Shatter the Bones

Chapter 32

Logan made a special point of checking up on Peterson’s alibi. Adrian Kerr: MSc E-Commerce Technology; posters of The Muppet Show, China Town, a football team composed of half-naked women. Nicholas Tawse: Psychology; Citizen Kane, Che Guevara, Monty Python’s Flying Circus.

They both backed up Peterson’s story — of course — but it was still fun to make the stuck-up little sods squirm. Petty, but fun.

Logan met up with Rennie back in the car park.

‘Anything?’

‘Thought a couple were a bit dodgy — one was trying to hide a home-made bong, the other got all gooey-eyed every time I mentioned Alison and Jenny’s names. Swear to God, she had a shrine to them above her bed. Newspaper clippings, magazine articles, signed photos, the lot. I think there was a lock of hair too.’

‘Hair?’

‘Not, like a scalp or anything.’

‘Nobody else?’

‘Nah, mostly they’re just students. Bit of weed, bit of booze, bit of studying, bit of pining away in their rooms wondering why nobody wants to shag them.’

‘Right, let’s go pay Alison and Jenny’s biggest fan a visit.’

Good God… Rennie hadn’t been kidding — there really was a shrine above Beatrice Eastbrook’s bed. Right in the middle of the wall was an amateurish watercolour portrait of Alison McGregor, Jenny sitting on her knee. Alison had a tinfoil halo that glimmered in the light of two big church candles, arranged either side of a lock of curly blonde hair in a little glass box, tied with a black ribbon and a sprig of heather. Just like the one on Alison’s photo of her dead husband.

Around the icon, a sea of newsprint and magazine articles spread out like a tumour. ‘MY SECRET FEARS FOR JENNY — WILL FAME DESTROY HER CHILDHOOD?’, ‘NORTH-EAST MUM THROUGH TO BNBS SEMI-FINAL’, ‘ALISON’S SECRET SCHOOLGIRL SHAME: “I WAS A TEENAGE TEARAWAY”, ADMITS BNBS SEMI-FINALIST’, ‘SHE’S NO ANGEL — THE SKELETONS LURKING IN ALISON MCG’S CLOSET’…

That last one had a photo of Victoria Murray, AKA Vicious Vikki, on it, her face scrubbed out with angry red biro, until the paper was tattered and sliced through, the word ‘LIAR!!!’ scrawled across the article over and over again.

And around the edge, a series of glossy photos — the kind you could get printed at pretty much any supermarket these days.

No posters: there wasn’t room.

Beatrice Eastbrook would probably have looked like a perfectly normal person a year ago. But… She’d dyed her hair blonde, and had it curled to look exactly like Alison McGregor’s. Her make-up was exactly like Alison McGregor’s. Her clothes were exactly like Alison McGregor’s, right down to the shoes.

Probably had a tinfoil-lined hat lying about the place somewhere too.

She twirled the hair behind her ear. ‘Of course I didn’t hurt them, why would I hurt them? I love them.’ The accent was hard to place, a weird mix of Birmingham and Aberdeen — as if it wasn’t enough to look like Alison McGregor, she was trying to sound like her too. ‘Alison was … is — fantastic. A superstar. I mean, can you imagine it, someone like that living in Aberdeen, and I know her. She talked to me, like a real person.’

‘And you’ve no idea who might have taken her?’

Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. ‘If I did, I’d kill them. I’m not joking — I’d literally kill them. Strangle them with my own hands. They cut off Jenny’s toes! What kind of bastard cuts off a little girl’s toes?’ She sank back onto the bed and shuffled back, feet on the duvet, knees against her chest. ‘You know what, when you catch them, you should cut off their toes, like in the Bible. Cut them all off and see how they like it.’

‘Did you see anyone strange hanging around her, before she went missing? Trying to talk to her?’ Other than yourself, of course, you card-carrying nutjob.

‘I don’t remember. Not that I noticed. Well, you know it was always pretty busy, with the photographers hounding her all the time and those bitches pretending to be her friend, just so they could get in the papers. I never did that…’

Logan nodded. ‘What did she think of your new look?’

