Stuart MacBride - Shatter the Bones

‘Robert and Jacob. Bob Marley: reggae singer, Jacob Marley: Scrooge’s dead partner from A Christmas Carol . Either your Yardies have a twisted sense of humour, or they’ve been visited by the coincidence fairy, don’t you think?’

Logan gave Finnie the address he’d got from Shuggie: a semi-detached in Kittybrewster. An address beaten out of a crippled man with his hands cable-tied behind his back.

‘Hmm…’ Finnie sat back in his chair, swivelling slowly from side to side.

Green raised that manly, cleft chin of his and stared down his nose at Logan. ‘I thought you were supposed to be on compassionate leave?’

Prick.

The head of CID tapped a finger on his desk. ‘DS McRae is a valued member of my team, Superintendent. If he feels he’s better off helping us recover a missing girl and her mother than sitting at home brooding, I’m inclined to support him.’ He gave Green a smile. ‘Dedication, Superintendent — one of the cornerstones of policework, don’t you think?’

‘I think ,’ Green picked invisible lint from the sleeve of his suit jacket, ‘that Grampian Police seem to have problems interfacing with the reality of the situation. Alison and Jenny McGregor’s survival depends on a unified and concerted response to Frank Baker, and we need to do it now.’

Silence.

Finnie pursed his lips, both hands spread out on the desktop. ‘ Superintendent , I can assure you Grampian Police are well aware of the situation. And while I deeply value your input, if you don’t mind, I think I might just try to do my job and get a couple of drug-dealing scumbags off the streets.’ He ruffled some papers on his desk. ‘Detective Sergeant McRae — I understand you wanting to be involved,’ he cast a sideways glance at Green, ‘but I think it might be best if nightshift handled this.’

‘Sir, if I can just-’

‘You’ve done more than enough today. Go home; get some rest. We’ll deal with the Marley Brothers.’

‘But-’

Finnie held up a finger, ‘We’ll deal with it.’

Logan frowned at the screen. ‘So the red banana thing-’

‘The Ninky Nonk.’ Steel topped up his whisky. ‘Thanks.’ The living room was warm, a large LCD television mounted above the fireplace filled with bright primary colours. ‘So the Ninky Nonk is some kind of random bus service?’

‘Yup.’

‘And the porcupines-’

‘ Pontipines . They want to get on the Ninky Nonk so they can go wherever it is Pontipines go. Dole office, most likely. Work-shy bastards.’

‘Only every time they try, the Ninky Nonk drives off?’

She took a sip. ‘Got it in one.’

Susan’s voice floated through from the kitchen. ‘Come on Stinkypants, time for bed.’

Steel patted Logan on the arm. ‘It’s OK, she’s not talking about you.’

There was a sort of toddler jail set up in front of the couch — a big circular enclosure made of plastic and netting. A little girl in a skull-and-crossbones babygrow lay on her back in the middle of it, trying to suck her own feet in that disturbing double-jointed way very small children have.

‘So why does it keep driving off?’ The whisky was making the world go fuzzy at the edges. That or the lack of sleep.

‘Best guess? The driver’s a cunt.’

‘Roberta!’ Susan appeared, wiping her hands on a dish towel. ‘What have I told you about that? What are they going to think when Jasmine starts nursery?’

‘They’ll think, “who’s this beautiful wee monkey with the colourful vocabulary?”’ She creaked up from the couch and broke Jasmine Catherine Cassandra Steel-Wallace out of Baby Barlinnie. ‘Oh-ho, someone’s made trouser truffles…’

Susan smiled. ‘Are you OK, Logan? Do you want some more ice cream?’

‘No, no, I’m fine thanks.’ Just as long as he didn’t think about Shuggie Webster. Or Samantha. Or not being in on the firearms team picking up the Marley brothers. Engineering a little accident for them…

‘…Logan?’

Blink. ‘Sorry?’

‘I said, do you want to kiss your daughter good night?’

‘Oh, er… yeah. Sure.’ He stood and planted a little kiss on the top of her head. Steel was right — Jasmine smelt like she’d been rolling around in something brown and sticky. ‘Sweet dreams.’

‘Say nighty-night to Daddy, Jasmine.’ Susan took hold of a little chubby wrist and waved it at Logan. ‘He gave your mummies a little tub of wriggly sperm, so doctors could put you in my tummy.’

‘Do you have to do that every single time I come round?’ Susan laughed. ‘Could you be any more uncomfortable?’ He could feel the blush crawling up his neck. ‘So…’ He went back to the TV. ‘Do you really watch this rubbish all the time?’

‘I know .’ Susan laughed, Jasmine cradled against her chest making big wet-mouthed yawns. ‘You get used to it.’

‘Whisky helps.’ Steel finished her glass. ‘Tell you, half the sodding licence fee must go on heroin and tequila.’

‘…movement out the back. Hang on…’ There was a pause, then the harsh whisper came from the Airwave handset again. ‘Nah, you’re OK — just a cat.’

Logan propped the lumpy grey rectangle against the vase of daffodils on the breakfast bar, then turned the volume up.

‘Jesus, that’s no’ a cat, it’s a fucking tiger! Did you see the size of its-’

‘All right, settle down.’ DI Bell sounded as if he was eating something. ‘Timecheck: oh two-fi fty. We are live in ten. Teams Two and Three, take up positions.’

Logan glanced at the clock on the cooker: nearly five minutes fast. The room was bathed in the pale orange glow of the overcast sky, the back garden a jungle of silhouettes and shadows through the window. He filled the kettle, then poured half of it out, before sticking it on to boil. The growing rumble drowned out the babble on his Airwave handset as DI Bell got his firearms team into place.

Mug. Teabag. Boiling water. Milk-

The kitchen burst into sudden brightness.

Logan screwed his eyes up, peering through the glare. Steel was standing in the doorway, wearing a pair of tartan pyjamas, clutching a brass poker like a baseball bat.

‘Christ’s sake, Laz, thought you were burglars.’ Her hair looked as if she’d lent it out to a colony of howler monkeys. She flicked the light off again. ‘Couldn’t sleep?’

He fished the teabag out and dumped it in the bin. ‘Kind of.’ DI Bell: ‘And we’re live in fi ve. Everyone where they’re meant to be?’

Steel sighed. ‘What’s going on?’

‘You want tea?’

‘Peppermint. What’s going on?’

‘Team One, ready to rock.’

‘Team Two, readiness: we has it.’

‘Logan?’

‘Team Three, good to go.’

‘Team Four, hot to trot.’

He rinsed the teaspoon under the cold tap. ‘Ding-Dong’s raiding the Yardies’ flat in Kittybrewster.’

‘Aye, I gathered that. What I want to know is why you’re down here keeping tabs on it, and no’ upstairs in your beddie-byes.’

Logan placed Steel’s tea on the breakfast bar, the smell of mint curling through the air, the little paper tag dangling over the side of the mug like the tail on a herbal tampon. ‘Told you: couldn’t sleep.’

She hauled a stool out and settled down opposite. ‘Do I look like a sodding idiot?’

‘Here we go: five, four, three, two, one. Do it.’

The bang and crack of a Big Red Door Key smashing into wood crackled out of the handset.

Steel’s eyes narrowed to wrinkly slits. ‘You think they’re the ones who torched your house, don’t you?’