Shatter the Bones

Chapter 19

‘Afternoon, Guv. If you’re here for Kylie Minogue’s autograph you’re too late — she’s buggered off home. Took the hump when I wouldn’t give her a seeing to.’

‘Do I really have to remind you, Inspector, that one little girl is already dead, and we’ve only got five more days to stop Alison and Jenny McGregor joining her?’

They stood staring at one another.

Steel sniffed, then stuck the e-cigarette back in her pocket. ‘I’m done with Mr Maguire anyway.’

‘Acting DI MacDonald.’ Finnie turned his fake smile in Mark’s direction. ‘Why don’t you do me a favour and escort Mr Maguire back to the station?’

‘Oh, come on!’ The producer threw his hands in the air. ‘I’ve got a bloody plane to catch! We’re shooting a live TV tribute in-’

‘After all, I’m sure he wouldn’t like anyone to think he wasn’t cooperating with the police at this delicate time. Would you, Mr Maguire?’

‘Bloody… OK, OK.’ He barged past into the corridor. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

‘Excellent.’ Finnie gave Logan the once over, top lip curled. ‘If you don’t mind, Sergeant, I’d like to speak to DI Steel in

private. Perhaps you could use the time to pop past Professional Standards? I hear they’d love a little chat with you about some rape allegations.’

Shite. So much for plan A. ‘Yes, right.’ Logan squeezed out of the room, and Finnie closed the door.

A muffled argument.

Standing out in the corridor, Superintendent Green nodded: as if they’d just agreed on something. ‘So, Detective Sergeant…?’

‘McRae. Logan. Sir.’

Another nod. ‘I see.’ He tilted his head on one side, staring, a little crease between his eyebrows. ‘Rape?’

‘Just a junkie making stuff up. Thinks she can blackmail me into giving back the drugs we seized off her boyfriend.’

‘I see… And have you ever investigated a kidnapping before, Sergeant? I mean a real one, not just drug dealers grabbing each other off the street: ransom notes, body parts in the post, that kind of thing?’

No, but you have, haven’t you, you smug bastard. ‘Not really, sir. Kidnapping’s not that common in the north-east.’

More nodding. Then Green patted him on the shoulder. ‘Walk with me, Sergeant.’

The Superintendent turned and marched out into the afternoon. The graveyard was slowly emptying — now the TV cameras were turned off and all the celebrities had gone, the crowd would all be scurrying away home to check their DVD recorders. See if they’d managed to get on the telly.

Green looked down at his feet as they walked along the path from the church — big grey slabs laid in a wide, meander ing walkway. He stopped just in front of a large rectangle of granite. It was a gravestone laid on its back in the middle of the path, the name nearly worn into obscurity by generations of scuffing feet. ‘When I was small, my father would take me to church every Sunday, after Mother…’ Frown. ‘Well, anyway, one day he said, “You see that? That name beneath your feet? We’re walking on dead people.” And I nearly wet myself. I was about five, I think. Had nightmares for months.’ Green took a step, so he was standing right on top of the head-stone. ‘Why does the inspector call you “Laz”?’

‘Private joke.’

Green raised his chin, shoulders back, staring out across the empting graveyard. ‘We’re going to need to pull out all the stops on this one, Sergeant. It’s vital we get Jenny back before anything happens to her.’

Well, duh. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Normally I’d expect the kidnappers to grab some rich kid, send a ransom note to the parents telling them not to get in touch with the police or the kid dies. A demand for money to be handed over at a clandestine location. All done in complete secrecy.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘But this…’

He looked as if he expected stirring theme music to swell up at any minute.

‘They grab two people in the public eye — people without any family — and instead of conducting their seedy business in the shadows, they send their ransom demands to the newspapers. They want the police involved.’

Go on, say it… ‘We’re not dealing with ordinary kidnappers here, Logan.’ Dun, dun, daaaaaaaaa! ‘No, sir.’

As if they hadn’t worked that little gem out for themselves.

NO! NO! NO! NO! She tries to wriggle free, but the monster in white holds her tight, wraps his papery arms around her, lifting her up off the ground.

‘Hold still, you little bitch!’ His voice is all weird: hard and metal like a robot, like the silver monsters on Doctor Who, like a Cyberman.

Her heel smashes into something soft and squishy.

A buzz, a crackle. ‘Oh, fuck…’ And the arms let go.

She tumbles to the bare floorboards. The monster staggers against the wall, one hand on the paint-sprayed wallpaper, the other grabbing his willy.

She scrambles to her feet and runs for the door. Get back through to Mummy, where the bed is, where-

Ulp…

Her feet fly out in front of her as the chain around her neck snaps tight.

‘Come back here you little cow.’

Mummy’s voice, shouting in the other room: ‘Don’t hurt her! You promised you wouldn’t hurt her!’

