Shatter the Bones (7 page)

Steel tried to put her hands into pockets that weren’t there. ‘Do you no’ read the papers?’

‘Inspector, one of the best things about retiring – apart from the golf, the gardening, and the Viagra – is not having to wallow in society’s filth every morning.’ He raised his safety goggles, until they were sitting on top of his head, and peered at the pale yellow chunk of little girl.

Finnie stepped closer to the table. ‘What can you tell us?’ There was a long pause. Then the pathologist placed the digit back on the slab.

‘You see, this is why I retired.’ Doc Fraser crumpled for a moment. Sighed. Then peeled back the hood of his SOC suit. ‘Sheila, I want the usual tests.’

‘Yes, Doctor.’

Finnie leant over the cutting table. ‘What?’

Doc Fraser shuffled over to the pedal bin in the corner, peeled off his gloves and dropped them in. ‘We’re finished here.’

That had to go on record as the shortest post mortem ever.

‘Doctor?’ Finnie straightened up. ‘Where are you—’

‘She’s dead.’ He removed his mask and apron, and sent them after the gloves. ‘A wee girl…’

Steel groaned. Superintendent Green straightened his shoulders, chin up. Finnie swore.

Logan stared at the severed toe. Pale, bloodless, almost translucent. ‘Are you sure she isn’t just—’

‘Look at the cut end.’ Doc Fraser unzipped his SOC suit. ‘No bruising, no discolouration, no lividity. Cut a toe off a living person and you make a hell of a mess: the tissue gets inflamed, blood flows to the damaged area, capillaries burst, subcutaneous bleeding makes a dark stain around the wound.’ He struggled out of the suit, stood there in his vest and pants, one sock crumpled around an ankle. ‘That toe was cut from a dead body. Your wee girl’s dead.’

Logan followed DI Steel back up the mortuary steps and out onto the sun-bathed tarmac of the Rear Podium car park. It was bounded on one side by the seven-storey bulk of FHQ; the squat admin and mortuary blocks on two others; and – across a narrow lane – the dark granite wall of tenement buildings that made up the back of King Street. Normally it was wrapped in chilly shadows, but today it was positively Mediterranean.

Logan didn’t bother stifling a jaw-cracking yawn. Shuddered. Blinked. Dug his hands deeper into his pockets.

Steel paused beside a CID pool car with ‘D
IRTY
P
IGGY
B
ASTARDS
!!!’ spray-painted in dripping letters along the side, and produced a little plastic stick coloured to look like a cigarette. She stuck it in her mouth and tried for a puff. Then pulled the thing out and squinted at it. Had another go, sooking her cheeks hollow.

‘Sodding bugger-monkeys…’ She thrust the fake cigarette at Logan. ‘You – man – fix.’

Logan watched DCI Finnie storm through the back doors into FHQ, Superintendent Green flowing along behind him. Like a cat in a reasonably-priced suit.

‘When the press find out Jenny’s dead, we’re screwed. They’ll—’

‘Fix it, fix it, fix it!’

Logan twisted the fake plastic filter, and the e-cigarette went ‘
click
’, then the end glowed an artificial ruby colour. He handed it back. ‘SOCA’s going to take over the investigation; we’ll all be up in front of Professional Standards; and every newspaper, TV crew, and tosser on the street, is going to play Bash Grampian Police.’

Steel sucked on her fake cigarette. A thin wisp of vapour curled from the end. ‘Aye, that’s the real tragedy here, isn’t it? No’ a wee girl being dead or anything.’

Logan could feel the blush rushing up his cheeks, ears tingling.

Six years old, and they barely had enough to bury.

He looked away. ‘Yeah, sorry.’

Fuck.

So much for the compassionate face of modern policing.

Steel patted him on the arm. ‘Don’t sweat it. I’ll bet Finnie’s arse isn’t eating his frilly man-panties because Jenny’s dead either. But do you no’ think it might be nice if someone kept an eye on what actually matters?’ Another sook. ‘But you’re right – we
are
fucked.’

‘So what do we do now?’

‘Well, I don’t know about you,’ Steel marched off towards the back door, sticking the fake fag back in her pocket, ‘but I’m no’ lying back and thinking of England.’

They pushed through the double doors into the custody area – a bare concrete floor, breezeblock walls, ‘H
AVE
Y
OU
S
EEN
T
HIS
M
AN
?’ posters, the smell of old sweat and stale biscuits.

A shrill, jagged, cry echoed down the corridor: ‘I want a fucking doctor!’

