Стюарт Макбрайд - 22 Dead Little Bodies and Other Stories

‘Mrs Black, have you been putting these up around town?’ Logan reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded flyer. Held it up so she could see it.

She stiffened. Her nose came up, and all trace of tremor in her voice was gone. ‘The people here have a right to know.’

‘If you have proof that Mr Robson is dealing drugs, why didn’t you call us?’

‘He’s a vile, revolting individual. He should be... should be castrated and locked up where he can’t hurt anyone any more.’

Logan put the flyer back in his pocket. Closed his eyes and counted to three. ‘Mrs Black, you can’t go making accusations like that without proof: it’s libellous. And Mr Robson’s made a formal complaint.’

Her face hardened. ‘I should have known...’

‘Mrs Black, can we come in please?’

‘I’ve been complaining about him for years and did you do anything about it?’ She bared her teeth. ‘But as soon as he says anything, you’re over here with your jackboots and your threats!’

Don’t sigh.

‘No one’s threatening you, Mrs Black. Do you have any proof that Mr Robson is dealing drugs?’

Her finger jabbed over Logan’s shoulder. ‘HE PUT DOG MESS IN MY TREE!’

‘Do you have any proof? If you have proof we’ll look at it and—’

‘HE DESERVES TO DIE FOR WHAT HE’S PUT ME THROUGH!’

Wheezy Doug stepped forward, palms out. ‘Mrs Black, I need you to calm down, OK?’

‘HE’S SCUM!’ Her voice dropped to a hissing whisper. ‘Sitting in there with his drugs and his pornography and his filthy rap music. I demand you arrest him.’

The sound of whirring lawn mowers. A child somewhere singing about popping caps in some gangbanger’s ass. A motorbike purring past on the road. All as Mrs Black stood there, trembling in her pyjamas, lips flecked with spittle.

Logan kept his voice low and neutral. ‘I need you to stop putting up these posters. And if you have any evidence that Mr Robson is dealing drugs, I want you to call me.’ He pulled out a Police Scotland business card with the station number on it. Held it out.

She stared at the card in his hand. Curled her lip. Spat at her feet. ‘You’re all as corrupt as each other.’

Then stepped back and slammed the door.

Not the result they’d hoped for, but no one could say they hadn’t tried.

‘So...’ Wheezy Doug dragged the toe of his shoe along the path. ‘Pub?’

Logan popped the business card through the letterbox. ‘Pub.’

Sodding keyhole wouldn’t hold still... The key skittered around the moving target, until finally it clicked into place.

Hurrah.

Logan picked up his fish supper again, and pushed through into the flat. Floor was a bit shifty too.

Deep breath.

He eased the door closed and shushed the Yale lock as it clunked shut. Wouldn’t do to wake the neighbours. They wouldn’t like that. Got to be a good neighbour. ‘Shhhh...’

Then he dumped his keys on the little table by the radiator. ‘Cthulhu? Daddy’s home.’

Silence.

Little sod.

Logan grabbed the salt, vinegar, mayonnaise, and a tin of Stella from the kitchen and escorted his supper through into the pristine living room.

Whole place was unnaturally tidy, everything superfluous hidden away in various cupboards and the loft, leaving nothing behind but estate-agent approved set dressing. Like the two glossy magazines lined up perfectly with the edge of the coffee table. Or the line of candles on the windowsill. The photos in the wooden frames lined up where the books used to be. Everything dusted and hoovered with OCD fervour. All so some pair of picky sods could take a quick sniff around then decide the flat wasn’t ‘big enough for them’. Scumbags.

He slumped into the couch then clicked the ring-pull off the Stella. Gulped down a mouthful. Stifled a burp.

Why? Who the hell was going to complain about it?

He took another swig, then let his diaphragm rattle.

Better.

The batter was a bit thick, but the fish was moist and meaty. The chips limp in a way that only chip shops could get away with. How come a chip shop couldn’t get chips crispy? You’d think they’d be chip experts. Clue’s in the name.

The light on the answering machine winked at him, like a malevolent rat with one glowing red eye.

He stuck two fingers up at it and went back to his flaccid chips.

Cthulhu finally deigned to put in an appearance, padding in on silent fuzzy feet, tail held high. All grey and brown and black and stripy, with a huge white ruff and little white paws. She popped up onto the arm of the couch, then sat there, blinking slowly at him.

‘Oh, you love me when there’s food in it for you, don’t you?’ But he blinked back and gave her a nugget of haddock anyway.

Cue purring and chewing.

And still the answering machine glowered with its ratty eye.

Tough. Whatever it was, it could wait till morning.

Fish for Logan. Fish for Cthulhu.

The answering machine didn’t care.

He stuffed down a mouthful of chips, followed by a swig of Stella.

It kept on glowering.

‘Oh for God’s sake.’ He levered himself to his feet and lurched across the rolling deck. Propped himself up with one hand on the shelf. Pressed the button.

‘You have three new messages. Message one:’ Bleeeeeep.

‘Logan? It’s your mother. Why do I always—’

‘Gah!’ He poked the machine.

‘Message deleted. Message two:’ Bleeeeeep.

‘Hello? Mr McRae? It’s Marjory from Willkie and Oxford, Solicitors. I know Mr and Mrs Moore said they weren’t interested, but they’ve come back with an offer for the flat. It’s twenty thousand less than the valuation though...’

‘Pair of wankers.’ Poke.

‘Message deleted. Message three:’ Bleeeeeep.

‘Hello, Logan? It’s Hamish.’ The voice was a gravelly, breathless mix of Aberdonian and public school. Rattling at the edges where the cancer was eating him. ‘I’ve been thinking about mortality. Yours. Mine. Reuben’s. Everyone... Give me a call back and we can talk about it.’

The chip fat congealed at the back of Logan’s throat. Crept forward and lined his mouth. Made his teeth itch. Wee Hamish Mowat. Not exactly the kind of message anyone wanted lying about on their answering machine where Professional Standards could find it.

And tell me, Acting DI McRae, would you care to explain why Aberdeen’s biggest crime lord is phoning you for a chat, like an old mate?

No Logan sodding wouldn’t. Poke.

‘Message deleted. You have no new messages.’

Mortality.

With any luck, Wee Hamish had decided to save everyone the bother, and shot Reuben in the face.

Yeah, well. Probably not.

But a boy could dream, couldn’t he?

‘... OK, let me know what you come up with. And for God’s sake, someone give Guthrie a poke!’

The CID office had a full contingent of grey faces and wrinkly eyes. The four office chairs were lined up along two sides, turned towards the whiteboard for the morning briefing. Their occupants nursed tins of Irn-Bru and greasy bacon butties. Well, all except for PC Guthrie — slumped so far back in his seat that any further and he’d be on the floor. Gob open, head hanging to the side.

DS Baird leaned over and gave him a poke. ‘You’re snoring!’

Blinking, Guthrie surfaced, mouth working like a drowning fish. ‘Mwake...’

Logan folded his arms and leaned back against the filing cabinet. ‘Are we boring you, Constable?’

Wheezy Doug rolled his eyes. ‘He wasn’t even in the pub last night! No excuse.’