.

‘What?’ Rennie appeared at his shoulder. ‘What have you… Fuck me. Is that a dog?’

It was. A huge Rottweiler, by the look of what was left of its head.

Someone had hacked Shuggie Webster’s dog to death.

The Wildlife Crime Officer sat back on his haunches and shook his head. ‘What a bastard…’ A slow, steady rain beat a tattoo on the hood of his white SOC suit; a pair of purple gloves on his hands, blue plastic over-booties on his feet. ‘Who’d do this to a wee dog?’

The bright glare of a camera flash froze raindrops in mid-air. An IB technician shifted around for another shot. Logan nodded at the remains. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think someone needs taking out and shot,
that’s
what I think. Beautiful dog like that.’ The WCO reached out and stroked the dark fur on the back of the massive animal. ‘Lot of people think Rottweilers are these horrible aggressive dogs, but they’re big softies really…’

Yeah.

That’s
exactly
what Uzi was when he was trying to rip Logan’s throat out. ‘I meant: any idea what killed it?’

A long sigh, making the white paper oversuit rustle. ‘Well, I’m no pathologist, but looking at the size of the cuts … most of them to the dog’s back and shoulders…’ Another sigh. ‘A sword? There’s a lot of wee toerags buying those samurai swords off the internet these days. Or maybe a huge knife? Proper Rambo job. It’d have to be at least, what?’ He looked over at the IB technician he’d brought with him. ‘Eighteen inches long?’

The IB tech lowered his massive digital camera. ‘Give or take.’ About the same size as a machete.

Which explained where Shuggie Webster had gone, and why he’d left the CID pool car behind. Sodding hell. Now Logan
had
to call it in.

‘What about prints, fibres, that kind of thing?’

The IB tech slung the camera strap over his shoulder. ‘You want the full CSI treatment?’

Logan looked back at the hacked-up Rottweiler. There was no way Shuggie Webster would’ve gone quietly, not after someone did that to his dog. Chances were his mutilated corpse would be turning up soon enough. Any trace evidence they could find would help. As if today
needed
to get any shittier. ‘As much as you can give me, without Finnie throwing a wobbly about the cost.’

‘You’ll be lucky – all this rain, outdoors, public place… Can’t promise anything.’ He patted the WCO on the shoulder. ‘It’s OK, Dunc, you can take him away if you like. I’m done.’

They left him stuffing chunks of butchered Rottweiler into a white child-sized body-bag.

The IB tech dumped his sample kit next to a couple of Tesco carrier bags, lying flattened on the muddy ground, weighed down with stones. He removed one of the rocks, and peeled back the plastic. There was a perfectly rectangular puddle of plaster-of-Paris underneath. Pure white in the middle, greying at the edges. He poked it with a finger. Sighed. Then wiped the digit on his oversuit. ‘Still not convinced we’re going to get anything…’

‘What about fingerprints?’

‘I mean, the footwear marks weren’t exactly in the best of shape to start with, were they? Doesn’t help it’s pishing with rain.’

‘You could dust the car while you’re waiting for it to set? Maybe they touched the paintwork?’

He flopped the bag back into place, and weighed it down again. ‘I mean, mud’s great for
taking
footprints, but soon as it starts to rain again, they go all mooshy—’

‘Ernie: the car.’

‘Don’t be daft.’ He pulled off his facemask, exposing a little ginger goatee beard and a smile full of squint teeth. ‘What do you think fingerprint powder’s going to do on wet metal?’

‘Ah…’ Bugger. ‘Exactly.’ Ernie peeled back the hood of his SOC suit, exposing a high forehead barely holding onto a crown of yet more ginger. ‘Have to get it back to the ranch. Stick it somewhere dry for a couple of hours.’

‘Right…’

Rennie was sitting in his pool car, head stuck in
The Accidental Sodomist
again.

Logan knocked on the window.

A pause while the intellectual marked his place with a lottery ticket, then the window buzzed down. ‘Guv?’

‘Steel says I’m supposed to pick a minion: you’re it.’ Rennie grinned. Then hunched up one shoulder, scrunched up his face, and put on a ridiculous voice. ‘Yeth Maaaaathhhhhter…?’

‘Get your lopsided arse back to FHQ – I want a breakdown of every kidnapping in the country for the last ten years.’

The constable paused, biro hovering over his notebook. ‘Ten
years
?’

‘You heard.’ Logan watched the Wildlife Crime Officer waddling backwards into the car park, dragging the white body-bag. ‘Find out who’s running the drug gang investigations this week – I’m looking for Yardies with a thing for machetes.’

Rennie scribbled it all down. ‘Ten years…’

‘And,’ Logan pointed at his abandoned pool car, ‘you’re taking that back to the station. Wear gloves.
Don’t
sign it back in, don’t let anyone else touch it. Park it in the garage and let it dry off till Ernie can dust it for prints. If Big Gary gives you a hard time, tell him it’s evidence.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yeah, if anyone asks…’ What? How the hell was he going to explain this one? Stolen car; dead dog; probable abduction: possible murder. ‘…if anyone asks, tell them I’ve been acting all concussed since you picked me up.’

Rennie nodded. ‘Thank God for that: thought you were going to ask me to lie for a minute…’

‘Yes, yes, I know that…’ Logan slumped sideways until his head clunked against the driver’s window.

Finnie’s voice boomed out of the Airwave handset.
‘Then what
exactly
were you thinking, Sergeant? That the
magic La-La fairies
would turn up and hand your pool car back to you?’

