Stuart MacBride - Shatter the Bones

The smell of frying onions filled the stairwell, making Logan’s stomach growl as he followed Steel up the stairs. ‘I interviewed Victoria Murray today.’

‘Oh aye, and what was Vicious Vikki saying to it?’

‘Sounds like Alison McGregor isn’t the paragon of virtue everyone thinks. Turns out she-’

‘Used to vandalize stuff? Drink? Shagged about when she was still at school?’

‘Oh.’ Logan paused on the landing, but Steel kept climbing. ‘You interviewed her too, didn’t you?’

‘Nope.’

Logan hurried after her. ‘You must have. It’s-’

‘Don’t be a prick, Laz: it was in all the papers. How’d you think Vicious Vikki got her nickname: embezzling the housekeeping? She sold their dirty wee childhood stories to the Daily Mail . Big cries of outrage. Then OK! magazine did a spread — “Alison’s secret schoolgirl shame: ‘I was a teenage tearaway’, admits BNBS semi-finalist.” Or some shite like that. Can you no’ at least try and keep up with popular culture?’

Steel stopped on the third floor and puffed on her e-cigar ette for a bit. ‘Right, same as last time. Only try no’ to look like your arse is eating your face, eh?’

‘It’s not my fault Susan won’t shag you.’

‘Just knock on the bloody door.’

Logan pulled a little nub of Blu-Tack from his pocket and squidged it over the peephole, stepped to the side, then knocked.

Nothing.

Logan banged the flat of his hand against the wood, making it shudder.

Pause. ‘Maybe they’re not…’

A voice from inside. ‘OK, OK, calm your fucking monkeys.’ There was a shuffly silence. That would be them peering through the peephole and seeing sod all. ‘Who is it?’

Logan put a tremble in his voice. ‘Dave… Dave says you can … you know? Set us up and that?’

Another pause. ‘How much?’

It didn’t matter who they were, they always knew a Dave. ‘Fifty quid?’

The clunk and rattle of deadbolts and chains. Then the door opened, and a short hairy man appeared with baggy jeans hanging down around his thighs, exposing his Calvin Klein’s, a muscle top stretched over a pot belly, fur sprouting out across his shoulders. Gold chains dangling around his neck. White powder dusting his thick moustache. ‘What’s your poison? We’ve got…’ His eyes went wide. ‘Fuck.’

DI Steel jammed her foot in the opening. ‘Evening, Willy, how’s the wife and kids?’

The smell of onions got stronger. ‘Fucking, fuck.’ Willy rubbed a hand under his nose, scrubbing the powder away. ‘It’s not what it looks like, I was just … baking a cake, well, a quiche, and… Erm…’

‘It’s your lucky day, Willy: I don’t give a toss about you violating your parole, or your dealing; just want a word with Shuggie. Know where he is?’

The wee man’s eyes darted left. ‘I … haven’t seen him. For ages.’

Steel smiled. ‘Then I take it back: it’s no’ your lucky day after all.’

Logan pulled out his handcuffs. ‘William Cunningham, I’m arresting you on suspicion-’

‘He’s a mate, I can’t just-’

Steel nodded. ‘I understand, Willy, very noble of you. Sergeant?’

‘Of possession of a controlled substance with intent to supply-’

‘Come on, Inspector, Molly’ll kill us: be reasonable.’

‘Willy, Willy, Willy — when have you ever known me to be reasonable?’

He stared at the ground. ‘Shuggie’s in the kitchen. Look, could you at least barge in or something? Make it look … you know?’

‘Nope.’ Steel patted him on the furry shoulder. ‘Lead on, eh?’

It was a nice flat. Not huge, but well laid out and tidy, painted in comforting shades with photos and prints on the walls. As they walked down the hall, Willy pulled the living room door shut, but not before Logan had seen a little kid dressed in a Spiderman costume and pink sparkly fairy wings, stomping about on stiff, chubby legs.

Willy stopped with one hand on the kitchen door handle. ‘Give us a second, OK?’

Steel gave him a shove.

‘In we go.’

He staggered into the room, hands up. ‘Shuggie, I’m sorry. Didn’t have any choice…’

Shuggie Webster was hunched over a small table, jammed into the space between the sink and the wall. A frying pan on the stove filled the room with the sweet meaty smell of caramelizing onions.

It seemed to take Shuggie a while to drag his head up and around. His eyes looked like two black buttons sewn onto his pasty face. Bruising on his cheek and chin. His right hand was wrapped in stained bandages, speckled with red and yellow, only the thumb protruding from its grubby prison. There was a splash of dried blood on his hooded top.

He blinked. Frowned. Blinked again. Then shook his head.

Willy sidled over to the frying pan and stirred his onions. ‘Can’t let them burn.’ A pale pastry case sat on a chopping board next to him.

Logan stepped into the little room. It was getting crowded. ‘Come on, Shuggie. Time to go down the station.’

The kitchen was uncomfortably warm, but Shuggie shivered. ‘They killed my dog…’

‘That’s why you’ve got to tell us where they are.’

Shuggie cradled his bloodied hand against his chest. ‘Poor wee Uzi…’

Willy tipped his onions into the pastry case, then stuck the frying pan in the sink. ‘He’s a bit out of it. Took something for the pain, you know?’

‘Shuggie, they’ll keep coming after you. Look what happened to Trisha’s mum.’

‘Trisha…’ A frown. He rocked back and forwards, as if he was on one of those children’s rides outside a supermarket. ‘What if they hurt her again, or her kid?’

‘Don’t worry about Ricky, he’s safe, OK? Now you just have to-’

‘What about Trisha?’ He stopped rocking. ‘She safe?’

‘Well…’ Logan looked back at DI Steel. No help there. ‘Yeah, she’s fine.’

Willy broke eggs into a Pyrex jug.

Shuggie forced himself to his feet. ‘Lying fuck.’

‘See, you’ve got to get the mix of eggs and cream right, or-’

He slammed his unbandaged hand down on the kitchen table, sending a tin of Special Brew spiralling to the lino. A spurt of foam. ‘Is — she — fucking — safe?’

‘Aww, Shuggie! It’s all over the floor.’

Logan backed up a pace. ‘She’s probably fine-’

‘Where is she?’

‘At least put a tea-towel down or something.’

‘She left Ricky at her mum’s house yesterday. She’s not been back yet, but I’m-’

Another slam. ‘They fucking raped her!’

‘ Hey , come on, man,’ Willy held up the fork he’d been beating the eggs with, ‘cool the beans, eh? My wee girl’s through the house.’

Shuggie nodded, buried his face in his cupped hand. ‘Sorry, it’s just…’ His shoulders shook. Silence. Then a deep breath.

OK, so at least this was going to be a lot easier than last time.

Logan stepped forward and placed a hand on Shuggie’s arm, gave it a little squeeze. ‘It’s going to be OK.’

The big man looked up, tears dripping from his pink eyes. ‘Will it FUCK!’

A shove, and Logan went staggering back. Then Shuggie grabbed a carton of milk from the working surface and hurled it. It went wide, crashing against the tiles, spurting out across the fridge.

‘God’s sake, Shuggie, calm the-’ A fist battered into Willy’s face, cracking him back into the cooker.

A carton of double cream flew across the room.

Logan ducked: it sailed over his head.

A chair followed it.

He scrabbled in his pocket for the pepper-spray.

Too slow.

Shuggie took hold of the table in his good hand and flipped it, slamming the Formica into Logan’s chest, sending him sprawling against the units. Something crunched under his foot — the beer can — and he went down, elbow bashing into the linoleum as he hit the floor.