Close to the Bone (Special Edition) (Logan McRae, Book 8) Read online

  ‘I know, I know. But if I can’t trust Reuben to run things, what can I do? You don’t want it, he can’t handle it; do I sell up to Malcolm McLennan instead? ’

  ‘Malk the Knife’s dangerous enough without handing him Aberdeen on a plate too. He’s already got everything south of Dundee.’

  The wheelchair bleeped, then whined back a few feet, before spinning around to face Logan. Wee Hamish wasn’t smiling any more, instead a frown made hills and valleys in the pale skin of his forehead. ‘I shall endeavour to find out who is responsible for your burning victim. And don’t worry, if whoever did it is on my team, they’ll be getting a . . . disciplin-ary hearing. This isn’t the kind of legacy I want to leave behind.’

  Outside, Logan’s fifth-hand Punto was bathed in the glow of a security light. A huge man leaned back against the bonnet, tree-trunk arms folded over a great barrel of a chest. His three-piece suit looked brand new – the waistcoat straining over that vast belly. Shiny black brogues. Face a patchwork of scar tissue and fat, knitted together with a greying beard. A nose that was barely there any more.

  Logan nodded. ‘Reuben.’

  No response.

  OK. . . Logan took his keys out. ‘Thought you were more of an overalls and steel toecaps kind of guy.’

  Reuben just stared at him. Then slowly hauled himself off the bonnet.

  The Punto’s suspension rose about three inches.

  Logan drew his shoulders back, brought up his chin. ‘Go on then, out with it.’

  But Reuben just turned and lumbered off into the darkness, brogues scrunching on the gravel. Didn’t say a word.

  Logan stood there until the huge man disappeared, then slid in behind the wheel. The world was full of bloody weirdoes.

  The windows of the caravan next door glowed pale yellow in the darkness and Logan climbed out of the Punto, engine ticking and pinging in the silence. On the other side of the River Don, the lights of the big Tesco glittered through the trees.

  A noise, behind him. . .

  Logan spun around, hands balling into fists.

  Nothing.

  Grove Cemetery was a mass of silhouettes, reaching up the hill to the railway line and the dual carriageway at the top. The first three rows of headstones were just visible in the orange streetlight. Beyond their reach everything was black and silent. Just the faint rumble of late-night traffic working its way through the Haudagain roundabout.

  ‘Hello? ’

  Stand very still, don’t breathe, listen. . .

  Nope, he was on his own. Which was just as well – no one about to see him acting like something out of a cheap horror movie.

  Twit.

  Logan found his house key and— Stopped. Another knot of bones hung from the door handle. More bloody chicken bones, wrapped up in a ribbon that was stained a greeny-grey by the sodium glow.

  ‘Very funny.’ He unhooked the bundle and chucked it into the bushes that separated the tiny caravan park from the riverbank. ‘Little bastards.’

  Just because the Grampian Country Chickens factory used to be across the road, didn’t mean people had to be a dick about it.

  Sunday

  4

  ‘. . .sometime in the next week. And we’ll have more top eighties hits between now and nine, but first here’s the weather. . .’

  ‘Unggg. . .’ Logan rolled over and peered up at the bedroom ceiling. A slice of golden light jabbed through the gap in the curtains, making motes of dust shine against the scarlet walls. He reached out a hand, but Samantha wasn’t there – her side of the bed a rumpled mess of duvet and pillows. Always was a restless sleeper.

  The alarm clock blinked ‘06:15’ at him in cheerless green.

  ‘. . .expect the sunshine to continue all the way through till Tuesday morning, when an area of high pressure from the east’s going to bring rain with it. . .’

  He blinked and yawned, scratched, then flopped back in the bed. ‘Come on, you lazy sod: up.’

  Maybe in a minute.

  Logan dug his knife into the jar. ‘Tea and toast, tea and toast, la-la-la-la tea and toast. . .’ There was only just enough Marmite in the jar to leave a thin skid mark across the melted butter. Better than nothing. He slouched through to the living room, taking breakfast with him.

  A permatanned face on the TV grinned out at the piles of books and cardboard boxes littering the room. ‘. . .February next year. I went to see two of the film’s stars on the set. . .’

  The little red light on the answering machine blinked at him. Four messages. Probably all from Steel, moaning at him.