The reply sounded as if it was being spat between gritted teeth: ‘If you don’t quiet down—’

‘I’M FUCKING DYING!’

Logan turned the corner to the cell block. A Police Custody and Security Officer was peering through the hatch of number five, hands on her hips, white shirt rucked up at the back. One epaulette nearly torn off. Hairdo all skewed to one side. ‘You don’t need a doctor, you need a good kick up the—’

‘Morning Kathy.’ DI Steel paused on the way past to slap the PCSO on the bum.

‘Hoy!’ Kathy glowered, both cheeks deep pink, eyes scrunched into narrow slits. Then she saw Logan. ‘
You!
’

He backed off a step. ‘What?’

‘This,’ she slapped a palm against the cell door, ‘is
your
fault. Trisha Brown – hospital turfed her out half an hour ago and she’s—’

‘RAPE! I’VE BEEN RAPED! HELP!’

‘Do you
see
what I’ve got to put up with?’

‘I’M DYING!’

‘Shut up!’ Kathy hit the door again. ‘I want her interviewed and out of here
now
!’

Logan held up his hands. ‘It’s McPherson’s case – he’s supposed to be interviewing the lot of them this afternoon.’

‘This
afternoon
? I’m not—’

‘I’M DYING IN HERE, YOU FUCKS!’

‘Christ’s sake!’ The PCSO hauled the hatch open. ‘Will you bloody shut it for five minutes!’

Steel glanced at the floor. ‘You’ve sprung a leak.’

Logan followed her gaze, down to where a clear yellow puddle was seeping out from beneath the cell door and pooling around the PCSO’s sensible shoes.

‘Agh, you filthy cow!’ She danced back a couple of steps, leaving damp footprints on the concrete.

They left her to it.

The Wee Hoose smelled of egg sandwiches left in the sun for too long, but Sergeant Biohazard Bob Marshall was nowhere to be seen.

‘I can’t – I’ve got a team briefing in half an hour.’ Logan shifted his mobile from one ear to the other and settled into his seat, then froze, staring at his desk lamp. Someone had attached three socks and a pair of pale-grey lady’s knickers to the metal shade with clothes-pegs.

Ha-bloody-ha.

DI McPherson’s voice had that petulant sound kids used when their mums were dragging them past the sweetie aisle in the supermarket:
‘But I don’t know what you arrested them for! How can I interview them if—’

‘It was
your
operation: read the report.’ Logan hauled the socks off his lamp, dumped them on the floor.

‘But I can’t—’

‘And I’m not here this afternoon, anyway. You’ll have to do it yourself.’

He reached for the pants, then stopped. Grabbed a blue nitrile glove from the big box by the door and used it to pull the pants from their peg. A thick brown skidmark ran the length of the gusset. He curled his top lip.

‘Filthy bastards…’

‘What?’

‘No, not you, Guv; someone else.’ He almost dropped the grubby knickers in the bin, then turned and stuffed them in Bob’s top drawer instead. See how
he
liked it.

McPherson moaned for a bit, but eventually got the point and hung up. Logan slumped back in his seat, blinking up at the ceiling tiles. Be nice to just snooze for a couple of minutes. Not that there was any way in hell he’d risk it, not with Finnie storming around the place like an angry bull-frog.

Nothing for it, but to try and get some work done. He poked the power button on his creaky beige computer, listening to it bleep and groan and whir. Then the speakers made that psychic durrrrrrrrum-durrrrrrrrum-durrrrrrrrum buzz that meant his mobile was about to ring.

Sodding hell. What
now
?

But when the call came through the phone played the metal-chicken rendition of
Lydia the Tattooed Lady
Samantha had programmed into it for whenever she called.

‘Hey, you.’

‘Logan? How come you’re not home yet? Big day: you better not be getting cold feet on me!’

‘Two guesses.’

‘Oh for… You’re in work, aren’t you? You do know the Church’s booked for half one?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Half one. On the dot.’

‘Had to sort out a PM for Jenny McGregor’s toe, and—’

‘Don’t make me drag you out of there, ’cause I will.’

‘Doc Fraser says she’s dead.’

Silence.
‘Shit… I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah, me too.’ Logan glanced up at the poster on the wall: ‘H
AVE
Y
OU
A
NY
I
NFORMATION
?’ The photo was a smiling mother and daughter, standing on Aberdeen beach, caught in a shaft of golden light, the cold grey swell of the North Sea foam-flecked and angry behind them. Now it was only a matter of time before the bodies turned up.

