Shatter the Bones (36 page)

He stood there, staring down at the hole she’d made with her falling body.

Fucking Shuggie Webster… No matter what happened, the doped-up junky bastard deserved everything he was going to get. Every single last fucking—

A hand on Logan’s shoulder made him flinch. ‘You OK? You’ve been standing there for about fifteen minutes.’ It sounded like Elaine Drever, but with all the SOC gear on it was difficult to tell.

‘Can you…’ He pointed down at Samantha’s things. ‘I don’t … want people…’

‘I’ll take care of it. Get it all bagged up for you.’ The rumpled figure sighed. ‘I know you don’t want to hear it, but if you’d stayed in here, we’d be digging your bodies out of the rubble. It doesn’t take a lot of smoke to kill someone. You did the right thing.’

Tell that to Samantha.

The head of the IB patted his shoulder. ‘Got one bit of good news for you though – come see.’

She led him out and across the landing to the other top floor flat. Logan’s front door was propped up against the wall, the paint on one side all blistered and peeling, pristine Saltire blue on the other. The little brass plaque engraved with, ‘L
OGAN
A
ND
S
AMANTHA’S
S
ECRET
H
IDEOUT
’ shone in the sunlight, but the letterbox was covered with a thin film of fingerprint powder.

‘Like I said, our arsonist waited too long to light the petrol. So he was standing right in front of the door when, boooooom!’ She did the thing with her hands again. ‘Right off its hinges. Must have hit him like a battering ram. Force of the blast threw him across the landing, slamming him back against your neighbour’s door. Probably hurt like hell.’

‘Good.’

‘That’s not the best bit.’ She pointed at the exterior side of the door. ‘When it hit him, it cracked his head against the paintwork. You see here?’ She pointed with a purple-gloved finger at a small matt patch on the blue gloss surface. ‘That was his cheek, and this…’ She described an oval with her fingertip, just left of the smudge. ‘Looks like we’ve got sputum, and maybe some tiny drops of blood. Incredibly lucky: normally when you get a big blaze like this the fire brigade sod-up all our evidence. All that water hits the flames, you get huge plumes of steam, and any DNA gets cooked to oblivion.’

Samantha’s boss smiled. ‘Because it got blown across the hallway – and the outside surface’s facing away from the fire – it’s been protected from the heat and the worst of the water. I think we’re going to get DNA.’

Logan tried to force some enthusiasm into his voice. ‘That’s great.’

‘Don’t you worry: we’ll catch them, whoever they are.’

‘I know you will.’

But right now Shuggie Webster had better be praying Grampian Police got there before he did.

‘What on
earth
do you think you’re doing here?’ DCI Finnie stood in the doorway to Logan’s office/building site, fists on his hips. ‘You should be home resting…’ Pink rushed up Finnie’s jowly cheeks. ‘I mean … not
home
, but… You know what I mean.’

He stepped into the gloomy room and closed the door behind him. ‘Seriously, Logan, you shouldn’t be here. You’ve had a horrible shock and—’

‘I’m fine. Really. I appreciate the concern, but if I sit about for much longer—’

You’re on
compassionate
leave. And that’s an order.’

‘I don’t want—’

‘An
order
, do you hear me?’ Finnie perched himself on the edge of the desk. ‘Come on, Logan, be sensible. You
know
you can’t have anything to do with the arson investigation. It’s—’

‘I’m not. Look,’ Logan turned the monitor screen around, and pointed at the spreadsheet, ‘I’m going over the Trisha Brown case. I’m not going anywhere near the fire. I want whoever did it caught and banged up; I’m not going to screw up the prosecution by giving the defence a conflict of interest to scream about. I just need…’ He rubbed a hand across his forehead. ‘I just need something to keep busy with. I can’t sit about in the dark worrying about Samantha any more. It’s driving me mental.’

Finnie sighed. ‘Logan—’

‘I can keep reviewing the McGregor case too. It’s belt and braces stuff, nothing that’s going to get in anyone’s way.’

The head of CID pinched up his face. ‘I understand your need to be doing something, but—’

The door banged open. ‘Are you no’ right in the sodding head?’ Steel marched into the room, waving a rolled-up newspaper like it was a machete. ‘You nearly died last night!’

‘I didn’t—’

‘I was just telling Sergeant McRae he—’

‘Oh no you bloody don’t.’ She turned on Finnie and poked him in the shoulder with her newspaper. ‘I don’t care how short staffed you are, he’s going home. What the hell’s wrong with you?’