  Two women appeared on the telly, sitting in director’s chairs in front of a poster for Witchfire. They smiled and waved at the camera. Pretty, in a superficial, Hollywood, FHM-calendar-girl kind of way. One with natural-looking ginger hair, the other with full-on post-box scarlet like Samantha’s. The words ‘NICHOLE FYFE’ and ‘MORGAN MITCHELL’ appeared across a banner at the bottom of the screen.

  Logan pressed the button on the answering machine and the electronic voice droned into the untidy room, ‘Message One:’ It was replaced by DCI Steel’s familiar, gravelly tones. ‘Laz? You there? Pick up.’ Pause. ‘I’m no’ kidding, get your arse—’

  Delete.

  On the TV, Mr Fake-Tan simpered. ‘And you’re a redhead now!’

  The one called Nichole laughed. There was a slight trans-Atlantic twang to her accent, but the Aberdonian was still there underneath: ‘I know, isn’t it great? We both had to do it for the film, but I really like it, it’s so liberating. And absolutely no one recognizes me: it’s like being a completely different person!’

  Morgan twirled a lock of her screaming red hair, smiling at the camera as if she was about to rip its clothes off and make it do unspeakably kinky things right there on the studio floor. Her accent was pure New York, ‘Everyone should try it at least once. Unleash the naughty, people!’

  ‘Message Two:’ was followed by, ‘Laz, I’m serious—’

  Delete.

  ‘Nichole, what’s it like starring in something as big as Witchfire? ’

  ‘It’s immense. My first really meaty dramatic role, and—’

  ‘Message Three:’ A man’s voice, sounding depressed. ‘Hello? This is a message for Logan McRae. Logan, it’s Preston’s the architects, it’s been two years since we got the roof on the flat. . .’ Sigh. ‘And I wondered if you’re any nearer making a decision about going ahead with the build? ’

  Should really call him back.

  Delete.

  ‘—was such a shock: I’d actually auditioned for Mrs Shepherd.’

  Morgan flapped her hands, grinning. ‘And I was up for Rowan, but apparently someone was just too fabulous—’

  Logan ripped a bite out of his toast, chasing it down with a slurp of tea.

  ‘Message Four:’ An ominous pause. ‘Logan, it’s your mother. You know I don’t like talking to this thing—’

  Delete.

  ‘—so much more fun not having to be a goody two-shoes the whole time.’ Morgan placed a hand on her chest. Lucky hand. . . ‘Three years on CSI New Orleans, and I really wanted to get to grips with a darker character for a change. Get back to my roots.’

  ‘You Have No More Messages.’

  He finished off the toast. Have to buy another jar of Marmite. And maybe some squeezy cheese. Breakfast of champions.

  ‘Nichole, I have to ask you about coming back to Aberdeen after Hollywood.’

  ‘It’s so great to be home! People in the north-east are so real and down to earth, it’s incredibly refreshing after all that,’ onscreen, Nichole Fyfe made quote bunnies with her fingers, ‘“show business” stuff.’

  Quote bunnies. What kind of person did that?

  ‘And I understand you’re running a competition so one lucky viewer can win a walk-on part in—’

  Logan jabbed the remote control’s off button and the picture disappeared into darkness.

>   In the bedroom, Madness were banging on about finally being old enough to buy condoms. He slouched through to join them, drinking his milky tea between hauling on socks and pants and trousers.

  ‘. . .and “House of Fun”. Speaking of fun, fancy winning yourself an exclusive VIP tour of the new Witchfire movie being filmed right here in the north-east? Well, stay tuned because you’re in for a treat after David Bowie. “Let’s Dance”!’

  Bloody film was like a virus.

  He pulled on a white shirt that deserved a much better iron than the one he’d given it, sooking his fingers clean of butter and Marmite before doing up the buttons.

  Tie, or no tie? He picked a couple from the wardrobe, then stood there, staring at the sheet of paper taped to the glass.

  A blaring rendition of ‘If I Only Had a Brain’ came from his mobile. Logan blinked. Checked his watch. Been standing there like a turnip for five minutes.

  Shudder.

  He sank onto the bed and worked his feet into his shoes with one hand, answering the phone with the other. ‘What? ’

  Rennie sniffed. ‘And good morning to you too.’

  For God’s sake. ‘You’re not six.’

