Shatter the Bones (8 page)

‘Thanks.’ He got to his feet and flashed them a smile, straight white teeth and furrowed brow. ‘Before we go any further I just want you all to know that SOCA isn’t here to tell you how to do your jobs, or take the investigation away from Grampian Police. I’m just here to provide a fresh pair of eyes, a sense-check, and all the support I can.’

And now Acting DI Mark MacDonald wasn’t the only one squirming in his seat. But no one stood up and called Green a lying tosser.

‘OK, so, while I’m up here: other options. How about background checks?’

Finnie’s smile looked painful. ‘Ongoing. I’ve got six teams working their way through Alison McGregor’s colleagues and neighbours. We’ve already interviewed everyone on her course.’

‘Family?’

‘Adopted when she was three. Foster parents are both dead – one cancer, one heart attack. Husband’s parents went in a house fire seven years ago.’

Green nodded, chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. ‘What about the production company?’

Finnie looked at Acting DI MacDonald.

Mark fumbled his way into a blue folder and pulled out a trembling sheet of paper. ‘I spoke to the Met this morning and they say they’ve been through Blue-Fish-Two-Fish Productions with a nit comb. Company has a reputation for some pretty extreme publicity stunts, but DI…’ Mark checked the sheet again, ‘DI Broddur thinks they’d draw the line at kidnapping their own artistes. And they certainly wouldn’t kill a wee—’

‘OK.’ Green nodded. ‘Good work.’

Finnie cleared his throat. ‘So, if there’s nothing else—’

‘Apart from the obvious? Don’t just profile the offender, we need to profile the victim too.’ Green turned, sweeping his arms out, indicating the scribbled whiteboards, scrawled flip-charts, and crowded corkboards that lined the incident room. ‘We need to go back to the start, sift through everything we’ve got. There’s a connection here – something that links Jenny and Alison McGregor to the bastards who kidnapped them. We just have to find it.’

* * *

Acting DI Mark MacDonald got as far as the window of DI Steel’s office, turned round and paced back towards the door, about-faced and did it all over again. ‘“There’s a connection here, we just have to find it.”’ Round again. ‘Could that bastard be any more of a cliché if he tried?’

‘Oh, park your arse and stop whining.’ Steel pulled the e-cigarette from her gob, tilted her head back, opened her mouth in a wide ‘O’ and puffed. But instead of a perfectly-formed smoke ring, a mangled amoeba tumbled its way towards the ceiling. ‘You’re just jealous, because he’s sex and chips.’

‘He’s a cock.’ Mark slumped into the visitor chair next to Logan’s and glowered. ‘Coming up here, telling us how to—’

‘Least
you’re
on crowd control.
I’ve
got to play nice with Officer Tosser from every sodding force in the country.’ She tried for another smoke ring. Failed. ‘Laz, get a statement together: inter-force cooperation, agreed response times, service levels, utmost importance to catching Jenny’s killer, blah, blah, blah.’

‘Can’t.’ Logan stuck his mug on Steel’s desk and stood. Groaned. Stretched. Slumped. ‘Was supposed to be out of here at twelve, remember? I’ve got—’

‘“A thing”, aye, you’ve been banging on about your mysterious “thing” for weeks. It really more important than finding out who killed a wee girl and hacked off her toe?’

‘Oh no you don’t – I’ve been on duty for…’ He checked his watch. ‘Christ, thirty hours straight.’ Well, with one hour off to clamber into his empty bed, but that hardly counted. He threw in a yawn for good measure. ‘Shattered…’

She pursed her lips, narrowed her eyes. ‘
Fine
, I’ll get Rennie to do it. Happy?’

‘I’ve got to go.’

Steel pointed a finger at him, the skin stained yellow, the cherry-red nail varnish chipped. ‘Tomorrow morning, seven o’clock, on the sodding dot. And bring—’

The phone on her desk rang. ‘Sod…’ She peered at the display, then snatched up the receiver. ‘Susan? What’s… No… Susan, calm down, it’s…’ Steel crumpled forward, until her head was resting on the desktop. ‘No. No I’m not saying that, Susan, it’s… Yes…’

Logan slipped out through the door.

‘You sure you want to go through with this?’ Samantha squeezed his hand.

Logan swallowed, blinked, cranked his smile up a notch. ‘Yes. It’s fine. Really. I want to do this.’ He ran a finger around the inside of his shirt collar. ‘Just a bit … you know.’

