22 Dead Little Bodies (A Logan and Steel short novel) Page 4

  ‘Guv.’

  ‘What about the grandparents?’

  ‘Got an address in Portlethen, and one in Stoneywood. You want me to pack it in here and go speak to them? Or hang about in case she comes home?’

  Logan checked his watch: five past six. ‘Abandon ship. Better give his parents the death message first, then see if either set knows where she is. And get on to the media office too – we need a blanket ban on anything that can ID John Skinner till we’ve spoken to the wife.’ Logan put his phone back in his pocket. Turned to Wheezy Doug. ‘We ready?’

  His bottom lip protruded an inch as he tugged the fluorescent yellow high-viz waistcoat on over his suit jacket. ‘Feel like a right neep.’

  ‘It’s what all the stylish young men about town are wearing this season. And if you’d looked into it when I sodding well told you to, we wouldn’t be here now.’

  A blush darkened Wheezy’s cheeks. ‘Sorry, Guv.’ He fiddled a BWV unit onto one of the clips that pimpled the waistcoat’s front, like nipples on a cat. The body-worn video unit was about the same size and shape as a packet of cigarettes; with a white credit-card style front with the Police Scotland logo, a camera icon, and the words ‘CCTV IN OPERATION’ on it. ‘Don’t see why you couldn’t have got some spod from Uniform to do this bit, though.’

  ‘Because she’s filed complaints against all the spods from Uniform. No more whingeing.’ Logan climbed out into the sunshine. ‘Come on.’

  The street’s twin rows of tidy gardens were alive with the sound of lawns being mowed. Gravel being raked. Cars being washed. The screech and yell of little children playing. The bark of an overexcited dog. The smell of charcoal and grilling meat oozing its way in through the warm August air.

  Wheezy Doug sighed, then joined him. Pulled out the keys and plipped the pool car’s locks. ‘That’s the one over there – wishing well, crappy cherry tree, and leylandii hedge.’

  The hedge was a proper spite job: at least eight-foot-tall, casting thick dark shadows across the neighbouring property’s lawn.

  Logan puffed out a breath. ‘Suppose we’d better do this.’ He marched across the road to the garden gate. Stopped and looked up at the cherry tree.

  It was thick with shining green leaves, the swelling fruits drooping on wishbone stalks. And tied onto nearly every branch was a small blue plastic bag with something heavy and dark in it. There had to be at least twenty of them on there. Maybe thirty?

  Young was right – it did look … inappropriately festive.

  ‘Right. First up, Justin Robson.’ Logan walked along the front wall, past the thicket of spiteful hedge, and in through the gate next door. All nice and tidy, with rosebushes in lustrous shades of red-and-gold, and a sundial lawn ornament that was two hours out.

  Honeysuckle grew up one side of the front door and over the lintel, hanging with searing yellow flowers. Scenting the air.

  Wheezy Doug stifled a cough. ‘Doesn’t really look like a drug den, does it?’ Then turned and nodded at the white BMW parked out front: spoiler, alloys, low-profile tyres. ‘The car, on the other hand has Drug Dealer written all over it.’ A howch and a spit. He wiped the line of spittle from his chin. ‘Right, everyone on their best behaviour, it’s Candid Camera time.’ He slid the white credit-card cover down, setting the body-worn video recording. Cleared his throat. ‘Detective Constable Douglas Andrews, twentieth August, at thirteen Pitmedden Court, Kincorth, Aberdeen. Present is DI McRae.’ A nod. ‘OK, Guv.’

  Logan got as far as the first knock when the door swung open.

  A short man with trendy hair and a stripy apron stared up at them through smeared glasses. ‘Yes?’

  He held up his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector McRae, CID. Are you Justin Robson?’

  ‘That was quick, I only called two minutes ago.’ He stepped back, wiping his hands on the green-and-white stripes, leaving dark-red smears.

  OK … That definitely looked like blood.

  ‘Mr Robson?’ Logan’s right hand drifted inside his jacket, where the small canister of CS gas lurked. ‘Is everything OK, sir?’

  ‘No it’s not. Not by a long sodding chalk.’ Then he blinked a couple of times. ‘Sorry, where are my manners, come in, come in.’ Reversing down the hallway and into the kitchen.

  Wheezy Doug’s voice dropped to a whisper, a wee smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘Was that blood? Maybe he’s killed Mrs Black and hacked her up?’

  They should be so lucky.

