Close to the Bone

34

The words of an old song echoed out from the bathroom, mingling with the roar of the shower: a Pink Floyd number rendered with more enthusiasm than talent or musical ability. Couldn’t carry a tune if it was bound, gagged, and locked in the boot of a car.

Logan stretched out, flat on his back, the duvet rumpled down about his chest. Warmth oozed through his limbs, pulling him down into the fresh sheets. Mmmm. .

‘Stop grinning.’ Samantha settled on the edge of the bed. ‘Makes you look like a smug hamster.’ The oversized black T-shirt rode up around her thighs, Marilyn Manson glaring out from her boobs with his lopsided contact lenses. One of her knee-length red-and-black striped socks had a hole in it, a little toe poking out — nail painted shiny black. ‘See you got rid of Shakespeare.’

A big sigh inflated Logan’s chest, then let it go again. Warm and fuzzy. . ‘Couldn’t have him ogling you in the nip. That’s my job. Union won’t stand for it.’

She laid a hand on his chest. Looked away towards the bathroom, then back down at him. ‘Do you love her? ’

‘I love you.’

‘Don’t avoid the question, Captain Stabmarks: do you love her? ’

‘I. . No. I used to, but it was a long time ago.’

‘Good.’ Samantha nodded, a smile curling one side of her mouth. ‘Just remember: you’re mine, Sunshine.’

A clunk, then the bedroom door opened and DS Jackie Watson stepped into the room, head on one side, drying her long dark hair on a grey towel, a big blue one wrapped around her middle, hiding all the naughty parts. A small furrow appeared between her eyebrows. ‘Thought I heard voices? ’

Logan turned, but Samantha was gone. ‘Just. . talking to myself.’

‘Got to watch that.’ Jackie sank down onto the bed, in the exact same spot that Samantha had just vacated. ‘Bad enough you work with a bunch of nutjobs without turning into one.’ Water droplets shone on her pale shoulders, sitting in the hollows carved into her skin by bra straps.

She reached out and picked Agnes Garfield’s dittay book from the bedside cabinet. ‘A red leather journal? Maybe it’s too late after all. .’ She flipped through it, one eyebrow climbing further and further up her forehead with every page. ‘Oh God, you write poetry now? ’

‘It’s not mine. It’s from the necklacing case.’

Jackie took a deep breath, creating a swell of cleavage at the border of the towel. ‘Listen to this:

“I give my love a token,

of all the hearts he’s broken,

The lungs that are exploding,

the harsh words that were spoken,

He’ll fear what he’s awoken,

And back to earth he goes.

In darkness walks the liar,

We’ll cleanse his house with fire,

Come build the funeral pyre. .”’

She clumped the book shut again. ‘Bet Pam Ayres is shaking in her boots.’

‘You know what teenaged girls are like.’

‘Think you’re going to find her? ’

Logan crossed his arms behind his head and frowned at the ceiling. ‘Depends how things go tonight.’

Jackie stood, letting the towel fall away as she squatted on the floor and dug about in an overnight bag, coming out with a hairdryer. Plugged it in. ‘I need to phone Bill later. See how he got on at the Home Office.’ The hairdryer whooshed and howled.

‘Chances are she’s not going back to the soup kitchen again, not if the place is swarming with CID. . But maybe we’ll turn up someone who’s seen her? Someone who knows where she is? ’

Jackie raised her voice, over the noise. ‘They’re interviewing him for a new position: liaising on terrorism suspects.’

‘I mean, it’s not like she’s just going to waltz into a police station and hand herself in, is it? ’

‘He wants us to move to London. . Only just got Rory settled in primary, how’s he going to feel getting uprooted from all his friends and dumped in some school full of Cockneys and Essex boys? Bloody stupid idea, but then that’s Bill all over.’

‘And the whole thing’s a mess too — Steel’s running about like an angry crocodile, Ding-Dong and Leith are at each other’s throats, and you lot are up here telling us we can’t do our sodding jobs.’

The hairdryer fell silent. Jackie stared at him. ‘You’ve not been listening to a word I’ve said, have you? ’

‘Bill’s getting a new job; you don’t want to move to London. See? ’

‘And we’re not saying you can’t do your jobs, we’re saying there are other avenues of investigation you could be following. No one’s even looked into local Wicca groups. And what about the metal stake she used to necklace Roy Forman? She had to get that from somewhere. Then there’s the soup-kitchen angle-’

‘I know — I came up with it. Assuming Rennie and Ding-Dong don’t screw everything up. .’

The hairdryer started up again. ‘Thought you’d be over this obsessing about work thing by now.’

‘Agnes Garfield is a card-carrying danger to herself and others. The longer she’s out there, the more people she hurts playing Witch-Finder General. It matters.’

