Стюарт Макбрайд - 22 Dead Little Bodies and Other Stories

Then froze as she reached the pavement and spotted DCI Steel. ‘Where is he then? This Detective Chief Inspector?’

Steel sniffed. Howched. And spat into the gutter. ‘Bit sexist, isn’t it?’

Yeah, this was definitely going to end well.

Robson glowered out from behind his squint glasses. ‘You vicious, scheming—’

Wheezy must have done something painful to him, because his eyes screwed shut and whatever word came next got replaced by a hiss.

A nod. Then Mrs Black’s grin darkened. ‘See? He’s dangerous . He’s a drug dealer and he tried to kill me and now you’ve got to lock him up for the rest of his perverted unnatural life, and—’

‘She planned this! Can’t you see she planned it? It’s all a set-up—’

‘—prison and that’s where you belong you—’

‘—vandalized my car! She knew I loved—’

A harsh, shrill whistle ripped the air and everyone went quiet.

A handful of neighbours had drifted into their front gardens. Suddenly consumed by an overpowering need to trim their hedges, or prune a rose bush. All of them frozen by the whistle.

Steel took two fingers from her mouth and wiped them on her rumpled suit jacket. ‘Better.’ She turned a shark smile on Mrs Black. ‘Did you, or did you no’, trash this man’s car?’

The nose came up. ‘I did nothing of the sort.’

‘So, when I get my two colleagues here to search your property, they’re no’ going to find any paint tins? White spirit? Stained clothes or shoes?’

Mrs Black’s mouth pursed at that last one. She looked out across the gardens. ‘He tried to kill me.’

‘Thought so: they never get rid of the shoes.’ Steel turned the smile on Robson. ‘And did you, Justin Robson, attempt to stab Mrs Black to death?’

Pink rushed up his cheeks. He stared down at his bare feet. ‘She trashed my car, I was... only trying to... was carving the Sunday roast when I saw what she did.’ A shrug. ‘Forgot I was holding the knife...’

‘And does anyone here present have any just reason why I shouldn’t throw the book at you pair of silly sods and let the courts decide?’ Steel made a gun out of her fingers and shot Mrs Black in the face. ‘Criminal damage.’ Then did the same to Robson. ‘Aggravated assault. Minimum eight months apiece. That what you want?’

Neither of them said anything.

‘Because if I hear so much as a whisper that you’ve been sodding about like this again, I’m going to bury the Great Leather Shoe of God in both your arses.’

Silence.

She shot Robson again. ‘Do you understand?’

He shifted his feet. Turned his head to the side. ‘I do.’

Mrs Black got another finger bullet. ‘You?’

A pause. Then she lowered her eyes and nodded. ‘Yes. Fine. No more fighting.’

Steel raised her arms, as if delivering a benediction. ‘Then by the powers vested in me by the High Heid Yins of Police Scotland, I hereby declare this feud over .’

Stoney eased into the room, a folder balanced on the palm of one hand acting as a tray for a mound of tinfoil-wrapped packages. ‘Three bacon, one sausage, and one booby-trapped. Get them while they’re hot.’

The rest of the team swarmed him, snatching up their butties, then retreating to their seats to unwrap them. The air filled with the meaty smoky scents.

Early morning light oozed through the dirty office window, turning it nearly opaque, hiding the pre-rush-hour calm of a slowly waking Aberdeen.

Logan checked his watch: five past seven. Time to get going. He ripped a bite of sausage buttie and pointed at the whiteboard. ‘Guthrie?’

At least he didn’t look quite so much like an extra from Night of the Living Dead this morning.

‘Mrs Skinner’s boyfriend was a Brian Williams. Twenty-two. Engineer with TransWell Subsea Systems in Portlethen. Steel’s MIT took over the investigation, but I still had to deliver the sodding death message to his fiancée. She wasn’t too chuffed.’

Wheezy Doug picked at his teeth. ‘There’s a shock.’

‘Here’s a bigger one — the MIT are taking all the credit.’

DS Baird frowned at the whiteboard for a moment, then wiped a smear of tomato sauce from her cheek. ‘Got a good write-up in the paper, though.’ She picked a copy of the Aberdeen Examiner from her desk and held it up.

The front page had a more formal photograph than the one Logan and Guthrie had been showing around yesterday. A posed family portrait with a marbly background. Everyone in their Sunday best, hair combed, teeth shiny. ‘FAMILY FEARS FOR MISSING CHILDREN’.

Baird cleared her throat and turned the paper back to face herself. ‘“It wasn’t as if the Skinner family didn’t have enough tragedy to deal with. On Saturday, John Skinner — thirty-five — jumped to his death, and on Sunday, his wife of eight years, Emma Skinner — twenty-seven — was found stabbed to death in a family home in the Bridge of Don. But what hurts most, say John and Emma’s parents, is that Heidi — seven — and Toby — six — are missing...”’ Baird wrinkled her top lip. ‘Why are the papers obsessed with how old people are? What’s the point?’

Wheezy stuffed down another bite of buttie, talking with his mouth full. ‘They say anything about us?’

She skimmed the front page, lips moving silently as she went. ‘Nope. “Detective Chief Inspector Roberta Steel...” See they haven’t got her age. “...told a press conference yesterday that Police Scotland was very concerned for the children’s safety. ‘We will leave no stone unturned in our quest to find Heidi and Toby...’” Blah, blah, blah. Nothing about you, or the Guvnor.’

‘Typical.’

A little yellow trail of yolk was making its way down Guthrie’s chin. ‘Guv, are you still interested in Gordy Taylor?’

‘Wasn’t interested in him in the first place.’

‘Only the girl who gave him a kicking’s up before the Sheriff at twenty past nine.’

‘Pleading guilty?’

‘Blaming it on PMS and starting university.’

Baird shuddered. ‘ Hate women who do that. “Oh, I can’t act rationally, because I’m a weak and feeble woman at the mercy of my hormonal uterus.” Puts the whole cause back a hundred years.’

Logan held up his hand. ‘Right, soon as everyone’s finished their buttie, I want—’ His phone blared out the anonymous ringtone that signalled an unknown caller. ‘Give us a minute.’ He pulled it out and hit the button. ‘DI McRae.’

Screaming battered out of the earpiece and he flinched back.

Then tried again. ‘Hello? Who is this?’

The screaming broke into jagged words, roughened by sobs. ‘He’s killed them all!’

‘There! Look what he did. LOOK AT THEM!’ Mrs Black’s trembling finger came up and pointed at the back fence.

The back garden stank of ammonia. It turned every breath into a struggle, caught the back of the throat, made the air taste of sour vinegar and dirt. Logan blinked tears from his stinging eyes.

Cages ran down one side of the long garden, backing onto the massive leylandii hedge between this side and Justin Robson’s house on the other. Wooden frames with metal mesh inserts, full of perches and floored with sawdust and droppings. Every single door hung open.

But they weren’t what Mrs Black was pointing at.

About twenty little bodies were frozen against the back fence — wings out. Most were blue with white faces, but some were green-and-yellow instead. And each one had a large nail hammered through its breast, pinning it to the wood. As if a butterfly collector had decided his hobby just wasn’t creepy enough and it was time to upgrade to something bigger.