‘You’re … not just doing this for
me
, are you?’

Of course he was. Well, maybe. A bit anyway.

The Church was bathed in sunlight, the walls glowing with bright colours, a bunch of flowers in a vase perfuming the air.

‘No. I really want to do this.’

‘Only, if you want to back out, I’ll understand.’ She looked away. ‘Because, you’ve got to commit to this for the rest of your life…’

A shadow fell across them, and Logan looked up to see a large bald man beaming at him though a Grizzly Adams beard, a dog collar just visible through all that hair. ‘Are we ready?’

Sam squeezed Logan’s hand again. ‘Last minute nerves.’

The big man nodded. ‘I understand. It’s a big step, but I’m here to make it as easy as possible.’ He patted Logan on the shoulder. ‘Shall we?’

Deep breath. Glance at Samantha – smiling with her brows all furrowed, the silver ring in her nose sparking in the sunlight. Back to the Reverend. Nod.

‘Excellent.’ The big man steepled his fingers. ‘So if you’ll just take off your shirt and climb in the chair, we’ll get started. Won’t hurt a bit.’

03:07, S
EVEN
D
AYS
A
GO

Darkness. Black, like the cat that sleeps on the wall at the bottom of the garden. The one that hisses and scratches.

She blinks.

Teddy Gordon’s eyes sparkle like a crow’s. He’s sitting on the end of the bed grinning at her. She
hates
Teddy Gordon. Hates his nasty blue fur. Hates his horrid stitched-on smile. Hates the way he smells of smoking.

Teddy Gordon knows she hates him. That’s why he’s friends with the monster.

If she had her way, Teddy Gordon would live at the bottom of the wheelie-bin, all dirty and stinky with the green-brown water that leaks out of the bin-bags. But Mummy says she has to be nice to Teddy Gordon, because Teddy Gordon was a present from a man Mummy likes. A man who gives her nice things. Much nicer things than Daddy ever did.

Daddy
wouldn’t let Teddy Gordon sleep on the end of her bed.

Her room smells of bananas and ice cream, but the little plastic thing plugged into the wall by the nightlight still can’t cover the old-man smell of the blue teddy bear. The window glows a pale orange, making thick shadows between the chair and the wall, behind the toy cupboard, down the side of the wardrobe. Creeping out from under the bed…

She tries to lie really still and quiet, like a dead person.

She’s not awake. She’s asleep, like a Good Little Girl.

Only Bad Little Girls wake up in the middle of the night. That’s when the monster comes out.

She shivers, even though she knows she mustn’t move at all. Not even a tiny bit.

The monster doesn’t like Bad Little Girls.

The monster with its sharp white teeth and bright-red claws. Lie still. Don’t move an inch.

She can hear it, out in the hallway, creeping on its soft hairy paws, making the floorboards creak. Creak. Creak.

She holds her breath.

Go away. No one’s awake in here. Only Good Little Girls, fast asleep and dreaming of ponies.

Please
go away…

But the monster knows.

A rattle. A clunk. And then the door groans like an old man.

A pause.

She holds her breath.

Go away. Go away. GO AWAY!

Good Little Girl. Sleeping.

The monster rustles, right beside her bed. Breathing.

Whooomph…
Hisssssssss
. Whooomph…
Hisssssssss
.

Standing right over her. In the dark.

Don’t move…

But her chest aches, like a big purple bruise. And then her body tells on her, gasping in a great whoosh of air. And now it’s too late: it knows she’s awake. Her eyes snap open…

Light spills in through the open door. Teddy Gordon grins from the bottom of the bed.

But the monster’s different. Its face is waxy-shiny, and it’s naked – its skin all crinkly white, rustling as it breathes.

Whooomph…
Hisssssssss
. Whooomph…
Hisssssssss
. One eye glows red in the darkness.

Daddy…

No…

Don’t leave us…

The monster reaches for her with sticky purple fingers. She screams.

Logan took another sip of coffee and clicked his mouse on the little red ‘R
EPLAY
’ icon. A moment of darkness. Then the video started playing again. Fourth time in a row. The counter beneath it showed 6,376,451 views since the ransom demand was uploaded eight days ago.

The quality wasn’t great. Better than a lot of things posted on YouTube, but still jerky and grainy. A low-light image, all the colour leached away by whatever setting they’d used on the camcorder to make it record in the middle of the night – and there it was: the most famous house in the country. Or the back of it, anyway.