A sigh. ‘Fine, go. Leave me here in your fusty caravan. But I’m warning you right now: I’m drinking the rest of the wine. And I have to be up at half six tomorrow, so if you think you’re in for seconds you’d better get your arse back here before midnight. Understand? ’

Logan picked his way through the drizzle, down the long stairs from Union Street to the Green. At the bottom of the first flight a man was huddled in the boarded-up doorway of the sports shop hunched over a sticker-covered guitar, knocking out a reasonable rendition of some country and western tune. The damp woolly hat open in front of him held a couple of coppers and a few fifty-pence pieces. Logan dropped in a couple of pounds and kept on going. Down. And down. And down.

The Green was a lopsided rectangle, buried away in the foundations of the city, lined with tall granite buildings, their grey faces darkened by moisture, lights making glowing orbs in the misty drizzle. Some sort of birthday party was underway in the open-air eating area outside Cafe 52, everyone huddled under a big green patio umbrella as they belted out ‘Happy Birthday To You’, a cake topped with dozens of candles blazing away.

Logan kept going, across the slippery cobblestones, towards the back end of Aberdeen Market — a semicircular lump of seventies concrete, its windows dark, everyone shut up for the night. Down one side, Correction Wynd cut straight under Union Street, a handful of restaurants glowing in the shadow of St Nicholas Kirk. But right ahead, the road disappeared into the gloom.

Seagulls screamed abuse from the slate rooftops far above as he followed East Green into the bowels of the city and out of the rain.

A row of neon squiggles glowed around the entrance to Blofeld’s Secret Underground Lair, casting multicoloured light on a big bald bloke in a white shirt and bow tie, standing all on his own. Looking for someone to bounce as dance music thunked out of the door behind him.

At the end of the road, where it hooked around before climbing back up onto Nether Kirkgate, a mobile catering unit was parked up on the narrow kerb. The thing was a rec-tangular white trailer with a fold-down flap on the front beneath a sign ‘LOLA amp; RUDY’S TASTY TREATS’. Steam curled from the open hatch, and a handful of figures formed an orderly queue in front of it. About a dozen others were gathered in small groups, eating and talking over the growl of a diesel generator. At least three of them were nightshift CID, blending in like lumps of coal in a bowl of porridge.

They weren’t the only ones: a brick outhouse with a crew cut, dressed in black jeans and a red T-shirt, stood guard a hundred yards from the catering unit: Mr Muscle from the hotel. The one who spoke like he was giving evidence. Another heavy stood at the far end, hands folded in front of his groin, narrow eyes constantly moving back and forth.

No way Agnes Garfield would come anywhere near the place with that kind of security hanging around.

Logan took two steps towards them, then stopped.

Someone was moving in the shadows, halfway between the nightclub and the soup kitchen, lurking in one of the barrel arches that lined the road. Too dim to make out who. . Logan wandered across the road, nice and casual, hands in his pockets, keeping the figure in the corner of his eye. Then turned and walked slowly and quietly up behind them.

Whoever it was, they were layered up in a padded parka jacket with a hoodie on underneath, tracksuit bottoms. A woolly hat pulled down over their ears. Then they shuffled to the side and the lights spilling out from the nightclub caught the once-white case of a plaster cast — left leg, from the knee all the way down. His foot was encased in a shapeless black leather boot to keep the cast out of the dirt and damp.

So it wasn’t Agnes in disguise, it was Henry Scott, AKA: Scotty Scabs, from the Gilcomston Church steps. The only tramp Rennie needed to complete his set.

Logan stopped creeping. ‘You avoiding someone, Henry? ’

The wee man flinched, spun around, then backed away until he was hard up against the brick wall. ‘He’s deid. .’

‘Did you see her again: Agnes Garfield? The woman who took Roy Forman? ’

Henry blinked at him, eyes gleaming in the darkness. ‘She killed him. He’s deid.’

OK. So much for that. ‘Are you hungry? Why don’t you go get yourself a nice bowl of soup or something? ’

‘What if the witch gets me? I don’t want to be deid. .’

‘She’s not really a witch, Henry, she’s just lost and sick and can’t tell what’s real any more.’

The rubber tips of Henry’s crutches squeaked on the cobblestones. A little sob caught in his throat. ‘She killed him. .’

‘You want me to go get you something to eat? Would you like that, Henry? ’

‘If she catches me, she’ll kill me too. .’

Logan came within an inch of patting him on the shoulder, but Henry flinched away again. ‘OK, it’s OK. . You stay here and keep an eye out, and I’ll go get you some soup.’

Poor sod needed more than soup. Like somewhere safe to sleep, medication, therapy, and a bath.

