Стюарт Макбрайд - 22 Dead Little Bodies and Other Stories

‘Does she have her own car?’ Logan unbuckled his seatbelt, as DC Wheezy Doug Andrews parked the pool car behind a Volvo Estate.

Pitmedden Court basked in the evening light. A long collection of grey harled houses, some in terraces of three or four, some semidetatched. Some with tiny portico porches, some without. A nice road. Tidy gardens and knee-high garden walls. Speed bumps. Hello, Mrs McGillivray, I hope your Jack’s doing well the day.

‘Hold on... Yes: dark-green Honda Jazz.’

‘Get a lookout request on the go. And make sure the Automatic Number Plate Recognition lot are keeping an eye out. Enough people filmed her husband jumping off the roof on their phones; I don’t want the poor woman seeing him splattered across the cobbles on the evening news.’

‘Guv.’

‘What about the grandparents?’

‘Got an address in Portlethen, and one in Stoneywood. You want me to pack it in here and go speak to them? Or hang about in case she comes home?’

Logan checked his watch: five past six. ‘Abandon ship. Better give his parents the death message first, then see if either set knows where she is. And get on to the media office too — we need a blanket ban on anything that can ID John Skinner till we’ve spoken to the wife.’ Logan put his phone back in his pocket. Turned to Wheezy Doug. ‘We ready?’

His bottom lip protruded an inch as he tugged the fluor-escent yellow high-viz waistcoat on over his suit jacket. ‘Feel like a right neep.’

‘It’s what all the stylish young men about town are wearing this season. And if you’d looked into it when I sodding well told you to, we wouldn’t be here now.’

A blush darkened Wheezy’s cheeks. ‘Sorry, Guv.’ He fiddled a BWV unit onto one of the clips that pimpled the waistcoat’s front, like nipples on a cat. The body-worn video unit was about the same size and shape as a packet of cigarettes; with a white credit-card style front with the Police Scotland logo, a camera icon, and the words ‘CCTV In Operation’ on it. ‘Don’t see why you couldn’t have got some spod from Uniform to do this bit, though.’

‘Because she’s filed complaints against all the spods from Uniform. No more whingeing.’ Logan climbed out into the sunshine. ‘Come on.’

The street’s twin rows of tidy gardens were alive with the sound of lawns being mowed. Gravel being raked. Cars being washed. The screech and yell of little children playing. The bark of an overexcited dog. The smell of charcoal and grilling meat oozing its way in through the warm August air.

Wheezy Doug sighed, then joined him. Pulled out the keys and plipped the pool car’s locks. ‘That’s the one over there — wishing well, crappy cherry tree, and leylandii hedge.’

The hedge was a proper spite job: at least eight-foot-tall, casting thick dark shadows across the neighbouring property’s lawn.

Logan puffed out a breath. ‘Suppose we’d better do this.’ He marched across the road to the garden gate. Stopped and looked up at the cherry tree.

It was thick with shining green leaves, the swelling fruits drooping on wishbone stalks. And tied onto nearly every branch was a small blue plastic bag with something heavy and dark in it. There had to be at least twenty of them on there. Maybe thirty?

Young was right — it did look... inappropriately festive.

‘Right. First up, Justin Robson.’ Logan walked along the front wall, past the thicket of spiteful hedge, and in through the gate next door. All nice and tidy, with rosebushes in lustrous shades of red-and-gold, and a sundial lawn ornament that was two hours out.

Honeysuckle grew up one side of the front door and over the lintel, hanging with searing yellow flowers. Scenting the air.

Wheezy Doug stifled a cough. ‘Doesn’t really look like a drug den, does it?’ Then turned and nodded at the white BMW parked out front: spoiler, alloys, low-profile tyres. ‘The car , on the other hand has Drug Dealer written all over it.’ A howch and a spit. He wiped the line of spittle from his chin. ‘Right, everyone on their best behaviour, it’s Candid Camera time.’ He slid the white credit-card cover down, setting the body-worn video recording. Cleared his throat. ‘Detective Constable Douglas Andrews, twentieth August, at thirteen Pitmedden Court, Kincorth, Aberdeen. Present is DI McRae.’ A nod. ‘OK, Guv.’

Logan got as far as the first knock when the door swung open.

A short man with trendy hair and a stripy apron stared up at them through smeared glasses. ‘Yes?’

He held up his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector McRae, CID. Are you Justin Robson?’

‘That was quick, I only called two minutes ago.’ He stepped back, wiping his hands on the green-and-white stripes, leaving dark-red smears.

OK... That definitely looked like blood.

‘Mr Robson?’ Logan’s right hand drifted inside his jacket, where the small canister of CS gas lurked. ‘Is everything OK, sir?’

‘No it’s not. Not by a long sodding chalk.’ Then he blinked a couple of times. ‘Sorry, where are my manners, come in, come in.’ Reversing down the hallway and into the kitchen.

Wheezy Doug’s voice dropped to a whisper, a wee smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘Was that blood? Maybe he’s killed Mrs Black and hacked her up?’

They should be so lucky.

Logan gave it a beat, then followed Robson through into the kitchen.

It was compact, but kitted out with a fancy-looking oven and induction hob. Built-in deep-fat fryer, American-style double fridge freezer. A glass of white wine sat on the granite countertop, next to two racks of ribs on a chopping board.

Wheezy Doug reached for his cuffs as Robson reached for a cleaver. Pointed. ‘Oh no you don’t. Put the knife down and—’

‘Knife...? Oh, this.’ He wiggled it a couple of times. ‘Sorry, but we’ve got friends coming round and I need to get these ready.’ The cleaver’s shiny blade slipped between the rib bones, slicing through flesh and cartilage as if they were yoghurt. ‘I hope you’re going to arrest her.’

Nope, no idea.

Logan let go of his CS gas. ‘Perhaps you should start from the beginning, sir? Make sure nothing’s got lost in translation.’

‘That...’ the cleaver thumped through the next chunk of flesh, ‘ bitch next door. I mean, look at them!’ He pointed the severed bone at a small pile of crumpled A4 sheets on the kitchen table. ‘That’s slander. It’s illegal. I know my rights.’

Not another one.

Wheezy Doug picked a sheet from the top of the pile. Pulled a face. ‘Actually, sir, slander would be if she said this to someone, once it’s in writing it’s libel.’ He handed the bit of paper to Logan.

A black-and-white photo of Justin Robson sat beneath the words, ‘GET THIS DRUG DEALING SCUM OFF OUR STREETS!!!’

Ah...

Logan scanned the paragraph at the bottom of the page:

This so-called “man” is DEALING DRUGSin Kincorth! He does it from his home and various establishments around town. How will YOU feel when he starts selling them outside the school gates where YOUR child goes to learn? Our CORRUPTION-RIDDENpolice force do nothing while HE corrupts our children with POISON!

Robson hacked off another rib. ‘I mean, for God’s sake, it’s got my photo and my home address and my telephone number on it. And they’re all over the place!’ Hack, thump, hack. ‘I want that woman locked up, she’s a bloody menace.’

‘I see.’ Logan took another look around the room. Wheezy Doug was right, it didn’t really look like a drug dealer’s house. Far too clean for that. Still, belt and braces: ‘And are you selling drugs to schoolchildren, Mr Robson?’