Stuart MacBride - 22 Dead Little Bodies

‘Marion Black, I am detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Procedure — Scotland — Act 1995, because I suspect you of having committed an offence punishable by imprisonment: namely the murder by stabbing of Justin Robson.’

‘It’s pathetic, isn’t it? All this stuff. All that money. And what good did it do him?’

‘You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say will be noted down and may be used in evidence. Stand up, please.’

She unfolded herself from the couch. Rubbed each thumb along the tips of her filthy fingers. Caught, literally, red-handed. A frown. ‘I’m glad he’s dead.’ Then the smile was back. ‘Now I can sleep.’

Steel stood on her tiptoes and peered over Logan’s shoulder into the interview room. ‘She cop to it?’

‘Yes and no.’ He eased the door closed, leaving Mrs Black alone with DS Baird and the PC from the house. ‘We’ve got her on BWV admitting she killed him, but in there? She “can’t remember”. She’s “confused”. And now she’s decided she does want a lawyer after all.’

‘Gah...’ Steel’s face soured. ‘Want to bet whatever slimy git she gets will tell her to no comment all day, then aim for a diminished responsibility in court tomorrow morning?’ Steel went in for a dig at an underwire. ‘No’ saying I wouldn’t buy it, mind. She’s off her sodding rocker.’

‘She’s off her face too. Had pupils the size of doorknobs when we picked her up.’ Which was kind of ironic, given her obsession with Robson being a drug dealer. ‘Odds on it’s antidepressants.’

‘Five quid says she cops a plea, gets three or four years in a secure psychiatric facility. Out in two.’

‘Ever wonder why we bother?’ He tucked the manila folder under his arm and started down the corridor. ‘What’s the news with Heidi and Toby Skinner? Search turn up anything?’

‘Maybe we could get someone to section her? Indefinitely detained in a nice squishy room with a cardie that buckles up the back.’

‘He must’ve parked that damn car somewhere.’

Steel gave up on the underwire and had a dig at the bit in the middle instead. ‘Can’t be hard getting a shrink to say she’s a danger to herself and others, can it? No’ with three pints of Justin Robson’s blood caked under her fingernails.’

‘I was thinking — the big car parks have ANPR systems, don’t they? In case you do a runner without paying, they can track you through your number plate.’

‘We could get your mate Goulding to section her, assuming he’s finished stuffing Professor Marks like a sock puppet. Pervy wee sod that he is.’

Logan frowned. ‘Goulding or Marks?’

‘Bit of both.’ She blew out a breath and sagged against the corridor wall. ‘You want to know what we’ve got on the hunt for Skinner’s kids? Sod all, that’s what. Even with a massive search, there’s no sign of the car anywhere. No one’s seen it or the kids.’ She covered her face with her hands, fingertips rubbing away at her temples. ‘McHardy was right — they’re dead, aren’t they? Don’t get them in the first twenty-four hours: they’re dead. And it’s been three days.’

‘We’ll find them. And we’ll find them alive . All we need’s one—’

A clipped voice cut through the corridor: ‘Ah, there you are.’ A cold smile followed the words, attached to an utter bastard in Police ninja black. Chief Superintendent Napier. His brogues were polished to dark mirrors, one pip and a crown glowing on his epaulettes. His hair glowed too, a fiery ginger that caught the overhead lighting like a Tesla coil. Napier spread his hands. ‘And if it isn’t Acting Detective Inspector McRae as well. Just the officers I need to talk to.’

Oh great.

Steel took a deep breath and held it.

Logan poked her. ‘If it didn’t work on the apprentice, it’s not going to work on the Sith Lord, is it?’

A frown creased Napier’s forehead. ‘Sith...?’

She puffed out the air. ‘This about Justin Robson?’

The smile widened and chilled. ‘Indeed it is, Chief Inspector. Tell you what, why don’t we start with you, and then move on to Acting Detective Inspector McRae? Call it privilege of rank.’

Some privilege. But Logan wasn’t about to volunteer to go first.

He backed away down the corridor. ‘Right. I’d... better get on with that investigation, then.’

Nice and slow to the corner, then run for it.

Logan wandered up the pavement, away from the knot of smokers kippering each other outside the Bon Accord Centre’s George Street entrance. The ribbed, concrete, Seventies lump of John Lewis squatted in the sunlight like a big grey wart, facing off against a row of charity shops, a supermarket, and a pawnbroker’s with ideas above its station.

He stuck a finger in his other ear, to shut out the wails of a passing toddler. ‘You’re sure? Twenty grand?’

‘I know, it’s marvellous, isn’t it? He’s starting a property portfolio and thinks your flat’s an excellent rental prospect. And the offer’s unconditional. He’s paying cash: we don’t even need to do another Home Report!’ Marjory sounded as if she was about to pop the champagne. Eighteen months on the market, and it was going for twenty thousand over the asking price. Willkie and Oxford would probably give her a badge. And a hat. ‘So, shall I tell him...?’

‘It’s a deal.’ An extra twenty grand would make a huge amount of difference.

‘Wonderful. I’ll get the paperwork drawn up and pop it in the post—’

‘Actually, I can probably nip by and sign it. Get the ball rolling.’ Before Mr Property Portfolio changed his mind. Or sobered up.

‘Even better. Should be ready for you by lunchtime. We can—’

Logan walked away a couple of paces and lowered his voice. ‘What about the moving date?’

‘Well, standard terms are four weeks, but we can probably stretch that to a month and a half if you need time to—’

‘No, I mean does it have to be that long? Can we make it a week, or ten days, or something?’ Ten days — it’d be cutting it close, but at least he’d be able to afford the phase-one payment for Samantha’s place at the care centre.

‘Well, it’s unusual, but I can try.’

‘Please.’ Logan waited till she’d hung up, then had a quick look around to make sure no one was watching before doing a little happy dance. Straightened his tie. Wandered back to the entrance and nodded at DS Baird. ‘We good?’

She had one last sook on her cigarette, then nipped the end out and dumped it in the bin. ‘Ahhh... I needed that.’

Logan pointed over her shoulder. ‘Let me guess, Wheezy?’

Wheezy Doug paced the pavement in front of John Lewis, on his phone, head down, brow furrowed.

‘Not this time.’ She shook her head, then dug in a pocket for a packet of mints. ‘Police Constable Allan “Sunshine” Guthrie. Got stuck with him for three hours this morning. I swear to God, Guv, if I hear the story of how he had a threesome with the cast of Snow White one more time, I’m going to kill him.’

‘Understandable.’

Baird shuddered. ‘I mean, can you imagine it?’

‘Rather not.’

Wheezy Doug got to the end of the kerb and stopped, head bowed over his phone, eyes screwed up. Then there was swearing and coughing. A gobbet of phlegm hit the gutter.

Baird shook her head. ‘It’s a miracle he’s not been invalided out yet.’

Logan stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Steel thinks the kids are dead. We’re looking for bodies.’

‘Probably. You know what these selfish wee gits are like. Kills the wife, kills the kids, kills himself. If he’s going to die, the rest of them have to too.’ Her top lip curled. ‘How could they possibly live without him?’