Stuart MacBride - 22 Dead Little Bodies

‘Nope. Come on: make with the lunch.’

He settled into the visitor’s chair, and slumped back, arms dangling loose at his sides. Frowning up at the ceiling. ‘He’s dead, by the way. In case you cared.’

‘I’m still no’ seeing any sandwiches here, Laz.’

‘Ambulance crew say it’d be pretty much instantaneous. Flattened his skull like stamping on a cardboard box.’

‘What about crisps?’

‘Got you salt-and-vinegar. I slipped on the rooftop, almost went over myself. Lunch hit the deck instead of me. You can fight the seagulls for it.’ He closed his eyes. ‘They’re probably busy eating leftover bits of John Skinner anyway.’

She sighed. ‘See when they call it “talking a jumper down”, they mean by the stairs, no’ the quick way.’

‘Funny.’ He put both hands over his face. ‘That’s really, really funny.’

‘Laz, you know I love you like a retarded wee brother, but it’s time to pull up your frilly man-panties and get over it.’ Steel’s voice softened. ‘People jump off things. They go splat. It happens. Nothing personal. Wasn’t your fault.’

Raised voices thundered past in the corridor outside, something about football and beer.

‘So...’ A click, then a sooking noise. ‘You got anything exciting on?’

He let his hands fall away. ‘It’s CID. There’s never anything exciting on.’

Steel made a figure of eight with the e-cigarette in her hand. ‘What did Aunty Roberta tell you?’

‘Don’t, OK? I’m not—’

‘“Come join the MIT,” I said. “These new specialist teams will hoover up all the interesting cases,” I said. “All you’ll be left with is the GED crap no one else wants to do,” I said. “It won’t be like it was when we were Grampian Police,” I said. But would you listen?’

A rap on the door, then Constable Guthrie stuck his head in. With his pale eyebrows, blond hair, and pink eyes he looked like a slightly startled rabbit. ‘Sorry, Guv, but I need a word. Inspector?’

Steel popped the fake cigarette between her teeth. ‘What?’

‘Er, not you, Guv — DI McRae.’

She sniffed. ‘No’ good enough for you, am I?’

‘It... I...’ He pulled his mouth into a dead-fish pout. Then held out a sheet of A4 towards Logan. ‘Did that PNC check you wanted: John Skinner, fourteen Buchanan Street, Kincorth. Married, two kids. Conviction for speeding eighteen months ago. Drives a dark blue BMW M5, registration number X—’

‘Who cares what he drives?’ Logan slumped further in his seat. ‘We’re not setting up a lookout request, Constable. We know fine well where he is.’

Pink bloomed on Guthrie’s cheeks. ‘Sorry, Guv.’ He shuffled his feet a bit. ‘Anyway, couple of people at the scene got the whole thing on their phones, you want to see the footage?’

‘I caught the live show, I really don’t need to see the action replay.’

‘Oh...’

Steel polished off the last of her buttie, then sooked the sauce and flour off her fingers. ‘Well, if you minions of CID will forgive me, I’ve got to go do some proper grown-up police work. Got a serial rapist on the books.’ She stood and stretched, arms up, exposing a semicircle of pale stomach. Then slumped a bit. Had a scratch at one boob. ‘Still hungry though.’

Guthrie pointed at his own cheek. ‘You’ve got tomato sauce, right here.’

‘Thanks.’ She wiped it off with a thumb. ‘And as a reward, you can get your pasty backside over to Buchanan Street, let the Merry Widow know her bloke’s died of cobblestone poisoning. Offer her a shoulder to cry on — perchance a quickie, or kneetrembler up against the tumble drier — then wheech her down the mortuary to ID the body.’

Logan gritted his teeth. ‘Do you have to be so bloody—’

‘Oh come off it, Laz — the boy Skinner topped himself , no one made him do it. He jumped, leaving a wife and two wee kiddies to cope with the sticky aftermath. What kind of selfish scumbag does that?’ Steel hoiked up her trousers. ‘It’s always some poor cow that’s left picking up the pieces.’

And that’s exactly what the Scenes Examination Branch had to do. Pick up the pieces before the seagulls got their beaks into what was left spread across the cobbles of Exchequer Row.

‘... so I wondered if there was any news.’ Logan paused in the middle of the corridor, one hand on the door through to the main CID office.

A sigh came from the mobile’s earpiece. ‘I’m sorry, Mr McRae, but Mr and Mrs Moore feel it’s not really big enough for them.’

‘Oh.’ His shoulders dipped an inch. He cleared his throat. ‘Any other viewings coming up?’

‘Sorry. Mrs Denis called to cancel Wednesday. They’ve bought a new-build out by Inverurie instead. The market isn’t all that buoyant for one-bedroom flats right now.’

Great. Just — sodding — great.

‘Yeah, thanks anyway.’ The line went dead and he slipped the phone back in his pocket.

Eighteen months, and they’d achieved exactly bugger all.

He deflated a little further, then thunked his forehead off the CID door three times.

No reply. So Logan let himself in.

The main CID office wasn’t anywhere near as big as the one they’d shared before the change to Police Scotland: no big fancy flatscreen TV for briefings; no sink for making tea and coffee; no vending machine full of crisps, chocolate, and energy drinks. Instead, it was barely large enough to squeeze in four desks — one on each wall — and a pair of whiteboards covered in low-level crimes and lower-level criminals. A motley patchwork of manky carpet tiles clung to the concrete floor. Ceiling tiles stained like a toddler’s nappy. Ancient computers with flickering screens.

Even the filing cabinets looked depressed.

Logan wandered over to one of them and checked the kettle perched on top: half empty. He stuck it on to boil. ‘Where’s everyone?’

DS Baird looked up from her screen. Pulled the earbuds out. ‘Sorry, Guv?’ Her short blonde hair formed random spikes on top of a rectangular face with heavy eyebrows. A pair of thick-framed glasses in black magnified her eyes to twice the size they should have been. Her smile was like a wee shiny gift. ‘Coffee with two, if you’re making.’

He pulled two mugs out of the top drawer. ‘Where’s Stoney and Wheezy Doug?’

She pointed at one of the empty desks. ‘DC “couldn’t find his own backside with both hands” Stone’s off trying to find who’s been vandalizing cars in Mannofield, and DC “just as useless” Andrews is off taking witness statements for that fire-raising at the Garthdee Asda.’

‘You going to forgive them any time soon?’

‘No. You need something?’

‘Just interested.’ The kettle rumbled to a boil.

‘Hear you caught a jumper this afternoon.’ Creases appeared between those thick black eyebrows. ‘Well, not “caught” caught, but you know what I mean.’

‘Guthrie’s delivering the death message.’

A nod. ‘I hate doing suicides. Don’t mind telling someone their loved one’s died in a car crash, or an accident, or they’ve been stabbed, but suicides...’ Baird shuddered. ‘It’s the look of betrayal, you know?’

Logan dug a spoon into the coffee, breaking the kitty-litter clumps back into their individual grains. ‘How many times do I have to tell people not to put damp spoons in the jar?’

‘Like you’re making it up to spite them.’ A sigh. ‘Can’t really blame the family, though, can you?’

The office phone rang, and she picked it up. ‘CID: DS Baird.’ Then her expression curdled. ‘Not again... Really?... Uh-huh...’

Two sugars in one mug, milk in the other.