Shatter the Bones

Chapter 15

‘-memorial service tomorrow at noon. Sarah Williamson is at the church now. Any change, Sarah?’

The TV picture jumped to a woman in a black overcoat. ‘So far, all we know is that the memorial service will be open for the public to come and show their respects for Jenny. I can tell you that Robbie Williams will be attending, along with Katie Melua and a host of other celebrities, before heading back down to London for a special live tribute episode of Britain’s Next Big Star.’

‘Ooh…’ Samantha sat forward on the couch. ‘Have to set the recorder.’

Logan took another mouthful of wine, washing down the last of the pasta they’d had for tea. ‘Why do we have to clog the machine up with that shite?’

There was a small pause. ‘You’re such a bloody telly snob.’

‘I’m not a snob.’

‘Just because you don’t like it, doesn’t mean it’s shite.’

‘-special guests performing the songs that Jenny and her mother-’

‘It is shite. It’s just more cheap reality TV bollocks where halfwits humiliate themselves just so they can get on the bloody telly.’

‘Here we go again.’ She pulled her knees up to her chest, black leather jeans squeaking against the couch. ‘Like what you watch is so damn intellectual.’

‘-charity single tipped to hit number one, we spoke to Gordon Maguire, chairman of Blue-Fish-Two-Fish Productions-’

‘At least I-’

‘The Simpsons isn’t bloody Panorama, is it?’

A middle-aged man in a T-shirt and suit jacket appeared on the screen. He had trendy sideburns with bits cut out of them, a soul patch, a Dundee accent, and a bald head. ‘-bear in mind that the kidnappers still have Alison and we all have to make sure-’

‘I’m just saying it’s exploitative, OK? It’s-’

‘Have you even watched it?’

‘-have to keep raising money while there’s still a chance we can bring her home safely.’

‘What? I don’t need to watch-’

‘See!’ She poked the arm of the couch with a black-painted fingernail. ‘You have sod-all idea what you’re talking about!’

‘-thank you. And now over to Gail with the weather.’

Logan slumped further into the couch. ‘Can we not-’

‘Apart from anything else, this is why Jenny and Alison got kidnapped. If they weren’t on TV, they wouldn’t be famous. And if they weren’t famous, they wouldn’t have been grabbed.’ Samantha stopped poking the couch’s arm, and poked Logan’s instead. ‘So you’ve got no business being a snobby cock, this is directly related to your case.’

‘-mass of Arctic air coming in will hit the north east of Scotland, so we can expect some unseasonably cold weather over the next couple of days-’

Logan finished his wine in a single gulp. ‘OK, OK: fine. I’ll set the machine.’

She didn’t look around, just stared straight at the TV, where the map of Scotland was a mess of blue and grey. ‘Thank you.’ Clipped.

He levered himself to his feet. Tried to force a smile into his voice. ‘You want some more wine?’

Silence. ‘Sam?’

‘How’s your arm?’

Logan looked down at the sleeve of his shirt, all bulked out by the bandages. ‘It’s OK.’ No it wasn’t. It throbbed and stung every time he brushed against anything. Bloody Steel punching it hadn’t helped.

Sam sneaked a glance at him. ‘You’re a terrible liar.’ Then back to the telly. ‘And we’re watching Britain’s Next Big Star tomorrow, whether you like it or not.’

‘Fffff?’ Logan sat straight up in bed, blinked a couple of times, then breathed out again. Squinted at the alarm clock. Quarter past two.

He collapsed back into the pillow. Who the hell called at quarter past two?

Lying next to him, Samantha made mumbling noises.

The phone kept ringing.

Logan rolled out of bed, grabbed his mobile, and hit the button. ‘This better be important!’

‘Hullo? Hullo?’ A broad Doric accent, not one he recognized. ‘That DS McRae?’

‘Who’s this?’ Rubbing his eyes with the heel of one hand. ‘PC Gilbert, doon the station? Anyway, got a wifie in here screamin’ blue murder. Keeps sayin’ she’s been raped.’

Another yawn. ‘Hello? Sarge?’