A frown. ‘Well, she was flattered, obviously. Said I looked lovely. She’s a very generous and giving person.’

‘And she didn’t mind when you followed her home?’ Standing at the door, Rennie opened his mouth, but Logan held up a hand.

‘I…’ Beatrice blushed. ‘I don’t know what you-’

‘The photos around the outside of your mural.’ He pointed at the glossy pics. ‘That’s Alison’s and Jenny’s house in Kincorth. Look, there’s Alison putting the recycling out.’

‘I… It was only once.’

‘And there she is taking Jenny to school. And in that one Jenny’s wearing a tutu. Off to dance classes?’

Beatrice rested her head on her knees, speaking into the little hidden gap between them and her chest. ‘I wasn’t hurting anyone.’

Logan put his notebook down on the desk. ‘Did you see who took Alison and Jenny?’

When she looked up, her eyes glittered with tears. ‘I just wanted to be her friend. A real friend, not like those two-faced bitches.’

‘Did you see who took them, Beatrice?’

‘She’s someone special. She’s famous — she’ll leave a mark on the earth that says she was here. I’m never going to be famous. Don’t matter if I live or die, does it? Don’t matter if I was never even born. I just thought, if she could see we had so much in common, we could be friends. I just wanted her to like me…’

‘It’s OK, Beatrice, I understand.’ Logan picked up his notebook and stood. ‘Now, if it’s all right with you, we’d like to search your room. Is that OK?’

She wiped her eyes, then looked up at the lock of hair in its little glass box. Licked her lips. ‘What do you think they’ll do with Jenny’s toes?’

‘Of course, I spotted those photos the first time,’ Rennie hauled the pool car’s boot open and dumped a handful of evidence bags inside, each one filled, dated, labelled and signed for, ‘just didn’t want to prejudice your first impressions.’ He clunked the boot closed again.

‘Don’t be a dick.’ Logan climbed into the passenger seat. ‘Fair enough.’ Rennie got behind the wheel. ‘Worth a try though.’ Grin. ‘Back to the ranch?’

‘Yeah, then I want you to go through every photo on that camera and laptop. We’re looking for someone watching Alison McGregor’s house.’

‘Other than Beatrice McFruitloop, you mean.’ He started the engine. ‘How the hell did she manage to get into university? Psychology degree? Talk about “physician heal thy-bloody-self”.’

‘Maybe she’s good at exams. Just make sure- buggering hell.’ Logan’s phone was ringing. He pulled it out. ‘McRae.’

‘Told you there’d be consequences.’ Shuggie Webster, sounding stoned out of his box. ‘You happy now? You fucking happy?’

‘Shuggie, you’ve got to turn yourself in. Turn yourself in and we’ll talk about it.’

‘It’s your fault!’

Logan checked the display — not the same number as before. ‘Where are you?’

‘Consequences.’ And then Shuggie hung up.

Rennie was looking at him. ‘Sarge?’

‘Back to the ranch.’ Logan dragged out his Airwave handset, dialled Control and told them to get a GSM trace set up on Shuggie’s new mobile. If Sheriff McNab gave them a warrant, and the phone company didn’t drag its heels, they’d know where Mr Consequences was before clocking off time.

He stuck the handset back in his pocket and watched the halls of residence fade in the rearview mirror. Consequences … Then his mobile started ringing again. It was Colin Miller from the Aberdeen Examiner. ‘Got another note.’

Logan clutched at the grab handle as Rennie juddered the pool car out of the junction and onto King Street. ‘Are you trying to shake the fillings out of my head?’

‘Laz?’

‘Yeah, sorry, Colin. What are they saying? Let me guess: you have two days left or Jenny will die?’

‘No, it’s no’ from them. Look, we’ve been gettin’ in dozens of fake ransom demands every day since this kicked off, right? All fuckin’ mentalists wantin’ us tae drop off a few hundred thou in a bin bag in Torry, that kinda shite. Well today we got one that wasnae all about Jenny and Alison.’

Silence. ‘Are you waiting for me to guess what it says, Colin?’

