Stuart MacBride - Shatter the Bones

So predictable. ‘She turned you down.’ Logan tried not to smile. ‘Like she was such a fucking catch with a wee kid in tow. Who wants lumbered with that?’ Another scoof of caffeinated sugar. ‘Was doing her a favour.’

Yeah, you and your grow-your-own-moustache kit. ‘So, this kidnapping thing: you think she deserved what she got?’

Clayton’s face soured. ‘You’re kidding, right? When they let her go she’s going to be worse than ever. Everyone’ll be falling over themselves to lick her arse, like she’s Richard Hammond and Princess Fucking Di all rolled into one. Getting kidnapped was the best thing that ever happened to that manipulative cow.’

‘No, I didn’t know Bruce had killed himself. That’s… That’s just terrible.’ Craig Peterson sat on the end of the bed and stroked the little tuft of beard that clung onto his chin. Throw in the big nose, floppy curly brown hair and furrowed eyebrows, and he looked like a vaguely disappointed goat. Posters: Reservoir Dogs ; Hitchcock’s North by Northwest; War of the Worlds — the Orson Welles version, not the Tom Cruise one; Marc Caro and Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s La Cite des Enfants Perdus . ‘I mean, I knew he’d been a bit stressed recently — what with trying to catch up with his coursework and Tanya dumping him — but suicide ? Why wouldn’t he come speak to me? He must’ve known I could have helped him.’

‘Tanya?’ Logan flipped a few pages back in his notebook. ‘Tanya Marsden?’

More beard stroking. ‘Likes to call herself “Tiggy” for some reason. I tried to tell Bruce she wasn’t his type, but “l’oeil de l’amoureux est aveugle a tout defaut” .’

Oh, to be young and pretentious.

So Tanya Marsden and Bruce Sangster had been an item — she’d kept that quiet.

‘I see…’ Logan underlined the word ‘LIAR’ next to her name a few more times.

‘Moliere — it means “the lover’s eye is blind to all fault.”’

‘Does it now.’ He moved on a couple of pages and wrote ‘PATRONIZING PRICK’ next to Peterson’s. ‘Did he ever say anything to you about drugs?’

‘Well… Off the record?’

Logan smiled. ‘No.’

‘I wouldn’t want his parents to get the wrong idea, they had very high hopes for him.’

‘But?’

‘Where do you stand on the subject of cannabis, Sergeant?’ Logan just stared at him, letting the silence stretch.

A big sigh. ‘Look, Bruce might have said something about hooking up with a woman when he was down in Dundee at one of those Dungeons and Dragons conventions last year. This person — Bruce always called her “Stumpy the Dwarven Queen” — was getting him cannabis, amyl nitrate — poppers, maybe some speed if it was coming up to exam time and Bruce needed to cram. And Bruce always needed to cram.’

‘Stumpy the Dwarven Queen ?’

Peterson folded his arms, then crossed his legs. ‘Look, I’m really not comfortable talking about a dead friend behind his back, so if you’d like to save the sarcastic tones until you get back to the station, Sergeant, that’d be fine with me.’

‘Sarcastic tone, Mr Peterson? I think you’ll find I’m just trying to get to the bottom of a suspicious death. Surely that’s worth treading on a few sensibilities?’

The student’s nose came up. ‘You can’t “tread” on sensibilities, you have to “offend” them.’

Logan smiled. ‘If you insist: where were you yesterday afternoon between the hours of twelve and five?’

‘What?’ His eyes went wide. ‘My God, you’re actually serious. You think Bruce was murdered ?’

‘And if you can give me the names and addresses of anyone who can confirm your whereabouts, that’ll be a great help.’ You arrogant little prick.

There was a bit of bluster, some self-righteous indignation, but eventually Peterson handed over the details of two friends who were with him most of the day watching DVDs and being pretentious. Logan took down the details. ‘Now: tell me about Alison McGregor.’

Peterson opened his mouth, puckered his forehead, then clamped his lips together. ‘Sorry?’

‘You were in the same psychology class as her.’

‘Well, yes… I mean, I went over all this with an Inspector McPherson-’

‘And now you’re going to go over it again.’ Logan shifted forward in the seat, getting close enough to make Peterson edge back, until his back was up against the wall.

‘I never really knew her. I mean, I knew who she was — well it’d be difficult not to when there’s paparazzi hanging about outside the lecture theatre — but we never really talked. I tend to be very campus orientated, and she lived on the other side of town, so I didn’t really see that much of her. Outside lectures and tutorials. Maybe a couple of times in the library.’ He rubbed a hand at the side of his neck. ‘It’s terrible, what’s happened, but I didn’t really know her. She seemed really popular…?’

Logan just sat there and stared at him. ‘Lots of friends? Especially when there were photographers about. I think some of the girls had a pool running on who could get their faces in the papers the most. You know, by talking to her while she was being snapped…’

More silence. ‘Erm…’ He licked his lips. ‘Look, I never really knew her, OK?’

‘I see.’ Logan didn’t move. ‘And I’ve got studying to do. So if there’s nothing-’

The Danse macabre blared out from Logan’s pocket. He pulled it out and hit the button. ‘McRae.’

‘Sarge?’ Rennie. ‘Where are you? I’m in the car park.’

Logan glanced up at Peterson. It wouldn’t hurt to take the patronizing little sod down a notch or two. ‘Yes, I’m speaking to him now.’

‘Eh? You in the pub already?’

‘No, he claims he,’ Loan checked his notebook, smothered a smile, ‘“never really knew her.”’

‘Knew…? Ah — I get it. OK.’

‘That’s right. Says he has an alibi for the Bruce Sangster death too.’

Peterson shifted from cheek to cheek. ‘I got everything you wanted from the archives, so I’m out at Hillhead, ready to crack the McGregor case!’

Logan stared at Craig Peterson until the student looked away. ‘No, I think I’ll take care of it personally.’

‘Where do you want me to start?’

‘Stay where you are.’ Logan hung up and slid the phone back in his pocket. Then stood. ‘We’ll be in touch, Mr Peterson.’ He leant forward, looming, and the student shrank back again. ‘Don’t leave town; remember I’ll be watching you.’

Rennie leant back against a filthy Vauxhall, pink face raised to the sun, hands in his pockets, little white cables dangling from his ears, eyes closed.

Logan poked him in the shoulder. ‘How did you get a pool car?’

‘Eh?’ He took out his earbuds. ‘Oh, hi, Sarge. Did he cough? Whoever you were noising up?’

‘Bloody Eric told me all the cars were booked!’

‘Really? He was fine with me. Maybe-’

‘What happened with the archives?’

‘Not a lot. Couple of idiots kidnapped a jeweller’s daughter; animal rights activists dug up someone’s mum and demanded an end to animal testing at the Rowett; gang grabbed the wife and kids of a bank manager in Ellon so he’d let them in to loot the place…’ Rennie stared off into the middle distance. ‘Oh-ho, hold your breath, here comes Biohazard.’

Bob was shambling out of the block of student accommodation opposite, jacket over his shoulder, shirtsleeves rolled up to expose two forearms so hairy it looked as if he was wearing a furry pullover. He waved, then ambled over.

Logan turned, looking up at the block behind them. The one where, with any luck, Craig Peterson was currently crapping himself. ‘Waste of time then.’