  ‘Fine. We’ve got another battered Oriental male – this one’s from Laos. They beat the crap out of him, then took a hammer to his knees and ankles.’

  ‘Anything? ’

  ‘Won’t say a word. According to the ambulance crew, he was off his tits when they brought him in – doped to the eyeballs, reeking of cannabis.’

  ‘What about the jewellery heist? ’

  ‘Like juggling mud. Been dragging people out their beds all night – thanks for that, by the way, always nice to be sworn and spat at for a whole shift. Really boosted my morale.’

  ‘So what you’re saying is: you didn’t get anywhere.’

  ‘That’s not fair! Not my fault the gang haven’t tried shifting the stuff yet, is it? Maybe they’ve taken it down south, maybe they’re stashing it for a couple of years, or shipping it overseas. How am I supposed to deal with that? ’ Moan, whinge, complain, grumble, whine. On and on and on.

  He stuck his phone on the bedside cabinet, let Rennie enjoy his wee petulant moment while he laced up his shoes.

  When he picked up the phone again, Rennie was still going.

  ‘. . .never get any credit. And how come I’m always on nights? It’s not—’

  ‘Much though I’d love to sit here and listen to you bitch the day away, I’ve got work to get to, so—’

  A knock on the caravan’s door, loud and insistent.

  ‘God’s sake. . .’ Logan put a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘JUST A MINUTE!’ Then back to the phone, marching out of the bedroom and across the hall to the front door. ‘Get on to the lab – I want those forensics chased. And don’t let them give you any crap about “three to six weeks”. Tuesday, by the latest.’

  ‘Would you like a magic flying unicorn while I’m at it? ’

  ‘No, but I’ll take an egg buttie – on my desk for quarter past seven. And a tea.’ Logan turned the key in the lock. Swung the door open. ‘And don’t think you’re—’

  Something exploded in his face, hard, driving pepper and bees through his nose, making the edges of the world scream with yellow fog as he crashed back onto the carpet. Thunk – his head bounced off the plasterboard. One knee caught the edge of the doorframe. ‘Nnnghn. . .’

  Everything tasted of hot copper wire.

  Something wet on his face.

  Blink.

  ‘Gagh. . .’ Tiny scarlet drops burst out of his mouth, then pattered down onto his cheeks and forehead.

  Get up. GET UP NOW.

  Ow. . . Fire burned through his head, radiating out from his nose. Screaming at him. Making his ears ring.

  A huge bulk blotted out the sunshine streaming in through the door: Reuben. Not in the suit and tie any more. He was wearing a pair of blue overalls, the cuffs frayed and stained dark with oil and dirt, the knees too. A pair of heavy boots on his feet, the leather scuffed away in patches, metal toecaps glistening within.

  Oh. Shit.

  Logan scrabbled back against the wall.

  But Reuben didn’t step inside and kick the living hell out of him. Didn’t stomp on his head and ribs. Didn’t pummel his face to mince. Instead the big man wobbled a bit, clutching the door frame, mouth hanging slightly open, eyes bleary and blinking.

  The sharp, smokey stench of stale whisky and sweat came off him in a greasy fug. Chest heaving as he hauled in a breath through his flattened nose. The words came out slurred, riding a little mist of spittle. ‘I know . . . I . . . I know what you . . . you’re doing.’

  He rocked back and forward a couple of times, the knuckles on his right hand sticking out like rivets on a steel sheet. ‘You . . . you’re not gonnae . . . get. . . Fuckin’ kill . . . kill you. . .’

  Then Reuben’s legs gave up and he slid down the side of the caravan until he was slumped on the top step, shoulders juddering, tears running through the webs of scar tissue, snot glittering through his patchy moustache.

  And dangling from the door handle, another knot of little bones.

  Bastard. . .

  Logan wiped at the drop of scarlet staining the report, leaving a dirty smear through the words. He leaned back in his chair, head tilted to the ceiling, clutching a wodge of paper napkins to his nose.

  Detective Sergeant Rennie tutted. ‘Took me ages to type that up, and you’re getting blood all over it.’

  Logan’s office was just big enough to fit a couple of filing cabinets, a chipped Formica desk, two whiteboards, a creaky swivel chair, and a visitor’s seat that looked as if it belonged in a skip.