  Logan gave it a beat, then followed Robson through into the kitchen.

  It was compact, but kitted out with a fancy-looking oven and induction hob. Built-in deep-fat fryer, American-style double fridge freezer. A glass of white wine sat on the granite countertop, next to two racks of ribs on a chopping board.

  Wheezy Doug reached for his cuffs as Robson reached for a cleaver. Pointed. ‘Oh no you don’t. Put the knife down and—’

  ‘Knife…? Oh, this.’ He wiggled it a couple of times. ‘Sorry, but we’ve got friends coming round and I need to get these ready.’ The cleaver’s shiny blade slipped between the rib bones, slicing through flesh and cartilage as if they were yoghurt. ‘I hope you’re going to arrest her.’

  Nope, no idea.

  Logan let go of his CS gas. ‘Perhaps you should start from the beginning, sir? Make sure nothing’s got lost in translation.’

  ‘That…’ the cleaver thumped through the next chunk of flesh, ‘bitch next door. I mean, look at them!’ He pointed the severed bone at a small pile of crumpled A4 sheets on the kitchen table. ‘That’s slander. It’s illegal. I know my rights.’

  Not another one.

  Wheezy Doug picked a sheet from the top of the pile. Pulled a face. ‘Actually, sir, slander would be if she said this to someone, once it’s in writing it’s libel.’ He handed the bit of paper to Logan.

  A black-and-white photo of Justin Robson sat beneath the words, ‘GET THIS DRUG DEALING SCUM OFF OUR STREETS!!!’

  Ah…

  Logan scanned the paragraph at the bottom of the page:

  This so-called “man” is DEALING DRUGS in Kincorth! He does it from his home and various establishments around town. How will YOU feel when he starts selling them outside the school gates where YOUR child goes to learn? Our CORRUPTION-RIDDEN police force do nothing while HE corrupts our children with POISON!

  Robson hacked off another rib. ‘I mean, for God’s sake, it’s got my photo and my home address and my telephone number on it. And they’re all over the place!’ Hack, thump, hack. ‘I want that woman locked up, she’s a bloody menace.’

  ‘I see.’ Logan took another look around the room. Wheezy Doug was right, it didn’t really look like a drug dealer’s house. Far too clean for that. Still, belt and braces: ‘And are you selling drugs to schoolchildren, Mr Robson?’

  ‘This isn’t Breaking Bad.’ Hack. Thump. Hack. ‘I don’t deal drugs, I programme distributed integration applications for the oil industry. That’s quite enough excitement for me.’ He pulled over the second rack of ribs. ‘You can search the place, if you like? If it’ll finally shut her up.’

  A nod. ‘We might take you up on that.’ Logan folded the notice and slipped it into a jacket pocket. ‘Mr Robson, Mrs Black tells me that you’ve been putting “dog mess” in her cherry tree. Is that true? We checked, and the thing’s covered in poop-scoop bags.’

  Hack, hack, hack. ‘I don’t have a dog. Does this look like a house that has a dog? Nasty, smelly, dirty things.’

  ‘I didn’t ask if you had a dog, Mr Robson, I asked if you were responsible for putting … dog waste in her tree.’

  He stopped hacking and stared, face wrinkled on one side. ‘Are you seriously suggesting that I prowl the streets of Aberdeen, collecting other people’s dog shit, just so I can put it in her tree? Really?’ Hack. Thump. Hack.

  ‘Everyone needs a hobby.’

  ‘Trust me, I’ve got better things to do with my spare time.’ The second rack of ribs ended up a lot less nea
t than the first. He dumped them all in a big glass bowl. ‘All she ever does is cause trouble. Like she’s so perfect, with her screaming and crying at all hours of the night. Her and her creepy husband. And her bloody, sodding…’ A deep breath, then Robson slopped in some sort of sauce from a jug. Dug his hands in and mixed the whole lot up. Squeezing the ribs like he was strangling them. ‘Have you ever had to live next door to three hundred thousand nasty little parakeets? Squawking and screeching and flapping at all hours. Not to mention the smell. And will the council do anything about it? No, of course they sodding won’t.’

  He thumped over to the sink and washed his hands. ‘I swear to God, one of these days—’

  ‘Actually,’ Logan held up a hand, ‘it might be an idea to remember there’s two police officers in the room before you go making death threats.’

