Stuart MacBride - Close to the Bone

Wonderful. ‘Oh aye? ’

‘Nichole Fyfe. Her ex has been causing trouble: turning up at her hotel, declaring undying love, having a go at the security team, threatening her driver, throwing his weight around. Won’t take “You were dumped four years ago” as an answer.’

‘So she wants to make a formal complaint? ’

‘This is the movies, Logan. The leading lady doesn’t make complaints about her ex-boyfriend stalking her, she gets someone else to do it for her. And I don’t want the papers getting hold of it.’

Logan couldn’t keep the laugh in. ‘Your film’s all over the gossip mags, and the radio, and the TV, and-’

‘That’s not the point. Nichole doesn’t want to look like a big-headed diva who’s too good for Aberdeen. And I don’t want her distracted and not focusing on her job.’ He shoogled the bag, then held it out. ‘Want one? ’

‘So, what: you want me to go lean on him? Read him the riot act? Get him to fall down the stairs a couple of times? ’

‘You’d rather wait till he hurts someone? ’ Insch helped himself to some carrots.

Logan closed his eyes for a moment. All these years and Insch was still manipulating him. ‘I’m not promising anything, OK? ’

‘His name’s Robbie Whyte, twenty-five, lives in Inverurie with his mum.’ Insch hauled himself off the car and checked his watch. ‘Time’s up. I’ve got a meeting with Trading Standards in five minutes — haven’t even finished principal photography and some scumbag’s already flogging counterfeit Witchfire merchandise — then it’s the council historian we use as a witchcraft consultant. Then some arsehole journalist, then a competition winner. . And at some point, I’ve got a film to make. Make sure you hand your passes back in at the gate when you leave.’

‘Right.’

Insch stalked off a couple of steps, then stopped, with his back still turned. ‘If. . there’s anything you need, give me a call and I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Lying bastards swore to me there was nothing else we needed to know about Agnes.’ Logan put his foot down as soon as the car’s bonnet was level with the forty-miles-per-hour sign, overtaking the bus in the inside lane. ‘How are we supposed to-’

‘Blah, blah, blah, life’s tough, people lie.’ Steel cracked open the passenger window, letting in the dual-carriageway roar of Auchmill Road. ‘Get over it.’ She pulled out a packet of cigar-ettes and jiggled one out. ‘Weird seeing Insch again, isn’t it? All thin and bony and floppy like that. .’

‘We’re taking a detour. Agnes Garfield’s mum and dad have got some explaining to do.’

‘Bet if you stuck one of them garage air pumps up his bum you could inflate him like a beach ball.’ She sparked the cigarette with a Zippo, then clunked one foot up on the dashboard and had a scratch. ‘You know, it’s just like old times: you, me, Inschy McFattypants. . Except now we’d have to call him McSkinnypants.’ A grin. ‘I know: McFloppypants, he’ll like that.’

Five minutes later they were in deepest darkest Northfield. Logan hauled on the handbrake. The sound of shrieking children came from the other side of the high school wall, interspersed with shouted commands and laughter.

Steel sooked on the last nub of her cigarette, slouched so far down her seat she was nearly in the footwell. ‘You sure about this? ’

‘They lied .’

‘Aye, I know that. But what does spanking them for it get you? ’

‘What else are they lying about? ’ He climbed out into the warm afternoon and called Chalmers: ‘I need you to run me a quick PNC on Agnes Garfield’s parents.’

It sounded as if she was in the middle of eating something. ‘ Give me just a second. . ’ A slurp. Then the clacking of fingers on keyboard. ‘ Did you see the results from the lab? ’

‘Can we just focus on-’

‘ The cannabis was about twenty-one percent THC, which is phenomenally high. And the blister pack of pills we found was Risperidone. It’s an atypical antipsychotic — might be to counteract the weed? ’

No wonder all of Agnes’s friends thought she was a basket case.

Chalmers made a little humming noise. Then: ‘ Here we go. . The computer says Agnes’s dad, Mark Garfield, has been done for speeding, Council Tax evasion, and once for assault. ’

‘So he’s violent.’

‘ Got into a fight in a pub. I can try digging out the details if you want? ’

‘What about the mother? ’

‘ Doreen Garfield: five warnings for threatening behaviour. Once told Agnes’s maths teacher she’d rip his balls off and make him eat them. ’

‘OK, that’s-’

‘ Apparently he said Agnes was thick. Another thing: I got a surname and an address for our mysterious Stacey. Her flatmate says she’s not been home since Friday night, didn’t turn up for work this morning either. Apparently it’s not unusual. She’s going to give me a call soon as Stacey shows. ’

There was that efficiency again. ‘Good. Keep on it.’

‘ And I’ve been looking through that red leather notebook we found in Agnes’s cupboard under the stairs, it’s exactly the same as the one the character- ’

‘Rowan from Witchfire .’

‘ Oh. .’ Silence. ‘ I haven’t read the book for years, but I picked up a copy at lunchtime and guess what: the Fingermen burn witches by- ’

‘Necklacing. I know.’

This time the silence stretched on and on and on.

‘Chalmers? ’

‘ Sorry, Guv. I’ll. . ’ She cleared her throat. ‘ Anything else I can do? ’ Sounding a little desperate.

Steel tapped him on the shoulder. ‘See if I’m no’ back in the office by five, you’re getting my boot for a butt plug. ’

‘Find out where they are with the remains from this morning. Then take a look at Rennie’s racial hate crimes — see if you can come up with anything.’

‘ You can count on me! ’ And she was gone.

Steel blew a wet raspberry, the spray of spittle glowing in the sunshine. ‘Have you still no’ solved that one yet? ’

He walked up the path and rang the doorbell. ‘Investigations are still ongoing.’

‘And my arse is peanut butter. I’m no’ having racist scumbags running round crippling people, Laz.’

‘Well, tell you what, I’ll wave my magic wand and. .’ The door opened.

Agnes’s dad blinked out at them, a tin of Export in one hand, a remote control in the other. ‘Mmm? ’ The smell of beer came off him in thick waves. Not bad going for half four on a Monday afternoon.

‘Mr Garfield.’ Logan folded his arms. ‘Something else you failed to mention: she took an overdose in February.’

Garfield shaded his eyes with the hand holding the remote. As if he was trying to change the channel on Logan. Fat chance. ‘I. . didn’t think it was-’

‘No, you didn’t think, did you? She was taking anti-psychotics; how much cannabis did-’

‘She didn’t. .’ A sigh. Then he turned around and walked back into the house. ‘You’d better come in.’

Logan followed him into the lounge. The TV was paused: some sort of generic cop drama where everyone looked like models and no one ever broke wind, scratched their backside, or swore. An open pizza box filled the coffee table, a couple of slices lurking on the cardboard surrounded by discarded crusts. Empty beer cans were lined up like soldiers on the grease-flecked lid.

Garfield collapsed into a stripy armchair. ‘Doreen’s round her mother’s.’

Outside the living-room window, Steel leaned back against the car, pointing at her watch, then her boot.