Стюарт Макбрайд - 22 Dead Little Bodies and Other Stories

Logan stood as far away from the units and surfaces as possible and pulled out his phone. ‘What?’

‘Sodding Clackmannanshire, that’s what! Fifty-four percent voted “No”, forty-six percent “Yes”. What’s wrong with people?’

He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. ‘Did you call me up to tell me that?’

‘First result and it’s a “No”. Half one and we’ve already got a sodding deficit of nearly three thousand votes to make up!’

‘Go away.’

‘Laz, have you got any idea—’

He hung up, but the phone blared its Imperial theme at him again. He hit the button. ‘I’m working .’

‘Dundee turnout’s only seventy-nine percent. If every bugger had bothered their arse and showed up, that’d be another twenty-five thousand votes, right there! It—’

He hung up again. Scrolled through the menu system before she could call back and blocked her number.

At least now he might get some sodding peace.

Back in the living room, Aunty Ina was well down her second cigarette, while Stoney leaned back against the windowsill. The cat paused, then went back to washing an immaculate pink-padded paw.

Stoney nodded at the kitchen. ‘Something important, Guv?’

‘No.’ He stood in front of the couch. ‘We any nearer?’

‘Ina here says we can search Elaine and Jane’s room for twenty quid.’

She smiled. ‘Seeing as they’re family, and that.’

Stoney had a wee shudder as he straightened up and made rubber spiders with his blue-nitriled fingers. ‘I’m not even going to try to describe what it’s like under the bed.’

Aunty Ina stood in the doorway, another one of Stoney’s cigarettes poking out the side of her mouth, the big ginger cat clasped to her chest like a purring baby. ‘Aye, they’re a bit manky right enough.’

A bit manky?

The room was an open landfill site for dirty clothes, takeaway containers, and abandoned gossip magazines. They made drifts in the corners, were piled up around the double bed, avalanched out of the battered wardrobe. It smelled like the inside of an old sock in here, one that had been marinated in cannabis resin and sweat.

Logan tried his luck with the chest of drawers in the corner. The top one creaked out with a groan. Nothing but cheap-looking frilly pants. Some of which hadn’t been washed.

‘Course, they take after their mum. Never met a bigger slag in your life than Morag.’

Next drawer: socks tied in tight little bundles.

‘So Morag’s up the stick with Elaine, and she and Whatsisname get married. Registry office. Couldn’t wear white, could she? Not when half the school’d had a go.’ Aunty Ina took a drag and blew a lungful of smoke at the stained ceiling. ‘Didn’t last. Well, hard to be a dad when you’ve got a paper round, isn’t it?’

Next drawer: baby toys. Rattles, dummies, shaky things in the shape of flowers, a stars-and-moon mobile still in the packaging. A pink fuzzy cat. A tiny romper suit with orange and black stripes like a tiger. He pulled the tiger costume out and held it up. ‘Does Elaine or Jane have a child?’ Because if they did, Social Services were getting a call to rescue it from this rancid hovel.

Aunty Ina stuck the cigarette back in her mouth and shifted her grip on her cat. ‘Naw, that’s Elaine’s. Silly cow thinks she’ll be a wonderful mummy someday. As if. Collects this crap the whole time. Got bags of it in the wardrobe.’

Yeah, because that wasn’t creepy.

‘Anyway,’ Ina rubbed Mr Seville’s tummy, ‘then along comes Shuggie and sweeps Morag off her feet. Come with me, baby, we’ll see the world...’ A sigh. ‘Real looker he was too.’

Last drawer. It was full of carrier bags.

‘Course, she’s full of herself. “Oh, he loves me. Oh, he’ll do anything for me. Oh, we’re so happy.” And six weeks later, she’s got a broken arm, a broken nose, she’s pregnant — again — and Shuggie’s shacked up with some other poor cow.’

Logan tipped the first bag out on the bare mattress. An assortment of watches spilled out onto the stained fabric. A few still had the price stickers attached.

‘Eight years later, and she’s overdosed in a squat and I’m lumbered with her bloody kids. Some sister, eh?’

The next bag contained cheap jewellery, the kind sold at the tills in Markies and BHS. All plastic and shiny bits. All still pinned to rectangles of cardboard.

‘Lucky the wee buggers didn’t end up in care.’

Logan looked around the horrible little room Elaine and Jane shared in the horrible little flat, with their horrible little aunt. ‘Yeah, really lucky.’

Bag number three was full of cosmetics from Boots — own-brand stuff, probably snatched off the shelves while no one was looking.

Aunty Ina finished her cigarette and pinged the butt away into the piles of dirty clothes. Then rubbed her ginger baby between the ears. ‘If you find any money, it’s mine. They borrowed it.’

Bag number four was different. It contained a parcel of white powder — about the size of a mealie pudding — wrapped up in layers of clingfilm and secured with strips of parcel tape. ‘Well, well, well.’

Little beads of dark red had dried on the plastic surface, like ladybirds.

‘The lying wee shites!’ Aunty Ina stamped a foot on the bare floorboards, making Mr Seville wriggle in her arms. ‘They told me they didn’t have any gear!’

The patrol car pulled up outside the tower block, lights spinning in the darkness, and sat there — doors closed.

Logan stepped out from the block’s shadow and rapped on the driver’s window. ‘You planning on joining us?’

Constable Haynes smiled up at him, then fluttered her eyelashes. ‘Wanted to make sure it was safe, Guv. I leave Wee Billy here unsupervised for five minutes, might come back to find someone’s nicked his boots and truncheon. He’s only new.’

Her partner, sitting in the passenger seat, blushed — gritting his teeth and saying nothing, like a big boy.

Logan pointed up at Aunty Ina’s flat. ‘Top floor. No lift. Make sure the auld wifie stays put till we get the Procurator Fiscal organised. Soon as you’re there , tell DC Stone he’s wanted back here . And while you’re at it—’ His phone launched into its anonymous ringtone. ‘Hold on.’ He pulled it out and pressed the button. ‘McRae.’

‘Seven morons in Clackmananshire voted “Yes” and “No” on the same ballot paper. You believe that? How thick can they be?’

He closed his eyes. ‘It’s you.’

‘Couldn’t get through on my phone. Had to borrow one. Sodding Glasgow’s seventy-five percent turnout. Seventy-five percent! What sodding use is that? Even Aberdeen managed eighty-two.’

‘Stop calling me with numbers, OK? I — don’t — care. I’m working .’

‘Seventy-five percent. How many thousands of votes is that lost? Eh? You know what I think? I think—’

Logan hung up. Barred that number too.

PC Haynes pulled her bowler down low on her head, leaving just the fringes of her bob showing. ‘Let me guess, Detective Chief Inspector Steel?’

Her partner clambered out of the car, all sticky-out ears and chin. ‘She’s driving everyone mental back at the ranch. Stand still for two minutes and she’ll get you working out percentages and stuff. Nightmare. Like being back at school.’

Logan punched the duty superintendent’s number into his mobile and wandered over to the pool car he and Stoney had arrived in, settling back against the bonnet while it rang.