‘Kicked me in the bloody balls!’

She’s dragged backwards across the floorboards, arms and legs thrashing.

‘MUMMY!’

‘YOU PROMISED!’

Thump. She’s lying on her front, with a heavy weight on her back — warm and rustling. The monster grabs her wrist, wraps something around it and pulls. It makes a Vzzzzwip noise. Then the other wrist, and both her arms are stuck behind her back.

‘MUMMY! MUMMY, THEY’RE-’

A purple hand covers her mouth. It smells like bicycle tyres on a hot day.

‘Tom: don’t just bloody stand there!’

More weight, pinning her legs to the floor.

Vzzzzwip. Vzzzzwip. And now her ankles are stuck together. A scritchy, ripping noise, then the hand lets go of her mouth and a strip of something sticky is jammed into place. She can’t even open her lips. All she can do is hiss and mumble and cry.

Then the monsters let go.

She wriggles as hard as she can, flopping about like a gold-fish on the bathroom floor. That’s what happens to Bad Little Girls…

‘Bloody hell. Looks like she’s having a fit.’

Wriggle. Thrash. Flop … struggle … twitch. Lie panting on the floorboards, tears dripping from her nose.

Another monster steps into the room and clunks the door shut behind it. ‘Will you two stop pricking about?’ A lady monster — it’s difficult to tell from the Cyberman voice, but she has boobies. She has a name badge stuck to her white crinkly chest, with ‘HELLO MY NAME IS’ at the top, and ‘WILLIAM’

underneath.

All the monsters are wearing them. ‘TOM’ and ‘SYLVESTER’ stand back, staring down at Jenny.

WILLIAM crosses her arms. Every move makes a rustling sound. It’s not skin, not like she thought in her bedroom when they came for her — it’s that stuff the police wear on the television when something bad happens. Sticky purple gloves, blue shower-caps on their feet. Plasticy masks that hide their faces and make them look like robots. It goes with the horrible metal voices. ‘Where’s Colin?’

TOM shrugs. Then SYLVESTER points over his shoulder, ‘Throwing up.’

‘Oh for Christ’s sake.’ She nods. ‘Get him.’

‘But-’

‘Now!’

Robots, arguing. ‘OK, OK…’ SYLVESTER hurries out, feet scuffing on the floor.

‘Get her on the table.’

TOM grabs her by the collar and waistband of her jammies and hauls her off the ground. ‘Wriggle and I’ll bloody drop you on your head, understand?’

She stays very still. ‘Good girl.’

Good Little Girl.

Thump — TOM dumps her on the table. Holds her there with a heavy hand in the middle of her back.

WILLIAM, the lady monster, stands over her. ‘Stop crying. If you behave yourself it’ll all be over soon.’

The door clunks.

Jenny blinks away the tears. It’s SYLVESTER, back with another monster. This one has ‘COLIN’ written on his chest. He’s carrying a little plastic box.

WILLAM doesn’t look at him. ‘Get on with it.’

COLIN clears his throat. ‘I… Erm… Look, it’s just… I mean, do we have to? Can we not just send the papers another photo or something?’

‘You saw what they’re saying on the news.’

‘But I’ve never done… She’s just a little girl.’

‘I know what she is. Now do your bloody job. Or do you want me to tell David you won’t? Is that really what you want?’

‘But I-’

WILLIAM grabs him by the front of his crumply white suit. ‘What fucking good are you if you can’t do a simple bloody procedure?’

‘But amputating isn’t just… There’s the risk of infection, MRSA, septicaemia, blood clots, shock, what if-’

‘Pull — your — fucking — weight.’

She lets go and he steps back. Stares down at his blue feet. Then nods.

‘You need to roll up her sleeve.’

Fire bites her shoulders as TOM twists her arm, dragging her jammie sleeve up to her armpit.

Please no. Please no. Please no.

COLIN puts the plastic box down on the table. Opens it. She can see shiny sharp things sparkling inside. Then he takes out a tiny jar and a jaggy needle. He goes back in for a little foil packet, tears it open and pulls out a little tissue. Wipes it against the inside of her elbow, it makes the skin go all cold.

Then he fills up the jaggy needle. ‘I’m sorry…’

A hard scratchy feeling, then a stabbing pain, like being stung by a bee.

Another wipe. ‘We need to give it a minute.’

She blinks.

The bee sting doesn’t hurt any more. ‘I still don’t think-’

‘No one’s asking you to think, Colin.’

Blink. Blink.

She’s in the playground on the roundabout, spinning faster and faster, round and round, trees and houses and monsters whooshing past. Blurry plastic faces, muzzy booming Cybermen voices. Fuzzy warmth spreading between her ears.

She blinks, but her eyes won’t open again.