Stuart MacBride - Shatter the Bones

Logan sat back on the couch, the remote control for the TV balanced on his knee. He’d found a can of Diet Irn-Bru lurking at the back of the fridge. That’s what happened when you got kidnapped — Grampian Police came round and helped themselves to the contents of your kitchen.

They sure as hell didn’t rescue you.

Alison McGregor put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. ‘It’s called Wind Beneath My Wings .’ They were wearing matching costumes, covered in sequins.

‘OK, well, good luck.’ Mr Blue Peter turned his smile on the camera. ‘And remember, if you want to vote for Alison and Jenny, we’ll be putting up the number to call at the end of the show.’

The music swelled and the McGregors walked hand in hand to the front of the stage. A big projection screen sat on one side — the words ‘IN LOVING MEMORY OF JOHN “DODDY” MCGREGOR’ faded up for a couple of bars, then was replaced by the photo they’d used in the papers when his body was transported back from Iraq.

As they sang, the image changed: Doddy at the beach with Jenny; Doddy sitting on an armoured vehicle, somewhere hot and dusty; Doddy holding a small pink baby… And then the first instrumental break came and Doddy was replaced by a video clip of a pair of injured squaddies, talking about how he’d saved their lives. Then back to the montage for the next verse.

No wonder Alison and Jenny got the most votes of the entire series. Everyone loved them.

Logan’s phone went off, the Danse macabre clashing with the saccharine song. He thumbed the power button on the remote, shutting the TV off. ‘McRae.’

‘Where are you?’ DI Steel.

He picked himself off the couch and wandered out into the hall. ‘Alison McGregor’s house.’

‘Find anything?’

‘No.’ He headed up the stairs, back through into Alison’s bedroom. ‘We’re screwed, aren’t we?’

‘Just got off the phone to Tayside.’ A pause. ‘Frank Baker’s turned up. Ninewells Hospital. Made it as far as Dundee before a bunch of neds recognized him.’

Logan made a little gap in the lace curtains and peered out. The same two old ladies were camped out on the pavement, with their folding chairs and their thermos of tea. Soon it’d be a sea of faces and television cameras, all gathered together to be part of the moment as the deadline expired.

‘He OK?’

‘What do you think? Be lucky if he lives to see tomorrow.’ Logan let the curtain fall back into place. ‘As if thing’s weren’t…’

There was a clunk from somewhere downstairs. ‘And is Stupidintendent Green taking responsibility for his cock-up? Is he buggery — apparently it’s all my fault for no’ having Baker under surveillance in the first place.’

Another clunk. ‘Hold on a minute.’ Logan pressed the mute button… Nothing. Maybe it was the house settling, or something outside, or-

Clunk.

There was someone in the house.

He crept down the stairs and froze at the bottom.

This time the clunk was a clink, then a scraping sound coming from the kitchen.

He reached for the handle and turned it slowly, one hand pressed against the door as he eased it open.

A shadow moved across the floor, then paused. Another clunk.

He stepped inside.

A woman was kneeling beside the cooker, a holdall open on the floor beside her. Bleached blonde hair; pink T-shirt; hipster jeans riding about mid-buttock. She was picking her way through one of the kitchen cupboards. ‘Baked beans, baked beans, baked beans… Where’s the caviar and fancy shit?’

Logan slammed his hand on the working surface. ‘Can I help you?’

She screamed, jumped, banged her head off the inside of the cupboard, then fell on her backside, clutching her centre parting. The pink T-shirt had ‘LITTLE MISS NAUGHTY’ printed across the front. ‘Ow… Fuck . What did you do that for?’

Logan frowned at her. ‘Do I know you?’

She looked up at him, her eyes going wide, mouth hanging open, chin disappearing into the skin of her neck. ‘No.’

‘You’re her, aren’t you? Thingy Wallace, Shona — I interviewed you — you’re not allowed to work with children any more.’

She blushed. Looked at the floor. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘On your feet.’

‘I’m supposed to be here. I’m, like, Alison’s best friend and she … asked me to make sure she had, you know, enough food and that for when they let her go.’

‘So you’re saying she’s spoken to you since she’s been abducted.’

‘Well … erm… It’s…’

Idiot.

‘I was only trying to help!’

The Police Custody and Security Officer slammed the cell door in Shona Wallace’s face, then held his clipboard out for Logan to sign. ‘They get worse, don’t they?’

Logan scrawled his name across the custody form, then headed upstairs to the third floor. Elaine Drever wasn’t in her office, so he tried the lab.

She was standing by the light table in the middle of the room, frowning at a stack of print-outs. ‘What about finger prints?’

A lumpy young man with a squinty face cricked his jaw from side to side. ‘Doing them next.’

‘Thanks, Tim.’ Elaine Drever tucked the report under her arm, then turned and flinched. ‘Sergeant… Sorry I mean, DI McRae…’ She reached out and touched his arm. ‘Logan. How you holding up?’

‘Did you find a match yet?’

The lab phone rang, and Tim shuffled over to answer it. ‘Hold on.’ She crossed to the in-tray perched on top of the fridge-freezer and rifled through some forms. ‘Tim? What happened to that blood sample we got last night? From the hospital? The one for DI McRae?’

Tim looked up from the phone. ‘The ASAP one? Ben’s running it now.’

‘What?’ Logan held up a hand. ‘No — the DNA from the flat door. Did you find a match yet?’

‘Oh.’ Elaine checked her watch. ‘We’ve done it a dozen times and it’s still not coming up with anything. And we’re not getting any fibres off the door either. Well, besides ones from the hall carpet, and given how hard the door must’ve hit him… It’s odd: I would have expected to find something .’

Another glance at her wrist. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to attend a bloody prize-giving at Robert Gordon University. I swear to God, these forensic students get younger every year. It’s like visiting a playschool.’

‘Boss?’ Tim clamped his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘We got a hit.’

Elaine shook her head. ‘Well, it’s just going to have to wait till I get back. Late already.’ She patted Logan on the arm again. ‘Really, we’re doing everything we can.’ And then she was gone.

‘Yeah, thanks, Ben.’ Tim hung up. ‘DI McRae?’

Logan stopped, halfway out the door. ‘That blood sample: it’s a DNA match for the big toe you brought in.’

He frowned, drumming his fingers on the door frame. The DNA matched… ‘Tim — did you get anything from the tip-off note? The one that said Alison and Jenny were snatched by paedophiles?’

‘Don’t think so.’ He hauled a drawer out of a battleship-grey filing cabinet. ‘Here we go…’ A hanging file with an evidence bag and a single sheet of paper. ‘Nope.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘No prints, no fibres, no DNA. Sorry, Inspector.’

‘…and another four letters of complaint.’ Big Gary placed a stack of paper in the middle of Finnie’s desk. ‘Bloody law students are the worst — getting their eye in for a lifetime selling other buggers’ houses.’

Finnie picked up the paperwork and dumped it in his pending-tray. Then looked up and scowled at Logan. ‘Two weeks. Two weeks and we’ve managed to do is piss off a bunch of students and get a paedophile hospitalized. Remind me again, Inspector, why do I pay you lot?’