Shatter the Bones

Chapter 39

A cordon of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape stretched all the way across Marischal Street. A patrol car was parked at the side of the road, along with the Identification Bureau’s grubby Transit van, and a white Fiat with the Grampian Fire Brigade crest on the side.

‘…only a day and a half to go before the kidnappers’ deadline. In other news, Grampian Police have issued a public appeal for a Mr Frank Baker to come forward…’

The lounge window was a black-ringed hole, smoke staining the granite above, dirty water the granite below. The street still had that charred-wood-and-molten-plastic smell. The flat directly below had all its windows open, the curtains flapping in the breeze. Probably trying to dry out after the fire brigade pumped Christ-knew how many gallons of water into the building. So it wouldn’t just be Logan’s insurance getting a hammering.

‘…concerned for Mr Baker’s safety following his disappearance from his Mannofield flat on Sunday evening or Monday morning-’

Logan pulled the keys out of the ignition. Stared up at the place where he used to live. Then climbed into the sunny afternoon. So what if he’d parked on double yellows? The whole street was closed off anyway. If anyone wanted to make an issue of it … he’d quite happily ram their teeth down their throat.

He ducked under the cordon of tape. ‘Oi, you!’ A uniformed constable clambered out of the patrol car. ‘Where do you think you’re…’ He stopped. ‘Sorry, Sarge, thought you were another one of them journalists.’ He looked at his feet for a moment. ‘You OK? Finnie said-’

‘Was anyone else hurt?’

‘Only, we’re not supposed to-’

‘Sergeant McRae!’ Someone in full SOC gear was waving at him from the doorway to his building.

Logan left the constable spluttering to himself, and marched over. The tech peeled back her hood then hauled off her face-mask — Elaine Drever, Samantha’s boss, head of the Identification Bureau, a thickset woman with greying curly hair.

She stuck out a gloved hand for Logan to shake. ‘I want you to know we’re doing everything we can.’

Logan stared up at the building. ‘Thought you didn’t do field work any more?’

‘Sam’s one of ours. Fire brigade just gave us the all-clear to start collecting evidence.’

‘There won’t be much. Condom through the letterbox, filled up with petrol, match dropped in after it.’

She smiled, showing off a gold crown on one of her front teeth. ‘Ah, but he sodded about for too long, let the petrol evaporate.’

The scritching noise — Shuggie struggling to get the matches lit.

Elaine made a ball with both hands, then jerked them apart, fingers spread wide. ‘The vapour ignited like a bomb, blew the front door clean off.’

‘Did the same with the bedroom. Can I see?’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course you can’t. Finnie read the riot act this morning: you’re not allowed anywhere near the investigation.’ She turned and marched back towards the stairwell door. ‘There’s spare suits in the back of the van, just make sure you’ve got a mask on so we can all pretend not to recognize you.’

They’d laid down a walkway of metal tea trays, each one on little metal legs, keeping Logan’s blue plastic booties three inches off the charred, waterlogged carpet. Stopping any evidence from being destroyed.

‘Bloody hell…’

He stared in through the open doorway. The hall was a blackened mess, chunks of ceiling lay on the floor, scorched beams exposed above his head. The roof was still in one piece, but all the things they’d stored up in the attic were gone, strings of vitrified plastic and a small metal half-tank, all that was left of the bread-maker he’d been given years ago and never used.

Logan paused. ‘Is the floor safe?’

Someone — anonymous in a baggy SOC suit, mask, goggles, and gloves — nodded at him. ‘Just don’t go jumping up and down in the kitchen.’

What was left of the flat stank — the peppery reek of blackened wood; the bitter tang of roasted plastic; and the sour, cloying smell of burnt carpet.

He started in the lounge. No need for a crime scene walkway in here — everything that mattered had happened in the hall. The TV was a hollow skeleton of metal struts, the plastic casing melted away, the CRT screen shattered. CDs lay heaped in the corner where the shelving unit had collapsed, grimy silver disks glittering like discarded fish scales. The bay window was just a collection of empty, scorched frames, all the glass long missing.

The kitchen was a mess, all the units stained with soot, the fridge-freezer door cracked and part-melted.

But the bedroom was worse. The mattress was a pile of ash and springs in a sagging metal frame. Chunks of ceiling had come down, and only two sides of the tipped-over wardrobe remained.

Logan wiped a gloved hand across his eyes. Swallowed hard. Then stepped over to the shattered window.

Three floors down, the flat roof still had its dusting of underwear snow, Samantha’s boots, ball gown, and corset lying twisted and empty.

He stood there, staring down at the hole she’d made with her falling body.

