Close to the Bone

Wednesday
36

The kettle’s grumbling rattle came through from the kitchen, fighting against the sound of Breakfast News in the living room where, apparently, everyone was getting great weather except for the north-east of Scotland. As bloody usual.

Logan lay back on the bed, arms folded behind his head. Have to get up in a minute. Any minute now. .

A clunk and the kettle lost its battle with the weatherman.

Jackie padded through wearing nothing but a Strathclyde Police Judo Team T-shirt, with a mug of tea in each hand and a slice of toast sticking out of her mouth. ‘Mnnnphnnn gnnph? ’

He sat up and accepted the proffered mug. ‘Still raining? ’

She pulled the toast out and chewed. ‘Give me two reasons why I should stay with Bill.’

Oh great: this again. ‘He’s Rory’s father? ’

‘That’s one. And it’s not even that good a reason. He’s still a selfish prick.’ She tore a bite out of the toast. ‘I am not moving to London, I don’t care if this is the job opportunity of a lifetime.’

The sigh escaped before he could stop it. Logan swung his legs out of the bed. ‘If you don’t like him, why do you stay with him? ’

‘That’s what I just asked you.’

Logan picked yesterday’s socks and pants off the floor and dumped them in the laundry basket, before shuffling and yawning through to the bathroom for a pee and a shower.

By the time he got back, Jackie was levering herself into the feat of mechanical engineering that was a concrete-coloured Doreen Triumph bra. Making it look as if she was wearing two halved zeppelins from the 1930s. The shiny crescent-shaped scar above her industrial grey pants disappeared as she hauled on her suit trousers.

At least she only had the one scar.

A linen shirt went over the bra that time forgot. ‘What are we doing? ’

Good question. Logan sat on the bed and pulled on a fresh pair of socks. ‘Same as usual, I suppose.’ Next: a pair of lucky bright-red pants, then suit trousers. ‘Reaching out because we’re lonely. Looking for a little comfort. A little human warmth. . What? ’

She was staring at him with her mouth hanging open. ‘I meant what are we doing tonight? Not what,’ she pointed at them both, ‘whatever this is.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Heat raced up his neck into his cheeks and ears. ‘OK. Well, if you’re not going back to Glasgow, we could-’

‘Are you feeling guilty? Is that it? Guilty because she’s in the hospital? ’

Logan picked the nearest shirt in the wardrobe. ‘Yes.’

‘In the name of the wee man. .’ She grabbed her jacket. ‘Where did I leave my shoes? ’ Then stomped out of the bedroom, making the caravan floor shake.

Yes, because it was all his fault. He followed her into the living room, hauling the shirt on. ‘So you don’t feel guilty for cheating on Bill? ’

‘She’s been up there for two years, Logan, you really think that’s what she wants? You feeling guilty for having sex three or four times a year? ’

A wrinkled satchel of a face frowned out at them from the TV. ‘. .important to remember that these are the people who support police investigations. They help catch killers. How can they do their job if the SPSA keeps changing everything? ’

‘You didn’t answer the question.’

‘I. .’ Her face pinched, eyes narrowed, then she turned and grabbed a pair of low-heeled boots from under the coffee table. ‘Going to be late.’

Mr Satchelface was replaced by a woman in an ugly blouse. ‘Aberdeen now, and Grampian Police have issued a fresh appeal for information regarding the whereabouts of Agnes Garfield. .’

‘Jackie, it’s-’

‘Of course I feel bloody guilty! OK? And I shouldn’t, he doesn’t deserve my guilt — he’s a selfish, thoughtless bastard who never even sees me any more. Even when he does come home, it’s like I’m not there.’

‘. .any information to call the hotline number, or contact your local police station. .’

Jackie thumped down on the couch and hauled on her boots. ‘But would I leave him? Nooooo, I had to make it work for Rory’s sake, didn’t I? Why be happy in life when you can be bloody miserable? ’

‘So leave him.’

‘What about Rory? ’

‘In other news, police checkpoints are in place on the A96 between Kintore and Blackburn. .’

