Стюарт Макбрайд - 22 Dead Little Bodies and Other Stories

‘This isn’t Breaking Bad .’ Hack. Thump. Hack. ‘I don’t deal drugs, I programme distributed integration applications for the oil industry. That’s quite enough excitement for me.’ He pulled over the second rack of ribs. ‘You can search the place, if you like? If it’ll finally shut her up.’

A nod. ‘We might take you up on that.’ Logan folded the notice and slipped it into a jacket pocket. ‘Mr Robson, Mrs Black tells me that you’ve been putting “dog mess” in her cherry tree. Is that true? We checked, and the thing’s covered in poop-scoop bags.’

Hack, hack, hack. ‘I don’t have a dog. Does this look like a house that has a dog? Nasty, smelly, dirty things.’

‘I didn’t ask if you had a dog, Mr Robson, I asked if you were responsible for putting... dog waste in her tree.’

He stopped hacking and stared, face wrinkled on one side. ‘Are you seriously suggesting that I prowl the streets of Aberdeen, collecting other people’s dog shit, just so I can put it in her tree? Really?’ Hack. Thump. Hack.

‘Everyone needs a hobby.’

‘Trust me, I’ve got better things to do with my spare time.’ The second rack of ribs ended up a lot less neat than the first. He dumped them all in a big glass bowl. ‘All she ever does is cause trouble. Like she’s so perfect, with her screaming and crying at all hours of the night. Her and her creepy husband. And her bloody, sodding...’ A deep breath, then Robson slopped in some sort of sauce from a jug. Dug his hands in and mixed the whole lot up. Squeezing the ribs like he was strangling them. ‘Have you ever had to live next door to three hundred thousand nasty little parakeets? Squawking and screeching and flapping at all hours. Not to mention the smell . And will the council do anything about it? No, of course they sodding won’t.’

He thumped over to the sink and washed his hands. ‘I swear to God, one of these days—’

‘Actually,’ Logan held up a hand, ‘it might be an idea to remember there’s two police officers in the room before you go making death threats.’

Robson’s head slumped. Then he dried his hands. ‘I’m sorry. It’s... that woman drives me insane .’ He opened the back door and took his bowl of glistening bones and meat out onto a small decking area, where a kettle barbecue sat. The rich earthy scent of wood-smoke embraced them, not quite covering the bitter ammonia stink coming from the other side of another massive leylandii hedge that blotted out the light.

Squeaking and chirping prickled the air, partially muffled by the dense green foliage.

Wheezy Doug stared up at the hedge. Sniffed. Then clicked the cover up on his body-worn video, stopping it recording. ‘You know, I remember this one terrace where... well, let’s call them “Couple A” put up a huge hedge to spite “Couple B”. So “Couple B” snuck out in the middle of the night and watered it with tree-stump killer for a fortnight. Not that Police Scotland would advocate such behaviour. Would we, Guv?’

‘Don’t worry.’ Robson creaked up the lid of the barbecue and put down a double layer of tinfoil on the bars. ‘That hedge is the only thing between me and those revolting birds, there’s no way I’m sabotaging it.’ He laid out the ribs in careful bony rows.

Logan nodded back at the house. ‘Sorry to be a pain, but can I use your toilet?’

‘Top of the stairs.’ More ribs joined their comrades.

‘Won’t be a minute.’

Back through the kitchen and into the hall. Quick left turn into the lounge.

Well, Robson did say they could search the place if they liked. Fancy patterned wallpaper made up a single swirly green-and-black graphic across one wall. A huge flatscreen television was hooked up to a PlayStation, an X-Box, and what looked like a very expensive surround sound system. Black leather couch. All spotless.

Cupboard under the stairs: hoover, ironing board, shelves with cleaning products arranged in neat rows.

Upstairs.

The master bedroom had a king-sized bed against one wall, with a black duvet cover and too many pillows. Both bedside cabinets were topped with a lamp and a clock radio. No clutter. The clothes in the wardrobe arranged by colour.

The spare room was kitted out as a study. Shelves covered one wall, stuffed with programming manuals and reference books. Fancy desk, big full-colour laser printer, ergonomic chair. Framed qualification certificates above a beige filing cabinet.

Two big speakers rested against the adjoining wall, with their backs to the room and their fronts against the plasterboard. Both were wired into an amplifier with an iPod plugged into the top. The perfect setup for blasting rap music through the bricks at your neighbours in the dead of night.

So Justin Robson wasn’t exactly the put-upon innocent he pretended to be.

A quick check of the linen cupboard — just to be thorough — then through to the bathroom for a rummage in the medicine cabinet. Nothing out of the ordinary. Well, except for two packs of antidepressants, but they had chemist’s stickers on the outside with dosage instructions, Robson’s name, and the prescribing doctor’s details. All aboveboard.

Might as well play out the charade properly.

Logan flushed the toilet, unused, and washed his hands. Headed back downstairs.

‘Well, thank you for your time, Mr Robson. In case you’re wondering: we’ll be keeping an eye on Mrs Black’s tree from now on. I’d appreciate it if you’d help us make sure there are no more decorations on there.’

Next door, Wheezy Doug leaned on the doorbell. ‘What do you think? Is Robson our Phantom Pooper Scooper? The Defecation Decorator. The...’ A frown. ‘Christmas Tree Crapper?’

‘Hmmm...’ Logan turned towards the thick barrier of leylandii hedge — tall enough and thick enough to completely blot out all view of Justin Robson’s house. ‘He’s a neat freak — the whole place is like a show home. Is someone that anal going to collect other people’s dog shit to spite their neighbour? Don’t know.’ Stranger things had happened. And then there were those two heavy-duty speakers up against the wall in the study... ‘Possibly.’

Mrs Black’s garden wasn’t nearly as tidy as her neighbour’s. Dandelions and clover encroached on the lawn. More weeds in the borders. The cherry tree with its droopy blue plastic decorations.

Even if you removed every single one of them, would you really want to eat the fruit that had grown between those dangling bags?

Wheezy Doug sniffed, then stifled a cough. ‘Can’t really blame him though, can you? Living next to the Wicked Twit of the West would drive anyone barmy.’ Another go on the bell. ‘Maybe she’s not in?’

‘One more try, and we’re off.’ Superintendent Young could moan all he liked, they’d done their bit. Wasn’t their fault Mrs Black was out.

The drrrrrrrringgggg sounded again as Wheezy ground his thumb against the button.

Then, finally, a silhouette appeared in the rippled glass panels that took up the top half of the door. A thin wobbly voice: ‘Who is it?’

Logan poked Wheezy. ‘You filming this?’

A quick fiddle with the BWV. ‘Am now.’

‘Good.’ Logan leaned in close to the glass. ‘Mrs Black? It’s the police. Can you open up, please?’

She didn’t move.

‘Mrs Black?’

‘It’s not convenient.’

‘We need to talk to you about a complaint.’

A breeze stirred the blue plastic poo bags, making them swing like filthy pendulums.

‘Mrs Black?’

There was a click and the door pulled open a couple of inches.

She peered out at them, her short grey hair flat on one side, crusts of yellow clinging to the corners of her baggy eyes. A flash of tartan pyjamas. ‘Have you arrested him yet?’