Fucking Shuggie Webster… No matter what happened, the doped-up junky bastard deserved everything he was going to get. Every single last fucking-

A hand on Logan’s shoulder made him flinch. ‘You OK? You’ve been standing there for about fifteen minutes.’ It sounded like Elaine Drever, but with all the SOC gear on it was difficult to tell.

‘Can you…’ He pointed down at Samantha’s things. ‘I don’t … want people…’

‘I’ll take care of it. Get it all bagged up for you.’ The rumpled figure sighed. ‘I know you don’t want to hear it, but if you’d stayed in here, we’d be digging your bodies out of the rubble. It doesn’t take a lot of smoke to kill someone. You did the right thing.’

Tell that to Samantha.

The head of the IB patted his shoulder. ‘Got one bit of good news for you though — come see.’

She led him out and across the landing to the other top floor flat. Logan’s front door was propped up against the wall, the paint on one side all blistered and peeling, pristine Saltire blue on the other. The little brass plaque engraved with, ‘LOGAN AND SAMANTHA’S SECRET HIDEOUT’ shone in the sunlight, but the letterbox was covered with a thin film of fingerprint powder.

‘Like I said, our arsonist waited too long to light the petrol. So he was standing right in front of the door when, boooooom!’ She did the thing with her hands again. ‘Right off its hinges. Must have hit him like a battering ram. Force of the blast threw him across the landing, slamming him back against your neighbour’s door. Probably hurt like hell.’

‘Good.’

‘That’s not the best bit.’ She pointed at the exterior side of the door. ‘When it hit him, it cracked his head against the paintwork. You see here?’ She pointed with a purple-gloved finger at a small matt patch on the blue gloss surface. ‘That was his cheek, and this…’ She described an oval with her fingertip, just left of the smudge. ‘Looks like we’ve got sputum, and maybe some tiny drops of blood. Incredibly lucky: normally when you get a big blaze like this the fire brigade sod-up all our evidence. All that water hits the flames, you get huge plumes of steam, and any DNA gets cooked to oblivion.’

Samantha’s boss smiled. ‘Because it got blown across the hallway — and the outside surface’s facing away from the fire — it’s been protected from the heat and the worst of the water. I think we’re going to get DNA.’

Logan tried to force some enthusiasm into his voice. ‘That’s great.’

‘Don’t you worry: we’ll catch them, whoever they are.’

‘I know you will.’

But right now Shuggie Webster had better be praying Grampian Police got there before he did.

‘What on earth do you think you’re doing here?’ DCI Finnie stood in the doorway to Logan’s office/building site, fists on his hips. ‘You should be home resting…’ Pink rushed up Finnie’s jowly cheeks. ‘I mean … not home, but… You know what I mean.’

He stepped into the gloomy room and closed the door behind him. ‘Seriously, Logan, you shouldn’t be here. You’ve had a horrible shock and-’

‘I’m fine. Really. I appreciate the concern, but if I sit about for much longer-’

You’re on compassionate leave. And that’s an order.’

‘I don’t want-’

‘An order, do you hear me?’ Finnie perched himself on the edge of the desk. ‘Come on, Logan, be sensible. You know you can’t have anything to do with the arson investigation. It’s-’

‘I’m not. Look,’ Logan turned the monitor screen around, and pointed at the spreadsheet, ‘I’m going over the Trisha Brown case. I’m not going anywhere near the fire. I want whoever did it caught and banged up; I’m not going to screw up the prosecution by giving the defence a conflict of interest to scream about. I just need…’ He rubbed a hand across his forehead. ‘I just need something to keep busy with. I can’t sit about in the dark worrying about Samantha any more. It’s driving me mental.’

Finnie sighed. ‘Logan-’

‘I can keep reviewing the McGregor case too. It’s belt and braces stuff, nothing that’s going to get in anyone’s way.’

The head of CID pinched up his face. ‘I understand your need to be doing something, but-’

The door banged open. ‘Are you no’ right in the sodding head?’ Steel marched into the room, waving a rolled-up newspaper like it was a machete. ‘You nearly died last night!’

‘I didn’t-’

‘I was just telling Sergeant McRae he-’

‘Oh no you bloody don’t.’ She turned on Finnie and poked him in the shoulder with her newspaper. ‘I don’t care how short staffed you are, he’s going home. What the hell’s wrong with you?’

Finnie bristled. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, did I somehow give you the impression I was running a democracy here? I don’t need your permission to decide who can and can’t come to work, understand?’

Wonderful. Logan scrubbed a hand across his eyes, rubbing them until little yellow dots sparked in the darkness. ‘I’m fine, I just need-’

‘Andy, for Christ sake, his girlfriend’s lying up in intensive care. In a sodding coma!’

