Stuart MacBride - Shatter the Bones

The sound of hammering came from the back of the house, then a crash and, ‘POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!’

Logan burst through the open doorway, PC Caldwell right behind him. Living room: red carpet, two red sofas, yellow walls. Sort of a rhubarb and custard theme.

A man was sitting on the couch in front of the television, with a plate balanced on his lap, cutlery in his hands, staring at them. A baked bean dripped from the chunk of toast on the end of the fork, leaving a little bloodstain on his white T-shirt.

The rumble of boots came from the hallway, as Constables Ferguson and Moore charged up the stairs.

PC Caldwell pointed her submachine gun right between Mr Beans-On-Toast’s eyes. ‘DROP THE KNIFE!’

‘Eek…’ He dropped the knife. It bounced off the edge of his plate and went twirling to the carpet. He swallowed, sending a huge Adam’s apple bobbing up and down his scrawny neck. ‘I… I…’

‘THE FORK TOO!’

Edward Buchan had aged a bit since his mugshot was taken — drink driving in the company Mondeo seven years ago. His dark hair was receding, hints of grey flecking the temples, the stubble on his pointy chin almost white beneath his long nose.

From upstairs came the sound of a scuffle. ‘OW! FUCK…’ Then, ‘ON THE BLOODY FLOOR!’

Buchan glanced up towards the sound. ‘We didn’t-’ Logan hauled him off the couch, the plate of beans bouncing off the floor, sending them everywhere. ‘ON YOUR KNEES, HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD!’

He assumed the position, trembling. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God…’

Caldwell grabbed Buchan’s left wrist, twisted it around, slapped the handcuffs on, then did the same with his right, fastening them behind his back.

Logan towered over him. ‘Where is she?’

‘Oh God…’

‘TRISHA BROWN! WHERE IS SHE?’

Buchan stared up at him, a drip forming on the end of his nose. ‘I… I don’t… Oh God…’

Rennie appeared in the doorway. ‘House is clear, Sarge. We’ve got his missus upstairs: kneed Henderson right in the hairy-funbags. Searched the attic and the garden shed too. No sign of the victim.’

‘I said, where — is — she?’

‘I don’t know, I really don’t know.’ He bit his bottom lip. ‘Please.’

‘You sent a ransom note to the Aberdeen Examiner — and don’t pretend you didn’t, the thing’s covered in your fingerprints.’

Buchan stared at the bean-stained carpet. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it.’

‘Didn’t mean…? You wanted a hundred and fifty thousand pounds!’ Logan poked him in the shoulder with the barrel of his H amp;K. ‘Where is she?’

‘I don’t know! Someone took her.’

‘Who? Who took her?’

‘I was in the garden and she was staggering down the road and there was this car. And it pulled up and maybe they pretended they were asking for directions or something, but she goes over and the guy driving opens the passenger door and she gets in. I don’t know, maybe she knew him?’

Buchan hunched his shoulders. ‘And she’s there for about a minute, then they argue or something. Then suddenly, for no reason, he punches her in the face, really hard, you know? She tried to get out of the car, but he dragged her back in. Hit her a couple more times. Then drove off…’

Logan stared at him. ‘And you didn’t report it?’

He sniffed. ‘Linda thought we could, you know, if we sent in a ransom demand before anyone else did… I got made redundant last year, and ever since-’

‘The note had blood on it.’

‘It was on the road, after he drove off. Must’ve been when she tried to get out of the car. I … sort of rubbed the paper in it.’

‘You saw a woman being assaulted and abducted, and instead of trying to help her, or calling the police, you sat down and figured out a way to make money out of it?’ Logan curled his top lip. You nasty, opportunistic, crappy excuse for a human being. ‘What did he look like?’

‘I can’t really-’

‘What kind of car did he drive?’

‘It was a sort of blue saloon thing, but I don’t-’

‘WHEN DID IT HAPPEN!’

Buchan flinched. ‘It wasn’t my fault, OK? She was a nightmare — her and her bloody mother, always nicking things so they could buy drugs. Lurching about pissed or stoned out of their brains. Shouting at people, swearing. They shouldn’t be allowed to live near decent people!’

PC Caldwell grabbed the handcuffs and hauled Buchan to his feet. ‘You’re not decent people. Because of you her wee boy had to sleep on his own in a bloody wardrobe, in an empty house! She might be dead!’ Caldwell gave the handcuffs another haul. ‘Now answer the bloody question: when?’

‘Ow! You’re hurting me! Saturday, it was Saturday evening, after that tribute show for Alison and Jenny.’ He stared at the carpet and its bloodspatter of beans. ‘That’s… That’s sort of where we got the idea from.’

Logan couldn’t look at him any more. ‘Get him out of here.’ PC Caldwell shoved the trembling man towards the living room door. ‘Edward Albert Buchan, I’m arresting you for attempting to pervert the course of justice…’

‘Sarge?’ Rennie let his MP5 dangle on the end of its strap. ‘Might still be Shuggie, then? Maybe she wasn’t cool with the plan so he smacked her about a bit. Wouldn’t be the first time.’ He paused, head on one side. ‘Or maybe it was all staged, you know? Make sure there’s a couple of witnesses and put on a show. They call the police, and that way when the papers get the ransom note it all looks legit!’

Logan looked down at the mess on the living room floor. Alison McGregor’s face stared back at him from the cover of a glossy magazine. ‘WHY I’M BACKING THE “HOPE FOR HEROES” CAMPAIGN.’

‘There hasn’t been a ransom note, remember? It was all that tosser Buchan.’

‘Oh … right.’

‘Saddle the troops. One body stays to watch the house, one takes the Buchans back to the station — I want an e-fit of whoever grabbed Trisha Brown. Everyone else back in the van. Let’s go see what Shuggie Webster has to say for himself.’

The unmarked van shuddered to a halt. Then a thump came from the thin metal wall dividing the driver’s compartment from the rows of seats hidden in the back. They’d arrived.

‘OK,’ Logan checked his MP5 again — all the bullets were still there, ‘same drill as last time: no shooting anyone, no getting shot. Webster used to have a huge Rottweiler, but that’s dead.

This doesn’t mean he doesn’t have another dog — so be careful . If you fancy a few days’ holiday resting up in A amp;E do me a favour and slip in the shower tomorrow morning.’

PC Ferguson stuck his hand up. ‘We sure this is the right address, Sarge? I mean, I thought those GSM traces only gave you a hundred-foot radius?’

‘We went over this already, Greg.’ Logan fastened the Velcro on his bulletproof vest. ‘We’ve got a known associate of Shuggie’s bang in the middle of the area they traced his phone to. Try and pay attention.’

Silence. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

‘We ready?’

Nods. ‘Then let’s do it.’

Tillydrone baked in the light of the evening sun. The housing block was a huge U-shaped canyon made up of harled concrete — four storeys tall on all three sides, arranged around some yellowy grass and a car park: the tarmac bleached to a pockmarked grey. A handful of trees tried to make the barren space look a bit more presentable, their branches groaning with blossom.

Rennie took point, scuttling across to a brown door, ducked inside, then held it open for everyone else to charge through. A gloomy corridor, the window at the far end blocked off with cardboard and brown parcel tape. Rennie charged up the stairs, Logan doing his best to keep up — the scabs on his ankle complaining with every step. First floor. Second floor…