‘I didn’t… It… I was being attacked by a dog at the time. Then you said—’

‘You’ll be lucky if that’s the only savaging you get today. Professional Standards: half-three.’

He thumped his head against the glass again. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Where are you?’

Logan peered out through the rain-ribboned windscreen at a grubby house with a boarded-up window, ‘GELLOUS BITCH!!!’ scrawled in dripping purple spray-paint across the wall and front door.

A bashed and battered Ford Fiesta sat at the kerb, the windows shattered or empty, the bodywork a collection of huge dents and scratches.

‘Outside Victoria Murray’s house.’

‘I see…’
A pause.
‘Tell me, Sergeant, do you
actually
think “Vicious Vikki” is going to give you information that’ll have you scurrying off to solve the case? Meaning you can get out of your

meeting with Professional Standards? Because if you
do
, I’ve got some bad news for you: you
will
be back at headquarters by half-three. And after you’ve spoken to Superintendent Napier, you and I are going to have a little chat.’

Oh joy. Logan closed his eyes. Superintendent Napier, the Ginger Ninja.

‘Because I
think
we’ve got a bit of a communication problem, don’t you, Sergeant? You see, I thought I said, “
Don’t
piss off the man from SOCA.” And yet, for some
unfathomable
reason, you seem to have heard, “Insult Superintendent Green and call him a moron.” Isn’t that strange?’

Something smelled of shit. Logan checked the soles of his shoes: they were clean. He sniffed again. The stink got worse the closer he got to Victoria Murray’s front door. There was no way he was touching the bell.

He knocked on the wood instead, next to the purple letter ‘B’ in ‘BITCH!!!’

Waited for a minute.

Did it again.

Maybe she wasn’t in? Maybe she’d had enough of all the vandalism and hate mail, and gone into hiding?

One more, then he was heading back to the car.

A voice on the other side of the door: ‘Fuck off, I’m not in.’

‘Mrs Murray?’

‘If you don’t fuck off, I’m calling the police! I know my rights.’ Logan pulled out his warrant card and lifted the flap on the letterbox. ‘Detective Sergeant— What the…?’ There was something sticky on his fingers. He let the flap clack back into place.

Brown.

There was sticky brown muck all over his fingertips. ‘Oh … Jesus…’

Filthy
bastards
.

He wiped them on the door, leaving a chocolate-coloured rainbow. ‘I
am
the bloody police!’

There was a clunk. Then the door opened a crack, and a bloodshot eye peered out through the gap. ‘Prove it.’

Logan shoved his warrant card at her. ‘There’s
shite
in your letterbox.’

She nodded. ‘Stopped the bastards from peering in, trying to take photos of me in my bloody pants, didn’t it?’ The door thumped shut, then what sounded like a chain being removed, and it opened again. ‘Serves them right.’

Victoria Murray folded her arms underneath the sagging parcel shelf of her bosom. According to the article in last week’s
Aberdeen Examiner
, ‘ex-exotic dancer and call girl “Vicious” Vikki (22) had a threesome with two city councillors’.

God, they must have been desperate. A cigarette smouldered in the corner of her mouth, curling smoke around her narrowed eyes. Her chin disappeared into her neck, the pale skin speckled with spots around her nose and mouth. Making her head look like a used condom full of milk.

She hoicked her boobs up. ‘What do you want?’

‘I need to wash my hands.’

‘That it?’

‘You’re lucky I’m not arresting you. Putting shite in your letter box is—’

‘Aw, like
they
never did it. What the hell do you think happened to my carpet?’ She nodded at the floor.

A mat of newspaper was laid out across the bare floorboards. ‘Piss, shite, rotting vegetables, fucking … roadkill. I’ve had the lot. So don’t tell me I’m not allowed to get my own back, OK?’ She jerked her head to the left. ‘Toilet’s down there, first door on the left.’

He squeezed past and she thumped the door shut, rattled the chain back in place, turned the key in the lock. There was a plastic bag taped over the inside of the letter box, bulging with something dark.

* * *

She was waiting for him in the kitchen when he’d finished. His fingers didn’t smell of shite any more, they reeked of lavender, washed again and again under the hot tap until his hands were pink and swollen. Victoria Murray had a Chunky Kit Kat in one hand and a mug in the other. ‘If you want tea you can make it yourself.’

‘I need to talk to you about Alison and Jenny McGregor.’ Her face curdled. ‘Of course you do. Christ forbid you’re here to tell me you’ve caught the bastards who wrecked my car. Or the ones who smashed my window. Or painted lies all over my house!’ She slammed her mug down on the working surface, black coffee slopping over the edge. ‘I was spat at yesterday. Spat at. Some OAP cow howched up a mouthful of snot and spat it right in my face! Fucking papers.’

Logan filled the kettle from the cold tap. ‘They’ve not been very nice—’

‘Didn’t even tell them
half
of what that snooty bitch got up to when we were kids. But
no
: how
dare
I suggest the sainted Alison McGregor used to get pissed and stoned after school. Aye, and that was primary seven – she was giving blowjobs for cigarettes when she was eleven!’

The last chunk of Kit Kat disappeared, washed down with a gulp of coffee. ‘There was this family moved in down the street, and they had this mongol kid. You know, Down’s Syndrome and that, and Alison would rip the piss out of the poor bastard every – fucking – day. One night, right, we sank this bottle of vodka she nicked from the Paki shop on the corner, and she went round and panned in all their windows.’ A sniff. ‘Course, I
tried
to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen, would she? And I’m the one they call “Vicious Fucking Vikki”?’