Stuart MacBride - Shatter the Bones

‘There was a drugs raid and-’

‘What, she wouldn’t give you a freebie, so you banged her up? You make me sick! Fucking country’s going to shit and it’s bastards like you dragging it there!’ She tipped the tin of lager to her mouth, glugging it down.

‘-in accident and emergency for observation.’

Helen Brown scrunched the can up and threw it across the room. It bounced off Logan’s chest. ‘What, you going to arrest me too? That’s about your fucking speed, isn’t it? Arrest the victims , when there’s illegal Paki bastards living two doors up, shitting in the street and stealing my fucking washing!’

Logan brushed the droplets of pale yellow liquid from his jacket. ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’

‘Mmph…?’ Logan peered out from beneath the duvet. The alarm clock radio stared back at him. He fumbled with the buttons on the top, but it didn’t stop the noise.

Sat up.

Phone.

It was his mobile, in his jacket pocket, hanging on the back of the chair in the corner, warbling the Danse macabre at him.

God’s sake… He hauled it out and squinted at the glowing screen: ‘DI STEEL’

Logan stabbed his thumb onto the button. ‘What the hell do you want?’

There was a pause. ‘You know what costs sod-all in this life, Laz? A smile; a thank you; and my boot up your arse, you rude little-’

‘What — do — you — want?’

‘Well seeing as the little hand is on the nine, and the big hand is on the twelve, what I want is you at bloody work!’

He slumped back on the bed, spreadeagled like a pasty star-fish, the scars on his chest and stomach puckered and angry. ‘I only just got home from bloody work.’ A yawn drowned out whatever the inspector said next. Logan shuddered.

‘-round like a sodding mentalist. When-’

‘Had to pull an all-nighter. Finnie lumbered me with McPherson’s drug busts; was stuck interviewing a smackhead called Shaky Jake till nearly eight this morning. So I’m going back to bed.’

‘You’ve no’ seen the papers this morning, have you.’ Not a question.

‘I don’t care.’ He dragged the duvet back into place, covering himself. ‘It’s my day off.’

‘Your mate Hudson’s a no show.’

‘Who the hell is… Oh.’ Dr Hudson — the pathologist. ‘How’s that my fault?’

‘Finnie’s going mental — he’s had three PCs in tears already, and it’s no’ even lunchtime.’

‘So get a pathologist up from Edinburgh.’ Logan nestled down into his pillow, soft and cool. Yawned again.

‘Already tried it — going to be six hours before he gets here. Meanwhile some tosser from SOCA’s turned up to “review the situation,”, and you know what that means…’

He draped an arm across his eyes. ‘It’s my day off!’

‘Now’s no’ the time to be missing in action, Laz. No’ if you don’t fancy working fraud cases for the rest of your natural. I’m serious: spreadsheets and accountants from here till retirement.’

‘But I’ve got a thing on this-’

‘Pick up something tasty on the way in, eh? And some decent coffee for a change.’

The line went dead.

The sun glared down from a pale blue sky, a few thin wisps of white making sod all difference to the harsh light. Logan trudged up Marischal Street, hands in his pockets.

Bunch of bastards. An hour: was that too much to ask for? An hour in his own bloody bed. Never mind actually getting to take some bloody time off.

High above, fat seagulls screamed and swore, spattering a rusty hatchback with stinking polka dots.

Logan came to a halt at the top of the hill, where the road joined onto the tail end of Union Street, and stared across the road. Lodge Walk — the little alley that ran between the Town House and the Sheriff Court — was choked with journalists, photographers, and TV crews. DI Bell was caught in the middle of them, a little hairy island in a sea of bastards, all shouting questions and waving cameras. Poor sod had probably been caught trying to sneak out of Force Headquarters’ secret side door.

Well, he was on his own, because there was no way Logan was wading in to help.

A newsagents lurked on one side of the Mercat Cross, the windows dulled by a thin film of dust. One of those redand-white sandwich boards was parked out on the cobbled pedestrian area in front of the shop: ‘TORTURED JENNY LOSES TOE — POLICE POWERLESS’ printed in thick black lettering above the Aberdeen Examiner logo.

Logan hesitated for a moment, then went in. Every tabloid newspaper in the place had something similar screaming from the front page. The Sport had gone for ‘TOE HORRIBLE FOR WORDS’, the Press and Journal — ‘ KIDNAP HORROR FIND ’, Evening Express — ‘“I CAN FIND JENNY” SAYS NE PSYCHIC’… He bought an

Examiner and a P amp;J, then nipped next door to the bakers for a couple of bacon butties and something for himself.

Steel could get the damn coffees for once.

He dragged his phone out as he trudged along the pavement and made a quick call.

‘What the bloody hell are you eating ?’ DI Steel had her feet up on the desk, one hand wrapped around a white floury roll with slivers of deep-fried pig sticking out the edges.

‘Fish finger buttie. And I’m only here till twelve, understand?’

‘You’re no’ right in the head, Laz: butties are all about the bacon.’ She took a huge bite, getting a smear of tomato sauce on her cheek. ‘So, come on then — what did you get out of Shaky Jake? He still on the crutches?’

‘I mean it: twelve o’clock on the dot. I’ve got a thing on and I can’t be late, or-’

‘Focus for five minutes, will you? Shaky Jake.’

Logan frowned at her. ‘It’s McPherson’s case.’

‘Humour me.’

‘Yeah, he’s still on the crutches. They had to fuse his ankle-bones into one big lump after Wee Hamish’s lads took a pickaxe to them. Walks like a penguin now. Lucky the hospital didn’t just amputate his feet.’

‘Silly sod shouldn’t have helped himself to the merchandise then, should he? How much gear did you get?’

‘Three bricks of heroin, two of cannabis resin, some E, a big suitcase full of mephedrone, two replica handguns, and some dodgy porno DVDs.’

‘Oh aye?’ Steel sat upright. ‘Anything I should be reviewing?’

‘Already sent them over to Trading Standards.’

She slumped back again. ‘Sod.’ Another bite of buttie. ‘And which one of your daft buggers let Shuggie Webster escape?’

Logan squirted another sachet of tartar sauce onto his fish fingers, not looking the inspector in the eye. ‘It’s all in the report.’

‘“Operational difficulties” my sharny arse — it was that useless bum-crack Ferguson, wasn’t it?’

‘We had to get the social out to-’

‘Aye, Trisha Brown’s wee lad. I do read these things, you know. How was her mum?’

‘How do you think?

‘Pished, rancid, and racist?’ Steel nodded. ‘Her granny was the same. Trisha’s your genuine third-generation drug user. Really makes you hold out hope for her wee boy, doesn’t it? Other kids’ll be showing each other their knickers behind the bike sheds: he’ll be doing crack.’ She sooked a greasy fingertip clean. ‘What else you got on for McPherson?’

‘Not till you tell me why you-’

‘Laz, it always pays to keep an eye on what DI Disaster’s up to: you never know when he’s going to get himself bashed over the head, break a limb, fall down the stairs, be hit by a car, punched in the nose…’ She wrinkled her forehead. ‘Am I missing anything?’