Stuart MacBride - Shatter the Bones

‘Yes, sir. I’ll get a firearms-’

‘Actually,’ Green folded his arms across his chest, puffing himself up, ‘that might not be the best course of action.’ He narrowed his eyes and stared off into the middle distance. ‘If we snatch him, he’ll just clam up. The deadline will come and go, and he doesn’t have to tell us anything. Why would he cooperate?’

The Chief Constable shook his head. ‘Grampian Police will not sit stand idly by and do nothing while a little girl and her mother are killed!’

‘I’m not suggesting you do nothing, sir.’ A flash of perfect white teeth. ‘I’m suggesting we establish surveillance on DI McRae’s student: like DI Steel should have done with Frank Baker. If he really is one of the kidnappers, he’ll lead us right to them. After all, they’ll want to regroup before the midnight deadline, won’t they?’ Green nodded, agreeing with himself. ‘Then we swoop.’

Logan stared at him.

Swoop? The silly bastard really did think he was in a TV cop show. ‘With all due respect-’

‘Tell me,’ Steel fiddled with her fake cigarette, ‘this “watch and wait” approach’s no’ got anything to do with stringing things out, would it? SOCA hang on till the deadline’s past, take over the investigation; Alison and Jenny get released; then you “swoop”, pick up the only suspect we’ve had in a fortnight, and take all the sodding credit while we get our arses kicked in every newspaper in the country?’ She smiled at him. ‘How am I doing?’

Green scowled back. ‘You have a very strange idea of collaborative policing, Inspector.’

‘Coming from you?’ She turned to the Chief Constable. ‘We could sit about on our thumbs, waiting for Clayton to lead us to his nasty wee Doctor Who appreciation society, or we can go kick in his door and actually do something about it.’

‘And what happens when the rest of the gang find out we’ve snatched him?’ Green leaned on the desk. ‘They abandon the whole enterprise, kill Alison and Jenny, then disappear. At least my way we have some chance of getting the McGregors out alive.’

The Chief Constable sat back in his seat. ‘I think we need to take a break and consider our options. In the meantime, DCI Finnie, get surveillance organized on Mr Clayton ASAP. If we do decide to take him, I want to know where he is. We reconvene back here in twenty minutes.’

Robert ‘Marley’ was lying on the cell’s blue plastic mattress. The nightshift had obviously confiscated his clothes for forensic analysis, because he was partially dressed in a white paper SOC suit. He’d stripped off the top half, tying the arms around his waist, exposing a broad brown chest and the kind of wash-board abs that didn’t belong on real people. One hand behind his head, the other tucked into the makeshift waistband.

He didn’t look in the least bit worried about being banged up in a holding cell, facing three counts of murder, one of animal cruelty, and skinning Shuggie Webster’s fingers…

And somehow Logan couldn’t work up the enthusiasm to congratulate him on that last one.

Robert Marley looked up from his bed. He’d dyed his hair red and fluorescent orange, as if his head was on fire. ‘The fuck you lookin’ at, mon. I an’ I ain’t some fuckin’ peepshow for whitey.’

Logan slammed the hatch shut.

The Police Custody and Security officer standing next to him in the corridor puffed out her cheeks. ‘Pfff… Don’t let the fake Jamaican accent fool you; heard the pair of them talking last night in broad Mancunian — had to split them up in the end. Probably never been south of London in their lives.’

Logan’s phone rang. He ignored it. ‘They’re up before the Sheriff at half-two. You want me to stick Bobby the Pseudo-Yardie in an interview room?’

He flexed his right hand, feeling the skin pull tight over his swollen knuckles. ‘Not yet.’

‘Want to see the other one? Got him downstairs?’

His phone was ringing again. ‘Hold on,’ He pulled it out. ‘McRae.’

‘LoganDaveGoulding.’ The psychologist pronounced it as if it was all one big Liverpudlian word. ‘I’ve been trying to get in touch with-’

‘You heard about the fire.’ Of course he had, it’d been in all the evening papers.

‘Well, yeah, but I wanted to know how you’re doing. I’m sorry about Samantha.’

Everyone was sorry about Samantha. Every bastard he passed in the corridor was sorry about her, as if that helped.

Logan held the phone against his chest, and turned to the PCSO. ‘Thanks, I’ll get back to you.’

She wandered off, twirling her big bunch of keys like Charlie Chaplin’s cane.

He put the phone back to his ear. ‘…be mad as hell at the bastards.’ A small pause. ‘Look, I’ve got to give a lecture at ten on “pluralism in regard to the self”, but I’m free from eleven if that’s any good?’

Logan stared at the closed cell door. ‘I’m kinda busy right now.’

‘Of course you are: sorting out home insurance, visiting the hospital…?’

He scrubbed a hand across his face. ‘You know, don’t you?’

‘That you’re at work? Well, let’s call it an educated guess. You need time to grieve, Logan.’

‘She’s — not — dead!’

‘It’s not about death, Logan: most times grief’s about change. And I know it’s a cliche, but sometimes it really does help to talk about it. Rant. Shout. Throw things.’ Goulding sighed. ‘You know you’re not alone, so why shut yourself off?’

‘Excuse me, sir…’ The PCSO was back, pulling a gaunt-faced teenager by the arm. ‘Emily here needs a word.’

Emily looked like she needed a meal, and a bath, and to stop shooting heroin into every vein she had. She licked her lips and stared at him. ‘You the copper looking for that Trisha Brown, yeah?’

Logan stuck the phone against his chest. ‘You a friend?’

‘There a reward for, you know, information and that?’

‘Depends on the information.’

She rubbed a hand up and down her needle-tracked arm. ‘You got them Marley fucks in, right?’

‘Why?’

‘They’re going down, right? You’re not gonna let the fuckers out?’

Logan stared at her. ‘What’ve you got?’

Her left leg trembled, as if it wasn’t really connected to the rest of her. ‘You ask them about Trisha?’

‘Why would-’

‘Bob, right? Big ginger-haired darkie bastard. He did this…’ She pulled up her ‘BRITAIN’S NEXT BIG PORN STAR’ T-shirt, showing off a set of xylophone ribs covered in green-and-blue bruising. ‘Fucker said I should be grateful. If I wasn’t careful I’d end up like Trisha Brown.’

Logan stared at the cell door again. Then went back to his phone call. Goulding was still talking. ‘…point being the strong silent type, it’s not-’

‘Speak to you later.’ He hung up. ‘So, you know, do I get a reward or something?’

‘We’ll see…’

‘Whatever you want, it’ll have to wait. We’re swamped.’ The IB tech took off his dusty plastic goggles and wiped them on the tails of his lab coat. He nodded over his shoulder at a stack of blue plastic crates loaded with evidence bags. ‘You got any idea how much drugs Ding-Dong brought in last night? Like Pete Docherty’s bathroom cabinet in here today.’

‘Where’s Elaine?’

‘Ah.’ The tech nodded. ‘Give us a sec…’ He was back two minutes later with a manila folder. He placed it carefully on the light table. ‘I’m off for a cup of tea, or a pee, or something.’ Then backed up, turned around, and walked out of the room.