‘OK, OK. It says, “Trisha Brown has a little boy called Ricky. If you ever want him to see his mummy alive, you’ll start raisin’ money

now. If you can do it for that showbiz bitch, you can do it for me.” That last bit’s in italics, with three exclamation points, but.’

Oh … fuck. ‘Did they say how much and where?’

‘Aye: “I want a hundred and fi fty thousand. Pocket money compared to how much that bitch is gettin’ — take it out of her pot if you like. I don’t care. Five days. Or she dies.” Note’s got blood on it.’

Logan tapped his knuckles against the car window. ‘You still there?’

‘What are you doing about it? You printing it?’

‘That’s kinda where you come in. The Examiner doesnae want tarred with that “encouraging copycat crimes” brush your guvnor likes slappin’ about. Last thing we need’s another run-in with them pricks on the Press Complaints Commission after the whole Bondage-gate fiasco.’

Consequences.

Shuggie Webster, you silly, silly bastard. Did he actually think they were going to fall for that one? Kidnap his own girlfriend, send a note to the papers, ransom her for enough to pay off their drug debt and set the pair of them up on the Costa del Sol for the next couple of years.

‘Laz?’

‘I’ll get someone over to pick up the note.’

‘Aye, but should we print-’

Logan hung up.

‘Boss?’

Logan looked up from the stack of interview forms. PC Guthrie was standing in the doorway of the little office, one hand behind his back, the other stroking his trouser leg as if it was nervous and needed comforting. Logan went back to his paperwork. ‘You’ll go blind if you don’t stop doing that.’

‘Got that note from the Aberdeen Examiner, you want it?’ Guthrie held up a clear evidence bag.

Logan closed his eyes. ‘No, I don’t want it. I want you to take it up to the third floor and get the IB to-’

‘Already done it. They lifted prints off the envelope and the note: Bill’s running them now. Blood’s off to the lab, for analysis.’

‘Already?’

A nod. ‘Rennie said you needed it urgently, so…?’

‘They got prints?’

‘Three partials and one beauty from the note, Bill says it’s a near-perfect right thumb.’

See, that was the difference between professionals — like the ones who snatched Alison and Jenny — and idiot copycats like Shuggie Webster and Trisha Brown.

‘Good, thanks Allan. Do me a favour, go chase up the GSM trace on Shuggie Webster’s phone. Who knows, we might actually get a result for a change.’

Soon as Guthrie waddled off like a happy penguin, Logan finished typing up his interview notes. Then checked them against the ones DI McPherson had done. From the look of things McPherson had taken over the campus canteen and arranged for a team of DCs to go through all of Alison’s classmates in alphabetical order. Which meant whoever interviewed Beatrice ‘Single White Female’ Eastbrook had no idea about the stalker’s shrine on her bedroom wall.

The one thing McPherson’s team had done well was to get information from the university on each of the students’ performance, along with some comment from the department head and a couple of the lecturers. Apparently Beatrice was reasonably dedicated, if a little prone to daydreaming, and not the most original thinker in the world. A mediocre student who could perhaps scrape a 2.2 if she really applied herself.

Logan read to the end, then flipped the form over again. McPherson’s team didn’t seem to have checked for criminal records.

Logan logged onto the PNC and ran a search against her name. Just in case.

Three warnings for vandalism, one for sending threatening letters. According to West Midlands Police, Beatrice had taken exception to a mother of two asking her to stop bothering her family. There was talk of a restraining order and that seemed to put an end to it. So Beatrice wasn’t new to the creepy stalker game.

Maybe she’d decided it would be a lot less effort to kidnap Alison and Jenny than follow them about the whole time? And Alison was going to be more famous than ever when she finally got released… Maybe it was all some twisted attempt to help her?

Beatrice Eastbrook wasn’t really the gang-leader-criminal-mastermind type, but Logan picked up the phone and got a patrol car organized to bring her in to ‘help with their enquiries’ anyway. Maybe get Goulding to sit in on the questioning? A bit of steamy psychologist-on-psychologist action.

Then he went back to the list of Alison McGregor’s classmates.