A plain, two-storey, brick box, just like all the other plain, two-storey, brick boxes in the street, with a six-foot tall wooden fence running all the way along the back gardens.

He shifted the headphones again and turned the volume up full, but there was nothing there. Not even a hiss. Complete silence. At least for this bit…

‘03:05:26’ blinked in the bottom left hand corner of the screen.

The camera swung left then right – checking the little alleyway was empty – and then a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters appeared on the screen. They crunched through the shackle of a massive padlock, then a pale-grey hand reached into shot and pushed the gate open.

The image shook as the cameraman hurried up the path to the back door.

Someone stepped in front of the camera – filling the screen with an expanse of grey-white – and then they were inside.

According to the time-stamp at the bottom of the screen less than two minutes had passed.

Kitchen: old fashioned units and a fridge freezer covered with newspaper clippings and childish drawings.

Hallway: floral wallpaper, a couple of generic pictures in cheap-looking frames.

Stairs: a photo halfway up. Logan couldn’t see what of. Landing: three doors leading off.

He clicked the mouse again, maximizing the window so the video filled the whole screen.

The camera went straight for the door on the right. It had a little wooden sign on it: ‘J
ENNY’S
R
OOM
’. Through into a child’s bedroom: stuffed toys piled on a little chest; books on a shelf; a nightlight glowing by the wardrobe. A single bed against the wall.

A little girl lay beneath the covers. She was flat on her back, eyes closed, face all scrunched up, trembling in the grainy gloom, a teddy bear sitting at her feet.

The camera moved closer.

Her eyes snapped open, then bulged. Mouth open, gasping. Staring.

A grey hand reached into shot. Right hand: the skin completely featureless, just a couple of wrinkles between the thumb and forefinger where the latex glove didn’t quite fit.

Jenny McGregor screamed, the sound booming in Logan’s earphones. He winced. And then the footage went silent again.

The gloved hand darted forward, grabbing the duvet and ripping it away.

She scrambled backwards, her Winnie the Pooh pyjamas all tangled around her torso, little bare feet rucking the sheets as she shoved herself into the corner. Screaming, over and over again. Nothing came through Logan’s headphones, just the faint buzz of silence turned up too loud.

The hand snatched a handful of pyjama top and—

Fingers wrapped around Logan’s shoulder.

He flinched so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. Yanked off his headphones. Turned round and glared at DS Biohazard Bob Marshall. ‘Very bloody funny!’

Bob danced back a couple of steps, both hands up, a grin on his face. ‘Just asking if you wanted a coffee.’

‘How long were you standing there?’

‘From about the time they were going up the stairs. Good job you had the old headphones on, or you’d’ve heard me giggling.’ Bob threw himself into his swivel chair, hard enough to make the wheels come off the ground on the rebound. ‘Your face was classic.’

Logan stared at him. ‘A wee girl’s
dead
, Bob.’

Silence. Bob sighed. ‘She was grabbed a week ago: you and I both know she’s been dead for days. Lucky if she lived through the first night… Aye, well, maybe lucky’s not the right word.’ He twirled around, then pulled a newspaper from the pile on his desk and chucked it over. ‘Front page.’

On Logan’s screen another figure in a white SOC-style over-suit – the kind sold in DIY stores everywhere – was hauling a struggling Alison McGregor down the stairs: duct tape over her mouth, hands bound behind her back, legs bound at the ankle, curly blonde hair whipping from side to side as she tried to head-butt her abductor.

He hit pause, then picked up the newspaper. It was a copy of the
Edinburgh Evening Post
, the headline, ‘H
OOK
L
INE
A
ND
S
TINKER
– P
OLICE
F
ALL
F
OR
“J
ENNY’S
D
EAD
” H
OAX
’.

‘God’s sake…’

‘Gets better. Check out the third paragraph.’

Logan skimmed the first two, swore, then read it out loud. ‘“It’s obvious to anyone with half a brain – brackets – which clearly excludes most of Grampian Police – close brackets – that Blue-Fish-Two-Fish Productions are up to their old tricks again. This is the company that handed out used tampons at T in the Park last year, the company that projected a naked photograph of Benjamin Kerhill on Big Ben, the company that proudly tattooed a live pig in Trafalgar Square”…’