Logan made for the mobile catering unit, joining the queue. Only five people to go and it’d be his turn.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Guv? ’ Rennie, wearing his leather jacket and a scarlet T-shirt, a paper soup bowl in one hand and a plastic spork in the other. ‘Thought you were going home? ’

A shrug. ‘Any luck? ’

‘Yeah: the chicken and chorizo casserole is bloody lovely. I’m having thirds.’

‘Any luck with Agnes Garfield, you idiot.’

Rennie scooped up a sporkful of butter beans and chunks of sausage. ‘Nope.’ Then stuffed it in and chewed. ‘Spoken to all of the regulars, and the organizers, and the volunteers, and you’ll never guess what. .’ He leaned in close, enveloping Logan in a waft of herbs and spices. ‘See that tall thin bloke over there,’ he pointed to a figure doling out hot drinks from a catering-sized thermos, ‘the one who looks like he’s two sizes too small for his skin? That’s DI Insch! Can you believe it? ’

‘If you’re looking for a pat on the head, you’re too late: I know.’ Logan had another peer around. ‘Where’s Chalmers? ’

‘Pffffff. .’ The last of the stew disappeared, then Rennie licked his piece of plastic cutlery clean. ‘Sloped off, didn’t she. Want to bet she puts in for a whole night’s overtime anyway? Can’t trust people like-’

‘If you spoke to all the regulars, you’ll know where Henry Scott is, won’t you? ’

Rennie’s mouth popped open for a moment, then he closed it again with a clack. ‘Scotty Scabs? He’s here? ’

‘If you spent more time doing your job and less time stuffing your face, you’d know.’

‘Why didn’t you arrest him? ’

Seriously? ‘Because I’m trying to catch a murderer: I couldn’t give a toss about shoplifted bacon and cheese. You want him? Go get him.’

‘Ah, right. .’ Rennie dumped his paper bowl in the bin fixed to the side of the catering unit, then scurried off, doing a tour of the little groups of people.

Idiot.

Three more minutes and Logan was at the head of the line.

A dark face smiled back at him from the hatch, perfect teeth and a white goatee. ‘What can we do for you, my man? ’

Logan pulled a copy of the ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN’ poster from his pocket and held it out. ‘Have you seen-’

A deep, rumbling voice sounded at his shoulder. ‘You’re too late: DI Bell’s already been around with the photographs. Do you not trust him, or are you just trying to muscle in on his operation? ’ Insch hefted his thermos up onto the counter. ‘We’re out of coffee, Rudy.’

‘No problem, boss.’

Logan shifted his shoulders. ‘I’m not muscling in on anything, I’m just-’

‘Everyone knows to keep an eye out for Agnes Garfield. We’re not idiots.’ Insch took the poster from Logan, folded it up, and handed it back. ‘Rudy and Lola do the cast and crew catering. That’s why everyone’s getting free-range chicken and chorizo casserole, penne arrabiata, Cullen skink, and tiramisu, instead of watery vegetable soup and a stale roll. Costing us a bloody fortune, but Zander insists. We’re giving something back to the local community, once a week.’

‘And it’s always a Tuesday? ’

‘Everyone on the film knows to look out for the Garfield woman. I’m not having her anywhere near my people.’

Which explained the secret-service-style muscle.

A pale woman appeared in the hatch, wearing far too much eye makeup, her spiky ash-blonde hair sticking up in all directions. ‘What can we get you, my darling? ’

‘I don’t know. . Chicken? ’

‘Coming right up.’

Insch scowled at him. ‘I forgot what a bunch of freeloading bastards CID-’

‘It’s not for me, it’s for someone too terrified to come over, in case he gets grabbed and killed like Roy Forman.’ Logan pointed at the pair of heavies with the earpieces. ‘Or maybe it’s your rent-a-thugs scaring him away? ’

The scowl didn’t shift. ‘Your bloody colleagues act like they’ve never seen food before. I swear some of them are having seconds. And it’s supposed to be for the homeless!’

Rudy reappeared with the huge thermos and a stack of polystyrene cups in a plastic sleeve. ‘There you go, boss: hazelnut latte.’

‘Thanks.’ Insch took them both, cradling the sleeve against his chest. ‘McRae: walk with me.’

The spiky-haired woman placed a paper bowl heaped with glistening beans, chunks of amber sausage, and slivers of chicken, on the counter. A spork stuck out of the top, like an antenna. ‘Watch, it’s hot.’

Heat leached into his hands as he followed DI Insch away down the tunnel, back towards the nightclub. ‘Well? ’

‘I need you to do something about this counterfeit Witchfire merchandise. I don’t care if it is high quality: I’m not having some thieving git making fake stuff and flogging it. They’re doing replica props from the film, and we haven’t even finished shooting it yet!’

‘Seriously? ’

‘Why aren’t you doing anything about it? I told Mair to liaise with you, because you’re the only one in CID who isn’t going to sod it up. The rest of these idiots couldn’t investigate their own feet for toes.’