‘I am well aware what the situation-’

‘Then do something about it! Send him home! He can crash at my place, Susan’ll look after him.’ Another poke. ‘Don’t be a prick all your life!’

Finnie’s eyes went wide, fists trembling at his sides. ‘That’s enough! If you ever speak to me like that again, you’re going to be on a disciplinary charge, do you understand?’

‘You’re no’ being-’

‘DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’ Spittle flying everywhere. Steel’s chin came up, pulling the wattle of skin beneath it taut. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘DS McRae,’ Finnie shot a finger in Logan’s direction, ‘you will not go anywhere near the arson investigation. You will confine yourself to Trisha Brown’s disappearance and reviewing the McGregor investigation, is that in any way too vague and fuzzy for you?’

Logan shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

‘If I find you even thinking about interfering: you’re out of here.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Finnie glowered at Steel a moment longer, then turned and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Pause.

Steel let out a huge hissing breath, then sagged against the plastic covered wall. ‘Oh thank God… Thought the rubber-faced bastard was going to fire me for a minute there.’ She pulled out her e-cigarette and took a deep drag. ‘You really sodding owe me one: this reverse psychology lark is no’ as easy as you’d think.’

Logan stared at her. ‘You called him a “prick” on purpose?’

‘Like I’m no’ stressed enough as it is.’ She dumped the newspaper on the desk in front of him. The Aberdeen Examiner, evening edition. ‘POLICE HUNT FOR MISSING SEX BEAST.’

The photo of Frank Baker wasn’t recent — probably hauled out of DI Ingram’s files and issued as a ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN’ poster. A smaller picture showed a huge man with a draft-excluder moustache: Spike, Baker’s friend from the fabrication yard. The one who’d marched over to defend him.

‘“DON’T COME BACK!” PAEDO FRANKIE’S WORKMATES KEPT IN THE DARK ABOUT HIS FILTHY CRIMES.’

Steel flicked Spike in the face. ‘So now we’ve got a nationwide manhunt to deal with, because sodding Green had to go stirring things up. And he’s all, “Look at me, I was right!”… Wanker.’

Logan skimmed the article. ‘You think Baker’s in the frame for Alison and Jenny?’

There was a knock on the door, then Rennie stuck his head into the room. ‘How’d it go?’

‘Coffee, milk two sugars. And get something for Laz too.’ Steel picked the stack of student interview forms off the desk and rifled through them. Then glanced back towards the door. ‘You’re still standing there, Constable.’

Rennie nodded at Logan, then held up a couple of bulging black plastic bin-bags, both sealed with a knot of yellow-and-black ‘CRIME SCENE’ tape — the stuff only the IB used. ‘Elaine Drever says you wanted these?’

He dumped them on the floor. ‘Thanks.’

The constable grinned. ‘Did you hear about McPherson? Apparently, right, he was supposed to come in for a bollocking this morning, and halfway down Union Street he nips across the road, dodges a bus, overshoots and goes arse over tit down those stairs onto Correction Wynd. Broken leg and concussion. They got the whole thing on CCTV, if you fancy a laugh?’

‘And some chocolate biscuits too.’ Steel waved a hand at him. ‘Run along, there’s a good wee soul.’

As soon as Rennie was gone, Steel dumped the forms back on the desk. ‘Here’s the deal: you work till five, then we go home to my place and you let Susan fuss over you. You have a few drams, watch the telly, have tea, brush your teeth, and go to beddy-byes, all where I can keep an eye on you. You’re no’ going back to that manky wee caravan by the jobbie farm to mope, brood, and fester in the dark.’

‘I…’ Logan could feel the heat rushing up his cheeks. ‘Thanks.’

‘Should think so too. Meantime: who torched your flat?’ Don’t look away. Keep eye contact. ‘I’ve no idea. Been trying to figure it out all day, but…’ Frown. Shrug. Nice and natural. ‘Has to be someone I put away. Can’t just be random.’

Steel rolled the fake cigarette around her mouth, the plastic end clicking off her teeth. ‘IB’s running DNA tests on some stuff they got off your front door. We’ll get a match, and we’ll catch the bastard, and I’ll make sure he gets done for attempted murder.’ She stood, rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘You trust your Auntie Roberta: that wanker is going to pay.’

Logan’s phone blared its drunken, sinister waltz. He hauled it out and checked the display: Steel.

‘Thought we had a bastarding deal!’

Logan flattened himself against the two-tone green wall as a huge hospital bed was wheeled past — a pale old man in an oxygen mask staring at the ceiling, his face slack and greasy. A woman in blue scrubs and squeaky white trainers tutted at Logan as they went past. ‘You’re not allowed to use your mobile in the hospital!’