‘Gilbert, I’m going to call you a very rude name, then I’m going to hang up. Then you can go get someone who’s on bloody duty to deal with it! I’m on day-shift, you-’

‘Hud oan, DI Bell wants a word…’

The constable’s voice disappeared, there was some muffled talk, then DI Bell’s voice grated in Logan’s ear. ‘McRae? Get your arse up here.’

‘It’s quarter past two in the-’

‘I don’t care if it’s the second coming, I’ve got a mental cow up here trying to castrate people, and she’s got your name on her.’

‘No offence, sir, but-’

‘I mean literally. She’s literally got your name on her. In black marker pen. And if you’re not wanting a visit from Professional Standards fi rst bloody thing, you’ll do as you’re sodding well told!’

Half-two on a Saturday morning and the streets were in their usual post-pub haze. By now most of the chucking-out-time violence had settled down. It would only to flare up again when the nightclubs kicked their crop of boozed-up idiots out onto the streets. Men and women, barely dressed, bashing the crap out of each other for a place in the taxi rank, or kebab shop queue, ‘Are you lookin’ at my bird?’

‘Leave it, Tracy, she’s not worth it…’

Logan paused halfway across Union Street, waiting for a battered Toyota with a taxi sign bolted to the roof to grumble past. There were two blokes just inside the entrance to Lodge Walk: the usual short-cut to the back of FHQ. One was keeping himself upright with a hand against the wall, peeing on his own shoes, the other making retching noises.

He took the scenic route instead, round the council buildings and down Queen Street.

Stopped outside the Sheriff and JP Court.

The crowd gathered on the forecourt outside Force Headquarters was a lot smaller — just forty, fifty people? All linking arms and swaying back and forth. They had makeshift lanterns: tea lights in old jam and pickle jars, the captive flames flickering a warm waxy glow that made shadows writhe as they sang.

It took a while for Logan to recognize the tune: Wind Beneath My Wings. Of course it was. Only someone had changed the lyrics so it was all about Jenny and Alison McGregor. Christ that was quick.

And touching…? Or creepy. It was hard to decide.

A few uniformed officers hovered on the periphery, some watching the crowd, the rest watching the small knot of drunken idiots lurching about and trying to sing along.

Logan wandered over to the nearest officer — a wee man with thick hairy eyebrows and a baggy face. ‘What’s this?’

Constable Baggy sniffed, then nodded towards the crowd. ‘Candle-lit vigil, Guv. Don’t know what possible bloody good they think it’ll do. Outside the house, or the church where they’re doing that memorial thing, maybe, but here?’ He sucked on his teeth for a moment. ‘Whole city’s gone fuckin’ mental.’

The Police Custody and Security Officer puffed out her cheeks and scowled at Logan. A red mark covered half of her chin, slowly purpling itself into a bruise. She pointed along the corridor, mouth barely moving, teeth clamped together. ‘Down there.’

DI Bell was limping up and down outside the little row of cells reserved for female prisoners. He walked like a bear that hadn’t quite got the hang of it yet, thick rounded shoulders rocking from side to side. He stopped, gave Logan his second scowl of the night, then waved him over with a big hairy paw. ‘Where have you been?’ Voice not much louder than a whisper.

‘Thought you were meant to be on back shift? How’d you get on with Steel’s sex offenders, anything-’

‘Want to explain this?’ Bell pointed at the cell in front of him.

Logan checked the name scrawled on the little board beside the door: name, alleged offence, and last time checked. ‘TRISHA BROWN? O.A.M.H.O.? 02:30’ Which meant she’d probably been done for taking a swing at some poor PC.

‘So?’

DI Bell hauled open the hatch, and Logan peered into the little cell.

Trisha Brown was lying on the blue plastic mattress, with her knees drawn up against her hollow ribs. She was wearing a skimpy halter-neck top, exposing a swathe of sickly-pale skin that almost glowed in the harsh strip-lighting, a couple of bruises, and a tattoo. Bare feet with long toes, like an extra set of fingers.

Logan shrugged. ‘She working tonight?’

The inspector closed the hatch again. ‘Says you raped her.’