Finnie bristled. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, did I
somehow
give you the impression I was running a democracy here? I don’t need your permission to decide who can and can’t come to work, understand?’

Wonderful. Logan scrubbed a hand across his eyes, rubbing them until little yellow dots sparked in the darkness. ‘I’m fine, I just need—’

‘Andy, for Christ sake, his girlfriend’s lying up in intensive care. In a sodding
coma
!’

‘I am well aware what the situation—’

‘Then do something about it! Send him home! He can crash at my place, Susan’ll look after him.’ Another poke. ‘Don’t be a prick all your life!’

Finnie’s eyes went wide, fists trembling at his sides. ‘That’s
enough
! If you
ever
speak to me like that again, you’re going to be on a disciplinary charge, do you understand?’

‘You’re no’ being—’

‘DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’ Spittle flying everywhere. Steel’s chin came up, pulling the wattle of skin beneath it taut. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘DS McRae,’ Finnie shot a finger in Logan’s direction, ‘you will not go anywhere near the arson investigation. You will confine yourself to Trisha Brown’s disappearance and reviewing the McGregor investigation, is that in any way too vague and fuzzy for you?’

Logan shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

‘If I find you even
thinking
about interfering: you’re out of here.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Finnie glowered at Steel a moment longer, then turned and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Pause.

Steel let out a huge hissing breath, then sagged against the plastic covered wall. ‘Oh thank God… Thought the rubber-faced bastard was going to fire me for a minute there.’ She pulled out her e-cigarette and took a deep drag. ‘You really sodding owe me one: this reverse psychology lark is no’ as easy as you’d think.’

Logan stared at her. ‘You called him a “prick” on
purpose
?’

‘Like I’m no’ stressed enough as it is.’ She dumped the newspaper on the desk in front of him. The
Aberdeen Examiner
, evening edition. ‘P
OLICE
H
UNT
F
OR
M
ISSING
S
EX
B
EAST
.’

The photo of Frank Baker wasn’t recent – probably hauled out of DI Ingram’s files and issued as a ‘H
AVE
Y
OU
S
EEN
T
HIS
M
AN
’ poster. A smaller picture showed a huge man with a draft-excluder moustache: Spike, Baker’s friend from the fabrication yard. The one who’d marched over to defend him.

‘“D
ON’T
C
OME
B
ACK
!” P
AEDO
F
RANKIE’S
W
ORKMATES
K
EPT
I
N
T
HE
D
ARK
A
BOUT
H
IS
F
ILTHY
C
RIMES
.’

Steel flicked Spike in the face. ‘So now we’ve got a nationwide manhunt to deal with, because sodding Green had to go stirring things up. And he’s all, “Look at me, I was right!”… Wanker.’

Logan skimmed the article. ‘You think Baker’s in the frame for Alison and Jenny?’

There was a knock on the door, then Rennie stuck his head into the room. ‘How’d it go?’

‘Coffee, milk two sugars. And get something for Laz too.’ Steel picked the stack of student interview forms off the desk and rifled through them. Then glanced back towards the door. ‘You’re still standing there, Constable.’

Rennie nodded at Logan, then held up a couple of bulging black plastic bin-bags, both sealed with a knot of yellow-and-black ‘C
RIME
S
CENE
’ tape – the stuff only the IB used. ‘Elaine Drever says you wanted these?’

He dumped them on the floor. ‘Thanks.’

The constable grinned. ‘Did you hear about McPherson? Apparently, right, he was supposed to come in for a bollocking this morning, and halfway down Union Street he nips across the road, dodges a bus, overshoots and goes arse over tit down those stairs onto Correction Wynd. Broken leg and concussion. They got the whole thing on CCTV, if you fancy a laugh?’

‘And some chocolate biscuits too.’ Steel waved a hand at him. ‘Run along, there’s a good wee soul.’

As soon as Rennie was gone, Steel dumped the forms back on the desk. ‘Here’s the deal: you work till five, then we go home to my place and you let Susan fuss over you. You have a few drams, watch the telly, have tea, brush your teeth, and go to beddy-byes, all where I can keep an eye on you. You’re no’ going back to that manky wee caravan by the jobbie farm to mope, brood, and fester in the dark.’

‘I…’ Logan could feel the heat rushing up his cheeks. ‘Thanks.’