  Rennie shifted in it, making the vinyl squeak. He’d gelled his hair up into a blond tuft at the front, his cheeks glowing with sunburn, a curl of skin peeling off the end of his shiny nose. ‘And you didn’t eat your buttie.’ It still sat in the middle of the desk, half unwrapped from its tinfoil shroud. Congealing.

  Logan glowered at him. The words came out all bunged up and flat. ‘Do you want to be partnered with Biohazard for the next month? Stuck in small confined spaces with him? Because I can arrange that.’

  ‘Had to go down the baker’s: canteen’s still closed for the refurb.’ He sniffed. ‘Be cold by now.’

  ‘Just . . . bugger off.’

  The door banged open, rattling the memos pinned to the wall. DCI Steel posed in the doorway. Grinning.

  Logan gave her a glower as well. ‘It’s not funny!’

  ‘Is it no’? ’ Her suit was as unfashionably baggy as her neck; crow’s feet and wrinkles turning her face into a jumble of planes and lines. But it was the hair that really stood out. And up. And in every other direction too. As if she’d brushed it with an angry cat. ‘Looks funny to me.’ She wafted in, bringing a fug of stale-cigarette-stink with her.

  Steel gave Rennie a wee slap on the back of the head. ‘Shift it, Tintin.’

  He grumbled, then hauled himself out of the visitor’s seat. He pointed at the tinfoil package on Logan’s desk. ‘Booby-trapped buttie going spare, if you want it? ’

  Steel settled into the seat. ‘Looks like you might make a decent DS after all.’ She reached out and plucked the thing from the desktop. ‘Now be a good boy and sod off. You’ve got tramps to find, and the grown-ups need to talk.’

  She unwrapped the foil and took a big bite. Then froze, face creasing up around a soured mouth – red lipstick spidering out into the skin. ‘Urgh, this is cold!’

  Rennie disappeared, giggling, closing the door behind him.

  Logan pulled the napkins from his nose and peered at the paper, stained a deep poppy red. He dumped them in the bin and grabbed a fresh handful from the pile. It was as if someone had lodged a burning coal in the middle of his face, filling his head with smoke and fire. ‘If you want to give me a hard time about the jewellery heist: don’t. We’re doing everything we can.’

&n
bsp; ‘Doc Ramsey tells me you’re lucky it’s only broken. Could’ve been a lot worse.’

  ‘And yes, there was another racial attack last night, but the victim refuses to talk. Won’t even admit to speaking English.’

  ‘Says you’re in for a full-on panda set of shiners when the swelling goes down. Like a grumpy raccoon. We should get you a stripy jumper and a big sack with “Swag” written on it.’

  He stared up at the ceiling tiles. Big brown stains made continents on the pockmarked grey squares. ‘If it’s not the jewellery heist, and it’s not the racial attacks, what is it? ’

  ‘Do you know you can die of a nosebleed? Seriously: fifteen minutes and you’re a corpse.’ She checked her watch. ‘How long’s it been? ’

  ‘Feel free to sod off at any point.’

  She took another bite of buttie, chewing around the words. ‘It’s no’ that bad if you pretend it’s just an egg sandwich. You got any salad cream? ’

  ‘Top drawer.’

  ‘Any porn? ’

  ‘Just salad cream.’

  A shrug. She dug through the desk, coming out with two blue sachets he’d liberated from the canteen. ‘So how come you let Reuben get away? ’

  ‘I didn’t.’ Logan dabbed at his nostrils. The napkins came away with scarlet blooming across the white. ‘He lumbered off before the patrol car got there. Useless sods couldn’t arrest books in a library.’

  ‘We’ll get him picked up, do him for assaulting a police officer – or what passes for one these days – and get him off the streets for a year or two. Can’t be bad, can it? ’ She tore open the sachets and squeezed them into the roll. ‘Should’ve let him punch you in the face ages ago.’

  ‘Have you not got flying monkeys to train or something? ’

  Another bite left her with a smear of white on her cheek. ‘Where are we with the necklace guy? ’

  ‘No witnesses. The Joyriders’ Graveyard isn’t exactly on the beaten track, which was probably the point. We ran a check on all the burned-out cars. . .’ He waved a hand at his in-tray, then tipped his head back again. ‘Report’s on the top.’

  ‘Very good. Want to give me the quick version? ’