Logan sat down on the couch beside her. ‘What’s going to be better for him growing up: you happy, or you miserable? ’

‘. .witnesses following the discovery of what appears to be a satanic murder inspired by the bestselling novel Witchfire on Monday evening. .’

She stared at the screen. ‘It’s not that simple.’

‘Never is.’

‘We spoke to two the film’s stars, Nichole Fyfe and Morgan Mitchell.’ Onscreen, Mrs Uglyblouse was replaced by the familiar PR setup of Nichole and Morgan sitting in front of Witchfire posters.

‘What am I going to do, Logan? Leave Bill and come back and shack up with you? You me and Rory crammed in your girlfriend’s caravan? ’

Oh dear God. . Don’t say anything. Don’t even breathe!

Jackie stood. ‘That’s what I thought.’

Nichole leaned forward. ‘First I have to say on behalf of everyone working on the film, that our hearts go out to those poor families.’

Morgan nodded. ‘They really do. It’s awful that these guys went through what they did-’

‘I can’t. There isn’t. .’

‘You’re just going to sit here, like a bug stuck in fucking amber till she comes back.’

‘. .so important to stop this happening to anyone else. Which is why we’re going to do everything we can to help.’

‘I am not stuck in amber.’

‘LOOK AT YOURSELF! It’s been two years and you’re still here. Why haven’t you finished fixing up the flat? I’ll tell you why: because you can’t move on. You were always the bloody same!’ She turned and banged out of the room.

‘Jackie!’

Out into the corridor.

‘Jackie, wait.’

She was in the bedroom, grabbing her rucksack from the floor. ‘You want a sign, Logan? Here’s your sign.’ She ripped down the sheet of paper Sellotaped to the wardrobe mirror and hurled it at him. ‘That’s what’s wrong with you.’

She shoved past, wrenched open the front door, then slammed it hard enough to make the mugs in the kitchen clatter.

Silence.

‘-ask if anyone’s seen, or knows anything about these terrible deaths, to come forward.’

‘That’s right, people, you have to call the police before anyone else gets hurt.’

Bit late for that.

Logan bent down and retrieved the sheet of paper. Smoothed it out against the wall. ‘LIKE IT OR NOT, YOU’RE STILL ALIVE’ printed in big black letters.

‘And now here’s Russell with the weather.’

‘Thanks, Steve. Well, it’s going to be an unsettled couple of days-’

The doorbell rang out its long mournful chime.

He reached for the handle, paused. The pickaxe handle waited patiently, propped up in the corner. He took it and peered through the spyhole.

Jackie scowled back at him, her features distorted by the lens.

He opened the door. ‘You already had the last word.’

Her eyes went from his face to the pickaxe handle. ‘Didn’t think you were so sensitive.’ Then she hoiked a thumb over her shoulder at a green-haired lanky young man leaning back against Logan’s Fiat. One of Wee Hamish Mowat’s boys, with a courier’s satchel slung over one shoulder. ‘You got a visitor.’

The young man grinned at him as Jackie roared off in her Audi. ‘Bit on the side, eh? McRae, you old hound you.’ Acne scars pocked his cheeks, disappearing into a set of wiry sideburns. Eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. Shoulder-length lime green hair swept back from his forehead. ‘Though, how you manage to pull the chicks drivin’ this manky piece of crap. .? ’ He rapped his knuckles on the Punto’s bonnet.

The bloody magpies had been at the car again, spattering it with grey-and-white droppings, wedging twigs into the windscreen wipers. Logan hefted the pickaxe handle onto his shoulder. ‘What do you want, Jamie? ’

‘No’ to be up at this soddin’ hour. Brutal, man.’ He nodded at the caravan. ‘You gonnae invite me in? ’

‘How’s your friend Reuben? ’

‘Yeah. ..’ Jamie stuck the tip of his pale-yellow tongue out between his teeth. ‘I heard you and him had a thing. What can I say? The Rubester’s a passionate man.’ He pulled his sunglasses down to the end of his nose and winked a bloodshot eye. ‘But just so you know: if there’s a change of management and that, I’d have no problems workin’ with the new administration. Just between us.’

