Stuart MacBride - 22 Dead Little Bodies

She thumped him on the arm. ‘Soppy git.’ Then sniffed. ‘Well, suppose I better get back to it. Got a rapist to catch.’

Logan followed her out onto the landing, then pulled the door shut with his foot. The Yale lock clunked. And that was it. No more flat.

Steel thumped down the stairs.

Look on the bright side: at least now he could pay for Samantha’s care.

Deep breath.

He nodded, then followed her. ‘Any closer to catching the scumbag who killed Gordy Taylor?’

‘Pfff... I wish. No’ exactly doing my crime figures any good. Nearly a fortnight, and sod all progress.’ They got to the bottom and she held the building’s front door open. Then screwed up one side of her face. ‘Sodding hell. Going to get soaked.’

Rain bounced back from the grey pavement, darkened the granite tenement walls of Marischal Street. Ran in a river down the steep hill, fed by the overflowing gutters.

The removal van was parked right outside, the back door open as Duncan strapped the fridge-freezer to the wall.

Steel stayed where she was, on the threshold just out of the rain. Pulled a face, then dug into her coat and pulled out a copy of that morning’s Aberdeen Examiner . A picture took up half of the front page — a smart young man, standing to attention, with medals on his chest and a beret on his head. ‘WAR HERO “LET DOWN BY POLICE” SAY GRIEVING PARENTS’

She gave it a wee shake as rain drops sank into the newsprint. ‘Apparently it’s our fault he ended up dead behind the bins. Well, us and those shiftless sods in Social Services. Oh, and the NHS. Don’t want to be greedy and claim all the guilt for ourselves.’

‘What were we supposed to do?’

‘Every morning it’s like waking up and going for a sodding smear test.’ She produced her phone and poked at the screen with a thumb. ‘I’ve had two reviews, three “consultancy” sessions with a smug git from Tulliallan, supervisory oversight from Finnie and Big Tony Campbell, and we’re no closer than we were when Gordy turned up dead behind the bins. Rennie’s latest theory is we’ve got a serial killer stalking the streets, knocking off tramps.’

‘Well...’ A frown. ‘He could be right, I suppose. Maybe?’

‘After a heavy night on the Guinness — with a dodgy kebab, a box of Liquorice Allsorts, and a bag of dried prunes — I’d still trust a fart before I’d trust one of Rennie’s theories. My bet? Gordy fell out with one of his mates and they poisoned him.’ She hoiked up her trousers. ‘That, or the silly sod thought rat poison would be a great way to get high...’ Steel frowned at her phone. ‘Buggering hell.’ She held it out. ‘Speaking of DS Useless, look at that.’

Guv. We got anuthr vctim 4U @ Cults.

U cming Ovr??

Wnt me 2 snd U a car??!?

‘I swear, his spelling’s getting worse.’ She thumbed out a reply. ‘You sure you don’t want me to transfer him back to CID? Be a valuable addition to your team.’

‘Bye.’ Logan squeezed past her into the rain. Hurried around to the back of the removal van and handed the box of books up to Duncan. ‘That’s the lot, we’re done.’

‘Good stuff.’ He put it with the others, strapped it into place, then hopped down to the ground and hauled the rolling door shut. ‘Right. See you over there.’

Logan stepped back onto the pavement. Gave the van a quick wave as it pulled away from the kerb and grumbled its way up the hill.

Rain seeped into the shoulders of his sweatshirt.

Well, that was that then. Fourteen years in the same flat. A stone’s throw from Divisional Headquarters, two bakers, three chip shops, and loads of good pubs. And now he’d have to fight his way around the sodding Haudagain Roundabout at least twice a day. Oh joy of joys. It was—

‘Mr McRae?’

He turned, and there was Marjory from the solicitors, sheltering beneath a golf umbrella with the firm’s name plastered around the outside.

Logan dug into his pocket and came out with the flat’s keys. ‘Was on my way up to see you.’

She smiled her fake smile. ‘That’s very kind, but at Willkie and Oxford we want to make everything as easy as possible for you.’ She held out her hand, palm up.

Fourteen years.

He passed her the keys.

‘Excellent. Thank you.’ She turned and waved at an Audi TT, parked a little bit up the hill. ‘I’ll give these to Mr Urquhart, and we’re all done. Congratulations, Mr McRae, I hope you’ll be very happy in your new home. And if you ever decide to sell it, I do hope you’ll think of Willkie and Oxford.’ One last go on the smile, then she marched up to the Audi.

The driver buzzed open the window and she bent down, had a brief chat, handed over the keys, shook his hand, then marched off towards Union Street.

Ah well, might as well head over to the caravan and get unpacking.

He unlocked his manky old Renault Clio. Pot plants and picture frames filled the back, but a large cat-carrier sat on the passenger seat — the seatbelt threaded through the handle on the top, bungee cords securing the whole thing into place.

Cthulhu pressed up against the carrier’s door and yowled, a pitiful wailing noise that sank its claws in his chest. Her fur poked out through the bars in grey and brown tufts, one paw scratching at the hinge.

‘I know, shhh... We’ll be in our new home soon, I promise.’ He slipped a finger between the bars and stroked her on the head. ‘Shhh... it’s OK. Daddy’s here.’

There was a brief honk, and Logan peered out through the rain-rippled windscreen. The Audi had pulled into the space where the removal van used to be. Its driver grinned and waved at him.

The guy looked familiar. No idea why, though.

Logan gave Cthulhu another stroke. ‘Wait here, Daddy will only be a minute.’

He climbed back out into the rain and closed the door on her tortured wails.

Mr Audi stepped out and popped a collapsible brolly up above his head. Expensive-looking black suit, lemon shirt open at the neck, neat brown hair, flashy stainless-steel watch. Couldn’t have been much more than twenty, twenty-five tops. Little pockmarks covered both cheeks, the ghosts of acne past. He stuck out his hand. ‘Mr McRae, no’ seen you for ages, yeah?’

OK...

Logan took the proffered hand and shook it. Tilted his head to one side. Nope, still no idea. ‘Mr Urquhart?’

He grinned again, showing off small white teeth separated by little gaps. ‘It’s the hair, isn’t it? Finally grew out of dying it green. You like the suit?’ He did a little catwalk two-step. ‘Got it made special like.’

Green hair?

No. Couldn’t be.

Logan squinted at him. ‘Wait a minute. Urquhart. Jonny Urquhart?’

‘Bingo!’ He stuck a thumb up.

Oh sodding hell. No, no, no, no, no...

‘You bought my flat ?’

‘Yeah.’ He glanced up at the building. ‘Cool, isn’t it? Starting my own property empire. Mr Mowat says a man’s got to put down proper business roots in the community.’

Christ. What if Professional Standards found out?

What if Napier found out he’d sold his flat to someone who worked for Wee Hamish Mowat, Aberdeen’s biggest bloody crime lord? And if that wasn’t bad enough, that they’d paid twenty thousand pounds over the asking price. Twenty thousand sodding pounds.

Logan took a couple steps away, then back again. ‘You can’t buy my flat! What the hell were you thinking?’

Jonny Urquhart’s eyebrows went up. ‘Eh? Steady on, it’s win-win, right?’

‘Win-win? WIN-WIN?’ He threw his arms out. ‘DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW THIS LOOKS ?’

‘Don’t worry: the money’s clean. Laundered to a crisp and shiny white.’ He placed a hand against his chest, fingers spread, as if he was about to pledge allegiance to something. ‘Mr Mowat gives me a bonus for my loyal service. You get your flat sold. And your girlfriend gets to go to a nice private hospital with excellent facilities. Win-win-win.’