Shatter the Bones

Chapter 38

‘You’re off your sodding head. This is stupid!’

Twenty past six and the sun was well on its way up a pale-blue sky. The trees were filled with birds, singing and chirping and crawing, as if everything was hunky-fucking-dory. As if this was just a day the same as any other.

‘Come on, still no’ too late to change your mind. Back to mine, couple of drams and…’

‘I’m fine.’ Didn’t feel fine. Felt like someone had hollowed out his body, leaving a brittle shell behind. Logan clambered out of Steel’s little sports car. ‘Give me a call if you hear anything.’ He closed the door, then stood there watching as she shook her head, put the MX-5 in gear, and drove off into the early morning.

As soon as she was gone, he let his face sag. Samantha’s static caravan was part of a little park on the bank of the River Don, opposite the sewage treatment works. That wasn’t the smell that pervaded everything though, it was the fatty, slightly sickening odour that came from the Grampian Country Chickens factory.

He lurched over to the door. Two gnomes, one on either side — one with horns and a forky tail, the other with halo and wings. Logan picked the devil up, flipped it over, and shook. A metallic rattling sound. He tipped the key into his palm.

Sometimes people were more predictable than they thought.

He unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Locked himself in. The skylight in the hall was a mass of green algae and clumps of moss, filtering out most of the oblivious sunshine, leaving the place shrouded in gloom. The door to the living room was open, light seeping in through the closed curtains. He could smell her. Her scent was imprinted on the place, in the carpet and furniture. He could smell it even through the acrid stench of smoke that stuck to his clothes, hair and skin.

When was the last time they’d spent a night here? Or even a couple of hours? At least five months. Probably more.

He reached out and flicked on the hall light. It blinked and buzzed, then bloomed into cold fluorescent life. So at least the power was still on.

Logan shuffled through into the small kitchen and peeled off his stinking clothes, emptied the pockets of his jeans, then stuffed everything into the washer-dryer. Found some washing powder under the sink. Set the thing going to wash and tumble dry, then sank back against the fridge and cried.

Where the hell was… Logan frowned into the gloom. The bedroom had shrunk, and the duvet smelled of mildew. He blinked. Not home. Samantha’s caravan. His mobile phone was ringing.

It took two goes to grab it off the stack of books acting as a bedside cabinet. ‘McRae.’

‘Hello, is this…’ Some rustling. ‘Er, Detective Sergeant Logan McRae? This is Dr Lewis, I’m calling about-’

Logan sat bolt upright. ‘Is she OK?’

Please let her be OK, please let her be OK. ‘Well, she’s had a very nasty fall. Samantha’s condition is what

we like to call serious, but stable. It was touch and go for a while, but she seems to be responding to treatment.’

He threw off the duvet and lurched to his feet. ‘I’ll be right up.’

There was a pause. ‘Actually, that might not be such a good idea. We’ve had to put her in a medically-induced coma-’

‘Coma…’

‘Just until the swelling in her brain comes down.’

Logan let his head rest against the cool wall of the caravan. ‘I see.’

There was more — the list of broken bones, the internal injuries, the surgery.

‘Basically, the next twenty-four hours are going to be critical, but she’s getting the best care possible.’

Logan closed his eyes. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’ He hung up, then sank back onto the bed. Lay there staring at the ceiling.

Shuggie Williams and his fucking “consequences”. Samantha slamming though the flat roof three floors below. Flames screaming through the smoke above his head. That moment when she looked up and said, ‘Logan…?’ The smell of everything they had, burning. Samantha, lying in the ambulance, pale and broken. Shuggie Fucking Williams…

Logan thumped back into the musty pillow, eyes screwed shut. Then pounded his fists into his forehead. Stupid. Fucking. Useless. Moron.

Then lay there, breathing heavily.

He checked his phone again. Eleven o’clock. No way he could get back to sleep now. His head was stuffed with burning cotton wool. Everything stank of mould and smoke.

A huge spider scuttled at the sides of the bath, slipping down to the bottom, then trying to escape again. Logan turned on the shower. Watched it scrabble away from the water. Why shouldn’t the little bugger drown? Everything died. Maybe it was Mr Spider’s turn.

Sigh.