‘Sorry.’ He watched them disappear. ‘I called Finnie a prick for you! I nearly got sodding fi red: and soon as my back’s turned-’

‘I’m up at the hospital.’ He started down the corridor again.

‘Someone has to tell Trisha Brown’s mother her wee girl’s been abducted.’

‘You could at least’ve taken Rennie!’

‘I wanted… They say I can sit with Samantha for fifteen minutes.’

A pause. ‘Fuck’s sake, Laz, I would’ve come with you. You know that. Could’ve sat in the canteen ogling nurses while you were in with her.’

‘Look, I’ve got to go.’ He hung up before she could say anything else.

The plump nurse eyed Logan up and down for the third time in as many minutes as she led him towards a curtained-off area at the far end of an eight-bed ward. It was oppressively hot in here, even though the windows were open, letting in the droning rumble of traffic and the occasional screeching wail of ambulances.

‘Now, I need you to understand that Mrs Brown isn’t to be excited.’ The nurse ran a hand across her chest, just above the massive shelf of bosom. Then checked the watch pinned to her blue top like a medal. ‘She’s not due another dose of methadone for two hours and she’s a bloody nightmare when she gets going.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

The nurse grabbed a handful of curtain and wheeched it back. Helen Brown lay on top of the covers, head back, mouth hanging open, snoring gently. No teeth. A wad of gauze was taped over one eye, the rest of her face a patchwork of bruises and stitches. Her right arm was encased in a fibreglass cast from palm to elbow, her left leg from the ankle all the way to the thigh. But her right leg came to an abrupt end at the knee, the exposed thigh stained yellow and green.

Logan winced. The attack must have been horrific. ‘They cut her leg off?’

‘About three years ago. Gangrene.’ The nurse checked the chart hanging on the end of the bed. ‘That’s the trouble with intravenous drug users. Don’t know when to stop.’ She looked up at Trisha’s mum. ‘Mrs Brown? Helen? There’s a policeman here to see you.’

A mumble. ‘Helen?’

Trisha’s mum squinted with her good eye. ‘Fuck off…’

‘Come on, Helen. What have we talked about your language?’

She struggled over onto her side. ‘Fuckin’ fat bitch. Where’th my painkillerth?’

A sigh. ‘You know you can’t get anything more till five. Now there’s a policeman here to see you; do you want a glass of water?’

‘I need my fuckin’ painkillerth! In fuckin’ agony here…’ Logan settled into the seat beside the bed. ‘Mrs Brown, my name’s Detective Sergeant McRae. I need to speak to you about Trisha.’

The nurse nodded. ‘Well, I leave you to it then.’ She stepped away from the bed and pulled the curtains closed again, shutting Logan in.

Trisha’s mum scowled at him. ‘Fuckin’ bitch never gives me anything for the pain.’

‘She was seen getting into a car on Saturday evening-’

‘Oh, here we go.’ Helen curled back her lips, exposing a pair of bruised and battered gums. ‘Just ’cos she sucks someone off in-’

‘The person in the car attacked her. She was seen being beaten.’

‘Oh…’ Helen rolled over onto her back. ‘Is she OK?’

‘We don’t know. He drove off with her still in the car.’ Silence. Helen rubbed the fingers of her good hand up and down the blanket. Then a tear rolled its way down her bruised cheek.

Logan looked away. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’re sorry? You’re fuckin’ sorry?’ An empty plastic tumbler bounced off Logan’s shoulder. ‘Why aren’t you out there? Why aren’t you looking for my little girl?’

‘We’re doing everything we-’

‘SHE COULD BE FUCKIN’ DEAD FOR ALL YOU KNOW! Dead. Raped in a fucking ditch! My wee Trisha…’

‘If you can think of anyone who threatened, or-’

‘And they send round a fuckin’ sergeant? Alison McGregor gets the Chief Constable and half the pigs in Scotland, and all Trisha gets is a fuckin’ sergeant! WHAT FUCKIN’ GOOD ARE YOU?’

‘Mrs Brown, I want to assure you that Grampian Police are taking this very seriously.’

The curtains burst open and the big nurse was back. ‘What did I tell you about upsetting her?’

‘I didn’t-’

‘TRISHA!’

‘Come on Helen, quieten down: you don’t want to disturb the other patients, now do you?’

She grabbed a grey cardboard bedpan and threw it at the nurse. ‘MY WEE GIRL’S MISSING! I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT YOUR FUCKIN’ PATIENTS!’

