Stuart MacBride - Shatter the Bones

‘I didn’t-’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Laz — do you never bloody listen? Finnie’ll do his nut when he finds out!’ She buried her head in her hands. ‘Why did I let that wee jobbie Rennie talk me into helping you come back to work today?’

Logan stared out of the window. There was a hollow-eyed face staring back at him. ‘I couldn’t get them on my own. Not both of them…’

‘So what, you thought Finnie would let you grab an MP5 and go shoot the wee buggers?’ She looked up. ‘What about Shuggie Webster?’

The ghost in the glass shrugged. ‘I don’t think I want to be a police officer any more.’

‘Fuck’s sake, Laz. Are you the one beat the poor sod up?’

‘I…’ He rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘It’s…’

‘You bloody idiot! Soon as they question him, he’ll land you in it. Do you no’ remember what happened to Insch? They’ll lock you up, you daft bastard.’

‘Probably. Maybe. I don’t know.’ There was nothing funny about it, but Logan couldn’t help laughing, just a little bit, the sound bitter and cold. ‘Might not be a bad idea.’

Steel hunched over her mug. ‘I can’t get you out of this one. I mean … fucking hell, Laz.’

‘I know.’

‘ON THE FLOOR! ON THE FLOOR NOW!’

They both turned and looked at the handset. ‘You sure they’re the ones who torched your flat?’

‘Find out soon enough.’

She sighed. ‘Then what? You go for them in the cells? Get yourself up on a couple of murders as well as the assault? You really think that’s what Samantha wants?’

‘What would you do if someone tried to kill Susan, or Jasmine? Bake them a cake?’

‘GOOD. NOW MOVE AND I’LL BLOW YOUR ARSE OFF!’

‘I’d…’ She fiddled with her mug, making it click against the working surface. ‘Doesn’t make you any less of a daft bastard.’

‘Team One: clear.’

‘Team Four: clear.’

He stared down at his hands. ‘Don’t think I can’t do this any more.’

‘Team Three: we have the suspects.’

‘Team Two: Guv, we’ve got enough smack, coke, speed, and weed up here to keep Keith Richards stoned off his tits till he’s ninety! Holy crap, Cath, you ever see so much weed in your life?’

Steel dumped her teabag on the draining board. ‘Don’t be an arse: you can’t quit. What the hell would you do? Go be a rentacop down the Trinity Centre? Shoplifting and old ladies who’ve peed themselves?’

‘Believe it or not, I got a job offer this morning.’

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.

Go from a police officer to heading up Aberdeen’s biggest criminal empire… Let’s face it, he was already halfway there.

Strange how much could change in just twenty-four hours.

Logan straightened his tie. ‘OK.’

Steel looked him up and down. ‘I still think you’re a bloody idiot. Get a Federation rep in there with you!’

The summons to DCI Finnie’s lair had been sitting on his desk when he got in, gritty-eyed and yawning, feeling as if someone had replaced his insides with burning snakes. ‘MCRAE? MY OFFICE? ASAP!’

‘What good’s a rep going to do? If Shuggie’s made a complaint I’m screwed anyway.’

Of course he’d complained — Urquhart was right, Shuggie Webster was a junkie… And he had every right to complain.

Logan closed his eyes. They were going to suspend him, arrest him, and lock him away for four-to-six years. Maybe by the time he was up for parole, Samantha would have woken up.

Deep breath.

He knocked on the head of CID’s door.

Finnie’s voice came from inside: ‘Enter.’

Logan marched into the office, DI Steel slouching along behind him. ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

Finnie glanced at the clock, mounted on the wall, then sat back in his seat and steepled his fingers.

‘Sir, I-’

‘DI Bell picked up your Marley brothers last night. They came gift-wrapped with half a million pounds’ worth of drugs. It’s significant result.’

‘With all due respect, sir-’

‘I know, I know.’ Finnie held up a hand. ‘You wanted to be there when the firearms team went in, running the operation. But I couldn’t allow it, not after everything you’d been through yesterday. You needed to go home and get some rest.’

‘But, sir-’

‘Don’t worry. Even though DI Bell made the arrests, we’re all aware that it’s only because you supplied the information. Nightshift ran their prints and DNA through the system: Robert and Jacob are wanted in connection with one death in Lothian and Borders, and two in Greater Manchester. Their capture represents a considerable feather in Grampian’s police cap, at a time when we’re not exactly covering ourselves in glory with the McGregor case.’

The bastard was drawing it out, making him suffer.

Logan shifted his feet. ‘I’d like to-’

‘Then there’s this .’ He held up that morning’s Press and Journal.

And here it was: ‘POLICE DISGRACE AS FORMER HERO HOSPITALIZES ADDICT IN REVENGE ATTACK…’ only that wasn’t the headline. The front page read, ‘MOTHER ABDUCTED FROM KINCORTH STREET’. There was a photo of a smiling teenager, one eye squinted shut, a bottle of beer in her hand. It almost looked like- Finnie ruffled the paper. ‘Trisha Brown’s mother is telling everyone we’re not taking her daughter’s disappearance seriously. That while Alison McGregor gets TV tributes and the Chief Constable making statements, all her daughter gets is one lowly sergeant.’

Logan frowned at the photo again. It was her: Trisha Brown, taken before the heroin sank its manky-brown claws into her. She couldn’t have been much older than thirteen.

Finnie’s face curled down at the edges. ‘Not exactly a step in the right direction, is it?’

‘Sir, I want to explain-’

‘And then there’s Shuggie Webster. DI Bell went up to the hospital and took his statement last night.’

Too slow. No point jumping when you’ve already been pushed.

Logan raised his chin and straightened his shoulders, staring out through the window behind Finnie’s head. ‘Yes, sir.’

Goodbye career: hello suspension, arrest, prosecution, and jail time.

‘Mr Webster has been kind enough to give us the names and addresses of three of his other suppliers and half a dozen dealers, as well as coughing to nearly twenty unlawful removals.’ Finnie smiled. ‘Isn’t that nice of him?’

Logan closed his eyes, waiting for the punchline. ‘I understand Mr Webster told DI Bell that you’d convinced him to turn his life around and come clean.’

Logan risked one eye. ‘He did?’

‘Yes. Said you were very persuasive when you rescued him from the three hoodies who attacked him yesterday morning.’

Hoodies…?

‘…so remember: tempers are going to be running high today. All it’ll take is one idiot and we could have a riot on our hands.’ Acting DI Mark McDonald shuffled the papers in his hands, and shifted from foot to foot at the front of the crowded briefing room — every single member of day-shift CID, and more than two-dozen uniformed constables staring at him. ‘The media are out in force, waiting for something to kick off, so please make sure you keep your eyes and ears open.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Thank you.’ Then sat down.

Someone had updated the countdown on the whiteboard behind him. Now it read, ‘DEADLINE: TOMORROW!!!’

Finnie got to his feet. ‘As Acting Detective Inspector MacDonald says, the media are wetting themselves with anticipation. But that does not excuse this.’ He clicked the remote and the front page of today’s Aberdeen Examiner filled the projection screen. ‘DID MISSING PAEDOPHILE KIDNAP ALISON AND JENNY?’ above a photo of Frank Baker.