‘What — do — you — want? ’

Jamie dipped into the satchel and came out with a large brown envelope. ‘Been lookin’ into your battered Chinkies for Mr Mowat. Sod-all clue who the other side are, but the ones doing the hammerin’ are definitively the McLeod brothers.’

No surprise there.

Jamie dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘I’m just sayin’, you know, if the time comes, you can rely on us. The Reubinator’s great and all that, but it’s like doing Strictly Come Dancin’ through a minefield some days.’

‘I’m not taking over, and I’m not killing Reuben.’

‘Ahhh. . Right. Just a wee coma or a bit of brain damage. Gotcha. Anyway, Mr Mowat says he’s keen on this batterin’ cannabis thing being over soon as. Word is Creepy and Simon McLeod are going after anyone they think’s in on it — and they’re all about the “cripple first, ask questions later”.’

‘No coma. No brain damage.’

Jamie shrugged. ‘We’ll talk later. Meantime,’ he waggled the envelope at Logan, ‘got a couple addresses for the McLeod’s cannabis farms: Blackburn and Westhill. Might wanna get your boys to take a squint? ’

Logan didn’t move. ‘Seriously? Handing over a brown envelope, in a public place? You got someone lurking in the bushes taking pictures? ’

He sighed, pushed his glasses back into place again. ‘Man, you are cynical.’ He slipped the envelope under one of the Fiat’s windscreen wipers, sending a little avalanche of twigs and grass tumbling onto the bonnet. ‘No skin off my nose, man. But if you’re no’ going to sort it out. .’ Jamie bared his teeth and sooked air through them. ‘Gonnae get messy.’

‘Always does.’

‘Later, OK? ’ He backed away, grinning. ‘And I meant what I said about Reuben.’

‘. .talk of industrial action across the whole Scottish Police Services Authority. We spoke to Grampian Police Assistant Chief Constable Denis Irvin. .’

Logan turned the radio down a bit, shifted his phone from one ear to the other, and changed down into third as Mounthooly roundabout loomed into view. A vast hump of grass and trees, easily big enough for a full-sized football pitch, like an island in the stream of traffic. ‘Look, how difficult can it be? Just get a copy of Anthony Chung’s criminal record from San Francisco.’

On the other end of the phone, PC Guthrie groaned. ‘You know what getting anything out of the Yanks is like.’

‘. .inconceivable they’d do anything as counterproductive and ill-judged as strike. .’

‘Someone’s got to have a liaison officer with the US Justice Department: try the Serious and Organized Crime Agency.’

‘They’re even worse than the bloody Americans.’

True.

‘. .assure the people of the north-east that Grampian Police won’t let this impact on public safety or pursuing criminals to justice. .’

A taxi’s brake lights flared at the entrance to the roundabout, it juddered to a halt, just missing getting obliterated by an eighteen-wheeler loaded down with offshore drilling pipes. Idiot should’ve been watching where he was going. Logan drifted over into the outside lane. ‘If they give you any lip, tell them there’s a suggestion he’s connected to a terrorist organization.’

‘He is? ’

‘No, but it’ll get their finger out of their bumholes.’

‘. .other news, to celebrate national sandwich week, one group of Ellon school pupils aim to create the world’s longest chip buttie. .’

The junction was coming up. Logan put his foot on the brake. ‘Just make sure you say it’s “unconfirmed sources”. .’ The car wasn’t slowing down.

He did it again. Still nothing.

One more time, jamming his foot to the floor.

The rattling Fiat Punto just kept on going.

‘. .weather’s going to remain overcast, but we could see some heavy rain later in the day. .’

Handbrake! Logan yanked it on and the rear wheels locked, screeching across the road surface, heading right out onto the roundabout in a stinking cloud of hot rubber. Teeth gritted, eyes screwed to narrowed slits, arms straight out in front, hands wrapped tightly enough around the steering wheel to turn his knuckles bone-white. Right into the path of a dozen vehicles.