‘We’re doing everything we can to find-’

‘You bunch of bastards. You think she’s just a junkie hoor, she’s not worth anything. SHE’S MY LITTLE GIRL!’ Helen Brown swung her fibre-glass cast at Logan’s head. ‘I’LL FUCKIN’ KILL YOU!’

He jerked back out of the way, the plastic visitor’s chair tipping over, clattering to the floor, as he stood.

‘Right, that’s enough.’ The nurse lunged, pinning Helen to the bed.

‘GET OFF ME YOU FAT BITCH! AAAAAAGH!’

‘I said that’s enough!’ The nurse scowled up at Logan, teeth gritted. ‘I think you’d better go, don’t you?’

‘You’re looking well. No really…’ Logan squeezed Samantha’s hand. ‘Very goth.’

She didn’t look ill, there was barely a scratch on her. At least, not on the bits he could see. They’d taped her eyelids shut. A breathing tube snaked in through the side of her mouth, a pulse monitor clipped to her right index finger, an IV line plugged into a shunt on her right wrist.

‘I moved back into the caravan. Place smells worse than your dad. All mouldy…’

Wee Hamish’s flowers were sitting in a large vase on the windowsill. A vast arrangement of roses and carnations and fuzzy-white-spray-stuff and leaves and twirls of bamboo. Extravagant, but tasteful.

‘Elaine picked up all your clothes, by the way. The pants and boots and things.’ He sank forward until his head was resting against her chest, rising and falling on the swell of her mechanically-assisted breathing. ‘Fuck… I don’t know if you can hear me or not. But it’s going to be OK. I promise.’

Lying bastard.

‘Starting to think you’re stalking me.’

Logan scrubbed a hand across his eyes, kept his head facing the corner. ‘Sorry…’ It took him a couple of beats to realize where he was — a subterranean corridor, deep within the bowels of the hospital. The thrum of the ventilation system, the smell of over-boiled cauliflower and industrial floor polish.

He sniffed. Wiped his eyes again. ‘I used to wander the corridors … you know, after the stabbing. Must’ve worn out three pairs of trainers by the time they let me go home. Always ended up down here.’ Staring at four watercolours framed on the scuffed cream walls. A single landscape split over the seasons, the colours so vibrant they were surreal.

The APT moved around, peering at him, her fiery-orange hair swinging like a pendulum. ‘You OK?’

He almost laughed. ‘Been a rough couple of days.’

Silence.

‘You want a cup of tea, or something?’

‘Milk, two sugars.’ She placed a steaming mug on the desk in front of him.

Coffee. He could smell it over the bleach and formaldehyde. Over the smell of institutionalized death. ‘Thanks.’

The Anatomical Pathology Technician glanced over her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about Mrs Sawyer, it was very peaceful.’ An old lady — laid out on the cutting table, just her head and bare feet sticking out from beneath the white plastic sheet. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘No.’

A nod. ‘Well, tell you what, I’ve got something that might cheer you up…’ She was back a minute later, carrying the laptop from the other room. It went on the desk, next to Logan’s coffee, then she fiddled with the touch-pad. ‘Remember you were looking for dead girls who’d been given morphine and thiopental sodium?’

The screen was fuzzy, out of focus. He blinked. It was a little girl, her eyes half shut, face covered with scrapes and bruises, blood crusting around her nose. Bowl haircut and a razor-sharp fringe.

The APT poked the screen. ‘Olivia Brook. Five and a half. Car accident. Riding her bike and got broadsided by a teenager in a VW Polo. I was going to email you after we’d seen to Mrs Sawyer.’

Logan stared at the photo. Poor little sod… ‘I thought you searched-’

‘Oh, she didn’t die. They had to take her left leg off just above the knee. Was hanging by a thread anyway; blood supply was completely compromised; the bones were all crushed; nothing they could do.’

‘Where’s the leg?’

‘We incinerate hospital waste.’ She raised her hands to the ceiling tiles. Giving her head a little shake, one eyebrow raised. ‘So…?’

‘So no one would notice a missing toe.’ Bastards. ‘But we do have blood samples on file. I can send one over, if you want to try for a DNA match?’

‘Yeah, could you make it-’

Logan’s mobile rang, deep in his pocket — the generic tune marking the call as one from an unknown number. If it was Shuggie Bloody Webster calling to talk about consequences he was in for a fucking nasty shock. Logan dragged the phone out. ‘What?’

A small, rustling pause, then, ‘Logan?’ A man’s voice, the accent a whispery, gravelly mix of Aberdonian and public school. Wee Hamish Mowat.

Logan licked his lips. Sat up straight. ‘Hello?’

‘I hope you don’t mind me calling, but I thought you might like to know that we’ve managed to locate your missing … friend.’