  Robson’s head slumped. Then he dried his hands. ‘I’m sorry. It’s … that woman drives me insane.’ He opened the back door and took his bowl of glistening bones and meat out onto a small decking area, where a kettle barbecue sat. The rich earthy scent of wood-smoke embraced them, not quite covering the bitter ammonia stink coming from the other side of another massive leylandii hedge that blotted out the light.

  Squeaking and chirping prickled the air, partially muffled by the dense green foliage.

  Wheezy Doug stared up at the hedge. Sniffed. Then clicked the cover up on his body-worn video, stopping it recording. ‘You know, I remember this one terrace where … well, let’s call them “Couple A” put up a huge hedge to spite “Couple B”. So “Couple B” snuck out in the middle of the night and watered it with tree-stump killer for a fortnight. Not that Police Scotland would advocate such behaviour. Would we, Guv?’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Robson creaked up the lid of the barbecue and put down a double layer of tinfoil on the bars. ‘That hedge is the only thing between me and those revolting birds, there’s no way I’m sabotaging it.’ He laid out the ribs in careful bony rows.

  Logan nodded back at the house. ‘Sorry to be a pain, but can I use your toilet?’

  ‘Top of the stairs.’ More ribs joined their comrades.

  ‘Won’t be a minute.’

  Back through the kitchen and into the hall. Quick left turn into the lounge.

  Well, Robson did say they could search the place if they liked. Fancy patterned wallpaper made up a single swirly green-and-black graphic across one wall. A huge flatscreen television was hooked up to a PlayStation, an X-Box, and what looked like a very expensive surround sound system. Black leather couch. All spotless.

  Cupboard under the stairs: hoover, ironing board, shelves with cleaning products arranged in neat rows.

  Upstairs.

  The master bedroom had a king-sized bed against one wall, with a black duvet cover and too many pillows. Both bedside cabinets were topped with a lamp and a clock radio. No clutter. The clothes in the wardrobe arranged by colour.

  The spare room was kitted out as a study. Shelves covered one wall, stuffed with programming manuals and reference books. Fancy desk, big full-colour laser printer, ergonomic chair. Framed qualification certificates above a beige filing cabinet.

  Two big speakers rested against the adjoining wall, with their backs to the room and their fronts against the plasterboard. Both were wired into an amplifier with an iPod plugged into the top. The perfect setup for blasting rap music through the bricks at your neighbours in the dead of night.

  So Justin Robson wasn’t exactly the put-upon innocent he pretended to be.

  A quick check of the linen cupboard – just to be thorough – then through to the bathroom for a rummage in the medicine cabinet. Nothing out of the ordinary. Well, except for two packs of antidepressants, but they had chemist’s stickers on the outside with dosage instructions, Robson’s name, and the prescribing doctor’s details. All aboveboard.

  Might as well play out the charade properly.

  Logan flushed the toilet, unused, and washed his hands. Headed back downstairs.

  ‘Well, thank you for your time, Mr Robson. In case you’re wondering: we’ll be keeping an eye on Mrs Black’s tree from now on. I’d appreciate it if you’d help us make sure there are no more decorations on there.’

  Next door, Wheezy Doug leaned on the doorbell. ‘What do you think? Is Robson our Phantom Pooper Scooper? The Defecation Decorator. The…’ A frown. ‘Christmas Tree Crapper?’

  ‘Hmmm…’ Logan turned towards the thick barrier of leylandii hedge – tall enough and thick enough to completely blot out all view of Justin Robson’s house. ‘He’s a neat freak – the whole place is like a show home. Is someone that anal going to collect other people’s dog shit to spite their neighbour? Don’t know.’ Stranger things had happened. And then there were those two heavy-duty speakers up against the wall in the study … ‘Possibly.’

  Mrs Black’s garden wasn’t nearly as tidy as her neighbour’s. Dandelions and clover encroached on the lawn. More weeds in the borders. The cherry tree with its droopy blue plastic decorations.

  Even if you removed every single one of them, would you really want to eat the fruit that had grown between those dangling bags?

  Wheezy Doug sniffed, then stifled a cough. ‘Can’t really blame him though, can you? Living next to the Wicked Twit of the West would drive anyone barmy.’ Another go on the bell. ‘Maybe she’s not in?’

  ‘One more try, and we’re off.’ Superintendent Young could moan all he liked, they’d done their bit. Wasn’t their fault Mrs Black was out.

  The drrrrrrrringgggg sounded again as Wheezy ground his thumb against the button.