He pulled a couple of sheets of toilet paper from the roll, scooped the thing out of the bath and chucked it out into the hall.

By the time he got back to the bedroom there were three messages waiting for him on his phone. One from his mother, one from his brother, and one from Rennie. He listened to them all, then deleted the lot.

Logan dragged his clothes out of the washing machine and hauled them on. Still slightly damp. Everything he now owned was sitting on the dusty worktop: a handful of change, a packet of chewing gum that stank of smoke, his wallet, and his phone.

Shuggie Webster wanted consequences, did he? Well he was going to bloody well get them.

He stared at his mobile for a moment. Then picked it up and made a call.

‘You sure you’re OK?’ Rennie’s voice sounded as if he was trying to comfort the dying. ‘I mean, you know, is there anything I can do?’

Logan squinted out into the bright morning. ‘Yeah, you can get another GSM trace authorized.’ He read out the number Shuggie Webster had called from yesterday. ‘Let me know soon as you get anything.’ Keeping his voice flat, calm, and dead.

‘Er… Actually, Sarge, Finnie’s kinda laying down the law on that one.’

He locked the hire car’s door and walked up to the big wrought iron gates. Leaves and sunshine made a writhing freckled pattern on the gravel driveway.

‘Everyone’s been told not to bother you with police stuff. You’re meant to be on compassionate leave.’

That was news to him. ‘Then pretend Steel told you to do it.’

‘Yeah, that’s cool. It’s all her fault.’

There was one of those buzzer entry security things mounted on the high stone wall. Logan pressed the button.

‘Listen, I was onto the fi re brigade this morning — they’re saying the fl at’s not safe for the IB to go into yet. But there’s defi nitely signs of an accelerant.’

‘No shit.’

‘…Yeah. OK, so we’re getting together a collection, for Sam. There anything you think we should buy? You know, something she’ll like when she wakes up?’

If she wakes up. ‘Hold on.’ He jabbed the mute button. The security thing was buzzing at him.

Then a broad Aberdonian accent crackled out of the speaker. ‘Fa is it?’

‘Logan McRae to see Mr Mowat.’

‘Hud oan.’ Silence.

Back to Rennie. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Erm, I was thinking — have you sorted out your insurance yet? You know, home and contents?’

Logan ground the heel of one hand into his eye. One more thing to add to the list. ‘All the paperwork was in the flat…’

‘You want me to do it for you? I can phone round, get stuff sorted? You know, if it helps?’

The gates gave a clunk, then swung open. Walk into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.

‘Sarge? You still there? I mean, it’s not much, but-’

‘No, it’s great… Thanks.’ The gravel crunched under his smoke-blackened shoes. ‘Really, I appreciate it.’

‘Hey, no probs — what are mates for, right?’ A cough. ‘And … I’m really sorry about Sam.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry too.’

The gates swung shut behind him. Logan hung up.

‘Will you take a wee dram, Logan?’ Hamish Mowat, AKA Wee Hamish, waved a liver-spotted claw at a display cabinet. A set of crystal decanters and tumblers, were lined up behind the glass. Midday and Wee Hamish was dressed for bed — tartan jammies, grey slippers, a fleecy robe.

‘Not for me, thanks.’

‘Ah, got to keep a clear head. I understand. You’re a man on a mission: have to keep your wits sharp.’ His voice was a raspy mix of Aberdonian and public school, not much louder than a whisper. ‘I’ll have one, if you don’t mind?’ He shuffled over to the window, wheeling a drip stand along for the ride. A clear bag swung on a hook at the top, the IV line disappearing into the plastic shunt taped to the back of his left hand.

Logan opened the cabinet. ‘Glenmorangie, Dalwhinnie, Macallan, or Royal Lochnagar?’

‘Surprise me.’

Logan picked a decanter at random, poured a decent measure, and added a splash of water. Carried it across to where Wee Hamish was surveying his domain.

‘Thank you.’ The old man took it in a trembling hand. ‘Slainte mhar.’

The house was huge, a rambling mansion on the south side of the River Dee, perched high enough on a hill to give a panoramic view over Aberdeen. Who said crime didn’t pay? The large garden stretched away to a border of trees, and one of those black-and-yellow ride-on mowers hummed its way across the lawn, like a low-flying bee — a huge scowling man perched on the little seat. He was massive: not just fat, but tall and broad too, his face a web of scar tissue and patchy beard.

