Stuart MacBride - Shatter the Bones

The lab door closed, leaving Logan alone with half a million pounds’ worth of drugs.

He opened the folder. Inside were the preliminary forensic results from the flat fire. Traces of accelerant in the hall, no fingerprints on the door or letterbox. The DNA result was hidden away at the back: Elaine Drever had been right, they’d swabbed the door and managed to find viable samples.

Logan read the conclusion twice. It didn’t make any sense — they’d run the profile through the database and not made a single match. Not one.

That wasn’t possible. Bob and Jacob Marley were in the cells, they were in the system, their DNA was on file from two murder scenes.

How could there not be a match?

He rammed the results back into the folder and stormed out into the corridor. Elaine Drever’s office was two doors down — he barged in without knocking.

Logan waved the folder at her. ‘Who fucked up?’

The head of the Identification Bureau pursed her lips. ‘Sorry, sir, something’s come up. I’ll have to call you back.’ She hung up. ‘Sergeant McRae, I-’

‘Who was it? Who screwed with the DNA sample?’

A long pause. ‘No one screwed with anything.’

‘Run the match again.’

‘It’s not going to-’

He slammed the folder down on her desk. ‘Run — it — again!’

Elaine Drever stared at him. ‘We did. Six times. Then we went back and redid the samples. Twice . There wasn’t-’

‘Then why didn’t you find a bloody match!’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Samantha’s one of ours; you really think we’re not doing everything we can to catch the bastards?’ There wasn’t a match. No match. Zero. Whoever did it, they’re not in the database.’

‘They have to be! They-’

‘We’ve been over the scene with a nit comb; we can’t find what isn’t there.’ She picked up folder. ‘You catch the bastard and this’ll convict him. One hundred percent. Not even Hissing Sid could get him off. But whoever did it, they’re not in the system.’

It had to be them. Had to be. If it wasn’t… Logan ran a hand across his face. If it wasn’t them, then everything he’d done to Shuggie Webster was…

His pulse thumped in his ears, heart beating hard enough to make his whole body rock. Thump. Thump. Thump. Oh Jesus.

‘You OK, Sarge?’ Someone sat down on the other side of the canteen table. ‘I mean, you know, Inspector?’ A cough. ‘Sorry, Guv.’

Logan looked up from his coffee and the canteen snapped back into focus. The sound of officers and support staff gossiping and laughing. He blinked.

PC Guthrie shrugged, his shoulders coming up to touch his red-tipped ears. ‘Force of habit.’

‘Yes.’ Logan took a sip of coffee. Cold. God knew how long he’d been sitting here.

The constable unwrapped a Tunnock’s Teacake, carefully smoothing out the paper until it was mirror-smooth. ‘Going for a record attempt later, thought I’d get some practice in.’ He put his hands behind his back and loomed over the teacake. It looked like a little brown breast — a circle of biscuit topped with a dome of marshmallow and dipped in chocolate. ‘Sergeant Downie’s on four point five seconds.’

Logan pushed his mug away. ‘Have you done the door-to-doors?’

Guthrie licked his lips, not taking his eyes off the teacake. ‘Trisha Brown? Yup — no one recognized the e-fit. Did a search for other properties Edward Buchan had access to, like you asked: allotments, lock-ups, garages, caravans, friends on holiday, that kind of thing. Doesn’t look like he’s got anywhere to keep her.’

‘No one recognized the e-fit at all?’

‘Sorry, Guv. Did two streets either side and put up a couple of “have you seen this man?” posters as well. Nothing.’ He lined the teacake up with the edge of the canteen table. ‘OK, we ready?’

Maybe no one recognized the e-fit because Edward Buchan had made the whole abduction story up to hide the fact he’d killed Trisha and dumped her body somewhere. Unless… Logan frowned. According to ‘Britain’s Next Big Porn Star’, Robert Marley told her if she wasn’t careful she’d end up like Trisha Brown.

‘OK: three, two, one- Hey!’

He grabbed the teacake and took a big bite. ‘We’ve got two Yardies in the cells downstairs: I want the one calling himself “Robert” in an interview room in ten minutes.’

‘I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ without me lawyah.’ Robert Marley lounged back in his plastic chair, bare arms and chest shining with a faint sheen of sweat, flame-coloured hair glowing in the light from the interview room’s narrow window. ‘I knows me rights.’

‘Do you now?’ Logan tilted his head on one side and stared, letting the silence stretch.

Standing with his back to the wall, Guthrie unwrapped the replacement teacake Logan had bought to stop him moaning.

Outside, the wail of a patrol car’s siren rose, then faded.

Logan tapped the scarred Formica tabletop. ‘What about Trisha Brown’s rights?’

‘Eh, mon, I told you: I an’ I ain’t sayin’-’

‘Oh grow up, Charles, you’re not kidding anyone with the mock-Jamaican patois. You sound like a stereotype from a seventies sitcom.’

The Yardie bared his teeth, showing off a line of gold crowns. ‘You got no bizzzzness disrespectin’ me cultural heritage, white boy.’

‘Cultural heritage?’ Logan checked his notes. ‘You were born in Manchester, you did two years at Leeds University studying political science, your mum’s Welsh, and your dad’s in the Rotary Club. Have you even been to Jamaica?’

‘I an’ I is honourin’ me roots.’

‘Then why didn’t you become a quantity surveyor like your dear old dad?’

Charles Robert Collins, AKA Robert Marley, narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t have to answer any of your questions without a legal representative.’ He raised his chin, all trace of Jamaican accent gone. He didn’t even sound Mancunian, so he’d probably been putting that on too. ‘This is an infringement of my civil liberties.’

‘Scottish legal system, Charlie. You should have done your research before you decided to sell drugs here.’ Logan dug a photo out of a blue folder and slapped it down on the table between them. A bruised face glowered out from an ID shot — Trisha Brown, holding up a board with her name spelled out in magnetic letters. ‘What did you do to her?’

Charles looked away, a crease between his eyebrows. ‘I’ve never seen this woman before.’

‘Really? Because we’ve got a witness who saw you snatch her off the street.’

‘No you don’t.’ But he wouldn’t look Logan in the eye. ‘Oh, but we do .’ Logan went back into the folder. No sign of the e-fit. He waved PC Guthrie over. ‘Go get the e-fit.’

The constable shifted. ‘Guv?’

God help us. Logan stood and whispered in Guthrie’s ear. ‘The e-fit. The one you did with Edward Buchan. Go get it.’

‘Oh… But I left a copy on your desk.’

Logan frowned at him. ‘That was you? The e-fits with no bloody case numbers? You have to fill in all the details — how’s anyone supposed to know what they’re looking at?’

Pink rushed up the constable’s cheeks. ‘Thought they were meant to be anonymous so the witnesses don’t-’

‘Not the internal copies, you idiot.’

‘Oh.’ Guthrie’s shoulders slumped. ‘Now go get me a copy of the bloody e-fit!’

‘But…’ The constable leaned in close, his voice carried on a warm chocolaty whisper, ‘It doesn’t look anything like him. The guy Edward Buchan saw was white.’

‘You made me look a complete prick!’ Logan slammed his hand against the cell door, and the boom reverberated around the small room, echoing back from the bare concrete walls.