Stuart MacBride - 22 Dead Little Bodies

‘Thank you.’ The kettle went on, and three china mugs appeared from a cupboard. ‘My Ronald was in the building trade for years, so we were able to get a lot of things done.’

A creak from outside, in the corridor. That would be Wheezy going for a poke about.

Logan raised his voice a bit to cover the noise. ‘I like the patio doors. Very stylish.’

The white PVC monstrosities overlooked a perfect lawn, lined with perfect bushes, and perfect apple trees groaning with fruit. A nice little seating area, with a wrought-iron table, four chairs, and a barbecue.

‘They’re French doors, not patio.’ She dumped teabags in the mugs. ‘Patio doors slide, French doors are hinged.’

‘My mistake.’ He tried the handle. They weren’t locked, so he pulled the door open, letting in the hiss of rain through the leaves. ‘Very swish. Look brand new.’

‘Yes, well.’ She curled her lip again. ‘We had to get them replaced.’

‘Ah, right.’ The only thing not perfect about the lawn was the pigeon staggering along the fenceline. One wing flapping, head lolling. ‘I saw the glazier’s van. Was it an accident?’

The kettle’s rumble hit its crescendo, then click , it fell silent.

Olivia brought her chin up. ‘Someone tried to break in.’

‘I see.’ He stepped over to the ginger cat and ran a hand along its back. The tail went straight up, then the cat hopped down from its radiator and sauntered towards the open French doors. Paused to stretch with its bum in the air. ‘Did you report anything? Any stolen property? Ooh, I don’t know... Sleeping pills, painkillers, big bottle of whisky — that kind of thing?’

Her back stiffened. ‘I don’t think I like your tone.’

Logan nodded toward the mugs. ‘Just milk for me, thank you. Detective Constable Andrews is milk and three: he’s got a sweet tooth.’

She put the kettle back on its base unit. ‘I think I’d like you to go now.’

‘What did you do with the empty whisky bottle?’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘No, let me guess: it went out with the recycling.’

The ginger cat slipped out into the rain and padded across the lawn, making straight for the struggling pigeon.

Colour rushed up Olivia’s cheeks. ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ She pushed past him, through the patio doors, sandals slapping on the wet paving slabs. ‘Paddington! You come back here this instant, young man!’

The cat didn’t seem to care. It hunkered down on its front legs, bum wiggling in the air, then pounced.

‘NO!’ Olivia lunged, but she was too slow to grab Paddington before he crashed his orange-stripy weight down on top of the pigeon. ‘Don’t you dare eat that!’

Logan stepped out into the garden as she wrestled the pigeon away from her cat.

‘Dirty! Bad Paddington!’

An outraged meow, then Paddington turned and stalked off to lurk under the bench by the back wall.

The pigeon may have been half-dead to begin with, but it was all-the-way dead now. It dangled in Olivia’s hands, head swaying on the end of its neck like a soggy pendulum.

‘Honestly.’ She glowered after the cat. ‘You know these make you sick.’ Then Olivia yanked the lid off the dustbin and dumped the dead little body inside. Clanged the lid shut again.

Logan stared at the bin.

Stacey looked up at him, still holding on to his arm. ‘If it was me, if I had a cat, I wouldn’t want poisoned mice staggering around the house looking to get caught and eaten. Would you?’

‘The pigeons make him sick?’

Olivia pulled her shoulders back. ‘That’s why I don’t let Paddington eat them. They’re foul little things; who knows where they’ve been?’ She sniffed. ‘Why those idiots next door insist on feeding them, is beyond me. They don’t even like pigeons.’

The idiots next door — Mr Sensitive, with his Peppa Pig obsessed little girl.

Logan crossed to the fence and peered into the adjoining garden.

A bird table poked out of the lawn. Not your standard wee house on a stick, this was a fancy wrought-iron thing with different levels, all suspended around a central pole. One layer had a wide, round base and a pitched roof over it to keep the bird feed dry. Whole wheat birdseed, from the look of it. Whole wheat and bright blue.

He turned and hurried back into the house. Banged his hand on the kitchen door as he barrelled through it. ‘WHEEZY! WE’VE GOT THE WRONG HOUSE!’

Logan leaned on the bell again while Wheezy dragged the two officers from the patrol car. One blinking and scrubbing at her face as if she’d been catching a nap in the passenger seat.

The door popped open, as they started up the path.

Mr Sensitive pulled on his smile. ‘Can I help you?’

Logan wedged his foot in the open door, stopping it from closing. Stared back. ‘We know.’

The smile slipped. Then fell. Mr Sensitive licked his lips. ‘Really? That’s...’ He cleared his throat. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Rat poison and whisky.’

A breath huffed out of him. Then he clicked his mouth shut. Blinked at the police officers looming in front of his house. Swallowed.

The same little voice sounded in the hall behind him. ‘Daddy, you’re missing it!’

Fingers trembled across his lips. ‘Oh God...’

‘Daddy!’

‘I think you’d better come with us, don’t you, sir?’

He closed his eyes and swore.

Mark Cameron stared down at his hands — coiled into claws on the interview room table. The skin nearly as pale as the white Formica top. ‘Does my daughter have to know?’

Logan shrugged. ‘Probably. It’s going to be in the papers. On the news. Someone will say something.’

A shudder. ‘I don’t want her to know.’

The camera lens stared down at them, the red light glaring in judgement.

‘Are you sure you don’t want a lawyer, Mark?’

A nod.

‘For the record, Mr Cameron is nodding his head.’

A deep breath, then he spread his claws. ‘That... man was hanging out on the street for days. Going through the bins. Shouting. Swearing. Singing. Then one day he pushed Jenny off her bike. Probably didn’t do it on purpose, probably too drunk to know what he was doing, but he did it.’

Logan folded his arms. ‘Is that why you killed him, Mark? Because he hurt Jenny?’

Cameron shook his head. ‘I was...’ He blinked. Wiped the back of one hand across his eyes. ‘We were asleep. Must’ve been about two in the morning, when there’s this crashing noise. And Angie’s convinced someone’s in the house.’

The digital recorder whirred away to itself.

Outside in the corridor, someone laughed.

A car drove by.

Then Mark Cameron licked his lips. ‘So I got up. And it was him . Broke one of the conservatory windows and got into our house.’ Mark looked away. ‘He was outside Jenny’s room when I found him and I lost it. I punched him and kicked him and kicked him and stamped on his filthy head...’ A shuddering breath. ‘I wanted to kill him. But I couldn’t. Not like that. Not like an animal.’

What was probably meant to be a smile twisted Cameron’s face. ‘So I apologized. I begged him not to report me to the police. And I gave him something for the pain — stuff Angie gets for her migraines.’

This time the pause didn’t last for nearly as long. ‘Only that wasn’t enough, was it? Next day he came back demanding more painkillers. And booze. The day after that too. And the next. Every evening, there he’d be with his hand out.’ Mark Cameron closed his eyes. ‘I couldn’t kill him like an animal, because he wasn’t an animal — he was vermin . And we all know what you use to kill vermin.’