Wee Hamish sighed. ‘It pains me to think of you two at each other’s throats. I do wish the pair of you would bury the hatchet.’

Yes, well, there’d be no prizes for guessing where Reuben would want to bury it.

‘I don’t think he’s the forgive and forget type.’

When the old man nodded, it set the saggy droop of skin beneath his chin wobbling. ‘I suppose you’re probably right.

But I’m not going to be around forever, Logan, and if you two can’t sort out your differences, it’s only going to end one way…’ He rested the tips of his fingers against the window. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about that kind of thing lately. What my legacy’s going to be.’

Wee Hamish licked his pale purple lips. ‘So I fund community projects, I set up bursaries so underprivileged children can go to university, I sponsor families in Africa…’ He took another sip of whisky, not taking his eyes off the garden and its angry mechanical bee. ‘You know, much though I love him, Reuben’s apt to be a bit … impulsive. Don’t get me wrong, he’s ferociously loyal, a great man to have on your side, someone who’ll do whatever it takes to get the job done, but a good leader has to weigh up his options. Make unpalatable decisions. Compromise sometimes. Not just go charging in with a sawn-off shotgun.’

Wee Hamish turned and tapped Logan on the forehead with a curved finger, the skin dry like parchment. ‘Head first.’ The finger prodded Logan in the chest. ‘Then heart.’ The old man curled his fingers into a loose clump. ‘And fists last of all.’ He shook his head, sending that sag of skin wobbling again. ‘Reuben, bless him, is all fists.’

‘Mr Mowat, I-’

‘Of course, that’s the problem, isn’t it? Who do I hand everything over to, when I go?’ He touched the glass again. ‘I had a son once. Lovely lad, but not … temperamentally suited to this line of work. It was a motorbike accident that took him, he was eighteen. And by then it was too late for Juliette and me to try again. Too old the pair of us. No heart left in it.’

‘Actually, I-’

‘I was sorry to hear about your young lady. I sent some flowers, I hope you don’t mind. A hospital is such an ugly place, don’t you think? It’s a wonder anyone gets better at all.’

How the hell did Wee Hamish know about Samantha? It wasn’t even in the papers yet.

‘Thank you.’

‘And if there’s anything you need…’ Wee Hamish chuckled, a wet, rattling sound. ‘Of course there’s something you need. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. You want whoever set fire to your home. You want revenge.’

Logan looked away, cleared his throat.

Wee Hamish put a hand on his arm. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m not offended. Why else would you come to visit a sick old man, eh?’

‘Shuggie Webster. I want to know where he is.’

‘I see. Yes, well I dare say we can organize something along those lines for you.’

‘I… I need you to understand something — if you do this, it doesn’t mean you own me.’

Another chuckle. ‘Logan, trust me when I say that I have no desire to “own” anyone. Oh, I keep a couple of your colleagues on the payroll, but I don’t “own” them; they’re valued members of the team. Simply think of this as a favour, and if you ever decide police work is no longer the career for you… Well, as I said, it would be nice to know that my legacy was in good hands.’ He gave Logan’s arm a squeeze. ‘Now, when we deliver Mr Webster, would you like a gun as well?’

Logan swallowed. ‘A gun?’

‘Something Russian: clean, untraceable, never been used.’

‘I…’

‘Well, you don’t have to decide right now.’ He drained the last of the whisky. ‘Tell me, are you any closer to catching the animals who kidnapped Alison and Jenny McGregor?’

‘Not really. Well, we’ve got a couple of leads.’ Shrug. ‘Don’t know if they’ll come to anything.’

‘The whole situation … discomforts me, Logan. The media crawling all over the city like flies on a dung pile, giving everyone the impression that we live in a horrible, dangerous place. It’s not good for local businesses if people think our city’s not safe.’ He tilted his tumbler from side to side, rolling the last oily smear of whisky around the sides. ‘I’ve made a few enquiries of my own, but no one seems to know anything about these people. That discomforts me too.’

‘This thing with Shuggie Webster-’

‘Oh, don’t worry, we shall be very discreet. No one will even know that you have him. And if you need a hand disposing of him afterwards, I’m just a phone call away.’