Stuart MacBride - Close to the Bone

Might not be a bad idea at that.

Laughter erupted through the group, Steel pounding on the tabletop, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘You’re a sick, sick puppy, Guthrie! A cucumber!’

Guthrie shrugged. ‘It’s not like I’d eat it afterwards.’

Logan slipped the book into his pocket. ‘Thanks.’

‘No problems, Guv.’

The glass of Stella was cold, beads of condensation rolling down the side. He raised it to his lips, then swore. His phone was having a fit in his pocket, vibrating and blaring out ‘If I Only Had a Brain.’

Sodding Rennie. .

‘What do you want? ’

Rennie’s voice was barely audible in the crowded pub. ‘ -ng, don’t ha-. . -er and. . it? ’

Logan stuck a finger in his other ear. ‘What? ’

‘ I sai-. . entire pl-. . -overed in blood! It-. . -ody. ’

He stood. ‘Calm down and try again.’

Rennie did, but it wasn’t any better.

Steel frowned up from her whisky. ‘What’s munching on your pants? ’

‘Rennie. Says there’s a body, blood everywhere.’ Logan grabbed his jacket off the chair and pushed through the crowd to the exit.

Sunlight glinted off the roadworks on the other side of the street, a deep hole in the patchwork tarmac ringed around with orange cones and barrier tape.

Justice Mill Lane bustled with cars, taxis and drunken half-wits. A pair of girlies were bent over their friend, at the kerb, outside the nightclub next door, one holding her hair the other stroking her shoulders as she vomited in the gutter. Her short skirt was tucked into her knickers at the back. Classy.

A pack of greasy-looking young men laughed like hyenas outside the slab-faced communist-styled lump of a building that used to be the local swimming pool, trying to get one of their number to wear a stolen traffic cone as a wizard’s hat. Someone in the distance roared out the words to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ as if it was a battle cry.

Eight o’clock on a Monday evening. .

Logan hunched his shoulders against the noise and pressed the phone hard against his ear. ‘What body? ’

‘ OK, OK. . ’ There was a deep breath. ‘ Kintore. Neighbours complained about the smell, so the local station sent round a uniform. There’s a body in the kitchen and blood. . everywhere. ’

‘Has the-’

‘ I can’t cock this up! I’ve never dealt with something like this on my own. What? What do I do? ’

O’Donoghue’s door clunked open and Chalmers appeared.

DCI Steel was right behind her, blinking into the sunshine. ‘What’s this about a body? ’

‘Will you shut up? ’

‘ I’m sorry, I’ll shut up. Just tell me what to do! ’

‘Not you.’

Steel stuck her chin out. ‘Don’t you tell me to shut up!’

He turned his back on her. ‘Get your notebook out. I need you to call Control and tell them you’re confirming it’s a suspicious death. Tell them you need a crime scene manager, the PF, the pathologist, the IB, and enough bodies to search the place and get door-to-doors started.’

‘ I can do this. . I can do this. . ’

‘And get the scene secured — you know the drill: no one in or out. Now give me the address and I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

Steel poked him in the chest with a yellowed finger. The words floated out on a tide of whisky fumes: ‘ We’ll be there. Head of CID, remember? ’

Blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape stretched across the driveway, tied to a For Sale sign driven into the lawn on one side and next-door’s cheery garden gnome on the other. Not exactly impenetrable, but better than nothing.

Bees hummed in the syrupy summer air, thick with the Turkish-delight smell of honeysuckle and roses. A nice street, in one of the older bits of Kintore, only a handful of eighties bungalows breaking up the solid granite cottages and terraced houses. The clacking diesel growl of a train going past behind the property on the way out to Inverurie.

It wasn’t the kind of place normally associated with words like ‘bloodbath’.

DCI Steel leaned on the roof of Logan’s battered Fiat Punto, elbows just missing a gritty smear of vitrified seagull poop. She took a long drag on her fake cigarette. ‘What kind of sick weirdo has gnomes? ’

Chalmers struggled her way out of the back seat, notebook at the ready. ‘Why aren’t the SEB here? ’

‘I mean, it sounds like a venereal disease, doesn’t it? Can’t come into work today, I’ve got a bad case of the gnomes.’

No sign of life, so Logan called Rennie on his mobile. ‘Where are you? ’

‘ Where are you? ’

‘Out front.’

‘ Don’t come in! ’ Clunk, rattle.

‘What, are you naked or something? ’

Then the front door opened and Rennie lurched out onto the driveway, dressed in a white SOC suit. ‘You have to stay out here.’

Steel snorted, then stepped over the gnome-line. ‘Aye, that’ll be shining.’

Rennie scurried over, the legs of his suit making rustly vwip-vwop noises. ‘No!’

She stopped one foot in, one foot out. ‘I’m head of sodding CID, you wee shite. I’ll decide-’

‘This is a secure scene. No one enters or leaves till the Procurator Fiscal and the IB gets here.’ He stuck out his chest. ‘First rule of crime-scene management: secure the scene.’

‘First rule of DCI Steel — do what you’re sodding told, or I’ll have your scrotum for a shower cap!’

His eyes flicked to Logan. ‘Guv? ’

‘You stick to your guns, Detective Sergeant.’

Steel scowled at him. ‘Don’t you bloody start.’ She pulled her shoulders back. ‘Rennie, I’m warning you: get out of-’

‘Have you been drinking? ’ He sniffed, then his mouth set into a hard little line. ‘You’re not getting anywhere near my crime scene. The PF would do her nut.’

Logan placed a hand on Steel’s shoulder. ‘Why don’t you and Chalmers wait out here, and I’ll let you. . What? ’

Rennie shook his head. ‘You’ve been in the pub with her, haven’t you? ’

‘I had one pint. I’m still-’

‘DI Leith got here five minutes ago, Control made him Senior Investigating Officer, and you know what he’s like.’

‘You called me! We came wheeching all the way out here for nothing ? ’

Rennie opened his mouth, then closed it again. Fingered the elasticated hood of his oversuit. ‘I can’t let anyone in till the PF and the IB get here.’

Chalmers curled her top lip. ‘“IB”? How behind the times are you? It’s Scenes Examination Branch.’

‘That’s what we call them, OK? ’

‘How can you possibly be in charge of a crime scene-’

‘Oh, bugger off back up north with the rest of the Tartan Bunnet Brigade, we don’t-’

‘-can’t even tell the difference between-’

‘ENOUGH!’ Steel curled her hands into fists. ‘God, you’re like a pair of wee kids.’

Silence.

She jabbed a cigarette-stained finger at Rennie. ‘You, Procedure Boy, who’s FAO? ’

Rennie nodded at a patrol car parked on the other side of the road. ‘Constable Duncan.’

Steel hauled up her trousers. ‘Thrown off my own sodding crime scene. .’ She gave Rennie one last scowl, then turned on her heel and scuffed across the street to the patrol car. Chalmers waited a couple of beats, then followed her.

Rennie closed his eyes and sagged on the spot. ‘I’m sorry, OK? I panicked and I didn’t know what to do and it was all happening so fast and there’s all this blood. .’

Logan looked up and down the street. Quiet so far, but that would change. ‘You’re a right pain in the backside, you know that, don’t you? ’