Stuart MacBride - Close to the Bone

Steel held up her hand. ‘All right, Sunshine, that’s far enough. We’ll take it from here.’

He stopped the cherry-picker, but didn’t get out. His voice was a hard-core Teuchter drawl. ‘You certified to drive one of these, quine? ’Cos if you’re not, you’re not driving it. Health and safety.’

‘Who’re you calling “quine”? ’ She stuck her chest out. ‘I’m a detective chief bloody inspector, and-’

‘I dinna care if you’re the Queen’s proctologist, no one’s driving this thing without a cert from the council.’ A nod. ‘Health and Safety’d have my arse in a buttie.’

She scowled at him, pulled the fake cigarette from her pocket, clicked it on, stuck it in her mouth, and sooked on it a couple of times. A puff of steam dissipated in the warm summer air. ‘Right, someone get Burt Reynolds here an SOC suit. He’s our new chauffeur.’

‘Aye, aye. .’ Burt Reynolds and his amazing moustache leaned out over the edge of the cherry-picker’s railing, gazing down at the roof of Logan’s caravan. ‘There’s a sight you don’t see every day.’

The cherry-picker’s basket was at least eighteen feet off the ground, high enough to give a good view of the whole roof. It rocked slightly as Steel and Logan moved over to get a better look.

Steel grabbed the handrail. ‘This thing safe? ’

‘Once found a skull when we were digging up a road outside Rhynie. Fat Doug wanted to take it home for an ashtray. He was aye a bit strange.’

The yellow-grey bones were laid out on the flat roof like some sort of art installation: a toothless skull resting above crossed femurs, the bottom jaw on the other side, then the pelvis and sternum, all held within a rough circle made up of ribs and vertebrae. Little piles of soil dotted the roof around it.

Logan pointed. ‘Can’t have been there for long. There’s no moss or anything growing on them.’

‘Ah.’ Burt Reynolds from the council nodded. ‘Maybe it’s Keith Richards? ’

Steel shrugged. ‘If it is, he’s lost weight.’ Then she hit Logan on the arm. ‘Told you it wasn’t Reuben.’

‘How can you possibly-’

‘This is way too frou-frou.’ A sniff. ‘Besides, the lardy sod would’ve gone through the roof like Ann Widdecombe in a brothel.’

The downstream monitoring suite had been given a fresh coat of magnolia since last time, so now it was miserable, pokey, and stank of paint fumes. Logan wedged the door open with one of the plastic chairs. ‘Better? ’

‘What do you think.’ Steel banged the flat of her hand down on top of the small TV screen mounted above the length of grey working surface. ‘Go on, you wee bugger. .’

The picture fizzed and crackled. Then interview room three appeared on screen, slightly distorted by the angle of the camera.

Reuben was sitting on the other side of the table, facing the camera, massive shoulders slumped, his hair all flat on one side and sticking up on the other. Could almost smell the second-hand booze oozing out of every pore, even from here.

If it bothered the man sitting next to him, it didn’t show. Sandy Moir-Farquharson’s suit probably cost more than Logan made in a month. Maybe two. The white shirt immaculate and crisp, the tie perfectly centred. He had a little less hair, and it was almost entirely grey now, but he still had exactly the same patronizing air. ‘ And tell me, Inspector, when was my client supposed to have conducted this alleged assault? ’

Logan poked the screen. ‘“Alleged” my arse.’

The man sitting with his back to the camera checked his notes. ‘ Half six, yesterday morning.’ DI Bell was nearly as wide as Reuben, but half a head shorter. He’d taken his jacket off, rolling up his sleeves to reveal a hairy pair of arms that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a gorilla.

‘Come on, Ding-Dong, ask him about the bones.’

Steel sighed. ‘You’re bloody obsessed.’

‘ Then your complainant is clearly mistaken in his identification.’ The lawyer pulled a sheet of paper from his briefcase. ‘ I have here a sworn statement from a Miss Chloe Slessor stating that my client was with her all night in a. . romantic capacity. ’

‘The lying cow!’

Steel whistled. ‘Romantic? Reuben? Jesus, can you imagine that humping away at you? Be like a warthog shagging a Faberge egg.’

‘ Does your complainant have any witnesses to corroborate his fictitious version of events? ’

‘Ooh: think you’re the one who’s shagged now, Laz.’

‘ As a police officer, DI McRae- ’

‘ I’m sorry, Inspector, are police officers above the law now? ’ Hissing Sid’s smile was sharp and reptilian. ‘ Don’t they have to comply with the same burden of proof as everyone else? ’

‘He punched me on the bloody nose!’ Logan grabbed the little microphone wired into the wall and pressed the red button. ‘He punched me on the bloody nose!’

On screen, DI Bell flinched. Then dug a finger into his ear, wiggling the little wireless earpiece. ‘ Ow. . ’

Logan pressed the button again. ‘Sorry. Ask him about the bones.’

‘ Reuben,’ DI Bell leaned forward, ‘ who do the bones belong to? ’

A sniff, then a frown. ‘ Eh? ’

‘ The ones you’ve been sending to DI McRae. ’

He looked at his lawyer, then back at the inspector. ‘ Are you off your hairy wee head? ’

‘ Who was she? Who did you kill? ’

Silence. Reuben sat back and folded his huge arms.

Steel snorted. Then grabbed the microphone from Logan’s hand. ‘Yeah, good one, Ding-Dong, really smooth. He’s bound to tell you now.’

‘ My client hasn’t killed anyone, Inspector Bell. My client is a law-abiding citizen and resents the accusation.’ Hissing Sid clicked his briefcase closed again. ‘ Might I just warn you that Grampian Police are already looking at one count of wrongful arrest: I really wouldn’t go throwing about accusations like that without some serious proof .’ He unfolded his long limbs and stood, towering over the table. ‘ Now as you clearly have nothing relevant to discuss with us, and no evidence, I suggest you release my client immediately. This interview is over. ’

Clang — the wastepaper basket clattered against the wall and rebounded, spewing napkins, eviscerated crisp packets, chocolate-bar wrappers, and empty Pot Noodle cartons all over the stained carpet tiles of the viewing suite.

DS Chalmers flinched, spinning her chair around, eyes wide. She blinked a couple of times, then took off her headphones. ‘Frightened the living Jesus out of me. . Good job I’ve got excellent bladder control, or it’d be like Niagara Falls in here.’

The viewing suite was even smaller than the downstream monitoring one — jammed into a space barely big enough to qualify as a cupboard with a huge grey security cabinet for police van CCTV hard drives against one wall, and a little wall-mounted work surface on the other. Two sets of AV equipment sat side-by-side on it, grainy footage of Aberdeen flickering away on a pair of tiny flat-screen TVs.

Chalmers sat in front of them, with a stack of ancient-looking VHS cassettes piled up on the work surface beside her.

Logan ran a hand across his eyes. ‘Sorry.’ Then he squatted down, picked up a dead packet of prawn cocktail and dumped it back in the dented bin. Followed it up with a chicken-and-mushroom Pot Noodle carton. ‘Been one of those days.’

‘I’ve been trying to find Agnes Garfield and Anthony Chung on the city-centre CCTV footage from this morning. Which is a complete nightmare. But. .’ She pressed a button on the console, then spun what looked like a volume knob. On the screen, people rushed into rewind, backing rapidly across Union Street as the lights changed. ‘I did manage to track down that cash-machine transaction.’