Stuart MacBride - 22 Dead Little Bodies

The driver gave Logan a smile and a wave as he climbed out into the sunshine. Broad face with ruddy cheeks, no neck, greying hair that wasn’t as fond of his head as it had been twenty years ago. A proper farmer’s face. ‘Fine day, the day, Guv. Do—’

‘Wheezy! Where the bloody hell have you been?’

DC Andrews’s mouth clicked shut, then his eyebrows peaked in the middle. ‘I’ve been taking witness—’

‘I had to interview Marion Sodding Black!’

‘It’s not my fault, I wasn’t even here!’ He cleared his throat. Coughed. Covered his mouth and hacked out a couple of barks that ended with a glob of phlegm being spat against the tarmac. Leaving his ruddy farmer’s face red and swollen. ‘Gah...’ Deep, groaning breaths.

Then Logan closed his eyes. Counted to three. Wheezy was right — it wasn’t his fault he was out working when Mrs Black turned up. ‘OK. I’m sorry. That was unfair.’ He straightened his jacket. ‘Did you find anything out at Garthdee?’

‘Oh, aye.’ Wheezy Doug locked his pool car. ‘Fiver says it was Bobby Greig. Security camera’s didn’t get his face, but I’d recognize that manky BMX bike of his anywhere.’

‘Good. That’s good.’ Logan went for an innocent smile. ‘So you’re free right now?’

‘As I can be. Need to get a search warrant and...’ Wheezy Doug pulled his chin in, giving himself a ripple of neck wrinkles. Narrowed his eyes. ‘Wait a minute: why ?’

‘Oh, just asking.’

He backed off a pace. ‘No you’re not. You’ve got something horrible needs doing, don’t you?’

‘Me? No. Not a bit of it. I want you to go visit Pitmedden Court for me. Take a look at a cherry tree for me.’

Wheezy Doug’s face unclenched. ‘Oh, that’s OK then. Thought for a moment there you...’ And then it was back again. ‘Pitmedden Court ? Gah...’ He covered his eyes with his hands. ‘Noooooo... It’s her, isn’t it?’

The innocent smile turned into a grin. ‘Mrs Black says her neighbour’s sticking dog poo in her tree. And you’re officially in possession of the Nutter Spoon of Doom.’

‘Mrs Black’s a pain in the hoop.’

‘Yup, but right now she’s your pain. Now get your hoop in gear and go check out her tree.’

Logan tucked his phone between his ear and his shoulder, then locked the pool car’s door. ‘Nah, same nonsense as usual. Everyone’s corrupt. Everyone’s out to get her. Her neighbour’s hanging bags of dog crap in her cherry tree.’

On the other end, DS Baird groaned. ‘Dog crap? I must’ve missed that issue of Better Homes and Gardens . Stoney’s back — says are you coming to the pub after work?’

Quick check of the watch: five to four.

‘Depends how long I am here. Yeah. Well, probably.’

Wind rustled through the thick green crown of a sycamore tree, dropping helicopter seed pods onto the pool car’s bonnet to lie amongst the dappled sunlight. Buchanan Street’s grey terraces faced each other across a short stretch of divoted tarmac. Eight houses on each side in utilitarian granite, unadorned by anything fancier than UPVC windows and doors. Most of the gardens had been converted into off-street parking, bordered by knee-high walls and the occasional browning hedge.

Number Fourteen’s parking area was empty, but a useless Police Constable and his patrol car idled outside — blocking the drive.

The house didn’t look any different to its neighbours. As if nothing had happened. As if the guy who lived there hadn’t jumped off the casino roof and splattered himself across Exchequer Row.

Logan hung up and wandered over to the patrol car. Knocked on the driver’s window.

Sitting behind the wheel, PC Guthrie gave a little squeak and sat bolt upright, stuffing a magazine into the footwell before Logan could get a good look at it. He turned and hauled on a pained smile, pink blooming on his cheeks as he buzzed down the window. ‘Sorry, Guv. Frightened the life out of me.’

Logan leaned on the roof of the car, looming through the open window. ‘That better not have been porn, Sunshine, or I swear to God...’

The blush deepened. ‘Porn? No. No, course not.’ He cleared his throat then grabbed his hat and climbed out into the afternoon. ‘I’ve been round all the neighbours: no one’s seen Mrs Skinner since she took the kids to school this morning.’

Logan turned on the spot. Sixteen houses, all crushed together. ‘It’s Saturday, why was she taking the kids to school?’

‘Ballet classes for the wee boy, and maths club for the girl. He’s six, she’s seven.’

Made sense. ‘You tried the school?’

A shrug. ‘Closes at two on a Saturday.’

Well, it wasn’t as if they’d still be there anyway. Not now. ‘OK. Any of the neighbours got a contact number for Mrs Skinner?’

Guthrie pulled out his notepad and flicked through to the marker. Passed it over. ‘Mobile: goes straight to voicemail.’

Logan tried it anyway.

Click. ‘Hello, this is Emma, I can’t do the phone thing right now, so make messages after the bleep.’ Beeeeeep .

‘Mrs Skinner, this is Detective Inspector Logan McRae of Police Scotland. Can you give me a call when you get this, please? You can get back to me on this number, or call one-zero-one and ask them to put you through. Thanks.’ He hung up. Put his phone away.

Guthrie sniffed, then slid the back of a finger underneath his nose, as if trying to catch a drip. ‘Shame we can’t deliver the death message by text, isn’t it?’

Logan stared at him, until the blush came back. ‘For that little moment of compassion, you can stay here till she comes home.’

His shoulders dipped. ‘Guv.’

‘And stop reading porn in the patrol car!’

Logan pulled in to the kerb and swore his mobile phone out of his pocket. Checked the display. No idea who the number belonged to. Might be Mrs Skinner calling back?

He hit the button. ‘DI McRae.’

Harlaw playing fields lay flat and green behind their high wire fence. Three cricket matches, and a game of rugby, grunting and thwacking away in the afternoon light.

Logan tried again. ‘Hello?’

A familiar dark, clipped female voice sounded in his ear: ‘You were supposed to be investigating my tree.’

‘Mrs Black.’ Oh joy.

‘I’ll be putting in a formal complaint. I know my rights! You have to—’

‘We are investigating, Mrs Black.’ Keep it calm and level. No shouting. No swearing or telling her what she can do with her sodding complaints. Don’t sigh. ‘I’ve sent an officer round there. He will be taking statements. He will be photographing any evidence. OK?’ You vile, rancid, old battle-axe.

Silence.

Outside, a scruffy man with a beard down to the middle of his chest and hair like a diseased scarecrow lurched along the pavement. Scruffy overcoat, suit trousers, hiking boots, trilby hat. Not the best fashion statement in the world.

A carrier bag swung from one hand, like a pendulum. Something heavy in there. And from the look of him, it was probably cheap and very alcoholic.

Then Mrs Black was back. ‘That man is making my life a living hell and you’re doing nothing to prevent it. What about my human rights? I demand you do something!’

Seriously?

Deep breath. ‘We are doing something. We’re investigating .’ Logan coiled his other hand around the steering wheel. Strangling it. ‘Mrs Black, if Mr Robson’s done something illegal under Scottish law, we’ll arrest him. Putting dog mess in someone’s tree is antisocial, but it isn’t illegal.’

‘Of course it’s illegal! How could it not be illegal?’ She was getting louder and shriller. ‘I can’t sleep, I can’t breathe, I can’t... Mr Black...’ A deep breath. ‘It’s the law. He’s harassing me. He’s putting dog mess in my cherry tree!’