Stuart MacBride - Close to the Bone

‘Speaking of cats, I think we should get one. Well, a kitten.’

Logan groaned. ‘Can’t we just-’

‘A little fuzzy kitten. We’ll call it Cthulhu!’

‘Cthulhu? Isn’t that a bit-’

‘Shh!’ Samantha froze. ‘They’re coming.’ Then she jumped back into place and wriggled under the sheets. Winked at him. ‘Not a word!’

The door opened and Claire stuck her head in. ‘Fancy a cup of tea? ’ She wheeled the trolley in, stacks of cups clinking against each other. Then filled one from a metal teapot the size of her head. ‘How’s herself doing today then? ’

Logan helped himself to a slosh of milk and a Jammy Dodger. ‘Wants another tattoo. And apparently we need to get a cat.’

‘That’s a lovely idea. Be company for you while she’s in here. Don’t know about the tattoo though. .’ She looked down at him, her eyes softening around the edges. ‘Go on, take another biscuit, I won’t tell anyone.’

He did — custard cream — dunking it in his tea as she lumbered the trolley out of the room. Then the door clunked shut behind her.

‘It’s OK, she’s gone.’

Samantha sat back up again. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Claire’s OK, but if I have to sit through one more discourse on the philosophical nature of being, or her husband’s piles, I’m going to scream.’

‘Play nice with the nurses, they can put spiders in your mouth while you sleep, and then where will you be? ’ He ate his biscuit. Drank his lukewarm tea.

Samantha picked up the copy of Now , flipping through its glossy pages. ‘I’m serious about that cat, by the way.’

‘I think Rennie’s going to quit.’

‘Thought his wife was planning on turning into a baby factory. How’s that going to work if he’s got no job? ’

‘Steel drew a knob in his notebook. Keeps riding him about finding those shoplifting tramps.’

‘Hmmm? ’

‘You know what she’s like. Pick, nag, poke, sarcastic comment, arse-related threat. .’

‘Yeah. .’

‘It’s a bit of cheese, bacon, and vodka. That doesn’t need a detective sergeant, that needs a uniform PC who’s done something stupid and needs taught a lesson.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

‘What? ’ Frown. He looked up — she had her face buried in the copy of Now . ‘Are you even listening? ’

She peered at him over the top of her magazine, then turned it around, showing off the centre spread: a big photo of Nichole Fyfe in jeans and an oversized white shirt, laughing, with His Majesty’s Theatre in the background: ‘COMING HOME TO ABERDEEN ~ MY SECRET SHAME AT TROUBLED TEENAGE YEARS’. Samantha gave the thing a shake. ‘If you hire a publicist to tell the whole sodding world about it, it’s not a bloody secret!’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was boring you.’

‘Anything to get their face in the gossip mags. “Oh look at me, I’m special and clever!” “Listen to some crap I made up to make myself sound interesting this week!” “Talk about me! I don’t exist otherwise!”’

He wiggled his toe through the hole in his sock. ‘Then why do you keep buying the things? ’

‘“Secret” my pale tattooed backside. She probably thinks we’ll read this rubbish and go, “Gosh, she’s such an inspirational figure! If she can go from a delinquent with a criminal record to a multimillionaire film star, maybe I can too!” When really she’s just boasting about how much better she is than the rest of us. I tell you, it’s-’

Logan reached out and snatched the magazine.

‘Hey!’

‘If you hate this stuff so much, you shouldn’t be reading it. It’s bad for your blood pressure.’ He dumped Now on the floor beside his seat. ‘Call it an intervention.’

Samantha thumped back into the pillows with her arms folded across her chest. ‘Spoilsport.’

‘That’s me.’ He dug into his pocket and pulled out a chunky boxed set of CDs. Then waggled it at her. ‘I got you the new Stephen King on audio book, but if you’re not interested. .? ’

The scowl on her face faded to a smile. ‘You’re a rotten sod, Logan McRae.’

‘Thought so.’ He nipped out to the nearest vending machine for a Crunchie, an Irn-Bru, and a packet of prawn cocktail, and when he got back they just sat there, talking about everything and nothing: tattoos, Steel, kittens, necklaced bodies, holiday plans, being punched in the face. . Until finally Logan checked his watch and groaned. ‘Right, got to go. Early start in the morning.’

Samantha looked up at him, a little dent between her eyebrows. ‘See you tomorrow? ’

He put his empty tin on the bedside cabinet, next to three unopened bottles of Lucozade and the stack of unread magazines. Then stood. Took hold of her cold hand and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

‘. .unnngh. .’ Logan rolled over and lay on his back, one arm covering his eyes. ‘Go away. .’

The doorbell’s ding-dong chime ripped through the caravan.

He sat upright, stared at the clock. Six o’clock — fifteen minutes before the alarm was due to go off. Sodding hell, why did everyone. .

Wait a minute: last time someone rang his doorbell in the morning he got punched in the face. Maybe this was one of Reuben’s ‘associates’ come round to make sure Logan was in no fit state to press charges? Because he was propping up a concrete patio somewhere in Elgin.

He rolled out from beneath the duvet and onto the gritty carpet, hand searching the space under the bed. Discarded socks. Shoebox. Plastic bucket. His fingers curled around the wooden pickaxe handle.

That’d put a dent in someone’s morning.

Unless they had a shotgun. .

He hauled on a pair of trousers, not bothering with pants or a shirt, and padded his way to the caravan’s front door. Stopped to one side, flattening himself against the stripy wallpaper, ear pressed to the wall. Listening.

Nothing.

Tightened his grip on the pickaxe handle.

OK.

Wasn’t hard to imagine someone standing out there, watching the spyhole, waiting for it to dim as Logan stepped in front of it, then BOOM — a shotgun blast, tearing through the wood and then his chest. One more to the head, and that was it. Drive off into the early morning traffic.

Light spilled in around the letterbox. So it was darker in here than it was outside. That meant no shadow on the spyhole.

Logan crept over and peered out.

No one on the top step. And no one standing outside the caravan either. Just the turning circle streaked with shadows as the sun climbed its way up a duck-egg blue sky. Early morning midges out for a pre-bloodsucking ceilidh, glittering like flecks of gold. A lone magpie pop-hopping across the roof of his geriatric Fiat Punto.

Deep breath.

He turned the key in the lock and wrenched the door open, jumping out, waving the pickaxe handle, teeth bared. .

No one.

The magpie stopped on the Punto’s bonnet, head cocked to one side, staring at him. Then it took off for the nearest tree, cackling. Ha bloody ha.

A small cardboard box sat on the doorstep, mummified in brown packing tape.

He nudged it with the pickaxe handle, but it didn’t explode or start ticking, so he picked it up and went back inside. The magpie stayed where it was, laughing at him.

Logan slammed the door on it, dumped the box on the kitchen working surface and stuck the kettle on. Six in the morning. What kind of scumbag rang people’s doorbells and ran away at six in the morning?

No address on the package, no sender’s details. He grabbed a knife from the draining board and slit the brown tape. Inside, the little box was full of shredded newspapers — the Press amp; Journal from the look of it — and nestled, right in the middle, another knot of chicken bones. This one was tied to what looked like a bouquet garni, the herbs wilted, greying, and dead.