Stuart MacBride - Shatter the Bones

‘And viewers, tonight you can vote for which of our celebrities will perform Wind Beneath My Wings at the end of the show.’

‘Yes, and don’t forget: every phone call you make contributes towards the Alison and Jenny Freedom Fund…’

Samantha turned the volume up. ‘He wants to know if you’re using the lotion.’

‘What is this, Silence of the Lambs ?’

‘You have to use the lotion. Do you want it to get infected?’

‘I’m using the lotion.’ Logan stood. ‘You want another beer?’

She raised her tin. ‘Check on the lasagne when you’re there?’

It looked like pretty much every ready-meal vegetarian lasagne he’d ever seen, bubbling away in its little oven-proof plastic tray. Smelled good, though. He pulled another two tins from the fridge.

The Alison and Jenny Freedom Fund — who the hell came up with that one? Made them sound like terrorists…

He popped open the cupboard above the fridge, hunting for crisps. Then groaned: his mobile was ringing, deep in the pocket of his steaming jacket. Logan shifted the chair and went rummaging until he found it. The number was withheld.

Sod it then. They could wait till he was on duty.

Unless it was something important.

Maybe Superintendent Green was calling to say he was sorry for being such a cock. That he didn’t realize what a deductive genius Logan was. That he wished he hadn’t picked Doreen to be his babysitter.

Not that Logan was jealous. The man was a prick after all. But what did Doreen have that he didn’t? Other than boobs. And an ex-husband who’d run away with a social worker called Steve?

He hit the pick-up button. ‘McRae.’

A pause. Then a fuzzy, vague voice sounded in his ear. ‘Gotta give us them back, yeah?’

It took a moment to place her. ‘Trisha? Trisha Brown? That you?’

‘They came to my mum’s house and everything. Broke her leg and that.’

‘Deal still stands, Trisha: tell me who they were, and we’ll get them locked up. Don’t want them to get away with battering your mum, do you?’

There was a big bag of Bacon Frazzles lurking behind a tub of Twiglets from last Christmas. Logan pulled them out and clunked the cupboard door shut again.

‘Trisha?’

‘Shuggie says they’ll kill us if they find us.’

‘All the more reason to dob them in then, isn’t it?’

Silence.

Logan tucked the phone between his shoulder and his ear, picked up the tins of beer and the crisps. ‘I’m going to hang up now, Trisha.’

‘He says you gotta give them back, or next time he’s gonna use a Stanley knife, you know?’

‘On your mum?’

‘To write your name on my chest…’

Samantha appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘What, are you brewing the beer yourself?’ Arms folded across her ‘ONE OF THE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE’ T-shirt, left hip jutting out. That line back between her eyebrows.

He held up a hand, mouthed, ‘One minute…’

‘I’m going for a pee — you’ve got till the end of the adverts.’

‘Trisha, you have to tell me where you are.’

‘You gotta give them back.’

‘Who is it? Who’s going to cut you?’

But she’d hung up.

An old man wheezed his way up the stairs, one hand on the black balustrade, the other clutching a rolled up, bright-pink Hello Kitty umbrella.

‘Morning, Doc.’ Logan leaned against the wall. ‘Back again?’ Doc Fraser scowled from beneath hairy eyebrows. Water dripped from the point of his brolly. ‘This is all your fault. I could’ve stayed retired, at home, chasing Mildred around the conservatory in my pants, but nooooo…’ The pathologist shook his shoulders, sending a little downpour pattering to the stairs at his feet. ‘Your mate Hudson’s called in sick again. So it’s either muggins here, or no one.’

‘Toes?’

‘Yes, toes . It’s always bloody toes these days.’

‘Erm…’ Logan glanced up the stairs, then down. No one around. ‘Fancy a coffee?’

Logan clicked the button and set the video playing again.

Doc Fraser leant forward in his seat until his nose was almost touching the screen.

Dr Dave Goulding had the room’s only other chair. He’d turned it the wrong way around, straddling it and leaning his arms on the back. Head tilted to one side, watching the pathologist watching the video. Goulding had on his little rectangular glasses, and a brand-new 1960s-Beatles-style moustache to go with his pelt-like hair. He ran a finger along the bridge of his hooked nose. ‘It’s an interesting choice, don’t you think?’ The voice was pure Liverpool.

Doc Fraser shrugged. ‘They obviously know what they’re doing. The stitching’s good — not wonderful , but good… Which button pauses it again?’

Logan clicked it with the mouse. ‘Thanks. Well, they’ve definitely got access to proper medical supplies. The brown stuff they’ve painted her feet with is Videne — it’s an iodine-based disinfectant used to prep people for surgery. She’s on an IV drip, so I’m assuming they don’t have access to a PCA system-’

‘PCA?’ Logan opened his notepad. ‘Patient Controlled Analgesia. You know, one of those machines where you press a button and it gives you more morphine? Well, until it thinks you’ve had enough, then it cuts you off so you can’t overdose.’

‘I see.’ Goulding pointed at the screen. ‘So they don’t want to cause Jenny pain.’

Logan tried not to laugh. ‘They cut off her toes , Dave.’ So much for a psychology degree.

That got him a shrug. ‘But that doesn’t mean they want her to suffer. First they try to fob everyone off with a surrogate big toe from another child — it doesn’t work, so they’ve got no choice, they have to amputate. It shows they’re serious about killing her.’

Doc Fraser nodded. ‘Aye.’

‘And I think, if they do end up killing her, they’ll do it so she doesn’t have to suffer.’

Logan settled back against the windowsill. ‘Kidnappers with a conscience.’

‘Make it play again.’

He clicked the button.

‘This is not a hoax. You have four days left. If you raise enough money, they will live. If you do not, they will die. Do not let Jenny and Alison down.’

A mobile phone rang.

Doc Fraser sighed. ‘That’ll be Finnie. Probably having a wee strop because the post mortem was supposed to start…’ Quick check. ‘Ten minutes ago.’ The pathologist gave a big, pantomime stretch. ‘Any more biscuits?’

Logan pushed the packet over. ‘Now what I find interesting,’ Goulding opened a pale blue folder and pulled out a half-dozen sheets of paper, placing them on the desk, ‘is the language used. The voice on the videos is precise — no contractions, no colloquialisms — but the notes…’ He read the latest one out. ‘“The police isn’t taking this seriously. We gave them simple, clear, instructions, but they still was late. So we got no other choice: we had to cut off the wee girl’s toe. She got nine more. No more fucking about.”’

Goulding let his fingertips drift across the surface of the note. ‘“The police isn’t .”, “But they still was .”, “So we got no other choice.”, “She got nine more.”’

‘Different people?’ Doc Fraser helped himself to another Jammie Dodger.

Goulding shook his head. ‘No … different media. If they were slapdash, they’d use a voice-changer — like you get in toy Iron Man or Dalek helmets — but they don’t. They know if we can get hold of the conversion algorithm we can decode their voice; and the pattern and rhythm of your speech stay the same anyway. So when they write the notes, they’re typing in a fake accent. Trying to put us off.’