‘STOP YOU RUSTY PIECE OF CRAP!’

A people carrier slammed on its brakes as he slid to a halt right in front of it. Its horn blared an angry tattoo into the early morning air, the driver’s face dark pink as she screamed obscenities behind the windscreen.

‘. .just to rub it in: here’s the Eurythmics with “Here Comes the Rain Again”.’

Logan closed his eyes, rested his forehead against the steering wheel. Everything inside him sagged, as if someone had pulled the plug out. Not crushed to death in a mangled ball of rusty metal after all.

More horns joined the people carrier’s angry song.

He sat up straight, blinked, then wound down his window.

Exhaust fumes and burning rubber never smelled so sweet.

The people-carrier’s driver was still swearing at him through the glass, veins standing out in her neck like angry snakes.

He held up a hand and turned the engine over again, stuck the Punto in reverse and slowly dragged it backwards onto Causeway End. Pumping his foot on the brake pedal did sod all, so he used the handbrake again.

Christ, that was close. .

‘Tada. .’ Dr Graham whipped the cloth away, exposing a clay head: large nose, high cheekbones, jowls, a small mouth set between two deep crevices. She placed it on Steel’s desk. ‘Of course, I had to use a bit of artistic licence on the wrinkles, but all in all I’m pretty happy with it.’

Steel screwed up her eyes, leaned forward in her chair and peered at it. ‘No’ a sodding clue. You? ’

Logan shrugged. ‘Just a random old lady.’

‘Nah: one thing I know about nutjobs, Laz, is they don’t do things for no reason. She’s no’ random, she’s somebody special. We just don’t know why yet.’

Dr Graham shuffled her feet. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve turned up another body needing facial reconstruction, have you? Maybe more skeletonized remains? ’

Steel leaned back in her chair and puffed on her fake cigarette. ‘Laz, get the auld wifie’s head up to Media: I want her on the telly news by lunchtime, all the papers, blah, blah, blah.’ She stared at him. ‘Sometime before we all die of old age would be good. And try to crack a smile, eh? Won’t kill you.’

‘Thanks. Very funny. I nearly died, OK? ’

‘Serves you right for being a tightwad and buying crappy old rustbuckets then, doesn’t it? ’

‘Just. .’ The muscles in his jaw clenched. ‘Fine.’ Logan grabbed the head — surprisingly heavy, almost as bad as the real thing — and stomped out, slamming the door shut behind him.

Steel’s voice oozed through the wood. ‘Touchy. . Now, Doc, about your invoice. .’

The Wee Hoose echoed with laughter that died as soon as Logan walked in. Biohazard Bob and three PCs cleared their throats, Biohazard sticking something in his pocket as the uniforms shuffled out of the room, faces flushed, not making eye contact.

Logan pushed the door shut with his heel. ‘Do I want to know? ’

‘Probably not.’ Bob sank into his chair. ‘Nice severed head, by the way: suits you.’

The other desks were covered in piles of forms and file boxes, only one was clean and tidy: DS Chalmers’s. ‘Where’s the new girl? ’

‘Buggered if I know. .’ He frowned. ‘Rennie’s right, you’re playing favourites, aren’t you? ’

Logan stared at him. If Biohazard wanted favourites, he could bloody well have them. ‘You know what: maybe I am putting too much on DS Chalmers’s shoulders. So. .’ He plonked the head down on Biohazard’s desk. ‘“Who is this woman?” TV, papers, posters. You know the drill.’

‘Noooo.’ Bob covered his face with his hands. ‘Can’t someone else-’

‘You’re the one feeling neglected.’ He pointed at the head. ‘Steel wants that done ASAP. If it’s not on the lunchtime news, you know what’ll happen to you.’

Bob groaned. Stood. Then picked up the head. ‘Come on, Sexy.’ He paused at the door. ‘One thing. Chalmers might be the new girl, but there’s something you’ve got to remember. .’ He squeezed one eye shut, leaned to the left, then hurried out, thumping the door shut.

The smell he’d left behind wasn’t far off being weaponized.