‘She…?’ Logan backed off a step. ‘Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t touch her with fucking Bob’s never mind mine! She’s lying!’

Bell grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him away to the stairwell. ‘She better be… But soon as she makes the complaint official, you know what happens: Professional Standards explore your colon with a searchlight. Something like this, you’re probably looking at gardening leave while they investigate.’

‘But it’s- ‘It doesn’t matter if it’s a load of old shite or not — it goes down on your record.’

‘No. Fuck this.’ Logan turned and marched back to the cell, slammed the flat of his hand against the metal door. Bang, bang, bang. He hauled the hatch open. ‘Trisha Brown! Wakey Wakey!’

The figure on the mattress stirred, rolled over onto her back, one arm flopping across her eyes. Her hip bones stood proud beneath her sallow skin, sores on her forearms, ribs on show. How the hell could anyone think he’d get naked with her?

Bang, bang, bang. ‘Trisha!’

A muffled voice came from the next cell. ‘Fuckin’ shut it! Some of us trying to sleep here…’

Bang, bang, bang. ‘Trisha Brown!’

Another disembodied voice. ‘Christ’s sake, don’t wake her up — daft bitch only just stopped screaming.’

The figure on the bed, moved her legs, sat up. Blinked. Then twisted sideways and sprayed yellow vomit all over the dark-red terrazzo floor, chunks of orange and pink splattering everywhere. She heaved a couple more times, then wiped a trembling hand across her chapped lips. ‘Thirsty…’

Logan banged his hand on the door again. ‘Do you know who I am?’

She squinted at him. ‘Fuck off.’ Then collapsed back on the mattress. ‘Not well…’

Bang. ‘Who the fuck am I?’

‘Leave us alone!’

Logan turned to DI Bell. ‘See? She hasn’t got a bloody clue.’ The inspector pushed Logan out of the way and shouted through the hatch. ‘Trisha? Remember when we brought you in? What were you saying?’

A loud sigh. Then she dragged herself up off the thin mattress, bare feet splatching through the puddle of sick as she made for the door. The bitter, eye-tightening stench of vomit wafted out of the hatch. ‘I was raped. RAPED!’ A dull thunk, as she rested her head on the metal. ‘I was raped.’

Logan banged his hand on the door again and she flinched back. ‘Who?’

Trisha pulled her halter top up, exposing tiny wrinkled breasts covered in penny-sized bruises. ‘DS LOGAN MCRAE’ was written on the bony expanse of chest below her clavicles in black ink block capitals. Trisha frowned at it, a drip of spittle dangling from the tip of her chin.

‘Him. He raped me…’

Logan stared at his own name. Lying cow. He slammed the hatch closed again, then turned on DI Bell. ‘She hasn’t got a bloody clue. Did you do a rape kit?’

‘I told you, it doesn’t matter if-’

‘Did you or didn’t you?’

Bell threw his hands in the air. ‘We couldn’t, OK? She was tearing the place up. Nearly ripped my balls off!’

‘Get her in an interview room and we’ll get her to retract the-’

‘No, no, no, no, no. That’s not the way it works, and you know it. No way in hell you can be in on an interview of a rape victim you’re supposed to have raped!’

Logan paced down to the end of the little cell block and back again. ‘Fine, you do it.’

Bell ran a furry hand through his hair. Looked away. ‘I can’t.’

‘Yes you bloody can. Stick her in number three and find out who put her up to it.’

‘Why would anyone-’

‘She’s got my name written on her! What, did the graffiti fairies break into her house and have a go with a black marker pen?’

Bell shrugged. ‘Maybe she wrote it herself?’

Moron. ‘If she wrote it herself it’d be upside down, wouldn’t it?’

‘Well, maybe… I dunno, a mirror?’ He must have caught the expression on Logan’s face, because he took a sudden interest in examining his own hands. ‘OK, OK, someone else wrote it on her. Fuck.’ The inspector worried at a hangnail. ‘I’ll speak to her. But you know, if Professional Standards find out I did a sneak-around, I’m blaming you, understand?’