‘Should think so too. Meantime: who torched your flat?’ Don’t look away. Keep eye contact. ‘I’ve no idea. Been trying to figure it out all day, but…’ Frown. Shrug. Nice and natural. ‘Has to be someone I put away. Can’t just be random.’

Steel rolled the fake cigarette around her mouth, the plastic end clicking off her teeth. ‘IB’s running DNA tests on some stuff they got off your front door. We’ll get a match, and we’ll catch the bastard, and I’ll make sure he gets done for attempted murder.’ She stood, rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘You trust your Auntie Roberta: that wanker is going to pay.’

Logan’s phone blared its drunken, sinister waltz. He hauled it out and checked the display: Steel.

‘Thought we had a bastarding deal!’

Logan flattened himself against the two-tone green wall as a huge hospital bed was wheeled past – a pale old man in an oxygen mask staring at the ceiling, his face slack and greasy. A woman in blue scrubs and squeaky white trainers tutted at Logan as they went past. ‘You’re not allowed to use your mobile in the hospital!’

‘Sorry.’ He watched them disappear.
‘I called Finnie a
prick
for you! I nearly got sodding fi red: and soon as my back’s turned—’

‘I’m up at the hospital.’ He started down the corridor again.

‘Someone has to tell Trisha Brown’s mother her wee girl’s been abducted.’

‘You could at least’ve taken Rennie!’

‘I wanted… They say I can sit with Samantha for fifteen minutes.’

A pause.
‘Fuck’s sake, Laz, I would’ve come with you. You know that. Could’ve sat in the canteen ogling nurses while you were in with her.’

‘Look, I’ve got to go.’ He hung up before she could say anything else.

The plump nurse eyed Logan up and down for the third time in as many minutes as she led him towards a curtained-off area at the far end of an eight-bed ward. It was oppressively hot in here, even though the windows were open, letting in the droning rumble of traffic and the occasional screeching wail of ambulances.

‘Now, I need you to understand that Mrs Brown isn’t to be excited.’ The nurse ran a hand across her chest, just above the massive shelf of bosom. Then checked the watch pinned to her blue top like a medal. ‘She’s not due another dose of methadone for two hours and she’s a bloody nightmare when she gets going.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

The nurse grabbed a handful of curtain and wheeched it back. Helen Brown lay on top of the covers, head back, mouth hanging open, snoring gently. No teeth. A wad of gauze was taped over one eye, the rest of her face a patchwork of bruises and stitches. Her right arm was encased in a fibreglass cast from palm to elbow, her left leg from the ankle all the way to the thigh. But her right leg came to an abrupt end at the knee, the exposed thigh stained yellow and green.

Logan winced. The attack must have been horrific. ‘They cut her leg off?’

‘About three years ago. Gangrene.’ The nurse checked the chart hanging on the end of the bed. ‘That’s the trouble with intravenous drug users. Don’t know when to stop.’ She looked up at Trisha’s mum. ‘Mrs Brown? Helen? There’s a policeman here to see you.’

A mumble. ‘Helen?’

Trisha’s mum squinted with her good eye. ‘Fuck off…’

‘Come on, Helen. What have we talked about your language?’

She struggled over onto her side. ‘Fuckin’ fat bitch. Where’th my painkillerth?’

A sigh. ‘You know you can’t get anything more till five. Now there’s a policeman here to see you; do you want a glass of water?’

‘I need my fuckin’ painkillerth! In fuckin’ agony here…’ Logan settled into the seat beside the bed. ‘Mrs Brown, my name’s Detective Sergeant McRae. I need to speak to you about Trisha.’

The nurse nodded. ‘Well, I leave you to it then.’ She stepped away from the bed and pulled the curtains closed again, shutting Logan in.

Trisha’s mum scowled at him. ‘Fuckin’ bitch never gives me anything for the pain.’

‘She was seen getting into a car on Saturday evening—’

‘Oh, here we go.’ Helen curled back her lips, exposing a pair of bruised and battered gums. ‘Just ’cos she sucks someone off in—’

‘The person in the car attacked her. She was seen being beaten.’

‘Oh…’ Helen rolled over onto her back. ‘Is she OK?’

‘We don’t know. He drove off with her still in the car.’ Silence. Helen rubbed the fingers of her good hand up and down the blanket. Then a tear rolled its way down her bruised cheek.

Logan looked away. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’re sorry? You’re fuckin’
sorry
?’ An empty plastic tumbler bounced off Logan’s shoulder. ‘Why aren’t you out there? Why aren’t you looking for my little girl?’