Stuart MacBride - Shatter the Bones

Logan ran PNC checks on everyone in Alison’s class, then added the results to his interview notes.

Rennie grunted and dumped a file box on top of the pile. ‘And that’s the lot…’ Frown. ‘Oh poo.’ He wiped at the dust greying his shirt and trousers. ‘Emma’s going to kill me.’

Their little makeshift office was starting to look a lot more professional — if you ignored the dusty plastic sheeting covering the bare walls, pipes, and conduits. They now had three desks and a trestle table, the latter beginning to sag under the weight of Rennie’s file boxes. Three phones, two laptops, and a printer that sounded like a creaky floorboard every time they sent a file to it.

Logan swivelled his seat around. ‘Kidnappings?’

‘Five years ago.’ He pointed at a small stack of pristine files. ‘Ten years ago, fifteen, and these dirty old sods are twenty. But that’s just the north-east — be months before we get stuff that old from everywhere else.’

‘Probably more than we need anyway. Now go see if they’ve got that GSM trace done yet.’

The constable flounced over to his desk, sank into his chair, and grabbed the phone.

‘Sergeant?’

Logan looked up from his screen. Finnie was standing in the open doorway, his rubbery lips turned down at the edges, eyes narrowed. He looked like a constipated frog.

Green must have been moaning again. ‘Afternoon, sir — I was just about to go looking for you, we-’

‘I understand there’s another ransom note come in.’

‘Trisha Brown, she’s the one involved with Shuggie Webster. Looks like-’

‘And may I enquire why you didn’t see fit to inform me?’

‘I did.’

Finnie frowned. ‘I think I would’ve noticed if-’

‘Emailed you as soon as we got back to the station. I think you were in with Superintendent Green at the time. The kidnapping’s probably a hoax — Shuggie and Trisha’s way of wriggling out of a drug debt.’

‘Oh.’ Finnie swapped the folder under his arm from one side to the other. ‘Yes, well, in that case,’ he held the folder out. ‘I was going to give the investigation to Acting DI MacDonald, but you can keep it.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Logan took the folder and peered inside.

It was the fingerprint report. ‘I’ve requested a firearms team. If you can approve it, we’ll get Shuggie Webster picked up as soon as the GSM trace comes in. He isn’t exactly-’

‘Just make sure I have a complete risk analysis on my desk before you do anything. And by the book, understand? The last thing we need is Green getting the idea we can’t do anything right.’

‘Already working on it, sir.’

‘And speaking of Superintendent Green…’

Here we go.

Finnie pursed his lips, looking over Logan’s left shoulder. ‘Professional Standards tell me Green’s been throwing his weight around with some sex offenders? That you’re thinking of putting in an official complaint.’

‘I am?’ Logan backed away a step. ‘Sir, I didn’t-’

‘I think it would be wise to put it all in writing, Sergeant.’

‘Actually, sir, I was going to drop-’

‘I think it would be wise to put it all in writing , Sergeant.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Yes, sir.’

A smile. ‘Now, how are you getting on with your due diligence?’

‘Actually, it-’

‘And the sooner you put it in writing the better.’

Rennie took the phone from his ear and clamped a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Sarge? Got a result on the GSM trace. Webster’s in Tillydrone.’

‘Excellent.’ Finnie headed for the door. ‘Tell you what: this time, Sergeant, just for fun, let’s try not to let him escape. OK?’

Oh ha-bloody-ha.

Logan waited till the door shut before pulling the report from the folder: whorls, deltas, points of correlation, right thumb…

That wasn’t right.

He turned the sheet over, then back over again. ‘This is definitely the print off the ransom note?’

Rennie shrugged.

According to the database the thumb didn’t belong to Shuggie Webster, it belonged to someone called Edward Buchan.

‘Any questions?’ Sweat trickled down Logan’s ribs. The unmarked van was unbelievably warm inside, packed full of firearms-trained officers dressed in the traditional ninja ensemble of black trousers, boots, jackets, bulletproof vests, helmets, goggles, gloves, and scarves.

Rennie stuck his hand up. ‘Are we allowed to shoot him?’

‘No. You’re not.’ Logan pointed a finger, swept it around the muggy van. ‘No shooting anyone, understand? This is going to be a clean operation — we go in, we subdue Edward Buchan, we rescue Trisha Brown, and we go home. Got it?’

Everyone nodded.

‘Good. Teams one and two: in the front. Teams three and four: back door. One and three stay downstairs, two and four take the first floor. Weapons check.’

The harsh click and clack of slides being drawn back and released filled the van’s interior. Logan ejected the magazine of his Heckler amp; Koch MP5, checked that all the rounds he’d signed for were still there, stuck it back in, then did the same with the small chunky Glock.

He looked up. ‘We good to go?’

More nods.

‘Doors.’

The two ninjas sitting at the back popped them open and they all swarmed out into the evening sunlight. Half-five and the sky was delicate sapphire blue, a white slash of cloud following an aeroplane on its way west.

A little kid on a scooter stopped at the end of the pavement, mouth hanging open, watching as the firearms team scurried into position. Edward Buchan’s house was in the middle of a terrace of six two-storey buildings: grey harling on the ground floor, weatherboard cladding above that. The roof and first floor stretched from one end of the tenement to the other, but little passageways punched through between every other building, leading to the back gardens.

Teams Three and Four lumbered up the stairs and disappeared into the passageway: the sound of their heavy boots thumped back a distorted echo. Logan led Team One and Team Two up to the front door, motioning them to flatten out along the wall on either side.

It was less than two minutes’ walk away from where Trisha Brown’s mum lived.

Rennie’s voice sounded in his earpiece. ‘Sarge? You sure we shouldn’t, you know, seal off the street and evacuate everyone?’

Logan glanced back at the kid on the scooter. ‘Element of surprise, remember? Don’t want this turning into a hostage situation.’

He waved a large black-clad figure forward.

PC Caldwell slipped the holdall from her shoulder. ‘Big Red Door Key?’

‘In five.’

‘Ferguson,’ Logan pointed at the constable second in line, ‘have you got the hoolie bar with you this time?’

The constable raised it above his head. ‘Right here, Sarge.’ Wonders would never cease.

Logan clicked the button that transmitted to everyone in all four teams. ‘And we’re live in: five, four-’

PC Caldwell rested the tip of the battering ram against the front door, directly across from the lock. Glanced back over her shoulder. ‘Watch and learn, Greg.’

‘-one. GO!’

BOOM — the Big Red Door Key battered into the UPVC. The whole thing shook and juddered. The second blow landed two thirds of the way up, and this time the top half parted with the doorframe. The third blow was at ankle height and the whole thing crashed open — the hinges hanging broken bent and twisted.

‘We’re in.’

Logan charged through into the hallway, the rest of Team One and Team Two swarming in behind him. ‘POLICE: ARMED OFFICERS! ON THE GROUND NOW!’ Stairs on the left, open door to the right, closed door at the far end through to what was probably the kitchen. No sign of anyone.