Stuart MacBride - Shatter the Bones

The screen was fuzzy, out of focus. He blinked. It was a little girl, her eyes half shut, face covered with scrapes and bruises, blood crusting around her nose. Bowl haircut and a razor-sharp fringe.

The APT poked the screen. ‘Olivia Brook. Five and a half. Car accident. Riding her bike and got broadsided by a teenager in a VW Polo. I was going to email you after we’d seen to Mrs Sawyer.’

Logan stared at the photo. Poor little sod… ‘I thought you searched-’

‘Oh, she didn’t die . They had to take her left leg off just above the knee. Was hanging by a thread anyway; blood supply was completely compromised; the bones were all crushed; nothing they could do.’

‘Where’s the leg?’

‘We incinerate hospital waste.’ She raised her hands to the ceiling tiles. Giving her head a little shake, one eyebrow raised. ‘So…?’

‘So no one would notice a missing toe.’ Bastards. ‘ But we do have blood samples on file. I can send one over, if you want to try for a DNA match?’

‘Yeah, could you make it-’

Logan’s mobile rang, deep in his pocket — the generic tune marking the call as one from an unknown number. If it was Shuggie Bloody Webster calling to talk about consequences he was in for a fucking nasty shock. Logan dragged the phone out. ‘What?’

A small, rustling pause, then, ‘Logan?’ A man’s voice, the accent a whispery, gravelly mix of Aberdonian and public school. Wee Hamish Mowat.

Logan licked his lips. Sat up straight. ‘Hello?’

‘I hope you don’t mind me calling, but I thought you might like to know that we’ve managed to locate your missing … friend.’

A small warehouse in Dyce — not much bigger than a double garage, oil stains on the concrete floor, metal shelving around the bare breezeblock walls loaded down with dusty boxes.

A layer of thick, clear plastic sheeting was spread out on the floor, the corners held down with chunks of rusty machinery.

One of the roller doors was open, letting in the bang and clank of the industrial estate, the whumping roar of helicopters on their way to and from the rigs. A dented Transit van had been backed part way into the warehouse, its rear wheels sitting on the plastic sheet, its front end sticking out into the sunny afternoon. Engine idling.

The young man with the green hair sniffed, then picked up a metal attache case, popped open the catches, and held the thing out to Logan, as if he was starring in a spy film. Jonny Urquhart — From Mastrick With Malice . He smiled, showing off a set of perfect teeth, his cheeks a moonscape of old acne pock-marks. ‘Don’t worry, totally clean, like.’

Logan looked into the case. It was a big semi-automatic pistol, wrapped in a clear plastic zip-lock food bag. Another bag had the clip. One more, a handful of snub-nosed 9mm bullets.

‘Hollow point.’ Urquhart winked. ‘They’ll fuck you up good.’

Logan’s palms were suddenly damp. He wiped them on his jeans. ‘No. Thanks, but no.’

‘Ah, going hands-on, eh? Old school: like it.’ He slammed the case shut again, twiddled with the combination lock. ‘You got gloves? No? Don’t worry, I’ll sort you out.’

He hauled open the Transit’s back doors and clambered inside, then backed out again, hauling a fully-grown man by the armpits.

Shuggie Webster: hands fastened behind his back, legs kicking out in random directions. THUMP, he hit the concrete floor … or rather, the plastic sheeting. A muffled grunt from behind a duct tape gag. He was still wearing the same filthy hoodie as before, but his shoes were gone, exposing a pair of socks with a hole in one toe. Urquhart dragged him into the middle of the sheeting, then let go.

Shuggie lay there, eyes wide, breath hissing out of his nose. Logan swallowed. ‘There we go, one tosspot, delivered as promised. Like FedEx for fuck-heads.’ Urquhart dug another zip-lock bag from his pocket and tossed it across to Logan. ‘Compliments of the house.’

Three pairs of gloves: one leather, two latex — the skin-tone ones you never saw on crime scenes any more.

‘Now, you sure you don’t want that gun?’

On the ground, Shuggie tried to shout something, bucking and writhing.

‘No one fucking asked you.’ Urquhart took two steps and slammed his boot into Shuggie’s side.

That got him a muffled grunt. ‘See? This is what happens when you buy your drugs off fucking foreigners.’ Another kick. ‘Support local businesses!’ Urquhart clapped his hands together. ‘Right, I’ll leave you guys alone. Give us a knock when you want me to come help you get shot of what’s left, OK?’ He swaggered over to the back of the van, reached in and produced a portable stereo the size of a bulldog. Fiddled with it for a moment, then clicked a button.

Heavy metal boomed out of the speakers, loud enough to drown out any screams.

He popped it on the ground, creaked the van’s doors shut again. It pulled forward four feet.

Urquhart turned, tugged his green forelock, stepped outside and hauled the roller door shut. Now it was just Logan, Shuggie, and Metallica.

Shuggie stopped wriggling, just lay there on his back, staring up at him.

Of course the right thing to do would be to look on all this as an object lesson. To accept that Shuggie Webster was just a screwed up little man who got in with the wrong people when he was young. Whose life had been blighted by drug use and a second-rate education. That he was a human being, as flawed and redeemable as anyone.

Logan slid the little plastic zip open and pulled out the latex gloves.

Revenge wasn’t going to solve anything. It wasn’t going to make Samantha’s spleen and left kidney grow back. Make the swelling in her brain go down. Fix her busted ribs, broken shoulder, shattered left knee, or dislocated hip. Make her wake up.

It wasn’t going to do a fucking thing.

He snapped one set of latex gloves on, then struggled the leather pair over the top. Give Shuggie a good scare, then haul him back to the station, hand him over to the authorities, and make sure he goes down for eight-to-twelve years. Which means six-to-eight before he gets out on parole. Four-to-six with good behaviour. Less time-served while waiting for the case to come to court.

Logan pulled the last pair of latex gloves on over the leather.

Barely worth arresting him at all. Might as well give the little fuck a slap on the wrists and send him on his way with a stern talking to.

Save everyone a lot of bother. ‘On your feet.’

Shuggie just stared at him. ‘I said, “ON YOUR FUCKING FEET!”’ Logan slammed a kick into his thigh.

Shuggie hissed behind the gag, then struggled to roll over onto his side. The bandage covering his right hand was almost black with dried blood and dirt. Logan grabbed his shoulders and hauled him up onto his knees.

‘You wanted “consequences”, Shuggie? Fine.’ Logan grabbed the cable tie holding the big man’s wrists together, and pulled. ‘You’re going to get your fucking “consequences”.’

A muffled scream, but Shuggie got to his feet, socks slipping on the plastic.

Just a bit of a scare…

Logan slammed a fist into the big man’s kidneys — he collapsed to his knees again.

‘She’s in a coma.’ Logan took a step back and kicked Shuggie in the kidney again.

‘MMMMMMMPHHHHH!’

Shuggie narrowed his eyes above the duct tape gag, a growling hiss coming from his throat.

‘A fucking coma!’ Logan rammed his forearm into Shuggie’s face, using the solid strip of bone just before the elbow to crack him right across the nose. Barely felt it. But Shuggie went sprawling back across the plastic, moaning and whinging like a baby.