Stuart MacBride - Shatter the Bones

‘No, just Alison.’ Logan passed over the photographs of her room, taken by the constables who’d gone to pick her up: Beatrice Eastbrook’s bedroom wall, in all its Silence of the Lambs glory. ‘Well, Jenny’s in the painting, and a couple of the photos, but mostly it’s just Alison. She’s the only one who gets a halo.’

‘Now that is interesting…’ A small smile. ‘The religious iconography isn’t what I’d have expected, given her background. Normally your stalker types are more fetishistic in their devotions.’ He stroked the screen with his fingertip, tracing the outline of Beatrice’s face. ‘Is she under arrest?’

‘She’s in on a volly. It’s not illegal to be a bit creepy.’

‘Well, in that case…’ He handed the file back. ‘Let’s not keep the young lady waiting.’

It took about five minutes for Logan to become completely and utterly lost.

Beatrice leant forward. ‘Actually, my thesis is going to be investigating the role of sublimation and suppression in the intimacy-versus-isolation phase of psychosocial development, with direct reference to the role played by the media’s celebrity bias.’

Goulding nodded. ‘Erikson and Freud, I like it. Have you considered including Kohlberg’s ideas of self-focused morality?’

She smiled. ‘Yes, that would make sense. Celebrity culture often portrays examples running contrary to the negative consequences of transgressing the perceived moral law.’

‘Glad I could help.’

The one thing Logan did understand was that the longer Beatrice spoke to Goulding, the more her true Birmingham accent came out in response to his Liverpudlian one. And the less she sounded like the bunny-boiling fruitloop they’d interviewed that afternoon.

Goulding opened the folder, and pulled out the photos of her room. ‘Now that we’ve established a rapport, Beatrice, I’d like to ask you about these…’ He laid them out on the scarred tabletop.

She picked at the skin around her finger again. ‘I know you’re probably thinking I’m being obsessive, but it… I think she’s an inspiration. A loving mother, a single, independent woman, and she’s a super-talented singer, and she’s doing a degree…’ Beatrice reached for one of the photographs, a closeup of the watercolour with the tinfoil halo. ‘People believe in the strangest things, don’t you think? Some tribes worship a tree, Scientologists think we’re all descended from aliens. Mormons, Anglicans, Catholics, Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists — all have their own little quirks.’ A shrug. ‘I chose to invest my faith in something human. Does that sound strange, compared to believing there’s an invisible magic man who watches everything we do and can damn us for all eternity?’

‘Do you feel it’s a normal response?’

‘You think I might be displacing my need for a maternal role model?’

Goulding smiled. ‘Is that what you think you’re doing?’

On and on and on and on. Psychologist and psychology student, sounding like a self-help seminar for Martians.

Logan rapped his knuckles on the table. ‘What did Alison think about you having a shrine to her on your bedroom wall?’

Beatrice shifted in her seat, hands flattening out the photo on the table in front of her.

‘Did she know about it?’

‘She … came round this one time to borrow some lecture notes. There was a knock at the door, and I opened it, and there she was. I mean right there — at my door.’ Beatrice nodded, up and down, and up and down, curly bleached blonde hair falling over her eyes like a curtain. ‘I mean, God , can you imagine it? Right there in front of me. And I couldn’t speak. I mean, literally couldn’t speak. And she said, “Hi Beatrice, can I come in?”’

The student looked up, a huge smile stretching her mouth wide, eyes glittering. ‘She knew my name. Alison McGregor knew my name. And I asked her in and she saw the wall… And she said, and I’ll never forget it, she said, “Wow. That’s a lovely painting, did you do that?”’

A tear broke free, running down through the foundation on her cheeks. ‘She loved it. She said it was nice to know that someone loved her, like I loved her. That other people didn’t understand. And I ran down to the shop and got us a bottle of Chardonnay and we sat and she told me about Jenny’s mumps and I told her about my mum and it was the best night of my whole entire life.’ Beatrice stroked the photograph. ‘She was just perfect.’

And the bunny-boiling fruitloop was back. ‘I was worried about her — all those photographers and crazed fans pestering her all the time. So I followed her home on the bus a few times. Just to, you know, make sure she was safe. She never even knew I was there… But I kept her safe.’

Tell that to Jenny and her missing toes. ‘Did you follow her on Wednesday night — the night she went missing?’

Beatrice wrapped her arms around herself, as if she was trying to stop herself bursting apart. ‘No… The one time it mattered, and I let her down.’ She stared straight into Logan’s eyes, tears running down her cheeks. ‘It wasn’t my fault. I tried, but she didn’t take the bus, someone pulled up outside the lecture theatre and she got in his car. And they drove away. And I never saw her again.’

Why did no one ever think about calling the police? Logan sat forward. ‘Did you get a photo of the car? Do you know who was driving? Did she mention meeting anyone?’

‘No, I mean yes… I saw him.’

Silence.

For God’s sake. Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘What did he look like?’

‘Bald. And he had a silly little patch of hair on his chin, sideburns with a sort of zigzag cut into them.’ She wrapped her arms even tighter. ‘It was that Gordon Maguire: the TV producer guy who owns the record company.’

Logan stifled a yawn. Shuddered. Then put the phone back on the hook. Stretched in his seat. Sagged. ‘Christ…’ He ran a hand over his face. ‘What do you think?’

Goulding raised an eyebrow. ‘Could Beatrice have hurt them? Oh yes, definitely. She seems to have compartmentalized her life — the dedicated student, the obsessive fan, the dutiful friend, the loyal protector… If she thought Alison McGregor had rejected her, I wouldn’t be surprised to see her falling back into her old behaviour patterns. Mummy has spurned me again, I will punish her. I will-’

The door banged open and there was DCI Finnie in all his rubber-faced glory. ‘Well?’

‘The Met are on their way to the studio.’ Logan pointed at the phone. ‘Maguire’s still broadcasting the round-up of tonight’s semi-final.’

‘Excellent, excellent.’ The head of CID rubbed his hands together. ‘Are they flying him up to Aberdeen?’

‘Can’t. The CPS say we don’t have enough to arrest him. I’ve asked for a video-conference thing when they talk to him, so at least we’ll get to sit in.’

Finnie’s smile slipped. ‘Oh, well, I suppose we shouldn’t lose sight that it’s a result. And this all came from interviewing the Eastbrook woman? The Eastbrook woman McPherson was supposed to have interviewed?’

‘Ah…’ Logan shifted in his seat. ‘Yes, well-’

‘I think I might have to have a few words with Detective Inspector McPherson, don’t you agree? I might start with, “idiot” and see how it goes from there.’ A nod. He reached out and patted Logan on the shoulder, keeping his body stiff, as if he’d heard about this kind of thing, but had never done it before. ‘Good work, Sergeant.’ A pause. ‘Now, have you written up that formal complaint yet?’

‘No, I don’t…’ Logan sighed. ‘I know, but what am I supposed to do?’