Stuart MacBride - 22 Dead Little Bodies

‘Oh God...’

He was screwed. Completely and utterly screwed .

First would come the investigation. Then the accusations. Then the recriminations. Prosecution. And eight to twelve years in Glenochil Prison with all the other bribe-taking dodgy police officers.

Oh God.

Logan closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall. ‘Brilliant.’ He gave it a little thump. Then a harder one. ‘Sodding — bloody — brilliant.’ Banging his head with every word.

Samantha’s static caravan had developed its familiar peppery soil-and-dust scent again. The smell of mil-dew and neglect. Served him right for not coming down here and airing it out more often. Boxes filled the living room and the bedroom. More piled up in the tiny galley kitchen, with the mouse droppings. Green-brown slime growing in the shower cabinet and across the bathroom tiles. A lovely view across the river to the sewage treatment plant.

Welcome home.

But it was better than a cell.

Cthulhu clearly didn’t agree. Her cat carrier sat on the couch, amongst the pot plants, and she glowered out from its depths. Refusing to come out.

Logan let out a long, rattling breath.

Might be a good idea to head over to the B&Q in Bridge of Don and see if they had any anti-mildew paint, maybe a dehumidifier. And something to take away the smell .

And maybe just enough rope to hang himself.

‘... because we’ve got hundreds of bargains, bargains, bargains!’ Whoever was on the store’s PA system, they needed battering over the head with a lump-hammer. Then stuffed in a sack with a couple of breezeblocks and dumped in the River Don. ‘There’s massive savings on tiles and laminate in our flooring department, right now!’

Logan drifted along the aisle, hunched over his trolley. Phone to his ear, staring down at the three pots of paint, set of brushes, roller, and paint tray in there. ‘There’s no way? You’re sure? I mean, a hundred percent positive?’

On the other end, Marjory sighed again. ‘Mr McRae, we’ve been over this. Missives have been exchanged, money’s changed hands. You signed the contract. You’ve handed over the keys. That’s it done.’

‘But... there has to be a loophole, or something. People wriggle out of contracts all the time.’ He turned the corner, slouching his trolley past burglar alarms and home CCTV systems. ‘I checked with my bank, the cash hasn’t come through yet, so he hasn’t—’

‘Mr Urquhart paid cash: it’s in our account. And as we’re your legal representatives, the minute that money hit our bank account it’s deemed to be paid to you. There’s nothing you can do.’ A sigh. ‘Now, I’m really going to have to go. The money will be in your account, less our fee, as soon as your bank clears our cheque. Goodbye, Mr McRae.’

And she hung up on him. Unbelievable.

The CCTV systems gave way to locks and bolts. Then padlocks. Then chains and ropes. For all your wholesale bondage-dungeon needs.

Napier was bound to find out.

Then Logan would be screwed.

And probably in for a spanking.

He stopped. Stared at the paint. Swore .

It’d take at least three days for the solicitor’s cheque to clear. Plus the ten days they’d already taken...

Oh sodding hell. And it was Friday. So the useless greedy sods at the bank wouldn’t do anything about it till Monday.

Which would be fifteen days, in total, since Dr Berrisford at Newtonmyre Specialist Care Centre said he’d keep Samantha’s bed open for two weeks.

Sodding, buggering, bloody hell.

He pulled out his phone and called Directory Enquiries. Got them to put him through to the centre. Maybe Dr Berrisford would give him a little leeway? He only needed a day. Twenty-four hours. Surely they could do that.

The phone rang.

Logan pushed his trolley around the corner, into an aisle lined on either side with hardware. Hammers. Pliers. Screwdrivers.

Still ringing.

A chirpy voice: ‘Newtonmyre Specialist Care Centre, how can I help you today?’

‘I need to speak to Dr Berrisford. It’s Logan McRae.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, but Dr Berrisford has gone home for the weekend. Would you like to leave a message?’

‘Yes. Tell him...’ Logan stared at the claw-hammers. ‘Tell him I’ll put the cheque for phase one in the post tomorrow. You should get it on Monday.’ After all, it would take their bank three days to clear it as well, wouldn’t it?

‘That’s lovely. You have a good weekend, Mr McRae.’

‘You too.’ He hung up.

Oh — thank — God. They’d take the cheque, Samantha could go into the care centre, everything would be fine.

All that panic, and there was nothing to worry about.

Clunk .

Logan’s trolley jerked in his hand as someone collided into it. He looked up to apologize, even though he’d been standing perfectly still, and froze.

The man was huge, tall and wide, hands like bear-paws wrapped around his trolley’s handle. Face a mixture of scar tissue and fat, stitched together by a patchy beard. A nose that was little more than a gristly stump. He pulled on a piranha smile. ‘Well, well, well. Look who the cat coughed up.’

Logan swallowed. Stood up straight, shoulders back. ‘Reuben.’

He’d lost a bit of weight since last time — but not enough to shrink that massive frame — and ditched his usual grubby overalls for a dark-grey suit. Blood-red shirt. No tie. ‘Fancy running into you here. What are the chances, eh?’

Logan didn’t move.

‘Aye, well, maybe no’ such a coincidence after all.’ He reached out and plucked a crowbar from the rack beside him. Shifted his grip, then smacked the chunk of metal down into the palm of his other hand. ‘What with me following you and everything.’

‘Why?’

‘See, I don’t need to worry about you, do I?’ Smack . ‘Don’t need to worry about you at all.’ Smack .

Don’t back off. Don’t stare at the crowbar. ‘Really.’

Reuben’s trolley was stacked with rubble sacks. Duct tape. A bow saw. A hand axe. A box of compost accelerant. And a shovel. The smile graduated from piranha to great white. ‘See, if you try to move against me —’ smack , ‘— try to take what’s mine —’ smack , ‘— I’m no’ gonnae bother ripping your arms and legs off.’ Smack . ‘No’ gonnae haul out your teeth and cut off your tongue.’ Smack . ‘Gouge out your eyes. Nah. Don’t have to do any of that.’

There was something worse?

Reuben winked. ‘All I’ve got to do, is clype.’

Something dark spread its claws through Logan’s chest. ‘Clype?’

‘Oh aye.’ He placed the crowbar in his trolley. ‘What, you think Jonny came up with the idea to buy your flat all on his own ?’ A laugh barked out of that scar-ringed mouth. ‘Nah. See, some people think I’m thick. Think I’m all about the violence and no’ so much the brainpower. The planning. Nah.’

Oh sodding hell. Sodding, buggering hell.

The claws dug in deeper.

‘See, McRae, I own you. Get in my way and I’ll squash you like a baby’s skull. When Mr Mowat passes, I’m stepping up. And then we can talk about what kinda favours you’re gonnae do me to stay out of jail.’ One last wink, then Reuben walked his trolley past. Whistling The Dam Busters theme tune.

Something happened to Logan’s knees. They didn’t want to hold him upright any more.

Reuben knew. Reuben .

No, no, no...

Oh God.

He rested his chest against the trolley’s handlebar. Let it take the weight for a bit. Closed his eyes.