The PNC check on Tanya ‘Tiggy’ Marsden came back clean, even if she had lied about being Bruce’s girlfriend.

According to his lecturers, Stephen Clayton was a straight A student, but his name returned a list of petty crimes from when he was eight all the way up to the age of fourteen. Nothing serious, probably just enough to give mummy and daddy ‘look-at-me!’ palpitations. Which would explain the carefully-crafted rebellious cliche appearance and attitude.

Logan ran PNC checks on everyone in Alison’s class, then added the results to his interview notes.

Rennie grunted and dumped a file box on top of the pile. ‘And that’s the lot…’ Frown. ‘Oh poo.’ He wiped at the dust greying his shirt and trousers. ‘Emma’s going to kill me.’

Their little makeshift office was starting to look a lot more professional — if you ignored the dusty plastic sheeting covering the bare walls, pipes, and conduits. They now had three desks and a trestle table, the latter beginning to sag under the weight of Rennie’s file boxes. Three phones, two laptops, and a printer that sounded like a creaky floorboard every time they sent a file to it.

Logan swivelled his seat around. ‘Kidnappings?’

‘Five years ago.’ He pointed at a small stack of pristine files. ‘Ten years ago, fifteen, and these dirty old sods are twenty. But that’s just the north-east — be months before we get stuff that old from everywhere else.’

‘Probably more than we need anyway. Now go see if they’ve got that GSM trace done yet.’

The constable flounced over to his desk, sank into his chair, and grabbed the phone.

‘Sergeant?’

Logan looked up from his screen. Finnie was standing in the open doorway, his rubbery lips turned down at the edges, eyes narrowed. He looked like a constipated frog.

Green must have been moaning again. ‘Afternoon, sir — I was just about to go looking for you, we-’

‘I understand there’s another ransom note come in.’

‘Trisha Brown, she’s the one involved with Shuggie Webster. Looks like-’

‘And may I enquire why you didn’t see fit to inform me?’

‘I did.’

Finnie frowned. ‘I think I would’ve noticed if-’

‘Emailed you as soon as we got back to the station. I think you were in with Superintendent Green at the time. The kidnapping’s probably a hoax — Shuggie and Trisha’s way of wriggling out of a drug debt.’

‘Oh.’ Finnie swapped the folder under his arm from one side to the other. ‘Yes, well, in that case,’ he held the folder out. ‘I was going to give the investigation to Acting DI MacDonald, but you can keep it.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Logan took the folder and peered inside.

It was the fingerprint report. ‘I’ve requested a firearms team. If you can approve it, we’ll get Shuggie Webster picked up as soon as the GSM trace comes in. He isn’t exactly-’

‘Just make sure I have a complete risk analysis on my desk before you do anything. And by the book, understand? The last thing we need is Green getting the idea we can’t do anything right.’

‘Already working on it, sir.’

‘And speaking of Superintendent Green…’

Here we go.

Finnie pursed his lips, looking over Logan’s left shoulder. ‘Professional Standards tell me Green’s been throwing his weight around with some sex offenders? That you’re thinking of putting in an official complaint.’

‘I am?’ Logan backed away a step. ‘Sir, I didn’t-’

‘I think it would be wise to put it all in writing, Sergeant.’

‘Actually, sir, I was going to drop-’

‘I think it would be wise to put it all in writing, Sergeant.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Yes, sir.’

A smile. ‘Now, how are you getting on with your due diligence?’

‘Actually, it-’

‘And the sooner you put it in writing the better.’

Rennie took the phone from his ear and clamped a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Sarge? Got a result on the GSM trace. Webster’s in Tillydrone.’

‘Excellent.’ Finnie headed for the door. ‘Tell you what: this time, Sergeant, just for fun, let’s try not to let him escape. OK?’

Oh ha-bloody-ha.

Logan waited till the door shut before pulling the report from the folder: whorls, deltas, points of correlation, right thumb…

That wasn’t right.

He turned the sheet over, then back over again. ‘This is definitely the print off the ransom note?’

Rennie shrugged.

According to the database the thumb didn’t belong to Shuggie Webster, it belonged to someone called Edward Buchan.