  Then, finally, a silhouette appeared in the rippled glass panels that took up the top half of the door. A thin wobbly voice: ‘Who is it?’

  Logan poked Wheezy. ‘You filming this?’

  A quick fiddle with the BWV. ‘Am now.’

  ‘Good.’ Logan leaned in close to the glass. ‘Mrs Black? It’s the police. Can you open up, please?’

  She didn’t move.

  ‘Mrs Black?’

  ‘It’s not convenient.’

  ‘We need to talk to you about a complaint.’

  A breeze stirred the blue plastic poo bags, making them swing like filthy pendulums.

  ‘Mrs Black?’

  There was a click and the door pulled open a couple of inches.

  She peered out at them, her short grey hair flat on one side, crusts of yellow clinging to the corners of her baggy eyes. A flash of tartan pyjamas. ‘Have you arrested him yet?’

  ‘Mrs Black, have you been putting these up around town?’ Logan reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded flyer. Held it up so she could see it.

  She stiffened. Her nose came up, and all trace of tremor in her voice was gone. ‘The people here have a right to know.’

  ‘If you have proof that Mr Robson is dealing drugs, why didn’t you call us?’

  ‘He’s a vile, revolting individual. He should be … should be castrated and locked up where he can’t hurt anyone any more.’

  Logan put the flyer back in his pocket. Closed his eyes and counted to three. ‘Mrs Black, you can’t go making accusations like that without proof: it’s libellous. And Mr Robson’s made a formal complaint.’

  Her face hardened. ‘I should have known…’

  ‘Mrs Black, can we come in please?’

  ‘I’ve been complaining about him for years and did you do anything about it?’ She bared her teeth. ‘But as soon as he says anything, you’re over here with your jackboots and your threats!’

  Don’t sigh.

  ‘No one’s threatening you, Mrs Black. Do you have any proof that Mr Robson is dealing drugs?’

  Her finger jabbed over Logan’s shoulder. ‘HE PUT DOG MESS IN MY TREE!’

  ‘Do you have any proof? If you have proof we’ll look at it and—’

  ‘HE DESERVES TO DIE FOR WHAT HE’S PUT ME THROUGH!’

  Wheezy Doug stepped forward, palms out. ‘Mrs Black, I need you to calm down, OK?’<
br />
  ‘HE’S SCUM!’ Her voice dropped to a hissing whisper. ‘Sitting in there with his drugs and his pornography and his filthy rap music. I demand you arrest him.’

  The sound of whirring lawn mowers. A child somewhere singing about popping caps in some gangbanger’s ass. A motorbike purring past on the road. All as Mrs Black stood there, trembling in her pyjamas, lips flecked with spittle.

  Logan kept his voice low and neutral. ‘I need you to stop putting up these posters. And if you have any evidence that Mr Robson is dealing drugs, I want you to call me.’ He pulled out a Police Scotland business card with the station number on it. Held it out.

  She stared at the card in his hand. Curled her lip. Spat at her feet. ‘You’re all as corrupt as each other.’

  Then stepped back and slammed the door.

  Not the result they’d hoped for, but no one could say they hadn’t tried.

  ‘So…’ Wheezy Doug dragged the toe of his shoe along the path. ‘Pub?’

  Logan popped the business card through the letterbox. ‘Pub.’

  6

  Sodding keyhole wouldn’t hold still … The key skittered around the moving target, until finally it clicked into place.

  Hurrah.

  Logan picked up his fish supper again, and pushed through into the flat. Floor was a bit shifty too.

  Deep breath.

  He eased the door closed and shushed the Yale lock as it clunked shut. Wouldn’t do to wake the neighbours. They wouldn’t like that. Got to be a good neighbour. ‘Shhhh…’

  Then he dumped his keys on the little table by the radiator. ‘Cthulhu? Daddy’s home.’

  Silence.

  Little sod.

  Logan grabbed the salt, vinegar, mayonnaise, and a tin of Stella from the kitchen and escorted his supper through into the pristine living room.

  Whole place was unnaturally tidy, everything superfluous hidden away in various cupboards and the loft, leaving nothing behind but estate-agent approved set dressing. Like the two glossy magazines lined up perfectly with the edge of the coffee table. Or the line of candles on the windowsill. The photos in the wooden frames lined up where the books used to be. Everything dusted and hoovered with OCD fervour. All so some pair of picky sods could take a quick sniff around then decide the flat wasn’t ‘big enough for them’. Scumbags.