Close to the Bone

14

‘What the hell is wrong with you? ’ DCI Steel threw her hands into the air. ‘How could you no’ know? ’

The whole caravan park was cordoned off. Old Mrs Foster and her cockatoo stared out of the kitchen window of number four, mouth a wobbly scarlet slash as a line of SEB techs in white oversuits shuffled slowly past searching the ground for any more bits.

‘Well. .’ Logan waved a hand at his home. Two techs were wriggling their way underneath it with tweezers and evidence bags. ‘It’s a residential caravan, it’s got a flat roof, you can’t see it from the ground.’

‘You’re supposed to be a detective, for God’s sake!’

‘It wasn’t-’

‘How could you live under that and no’ know? ’

Someone tugged on Logan’s sleeve. ‘Guv? ’ PC Sim looked up at him. ‘They say they need to know when your roof was fixed last.’

He stared at her. ‘If you’re suggesting it’s the last guy who fixed it, I think I might have noticed him dying up there and rotting away!’

Steel snorted. ‘Going on recent evidence, I sodding doubt it.’

‘No, Guv, they need to get up there to examine the remains and. . you know. . don’t want to go through the ceiling.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my roof.’

‘Aye, except for the poor dead sod on it.’

He closed his eyes. Counted to ten. Only made it as far as six. ‘Don’t you have something more productive to do? ’

Steel shook her head. ‘Surprisingly enough, the skeleton lying on top of your sodding caravan roof is pretty high on my to-do list. Why can it never be straightforward with you? Why’s it always-’

‘I didn’t bloody put it there, OK? ’ He jabbed a finger at the roof. ‘That wasn’t me.’

‘Guv? ’ PC Sim again. ‘Council’s turned up.’

A scuffed flatbed truck was beeping its way backwards off of Mugiemoss Road into the caravan park. One side of the thing was all dented, rusting scratches clawed their way through the city council logo. A small yellow cherry-picker was tied to the back.

Cheaper and quicker than sodding about with scaffolding.

Five minutes later, the cherry-picker was trundling along the tarmac, driven by a pug-faced man in a set of council overalls and a high-vis vest. A massive black moustache covered his upper lip, drooping down on either side in a permanent hairy scowl.

Steel held up her hand. ‘All right, Sunshine, that’s far enough. We’ll take it from here.’

He stopped the cherry-picker, but didn’t get out. His voice was a hard-core Teuchter drawl. ‘You certified to drive one of these, quine? ’Cos if you’re not, you’re not driving it. Health and safety.’

‘Who’re you calling “quine”? ’ She stuck her chest out. ‘I’m a detective chief bloody inspector, and-’

‘I dinna care if you’re the Queen’s proctologist, no one’s driving this thing without a cert from the council.’ A nod. ‘Health and Safety’d have my arse in a buttie.’

She scowled at him, pulled the fake cigarette from her pocket, clicked it on, stuck it in her mouth, and sooked on it a couple of times. A puff of steam dissipated in the warm summer air. ‘Right, someone get Burt Reynolds here an SOC suit. He’s our new chauffeur.’

‘Aye, aye. .’ Burt Reynolds and his amazing moustache leaned out over the edge of the cherry-picker’s railing, gazing down at the roof of Logan’s caravan. ‘There’s a sight you don’t see every day.’

The cherry-picker’s basket was at least eighteen feet off the ground, high enough to give a good view of the whole roof. It rocked slightly as Steel and Logan moved over to get a better look.

Steel grabbed the handrail. ‘This thing safe? ’

‘Once found a skull when we were digging up a road outside Rhynie. Fat Doug wanted to take it home for an ashtray. He was aye a bit strange.’

The yellow-grey bones were laid out on the flat roof like some sort of art installation: a toothless skull resting above crossed femurs, the bottom jaw on the other side, then the pelvis and sternum, all held within a rough circle made up of ribs and vertebrae. Little piles of soil dotted the roof around it.

Logan pointed. ‘Can’t have been there for long. There’s no moss or anything growing on them.’

