Stuart MacBride - Shatter the Bones

Steel bared her teeth. ‘Bastards.’

‘Some newspapers insist on telling you that this is all a hoax: it is not. I promise you Jenny will die if you fail to raise enough money.’

A figure stepped into shot, dressed in the familiar white SOC outfit with gloves and a plastic mask that distorted their features. They held up an eight-inch carving knife.

‘She will die, and the police will receive a different part of her dismembered body every day for fourteen days: one piece for every day you failed to raise enough money.’

The speakers crackled. A woman screamed, ‘Don’t hurt my baby!’ and the camera swung around to show Alison McGregor, scrabbling at the bare floorboards with her finger-nails, trying to drag herself away from the radiator they’d chained her to. Her hair was a mess, face bright pink, tears streaming down her cheeks. Then the sound cut off, leaving Alison screaming and shouting in silence.

Jenny filled the screen again.

‘If you fail her, she will die. Then we will start the process all over again with her mother.’

The white-suited figure took a handful of hair and hauled the little girl’s head up, then held the knife against her throat.

The picture zoomed in. Jenny’s nose bright pink and shiny, her bottom lip trembling. Her eyes darted up to the right, probably looking at the bastard with the knife, then she nodded. It wasn’t a big nod, but it was still enough for the blade to make a little crease in her skin. She looked straight into the lens, and fat tears sparked in the corners of her eyes.

Her voice came from the laptop’s speakers, small and trembling. ‘I don’t… I don’t want … to die…’

‘You have until midnight.’

The screen went dark, then YouTube’s little line of ‘if you liked that, you’ll love these’ videos appeared, along with an option to play the thing again.

‘Lights.’ DCI Finnie pointed the remote at the projector mounted on the roof of the briefing room, freezing the picture as the man in the SOC suit pressed the knife against Jenny’s throat.

Someone flipped the switch and a cold fluorescent glow filled the room. The audience shifted in their seats. It was a much more select group than earlier, just the top brass and senior CID officers.

Finnie placed the remote down on the lectern next to him. ‘At least we now have a timeframe: midnight.’

Chief Constable Anderson swore, light glinting off the polished silver buttons on his dress uniform and the top of his shiny head. ‘What’s the pot standing at?’

‘Er…’ Acting DI Mark McDonald fidgeted his way through a small stack of paper. ‘It’s about-’

‘Six point three million.’ Superintendent Green lounged in his chair, staring up at the screen. ‘Conservative estimates put the total at about seven million by midnight.’

‘Dear lord.’ The Chief Constable shook his head. ‘Any idea how they’re planning on getting their hands on the money?’

‘It has to be electronic transfer.’ Green tapped his pen against the palm of his hand. ‘They can’t ask for it in cash — we can’t get that much together by midnight; then they’d have to launder it. Not to mention the risk involved with picking it up.’

‘I see. And what about this Frank Baker?’

DI Steel narrowed her eyes at Green for a moment. ‘We’ve got sightings from Nairn to Portsmouth and back again. His face is in every regional newspaper in the UK, and most of the nationals as well; posters up at every ferry terminal, bus station, and airport.’

Green nodded. ‘I knew he was involved from the moment I spoke to him.’

‘Oh aye? And did you no’ think it’d be a good idea to let us know so we could keep an eye on him before you scared him off?’

‘I can’t be expected to do your job for you, Inspector.’ Then followed five minutes of arguing, moaning, and trying to pass the buck.

Logan stared at the screen. The Knife Man had a stick-on conference-style name badge just like the two in the abduction video. It was difficult to make out, but it sort of looked like ‘Sylv-’ something. Sylvia? Sylvester?

Logan tried them both out on his notepad. Sylvia, David, and Tom. Sylvester, Tom, and David.

Didn’t really make any difference — they were fake names. No one went to all the trouble of producing forensically-neutral crime scenes and notes, then stuck a big sticky label on their chest with their real name scrawled across it.

No, this was Reservoir Dogs territory.

The badges were so they could tell who they were talking to, when they were all done up in their SOC suits and masks. All humanity obscured.

Sylvia, Tom, and David.

Sylvester, Tom, and David-

Someone elbowed him in the ribs.

Logan looked up from his notepad. The whole room was staring at him.

Finnie pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed. ‘I know you’re new to this, Detective Inspector McRae, but generally we like to pay attention in case strategy meetings.’

Logan could feel the heat prickling at the back of his neck. ‘Yes, sir.’ He glanced down at the notepad in front of him. He’d been doodling — a Dalek, complete with sink-plunger arm, and beady eye.

Not Sylvester, Tom, and David. Put them in the right order- ‘For goodness sake, DI McRae, are you listening to a word I’m-’

‘ Doctor Who .’ Logan stood. ‘Tom Baker, Sylvester McCoy, David Tennant all actors who’ve played the Doctor. It’s their naming system.’

That got him a sea of blank looks.

Superintendent Green raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes well, that’s fascinating . But it still doesn’t help us determine-’

‘Hold on a second…’ Logan flipped back through his notebook.

Green snorted. ‘Sergeant, I mean Inspector McRae, a little career advice: if you can’t focus for two minutes, how-’

‘Here.’ Logan poked the page with a finger. ‘Stephen Clayton, he’s on the same psychology course as Alison McGregor. He tried to chat her up, but she knocked him back pretty hard. He called her — and I quote — “a stuck up, holier than thou, lying, two-faced bitch.” Said, “getting kidnapped was the best thing that ever happened to that manipulative cow”. And he’s a Doctor Who fan: signed posters, remote-controlled Dalek, the works.’

The Chief Constable sat forward, silver buttons sparkling on uniform black. ‘Is he a viable suspect?’

‘Who else have we got?’

No one leapt in with any helpful suggestions.

Steel had a scratch under the table. ‘How’s a wee psychology student tosser pull all this off?’

‘Well…’ Logan looked up at the screen. ‘What if Clayton gets other students to help him? We know one of them has medical training: he could be studying to be a doctor.’

Acting DI Mark McDonald shook his head. ‘Couldn’t be. I’ve been over McPherson’s case notes half a dozen times — the hospital say access to the pharmacy’s restricted to doctors and authorized nurses. No exceptions.’

I’ve got a mate who’s a medical student, fi xes me up now and then. Steel leant over and rapped her knuckles on the top of Mark’s head. ‘Hello? This thing on? Testing, testing.’

‘Get off!’

‘McPherson couldn’t investigate shite for sweetcorn. Sticky-fingered medical student helps himself to a bunch of surgical drugs, does a wee bit of amputation, and Bob’s your builder. No’ like it’s open heart surgery, is it?’

‘Right, Andy,’ the Chief Constable pointed at DCI Finnie, ‘I want this Clayton brought in for questioning. I’ll sort out the warrant with Sheriff McNab personally, you just make sure Clayton’s in custody within the hour.’