Stuart MacBride - 22 Dead Little Bodies

‘Thinking.’ Logan tapped the fingers of his free hand along the top of the steering wheel. ‘What if DCI Steel’s right, and Gordy did poison himself? Just not on purpose. He thinks his ship’s come in — a whole litre of whisky, all to himself. So he crawls off behind the bins and swigs it down. But he doesn’t know it’s laced with bromadiolone.’

Someone behind leaned on their horn, and Logan looked up to see a four car-length gap between himself and the Nissan in front. Another bleeeeeeeeeep .

Impatient git.

Logan eased forward into the space. ‘Did you get any prints off the bottle?’

‘What bottle?’

‘The bottle of whisky Gordy drank: did you get fingerprints?’

‘There wasn’t one. Don’t think so, anyway.’ The rattle of fingers on a keyboard sounded in the background. ‘Nothing got signed into evidence.’

They’d finally reached the corner where the Parkway turned downhill towards the Persley roundabout. The traffic snaked away in a solid ribbon ahead, trapped single-file by the double white lines protecting the overtaking lane on the other side of the road. And once he’d managed to fight his way through all this, there would be the Haudagain. And then Anderson Drive to traverse. At rush hour. It would take hours.

Maybe not though.

A patrol car was coming the other way, up the hill. He flashed his lights at it, leaned on his horn... but they drove right past. Didn’t even clock him on his mobile phone. Lazy sods.

‘Wheezy, I need you to get onto Control, tell them...’

Blue lights flickered in his rearview mirror. The patrol car was doing a three-point turn.

‘Guv?’

‘Never mind. Meet me where they found the body, and make sure you bring some photos of Gordy Taylor with you.’

The patrol car pulled up alongside, lights flickering. The officer in the passenger seat wound down his window. ‘Sir, do you know it’s an offence to use your mobile phone while—’

‘Murder enquiry.’ Logan flashed his warrant card. ‘Get the blues-and-twos on. You’re escorting me to Harlaw Road.’ Nothing happened. ‘ Now , Constable.’

The officer blinked a couple of times. ‘Yes, Guv.’

And they were off: siren roaring, lights blazing, carving a path through the oncoming traffic with Logan’s manky old Clio puttering along behind.

‘And they searched all round here?’ Logan pointed at the bushes behind and on either side of the council’s communal bins.

Wheezy nodded, rain drumming on the skin of his black umbrella. ‘Far as I know. Got a couple of condoms and some litter, but that was it.’

No empty whisky bottle.

Harlaw Road huddled beneath the slate-grey sky, all the colours muted by the downpour. The patrol car sat at the kerb, blue-and-whites spinning. A few of the residents stood in their front rooms, ogling out at the spectacle. But none felt the need to step out into the wet to satisfy their curiosity.

Logan brushed his hands on his jeans. ‘You’ve got the photos?’

Wheezy held them up. ‘We already did this, Guv.’

‘Then we’re doing it again, aren’t we?’ He led the way up the path to the house directly opposite where they’d found Gordy Taylor’s body. Leaned on the bell.

A tall woman, stooped forward by a rounding between her shoulder blades, peered out at them with sharp features. ‘Yes?’

Wheezy showed her two photos. One from way back, when Gordy was still in the army. A confident young man with a broad smile and shiny eyes, sitting on the bonnet of a military Land Rover. The other photo was from the ID database, the one they used to make books to show witnesses with a height chart in the background — long greasy hair and an unkempt beard, the shiny eyes turned narrow and suspicious, sunken into dark bags. ‘You seen this man?’

She barely glanced at the pictures — stared at the patrol car instead. ‘Do you have any idea what this is doing to property prices round here? Dead bodies, policemen, journalists .’ The last word was pronounced as if it smelled of raw sewage.

Wheezy tried again. ‘Have you seen him?’

‘ Yes , I recognize him. He was the dead tramp they found over there. His face was in the papers. Now if there’s nothing else, I’ve got to get the dinner on.’

Logan stepped a bit closer. The porch was tiny, but it kept some of rain off his head. ‘Take another look.’

She shook her head, setting a severe brown bob wobbling. ‘Don’t need to. It was horrible. I mean the smell, and the shouting, and oh, my God , the singing. Well, if you could call that singing, I certainly couldn’t. It was like someone drowning parrots in the bath, it really was, and the language ! Don’t speak to me about the language he used.’ She sniffed. Snuck a glance at the patrol car. Lowered her voice. ‘I know we’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but he made life unbearable for everyone. I mean, there are people here with small children! Well, it’s not wholesome, is it?’

The man in the suit frowned at the photos in Wheezy’s hand for a bit, then nodded. ‘It’s that poor sod, isn’t it? The one who drank himself to death behind the bins.’ A tut.

A wee voice sounded in the hallway behind him. ‘Daddy, you’re missing Peppa Pig !’

He turned. ‘I’ll be there in a minute, darling. Daddy’s speaking to the nice policemen right now.’ And back to Logan. ‘It’s a terrible thing, isn’t it? Of course, I blame society. These people don’t need Care in the Community, they need proper medical help...’

The woman blinked a couple of times, brushed a strand of grey hair away from her face. Then pulled on her glasses and had a good squint at the photographs, deepening the lines around her eyes. ‘Oh dear. He was such a wholesome looking young man.’ She took off her glasses and let them dangle on the chain around her neck. Then stared back at Logan. ‘I’m so sorry. I really am.’

She didn’t glance over his shoulder at the patrol car with its spinning lights. Kept her eyes on Logan instead.

He tilted his head to one side. Why did she look familiar?

Right — she was the nosy old bat pretending to prune her rosebush the first time he was there. The one with the double-glazing van parked outside. The one who’d called the police to complain about Gordy Taylor three times in one week.

‘You weren’t very happy about him being here, were you, Mrs...?’

‘Please, call me Olivia.’ A blink. ‘And no, I wasn’t really. Would you be?’

Logan pulled on his brightest smile. ‘Sorry to bother you, Olivia, but is there any chance my Detective Constable could use your toilet? Standing out in the rain, you know how it is.’

She moved to block the door. Then pursed her lips. And pulled on a smile of her own. ‘No, of course. Do come in.’ She backed away, top lip curling slightly as Logan and Wheezy Doug stepped over the threshold and dripped on the polished floorboards. ‘First on the right.’

The hallway was beige, with a smattering of photographs and a framed poster advertising a railway journey from the fifties. Panel doors. A dado rail.

Wheezy excused himself and squeezed past, into the downstairs loo.

Logan gave it a pause, then clapped his hands together. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance of a cup of tea as well?’

The smile brittled. ‘Of course. Where are my manners.’

She led him through to an immaculate kitchen. More beige. A large, stripy, ginger cat lay full length along the radiator, tail twitching. The cat turned and peered at him with emerald eyes.

Logan closed the kitchen door. ‘Lovely home you have here.’