Stuart MacBride - 22 Dead Little Bodies

The door swung shut, leaving Logan alone with the security guard.

She spooled the footage backwards, following the tow truck from camera to camera. ‘So, what’s this bloke supposed to have done?’

‘Killed himself.’

‘Poor wee soul.’

‘But he killed his wife and kids first.’

The old lady pouted for a moment, then nodded. ‘Well, in that case, however he committed suicide, I hope it bloody well hurt.’

Logan marched across the tarmac, mobile to his ear. ‘I don’t care if she’s got an audience with the Queen’s proctologist, get her on the phone. Now.’

‘Oh dear...’ A deep breath from PC Guthrie, then there was a thunk. A scuffing noise. And the crackle of feet hurrying down stairs.

Abertow’s vehicle impound yard sat on the edge of the industrial estate in Altens. Rows of confiscated vehicles sat behind high chainlink fencing. Razorwire curled in glinting coils along the top. Big yellow warning signs hung every dozen feet or so, boasting about dirty big dogs patrolling the place. Should have been one about the seagulls too. They screeched and crawed in wheeling hordes, a couple of them squabbling across the top of a Nissan Micra that had been liberally spattered a stinking grey.

‘Yeah, some people just couldn’t give a toss.’ The large man in the orange overalls tucked his hands into his pockets, the added strain threatening to burst the outfit apart at the groin. He pulled his huge round shoulders up towards his ears. Sunlight sparkled off his shaved head. ‘It wasn’t really parked, more like abandoned. Right in front of the emergency exit too. What if there’d been a fire?’ A sniff. ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?’

Another thunk from the phone, then three knocks. Guthrie was barely audible. ‘He’s going to kill me...’

What sounded like a door opening. Then a cold voice, slightly muffled by distance. ‘This better be important, Constable.’ Napier.

Baird snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, then ripped open the evidence bag with John Skinner’s keys in it. The plastic fob for the BMW was cracked and stained with blobs of cherry red.

Guthrie cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, sir. But I need to get a message to the Chief Inspector. Ma’am? It’s DI McRae, says it’s urgent.’

Baird pointed the fob at the car and pressed the button. Nothing happened.

Napier didn’t sound impressed. ‘Constable, I think you’ll find—’

‘Sunshine!’ Steel’s smoky growl got louder. ‘I take back nearly everything I said about that lumpy misshapen head of yours. That for me? Come on then, give.’ A crackle as the phone was handed over.

Baird shook the keys and tried again. Still nothing.

‘Detective Chief Inspector I must insist—’

‘Don’t think I’m no’ enjoying our wee chat, sir, but operational priorities and all that.’

Baird gave up on the fob and stuck the key in the lock instead. Clunk . The central locking kicked in.

And Steel was full volume. ‘Who dares interrupt my meeting with the glorious head of Professional Standards?’

‘It’s—’

‘What’s that? It’s an emergency? Dear God... No, don’t worry: I’ll be right there.’ A sigh. Then the sound became muffled, as if she was holding the phone against her chest. ‘Sorry, sir, much though I’d love to stay and chat, I gotta go. But we’ll always have Paris!’ The sound of Steel’s boots clacking up the corridor, reverberated out of the phone. Making good her escape. ‘Laz, what the hell took you so long?’

‘We’ve found John Skinner’s car. He dumped it in the Loch Street car park and it got towed Saturday afternoon.’

‘It got towed?’ Some swearing rattled down the line. ‘You tell those Automatic Number Plate Recognition idiots I’m going to bury my boot in their bumholes right up to the laces. They were supposed to check!’

Baird ducked into the car and had a rummage in the BMW’s footwells.

‘Not their fault. The ANPR camera on George Street only gets traffic coming toward it. The tow truck was in the way.’

‘Sod... Any clue where he dumped the kids?’

‘Searching the car now. We need to get the SEB up here. See if they can pull fingerprints, or fibres, or something. Maybe get some soil off the floormats and wheech it off to Dr Frampton for analysis? See if she can ID where it came from.’

‘Gah.’ A click, then a sooking sound. ‘Going to cost a fortune, but it’s two wee kids we’re talking about. If the boss wants to moan about budgets he can pucker up and smooch my bumhole.’

Baird stood upright. Shook her head. ‘Sorry, Guv. Loads of bloodstains and empty sweetie wrappers in there, but nothing obvious.’

Back to the phone. ‘You hear that?’

‘I’ll scramble the Smurfs. And—’

‘Guv?’ A crease appeared between Baird’s eyebrows. She pointed at the boot.

‘—you to make sure everyone keeps schtum. I don’t want—’

Logan squatted down and peered at the boot lid. A scattering of dark-red fingerprints marked the paintwork beneath the dust. A palm print in the middle, where you’d lean on it to slam it shut. He held his hand out. ‘Give me the keys.’

‘Keys? What keys? What are you talking about?’

Baird pulled off one of her gloves and turned it inside out over the BMW’s fob, sealing it away. Then handed it over.

‘Laz? What’s going on?’

‘Shut up a minute.’ He placed his phone on the ground and put the key into the boot lock. Or tried to. There was something in the slot already — a wedge of metal, the end matt and ragged, as if someone had snapped a key off in there.

Making sure it couldn’t be opened.

Oh sodding hell...

He looked up at Baird and tried to keep his voice level. ‘There’ll be a boot release in the car. Hit it.’

She stared at the boot. Then at him. Then the boot again. ‘You don’t think...’ Baird grimaced. Then scrambled around to the driver’s side and ducked in. A dull clunk came from the mechanism, but the boot remained firmly shut. ‘Anything?’

‘Try again.’

‘Come on you little...’

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk .

Still nothing.

The big guy in the too tight overalls sniffed. ‘Got a crowbar if you need it?’

‘Thanks.’ Logan picked up the phone as the yard supervisor lumbered off towards a bright-yellow Portakabin festooned with the Abertow logo. ‘There’s something in the boot.’

‘What?’

‘If I knew that I would have said.’

‘Don’t you get snippy with me, you wee—’

‘Here.’ Mr Overalls was back, carrying a long black crowbar covered in scars. He offered it to Baird, then hesitated, hand still wrapped around it. ‘Here, do I need to see a warrant or something? You know, if you damage the guy’s car—’

‘He can sue me.’ Baird pulled the crowbar out of Mr Overalls’s hand. ‘Might want to stand back, Guv.’

On the other end of the phone, Steel was shouting at someone to get the Scenes Examination Branch up to Altens ASAP, followed by various invasive rectal threats involving her boot, fist, and a filing cabinet.

Baird wedged the curved end of the crowbar in under the lip of the boot. ‘One, two, three.’ She humphed her weight down on the end. Creak. Groan . A squeal of buckling metal. Then pop and the boot lid sprang open.

The crowbar clattered to the tarmac.

Everyone stepped forward and stared down into the boot.

Then the smell hit. Rancid, cloying, sharp. It dug its hooks into the back of Logan’s throat, clenched his stomach, curdled in his lungs.