Stuart MacBride - Shatter the Bones

‘This thing with Shuggie Webster-’

‘Oh, don’t worry, we shall be very discreet. No one will even know that you have him. And if you need a hand disposing of him afterwards, I’m just a phone call away.’

A cordon of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape stretched all the way across Marischal Street. A patrol car was parked at the side of the road, along with the Identification Bureau’s grubby Transit van, and a white Fiat with the Grampian Fire Brigade crest on the side.

‘…only a day and a half to go before the kidnappers’ deadline. In other news, Grampian Police have issued a public appeal for a Mr Frank Baker to come forward…’

The lounge window was a black-ringed hole, smoke staining the granite above, dirty water the granite below. The street still had that charred-wood-and-molten-plastic smell. The flat directly below had all its windows open, the curtains flapping in the breeze. Probably trying to dry out after the fire brigade pumped Christ-knew how many gallons of water into the building. So it wouldn’t just be Logan’s insurance getting a hammering.

‘…concerned for Mr Baker’s safety following his disappearance from his Mannofield flat on Sunday evening or Monday morning-’

Logan pulled the keys out of the ignition. Stared up at the place where he used to live. Then climbed into the sunny afternoon. So what if he’d parked on double yellows? The whole street was closed off anyway. If anyone wanted to make an issue of it … he’d quite happily ram their teeth down their throat.

He ducked under the cordon of tape. ‘Oi, you!’ A uniformed constable clambered out of the patrol car. ‘Where do you think you’re…’ He stopped. ‘Sorry, Sarge, thought you were another one of them journalists.’ He looked at his feet for a moment. ‘You OK? Finnie said-’

‘Was anyone else hurt?’

‘Only, we’re not supposed to-’

‘Sergeant McRae!’ Someone in full SOC gear was waving at him from the doorway to his building.

Logan left the constable spluttering to himself, and marched over. The tech peeled back her hood then hauled off her face-mask — Elaine Drever, Samantha’s boss, head of the Identification Bureau, a thickset woman with greying curly hair.

She stuck out a gloved hand for Logan to shake. ‘I want you to know we’re doing everything we can.’

Logan stared up at the building. ‘Thought you didn’t do field work any more?’

‘Sam’s one of ours. Fire brigade just gave us the all-clear to start collecting evidence.’

‘There won’t be much. Condom through the letterbox, filled up with petrol, match dropped in after it.’

She smiled, showing off a gold crown on one of her front teeth. ‘Ah, but he sodded about for too long, let the petrol evaporate.’

The scritching noise — Shuggie struggling to get the matches lit.

Elaine made a ball with both hands, then jerked them apart, fingers spread wide. ‘The vapour ignited like a bomb, blew the front door clean off.’

‘Did the same with the bedroom. Can I see?’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course you can’t. Finnie read the riot act this morning: you’re not allowed anywhere near the investigation.’ She turned and marched back towards the stairwell door. ‘There’s spare suits in the back of the van, just make sure you’ve got a mask on so we can all pretend not to recognize you.’

They’d laid down a walkway of metal tea trays, each one on little metal legs, keeping Logan’s blue plastic booties three inches off the charred, waterlogged carpet. Stopping any evidence from being destroyed.

‘Bloody hell…’

He stared in through the open doorway. The hall was a blackened mess, chunks of ceiling lay on the floor, scorched beams exposed above his head. The roof was still in one piece, but all the things they’d stored up in the attic were gone, strings of vitrified plastic and a small metal half-tank, all that was left of the bread-maker he’d been given years ago and never used.

Logan paused. ‘Is the floor safe?’

Someone — anonymous in a baggy SOC suit, mask, goggles, and gloves — nodded at him. ‘Just don’t go jumping up and down in the kitchen.’

What was left of the flat stank — the peppery reek of blackened wood; the bitter tang of roasted plastic; and the sour, cloying smell of burnt carpet.

He started in the lounge. No need for a crime scene walkway in here — everything that mattered had happened in the hall. The TV was a hollow skeleton of metal struts, the plastic casing melted away, the CRT screen shattered. CDs lay heaped in the corner where the shelving unit had collapsed, grimy silver disks glittering like discarded fish scales. The bay window was just a collection of empty, scorched frames, all the glass long missing.

The kitchen was a mess, all the units stained with soot, the fridge-freezer door cracked and part-melted.

But the bedroom was worse. The mattress was a pile of ash and springs in a sagging metal frame. Chunks of ceiling had come down, and only two sides of the tipped-over wardrobe remained.

Logan wiped a gloved hand across his eyes. Swallowed hard. Then stepped over to the shattered window.

Three floors down, the flat roof still had its dusting of underwear snow, Samantha’s boots, ball gown, and corset lying twisted and empty.

He stood there, staring down at the hole she’d made with her falling body.

Fucking Shuggie Webster… No matter what happened, the doped-up junky bastard deserved everything he was going to get. Every single last fucking-

A hand on Logan’s shoulder made him flinch. ‘You OK? You’ve been standing there for about fifteen minutes.’ It sounded like Elaine Drever, but with all the SOC gear on it was difficult to tell.

‘Can you…’ He pointed down at Samantha’s things. ‘I don’t … want people…’

‘I’ll take care of it. Get it all bagged up for you.’ The rumpled figure sighed. ‘I know you don’t want to hear it, but if you’d stayed in here, we’d be digging your bodies out of the rubble. It doesn’t take a lot of smoke to kill someone. You did the right thing.’

Tell that to Samantha.

The head of the IB patted his shoulder. ‘Got one bit of good news for you though — come see.’

She led him out and across the landing to the other top floor flat. Logan’s front door was propped up against the wall, the paint on one side all blistered and peeling, pristine Saltire blue on the other. The little brass plaque engraved with, ‘LOGAN AND SAMANTHA’S SECRET HIDEOUT’ shone in the sunlight, but the letterbox was covered with a thin film of fingerprint powder.

‘Like I said, our arsonist waited too long to light the petrol. So he was standing right in front of the door when, boooooom!’ She did the thing with her hands again. ‘Right off its hinges. Must have hit him like a battering ram. Force of the blast threw him across the landing, slamming him back against your neighbour’s door. Probably hurt like hell.’

‘Good.’

‘That’s not the best bit.’ She pointed at the exterior side of the door. ‘When it hit him, it cracked his head against the paintwork. You see here?’ She pointed with a purple-gloved finger at a small matt patch on the blue gloss surface. ‘That was his cheek, and this…’ She described an oval with her fingertip, just left of the smudge. ‘Looks like we’ve got sputum, and maybe some tiny drops of blood. Incredibly lucky: normally when you get a big blaze like this the fire brigade sod-up all our evidence. All that water hits the flames, you get huge plumes of steam, and any DNA gets cooked to oblivion.’

Samantha’s boss smiled. ‘Because it got blown across the hallway — and the outside surface’s facing away from the fire — it’s been protected from the heat and the worst of the water. I think we’re going to get DNA.’