Stuart MacBride - Shatter the Bones

‘Er… Actually, Sarge, Finnie’s kinda laying down the law on that one.’

He locked the hire car’s door and walked up to the big wrought iron gates. Leaves and sunshine made a writhing freckled pattern on the gravel driveway.

‘Everyone’s been told not to bother you with police stuff. You’re meant to be on compassionate leave.’

That was news to him. ‘Then pretend Steel told you to do it.’

‘Yeah, that’s cool. It’s all her fault.’

There was one of those buzzer entry security things mounted on the high stone wall. Logan pressed the button.

‘Listen, I was onto the fi re brigade this morning — they’re saying the fl at’s not safe for the IB to go into yet. But there’s defi nitely signs of an accelerant.’

‘No shit.’

‘…Yeah. OK, so we’re getting together a collection, for Sam. There anything you think we should buy? You know, something she’ll like when she wakes up?’

If she wakes up. ‘Hold on.’ He jabbed the mute button. The security thing was buzzing at him.

Then a broad Aberdonian accent crackled out of the speaker. ‘Fa is it?’

‘Logan McRae to see Mr Mowat.’

‘Hud oan.’ Silence.

Back to Rennie. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Erm, I was thinking — have you sorted out your insurance yet? You know, home and contents?’

Logan ground the heel of one hand into his eye. One more thing to add to the list. ‘All the paperwork was in the flat…’

‘You want me to do it for you? I can phone round, get stuff sorted? You know, if it helps?’

The gates gave a clunk, then swung open. Walk into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.

‘Sarge? You still there? I mean, it’s not much, but-’

‘No, it’s great… Thanks.’ The gravel crunched under his smoke-blackened shoes. ‘Really, I appreciate it.’

‘Hey, no probs — what are mates for, right?’ A cough. ‘And … I’m really sorry about Sam.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry too.’

The gates swung shut behind him. Logan hung up.

‘Will you take a wee dram, Logan?’ Hamish Mowat, AKA Wee Hamish, waved a liver-spotted claw at a display cabinet. A set of crystal decanters and tumblers, were lined up behind the glass. Midday and Wee Hamish was dressed for bed — tartan jammies, grey slippers, a fleecy robe.

‘Not for me, thanks.’

‘Ah, got to keep a clear head. I understand. You’re a man on a mission: have to keep your wits sharp.’ His voice was a raspy mix of Aberdonian and public school, not much louder than a whisper. ‘I’ll have one, if you don’t mind?’ He shuffled over to the window, wheeling a drip stand along for the ride. A clear bag swung on a hook at the top, the IV line disappearing into the plastic shunt taped to the back of his left hand.

Logan opened the cabinet. ‘Glenmorangie, Dalwhinnie, Macallan, or Royal Lochnagar?’

‘Surprise me.’

Logan picked a decanter at random, poured a decent measure, and added a splash of water. Carried it across to where Wee Hamish was surveying his domain.

‘Thank you.’ The old man took it in a trembling hand. ‘ Slainte mhar .’

The house was huge, a rambling mansion on the south side of the River Dee, perched high enough on a hill to give a panoramic view over Aberdeen. Who said crime didn’t pay? The large garden stretched away to a border of trees, and one of those black-and-yellow ride-on mowers hummed its way across the lawn, like a low-flying bee — a huge scowling man perched on the little seat. He was massive: not just fat, but tall and broad too, his face a web of scar tissue and patchy beard.

Wee Hamish sighed. ‘It pains me to think of you two at each other’s throats. I do wish the pair of you would bury the hatchet.’

Yes, well, there’d be no prizes for guessing where Reuben would want to bury it.

‘I don’t think he’s the forgive and forget type.’

When the old man nodded, it set the saggy droop of skin beneath his chin wobbling. ‘I suppose you’re probably right.

But I’m not going to be around forever, Logan, and if you two can’t sort out your differences, it’s only going to end one way…’ He rested the tips of his fingers against the window. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about that kind of thing lately. What my legacy’s going to be.’

Wee Hamish licked his pale purple lips. ‘So I fund community projects, I set up bursaries so underprivileged children can go to university, I sponsor families in Africa…’ He took another sip of whisky, not taking his eyes off the garden and its angry mechanical bee. ‘You know, much though I love him, Reuben’s apt to be a bit … impulsive. Don’t get me wrong, he’s ferociously loyal, a great man to have on your side, someone who’ll do whatever it takes to get the job done, but a good leader has to weigh up his options. Make unpalatable decisions. Compromise sometimes. Not just go charging in with a sawn-off shotgun.’

Wee Hamish turned and tapped Logan on the forehead with a curved finger, the skin dry like parchment. ‘Head first.’ The finger prodded Logan in the chest. ‘ Then heart.’ The old man curled his fingers into a loose clump. ‘And fists last of all.’ He shook his head, sending that sag of skin wobbling again. ‘Reuben, bless him, is all fists.’

‘Mr Mowat, I-’

‘Of course, that’s the problem, isn’t it? Who do I hand everything over to, when I go?’ He touched the glass again. ‘I had a son once. Lovely lad, but not … temperamentally suited to this line of work. It was a motorbike accident that took him, he was eighteen. And by then it was too late for Juliette and me to try again. Too old the pair of us. No heart left in it.’

‘Actually, I-’

‘I was sorry to hear about your young lady. I sent some flowers, I hope you don’t mind. A hospital is such an ugly place, don’t you think? It’s a wonder anyone gets better at all.’

How the hell did Wee Hamish know about Samantha? It wasn’t even in the papers yet.

‘Thank you.’

‘And if there’s anything you need…’ Wee Hamish chuckled, a wet, rattling sound. ‘Of course there’s something you need. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. You want whoever set fire to your home. You want revenge.’

Logan looked away, cleared his throat.

Wee Hamish put a hand on his arm. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m not offended. Why else would you come to visit a sick old man, eh?’

‘Shuggie Webster. I want to know where he is.’

‘I see. Yes, well I dare say we can organize something along those lines for you.’

‘I… I need you to understand something — if you do this, it doesn’t mean you own me.’

Another chuckle. ‘Logan, trust me when I say that I have no desire to “own” anyone. Oh, I keep a couple of your colleagues on the payroll, but I don’t “own” them; they’re valued members of the team. Simply think of this as a favour, and if you ever decide police work is no longer the career for you… Well, as I said, it would be nice to know that my legacy was in good hands.’ He gave Logan’s arm a squeeze. ‘Now, when we deliver Mr Webster, would you like a gun as well?’

Logan swallowed. ‘A gun?’

‘Something Russian: clean, untraceable, never been used.’

‘I…’

‘Well, you don’t have to decide right now.’ He drained the last of the whisky. ‘Tell me, are you any closer to catching the animals who kidnapped Alison and Jenny McGregor?’

‘Not really. Well, we’ve got a couple of leads.’ Shrug. ‘Don’t know if they’ll come to anything.’

‘The whole situation … discomforts me, Logan. The media crawling all over the city like flies on a dung pile, giving everyone the impression that we live in a horrible, dangerous place. It’s not good for local businesses if people think our city’s not safe.’ He tilted his tumbler from side to side, rolling the last oily smear of whisky around the sides. ‘I’ve made a few enquiries of my own, but no one seems to know anything about these people. That discomforts me too.’