Stuart MacBride - Close to the Bone

The magpie cackled from the bonnet of the pool car.

‘Just. . Shut up and put your suit on.’

‘Yes, Guv.’

Logan stood, hands in the small of his back, trying to stretch the knots out. The white Tyvek SOC suit let a little puff of broiling-hot air out of the elasticated hood, sweat trickling down his sides. Should’ve stripped off before putting the damn thing on.

PC Sim was on her knees in the bushes behind the caravan, picking her way slowly through the twigs and leaves. Singing a medley of show tunes to herself, the words all muffled by her facemask. Then she sat back, mid-song, and stared at something in her hand.

Logan slouched his way over, blue plastic bootees scuffing on the tarmac. ‘Find one? ’

‘This them? ’ She held up a small knot of bones, but didn’t hand it over. It was held together with a blue ribbon: that would be the one he’d chucked away on Saturday evening.

‘That’s them.’

Sim pulled an evidence bag from the box beside her, dropped the bones inside, then sealed it up and scribbled the details down on the form printed into the plastic. ‘So there’s this one, the broken bits from the ivy, and the ones from the kitchen bin. That it? ’

Logan shrugged. ‘Should be another couple around here. . There were more, but I chucked them out. The scaffies did the rubbish collection last week.’

‘That’s a shame, I’d have loved to go rummaging through a communal wheely-bin full of other people’s mouldy poop.’

‘Poop? ’

‘Poop.’

Sim rocked from side to side, as if she was on some sort of dodgy exercise video. Sweat your way thin in a Tyvek SOC suit. ‘I give up.’

Logan sank down onto the top step, back resting against the caravan door. Cool sweat made a clammy hand of his shirt, gripping his spine. ‘There were at least three more sets.’

‘And you chucked them all in the bushes? ’

‘I think so. Maybe. .’

The magpies were back, perching on the roof of the caravan opposite. Heads bobbing and weaving as they stared down at him. Waiting for him to do something exciting. Well, they were in for a long wait. Cheeky wee buggers.

Sim peeled off her safety goggles; the glasses underneath were all steamed up. She pulled the facemask out and let it dangle on its elastic around her neck. Her whole face glistened. ‘I’ve been through them a dozen times. If they were there, they’ve gone now.’ Then the hood came off. Her bun had disintegrated into a frizzy clump. ‘Jeepers, it’s hot in here.’

Jeepers?

‘You’re a weirdo, you know that, don’t you, Sim? ’

‘Maybe. .’ She frowned, then unzipped the front of her suit and cleaned her glasses on the black police-issue T-shirt underneath. Popped them back on. ‘Anyone round here got a dog? ’

‘The Dawsons in three have got a border terrier, and the McNeils in seven have a yorkie. Not exactly the place for Alsatians and St Bernards.’

‘Well, dogs might have eaten. .’

A raucous cackle sounded from the caravan roof. Then one of the magpies hopped off the edge and swooped up onto the tree behind her. More laughter.

Sim stared up into the tree. ‘Is that a nest? ’

Logan peeled off his own hood. ‘Little sods sit up there and giggle at each other from about five in the morning. Like Waldorf and Statler.’

She walked over to it, jumped a couple of times for the lower branch, then stomped her foot. The perils of being short. ‘Oh. . poop.’ She waved at him. ‘Give us a leg-up.’

‘Seriously, you think the magpies nicked them? ’

‘Well, if the ribbons are shiny, why not? ’ She peeled off the blue plastic bootees. Looked at him.

Why not. He linked his hands together and gave her a boost.

She clambered up him like a drunken chimpanzee, until she was standing on the lowest branch. Then up onto the next one. And the one above that.

Logan stepped back. ‘When you fall and break your neck I’m going to tell everyone I told you not to do this.’

‘If you like, we can go back to the station, have a threat-assessment meeting, come up with a health-and-safety plan, hire some scaffolding, get someone qualified to erect it, someone else to inspect it, and then-’

‘Just don’t fall off.’

She reached up and grabbed the branch with the nest on it.

The magpie bounced up and down, hurling abuse as Sim pulled herself up and peered into the nest.

‘Anything? ’

‘Some bottle tops, a set of car keys, bit of tinsel, and an earring.’

‘Bones? ’

‘Sorry, Guv.’ She turned and looked down at him. ‘Looks as if. .’ Her eyes went wide. ‘Jeepers!’

There she went again: jeepers , like something out of Scooby-Doo . ‘What? ’

Sim wrapped one arm around the branch, and pointed with the other one at the roof of Logan’s caravan. ‘You better see this.’

He frowned up at her. ‘If you’re-’

‘Seriously, Guv: you need to see this.’

Fine. Whatever.

Logan fetched the wheely-bin from the side of the caravan and dragged it over to the front door, climbed onto the top step, then clambered up onto the bin until he was kneeling there. The black plastic wobbled beneath him. Fall off a wheely-bin and kill himself, how great would that be? Bloody stupid idea. .

He grabbed the lip that ran around the caravan roof and pulled himself up to his feet. Then stared down at what was spread out across the gritty roofing felt, mouth hanging open.

Jeepers was right.

‘What the hell is wrong with you? ’ DCI Steel threw her hands into the air. ‘ How could you no’ know? ’

The whole caravan park was cordoned off. Old Mrs Foster and her cockatoo stared out of the kitchen window of number four, mouth a wobbly scarlet slash as a line of SEB techs in white oversuits shuffled slowly past searching the ground for any more bits.

‘Well. .’ Logan waved a hand at his home. Two techs were wriggling their way underneath it with tweezers and evidence bags. ‘It’s a residential caravan, it’s got a flat roof, you can’t see it from the ground.’

‘You’re supposed to be a detective, for God’s sake!’

‘It wasn’t-’

‘How could you live under that and no’ know? ’

Someone tugged on Logan’s sleeve. ‘Guv? ’ PC Sim looked up at him. ‘They say they need to know when your roof was fixed last.’

He stared at her. ‘If you’re suggesting it’s the last guy who fixed it, I think I might have noticed him dying up there and rotting away!’

Steel snorted. ‘Going on recent evidence, I sodding doubt it.’

‘No, Guv, they need to get up there to examine the remains and. . you know. . don’t want to go through the ceiling.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my roof.’

‘Aye, except for the poor dead sod on it.’

He closed his eyes. Counted to ten. Only made it as far as six. ‘Don’t you have something more productive to do? ’

Steel shook her head. ‘Surprisingly enough, the skeleton lying on top of your sodding caravan roof is pretty high on my to-do list. Why can it never be straightforward with you? Why’s it always-’

‘I didn’t bloody put it there, OK? ’ He jabbed a finger at the roof. ‘ That wasn’t me.’

‘Guv? ’ PC Sim again. ‘Council’s turned up.’

A scuffed flatbed truck was beeping its way backwards off of Mugiemoss Road into the caravan park. One side of the thing was all dented, rusting scratches clawed their way through the city council logo. A small yellow cherry-picker was tied to the back.

Cheaper and quicker than sodding about with scaffolding.

Five minutes later, the cherry-picker was trundling along the tarmac, driven by a pug-faced man in a set of council overalls and a high-vis vest. A massive black moustache covered his upper lip, drooping down on either side in a permanent hairy scowl.