‘Anyway, yes: half one. I’ll be there, OK?’

‘Good. Love you.’
And the line went dead.

He checked his watch – just gone eleven – then his email. Memo; directive; memo; Sheriff Court times for everyone arrested last night at Shuggie Webster’s house; general update on the hunt for Jenny and Alison McGregor’s kidnappers; details of the emergency media briefing at half three; an invitation to PC Henderson’s leaving bash—

A knock on the door.

Logan looked up from his screen to see
Acting
DI Mark MacDonald, clutching a little parcel – about the size of a hardback book.

Logan nodded. ‘
Guv
.’

MacDonald cleared his throat. ‘Look, it’s been a bastard of a week…’ He clunked the door shut behind him and settled on the edge of his old desk, one finger tracing a figure-of-eight on the laminate wood surface. He held out the parcel. ‘Peace offering?’

Logan unwrapped the brown paper. There was a brass plaque inside, mounted on a dark wooden plinth: ‘T
HE
W
EE
H
OOSE
’. A couple of screws and rawlplugs were Sellotaped to the back.

‘I thought it could, you know: go on the wall outside.’

‘Thanks.’

MacDonald nodded. Then sagged. ‘Fuck me, being a DI is a pain in the arse. You don’t want to swap do you?’

‘Do I hell.’

‘When it was Doreen’s turn, what did she get? Two attempted murders and a run of unlawful removals. Three sodding months, Bill got nothing but break-ins. Me? I get the fucking
McGregors
.’ He tugged at the edges of his goatee beard. ‘It’s not bloody fair.’

Logan powered his computer down again. ‘Never is.’

‘Sure you don’t want to take your turn early?’

‘Sorry, Mark – got a briefing to go to.’

‘Three month job-share trial period my arse.’ He picked the plaque up from Logan’s desk. Held it against his chest. ‘You remember how Insch used to take his pulse the whole time? Stick two fingers to his throat whenever he was going purple? I don’t need to do that. I can hear the bloody thing pounding in my ears.’

‘All right, that’s
enough
.’ Finnie stood at the front of the room with his hands up, until silence settled across the crowd again. Everyone involved in the investigation was jammed into FHQ’s major incident room, the biggest in the building: CID, uniform, and support staff perched on chairs and desks, staring. The top brass sat at the front with Finnie, looking as if they were on their way to a funeral – Chief Superintendent Baldy Bain, the Assistant Chief Constable, the Deputy Chief Constable, and God himself – Chief Constable Anderson – all done up in full dress regalia, their silver buttons polished to a mirror shine.

One of the admin officers stuck up her hand.

Finnie stared at her for a moment. ‘Yes?’

‘Are you
sure
she’s dead?’

The head of CID pursed his lips. ‘No, I just
made that bit up
, because I thought it would be a
fun
excuse to get everyone together so we could plait each other’s hair! Anyone have any
other
stupid questions?’

The admin officer went pink and lowered her hand. Finnie scowled around the room. ‘We are now investigating the abduction and
murder
of a six-year-old girl, and the abduction of her mother. Media briefing’s at half three; Chief Superintendent Bain will be making the announcement about Jenny’s death. I’m sure the media will do its usual
sterling
job of appealing for calm and reasoned reflection at this
diffi cult
time, but just in case: Acting DI MacDonald, you are now in charge of crowd control. I don’t want some journalistic toss-pot using this to whip up a riot, understand?’

Logan watched Mark squirm in his seat.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And I want every chiz handler we’ve got, out there pulling in their sources – someone, somewhere has to know something. DI McPherson, you can handle that.’

Which was bloody doubtful, McPherson could barely handle tying his own shoelaces. But at least this would keep him out of trouble: Covert Human Intelligence Sources were OK for burglaries and low-level drug trafficking, but whoever snatched Alison and Jenny McGregor weren’t going to brag about it over a pint in Dodgy Pete’s, were they?

Finnie pointed at the crumpled mess sitting next to Logan. ‘DI Steel will be coordinating with all the other forces in the UK. Just because they were snatched in Aberdeen, doesn’t mean they’re being held here.’ Finnie turned to his boss, Chief Superintendent Baldy Bain. ‘Sir?’

Bain stood, gave the standard motivational – we’re all in this together/everyone’s depending on us/justice for Jenny – speech. Then he turned and nodded at the newcomer, sitting with the bigwigs. ‘Right: we have Superintendent Green from the Serious Organized Crime Agency with us. Superintendent, I think you want to say a few words?’