Shatter the Bones

Chapter 52

Logan eased the gun out of Alison’s hands. ‘He was going to hurt my little girl…’

Jenny was sitting on the floor by the window, knees drawn up to her chest, bandaged feet scrabbling on the blood-slicked floorboards. Screaming.

Rennie scooped her up, backing off into the middle of the room. ROGER lay crumpled on the floor. The semi-transparent plastic of his mask darkened, speckles of red spraying out around the voice modifier with every breath. His purple-gloved fingers twitched above the hole in his chest. Blood seeped through his SOC suit. ‘Gachhhh…’

‘Rennie, get her out of here.’ Logan glanced down at Green. ‘And take that with you.’ He pulled out his phone as the constable hauled Green to his feet.

‘Mummy!’ Jenny reached out, but Rennie held on tight and carried her out through the door, Green limping and snivelling and moaning along behind him.

‘I need an ambulance here ASAP — kidnapper has gunshot wound to the chest.’

Alison McGregor raised her chin. ‘I did what any mother would’ve done to protect her baby.’

‘Fit aboot Alison and Jenny, they OK?’

‘Just get the bloody ambulance sorted!’ Logan gave him the address then hung up.

Roger twitched and spasmed. ‘Oh fuck…’ The words came out in a gurgle of red. ‘We were … going to stick the money in … in a charity fund… siphon… siphon it off…’

Logan stared at Alison. ‘You told someone to set fire to my flat?’

‘He’s lying.’ She wrapped her arms around her chest. ‘He’d say anything to save himself.’

ROGER’s left foot banged against the wooden floor, beating out a tattoo. ‘Gaaaach…’

Logan knelt beside the trembling man and eased off the plastic mask.

It wasn’t Craig Peterson.

‘Any news?’ Dr Goulding closed the door.

Logan looked over his shoulder, then back out of the window of his makeshift incident room. ‘Still in surgery.’

‘Well, look on the bright side — if he does survive, how long do you think he’ll last in prison?’

Logan just shrugged, watching the crowds outside the front of FHQ. There had to be at least five hundred people out there, all clutching their ‘WE LOVE YOU JENNY!’

‘WE NEVER GAVE UP!’ banners, or just waving their mobile phones about, as if it was some kind of rock concert. The TV people must be loving this.

‘So,’ Goulding patted him on the shoulder, ‘why aren’t you down there, enjoying all the glory and adulation? This is your moment in the sun.’

‘They found Craig Peterson.’

‘Did they now?’

‘Sitting in his Renault; hose from the exhaust in through the driver’s window. Bob said the whole car reeked of whisky. There was a text message in his phone for his mum, telling her he was sorry for letting her down. Never sent it.’

‘Hmm… Did you notice how the deaths are all about being unable to breathe? Bruce Sangster with a plastic bag over his head, Davina Pearce with a belt around her neck, Craig Peterson with the exhaust fumes? I really hope Gordon Maguire survives, it’s going to be fascinating finding out what it means to him.’ A frown. ‘I wonder if it’s a common fantasy for television producers…’

‘He was losing his business, investors waiting for him to go bankrupt so they could buy up the assets.’ Logan rested his head against the window. ‘Maguire said it was all Alison’s idea. That she came up with the whole thing.’

How could anyone be that manipulative? So completely callous and amoral that they’d mutilate their own daughter just to become a little bit more famous?

The psychologist ran the tips of his fingers across the glass. ‘I always thought there was something funny about the toes. Why amputate two little toes, when one big toe would’ve been much easier?’ He smiled. ‘Did you know some women in the US have their pinkie toes removed so they can wear expensive high heels? Looked at a certain way, what happened to Jenny isn’t so much a disfigurement as a cosmetic enhancement.’

‘How am I supposed to prove it? It’s his word against hers, if he lives. Everyone else in the gang’s dead: no witnesses, no forensics. There’s sod all to tie her to…’ He picked up the dusty blue folder he’d got Guthrie to dig out of the archives. A house fire in Kincorth six and a half years ago. Two fatalities — Doddy McGregor’s parents. ‘Maybe that’s why her house was so tidy — she knew she was going to be abducted. Didn’t want us to take crime scene photos of the place looking like a pigsty.’

The crowd on the Front Podium roared and cheered. Must be Alison McGregor making her triumphant exit from the station. Logan scowled. ‘And nine point four million’s peanuts compared to what she’s going to rake in from sponsorship, movie, and publishing deals.’

From his commandeered office, Logan watched her wave and glad-hand her way into the throng. She could’ve sneaked out the back in an unmarked car if she’d wanted to, but no: she wanted to bask in the love of her fans.

Oh — my — God! She’s here, she’s finally here. God she looks great, she’s so brave.

Beatrice Eastbrook gives herself a quick once-over. Hair: going a little frizzy with all the FUCKING drizzle, but other than that, OK. Make-up: good. Outfit: perfect. It’s the one Alison helped her pick out on what was, swear to God, the greatest day of her whole life.

Alison stands in the middle of the crowd, surrounded by microphones and cameras. ‘I just want to thank you all for never stopping believing!’

A cheer.

‘And, if it’s OK with you guys, we’re going to put the Freedom Fund to good use — setting up a charity to support the families of our brave troops. To show them that we’ll never stop believing either!’

Another cheer.

Alison’s got a couple of minders with her, big ugly blokes in black suits. They clear a path in front of her, moving really slowly so she can talk to all her fans. All the people who love her.

But not the way Beatrice loves her. No one loves Alison McGregor like she does.

She’s getting closer. It’s just like in her dreams. Beatrice has prayed every night for two whole weeks that the bastards who took Alison away from her would die horrible deaths. That’s the kind of friend she is. The kind that doesn’t give up on someone.

Here she is — so close, so close…

Beatrice elbows her way to the front. Don’t these bastards know who she is? She’s Alison’s best friend!

Alison looks right at her and smiles.

Beatrice’s heart almost stops. Right then and there. Bang. Dead. Killed with a smile.

She steps forward and wraps her arms around Alison. ‘God, I’m so glad you’re safe!’

Beatrice holds her tight. Never let go. Best friends forever. And then Alison leans forward and whispers something in her ear.

Beatrice blinks. ‘I’ve got a present for you…’

Thump, thump, thump, THUMP, THUMP — the blade’s a living thing, flashing and biting and there’s blood everywhere and people are screaming and the two big thugs in their black suits just stand there with their mouths hanging open and Beatrice keeps on going, stabbing and stabbing.

Then someone grabs her by the throat, someone else by the arm, hauling the blade from her hand. They drag her to the ground, kicking and punching as she laughs and laughs and laughs.