‘Ah.’ Burt Reynolds from the council nodded. ‘Maybe it’s Keith Richards? ’

Steel shrugged. ‘If it is, he’s lost weight.’ Then she hit Logan on the arm. ‘Told you it wasn’t Reuben.’

‘How can you possibly-’

‘This is way too frou-frou.’ A sniff. ‘Besides, the lardy sod would’ve gone through the roof like Ann Widdecombe in a brothel.’

The downstream monitoring suite had been given a fresh coat of magnolia since last time, so now it was miserable, pokey, and stank of paint fumes. Logan wedged the door open with one of the plastic chairs. ‘Better? ’

‘What do you think.’ Steel banged the flat of her hand down on top of the small TV screen mounted above the length of grey working surface. ‘Go on, you wee bugger. .’

The picture fizzed and crackled. Then interview room three appeared on screen, slightly distorted by the angle of the camera.

Reuben was sitting on the other side of the table, facing the camera, massive shoulders slumped, his hair all flat on one side and sticking up on the other. Could almost smell the second-hand booze oozing out of every pore, even from here.

If it bothered the man sitting next to him, it didn’t show. Sandy Moir-Farquharson’s suit probably cost more than Logan made in a month. Maybe two. The white shirt immaculate and crisp, the tie perfectly centred. He had a little less hair, and it was almost entirely grey now, but he still had exactly the same patronizing air. ‘And tell me, Inspector, when was my client supposed to have conducted this alleged assault? ’

Logan poked the screen. ‘“Alleged” my arse.’

The man sitting with his back to the camera checked his notes. ‘Half six, yesterday morning.’ DI Bell was nearly as wide as Reuben, but half a head shorter. He’d taken his jacket off, rolling up his sleeves to reveal a hairy pair of arms that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a gorilla.

‘Come on, Ding-Dong, ask him about the bones.’

Steel sighed. ‘You’re bloody obsessed.’

‘Then your complainant is clearly mistaken in his identification.’ The lawyer pulled a sheet of paper from his briefcase. ‘I have here a sworn statement from a Miss Chloe Slessor stating that my client was with her all night in a. . romantic capacity.’

‘The lying cow!’

Steel whistled. ‘Romantic? Reuben? Jesus, can you imagine that humping away at you? Be like a warthog shagging a Faberge egg.’

‘Does your complainant have any witnesses to corroborate his fictitious version of events? ’

‘Ooh: think you’re the one who’s shagged now, Laz.’

‘As a police officer, DI McRae-’

‘I’m sorry, Inspector, are police officers above the law now? ’ Hissing Sid’s smile was sharp and reptilian. ‘Don’t they have to comply with the same burden of proof as everyone else? ’

‘He punched me on the bloody nose!’ Logan grabbed the little microphone wired into the wall and pressed the red button. ‘He punched me on the bloody nose!’

On screen, DI Bell flinched. Then dug a finger into his ear, wiggling the little wireless earpiece. ‘Ow. .’

Logan pressed the button again. ‘Sorry. Ask him about the bones.’

‘Reuben,’ DI Bell leaned forward, ‘who do the bones belong to? ’

A sniff, then a frown. ‘Eh? ’

‘The ones you’ve been sending to DI McRae.’

He looked at his lawyer, then back at the inspector. ‘Are you off your hairy wee head? ’

‘Who was she? Who did you kill? ’

Silence. Reuben sat back and folded his huge arms.

Steel snorted. Then grabbed the microphone from Logan’s hand. ‘Yeah, good one, Ding-Dong, really smooth. He’s bound to tell you now.’

‘My client hasn’t killed anyone, Inspector Bell. My client is a law-abiding citizen and resents the accusation.’ Hissing Sid clicked his briefcase closed again. ‘Might I just warn you that Grampian Police are already looking at one count of wrongful arrest: I really wouldn’t go throwing about accusations like that without some serious proof.’ He unfolded his long limbs and stood, towering over the table. ‘Now as you clearly have nothing relevant to discuss with us, and no evidence, I suggest you release my client immediately. This interview is over.’