Stuart MacBride - Close to the Bone

He went under again, and she leaned her full weight between his shoulders, pinning him to the bottom of the bath. Counted to twelve. Then pulled him back up.

More coughing, more retching, filthy liquid streamed from his nose.

‘One more time: what did you do with Helen Fraser? ’

‘Please. . Please, I didn’t have any choice. .’

Rowan slammed his head into the bathroom wall, hard enough to crack the tiles and leave a smear of blood. ‘She was six!’

And back under the water he went.”’

‘Ow. .’ A burning knife sliced its way down his spine, then dug its glowing tip into his hip. Twisting. ‘God. .’

Silence.

Then the alarm on his phone warbled again.

Logan jabbed a finger at the screen till it shut up. Sagged in the visitor’s chair, legs still up on the bed.

Cramp chewed at his calves. Gritting his teeth, he levered his feet down from the wrinkled hospital sheets onto the grey terrazzo floor — cool beneath his socks. Scrubbed at his face. His voice came out as a deep gravelly growl. ‘Unngh. . Time is it? ’

Blink. Took a few goes to get his phone in focus, but eventually 06:30 wobbled into view. ‘Crap.’

Whose bloody clever idea was it to read a dirty big lump of a novel till four in the morning?

Samantha was asleep, lying there with her mouth open. Didn’t matter how many times he told her the spiders were going to sneak in and lay eggs in her head, she always slept like a corpse. Lucky for some.

He winced his way out of the chair and limp-shuffled through into the room’s tiny bathroom. Hauled off his shirt and had a spot-wash in the sink with the bar of institutional soap that smelled like a dentist’s office. Rubbed a finger around his teeth till they were all squeaky. Spat. Stared at the baggy-eyed, tousle-haired wreck in the mirror.

It’d have to do.

Logan hauled his shirt on again, crept back into the room, kissed Sam on the forehead, gathered up his jacket and shoes, and tip-toed out of the door.

The corridor was quiet, just the far off wub-wub-wub of a floor polisher, and the all-pervading hum of the hospital. He found a seat and pulled on his shoes.

Someone tutted. ‘Oh dear. .’

He looked up and there was Claire, her blue nurse’s uniform pristine and ironed.

She shook her head. ‘Did you sleep in your clothes again? You look like someone sat on you when you were wet.’

He tied his laces. ‘You’re in early.’

‘Bill’s piles are killing him, and when Bill can’t sleep no one else is allowed to either.’ A sigh. ‘I keep telling him, your haemorrhoids’ existence is conditional on your perception of them, the pain you feel is a result of a priori reasoning based on your construct of self. Of course he says they’re not conditional and his perception of them is derived from experience which makes it a posteriori , not some airy fairy a priori notion outwith the scope of empirical knowledge.’

Logan stared at her. ‘The evenings must be just packed.’

A shrug. ‘For Rene Descartes it was, “I think, therefore I am.” With Bill it’s, “My arse hurts, so I’ve got piles.”’

He stood. Smiled. ‘Any chance you can keep the metaphysics down to a dull roar today? She was up late last night.’

‘We’ll do our best. Next time, let me know you’re staying over and we’ll get you a wee bed set up.’ She glanced down the corridor towards Sam’s room. Then lowered her voice. ‘So are you still getting that cat, because if you are, I have a source. .? ’

‘She wants to call it Cthulhu.’

‘That’s. . er. . distinctive .’ Claire patted him on the arm. ‘Now, do you fancy a cuppa before you head off? ’

The briefing room was full of cardboard boxes, so they convened in the main CID office instead — the whole of dayshift squeezed in between the desks and partitions, staring at the projection screen behind Steel’s head. The necklacing victim, smoke and flames caught in freeze-frame, mouth open in that tortured silent scream.

She hauled up her trousers and scowled at everyone. ‘Do you really need me to tell you what’s going to happen if those Weegie bawbags get here and we haven’t solved this sodding necklacing thing? ’

A wee DC with trophy-handle ears and a squaddie haircut stuck his hand up. ‘Is this still a gangland hit? ’

‘Depends, doesn’t it? ’

‘Only, you know, it’s pretty much identical to what happens in this book, Witch -’

‘We know. Now-’

‘Well, what if it’s a publicity stunt? You know, the production company are trying to whip up a bit of interest in the media? Get some buzz out about the film. .’

Silence.

Logan shifted in his seat. Here we go.

The tips of the constable’s ears went pink. ‘Well, it’s. . possible, isn’t it? ’

Steel stared at the floor for a moment. ‘Are you seriously suggesting they chained some poor sod to a metal stake, jammed a tyre over his head, and set fire to it, so they could get a wee slot on Lorraine Bloody Kelly? ’

Constable Idiot put his hand down.

‘Right, if there’s no one else wants to make an arse of themselves, we’ve had three dead bodies in as many days. I’m no’ having another one, understand ? This is it: no more!’

She dug into a plastic carrier bag and pulled out a bottle of Highland Park. Held it above her head. ‘And if anyone catches the bastard before Strathclyde gets here, this is yours.’

Chalmers shifted in her seat. ‘What about the victim from last night? Initial reports say they may have been staked out on the kitchen floor and tortured. Two torture victims in three days: could be related? ’

‘We’re no’ ruling it out, but we’re no’ relying on it either.’ Steel clunked the bottle down on the table next to her. ‘Right, people, just in case you’re thinking of running off on your own to play on the swings: chain of command. As these are all high-profile deaths our beloved Assistant Chief Constable is carrying the bucket of jobbies, and I’m in charge of doling them out to whoever’s pissed me off the most that day. For now, DI McRae’s running the necklacing case, Leith’s doing the torture victim, and Bell’s on our skeleton. If they hand you a turd, you thank them kindly and deal with it. ’Cos if I hear you’re shirking jobbie duty, I’ll hunt you down and make sure you’re pooping shoe leather for a week. Understand? ’

Silence.

Steel squared her shoulders. ‘Ladies, and gentlemen, we are no’ at home to Mr Fuckup today. Who are we no’ at home to? ’

The response wasn’t much more than an embarrassed murmur. ‘Mr Fuckup.’

‘I can’t hear you! Who are we no’ at home to? ’

Better this time: ‘Mr Fuckup.’

‘One more time!’

They bellowed it out: ‘WE ARE NOT AT HOME TO MR FUCKUP!’

‘Damn right we’re no’.’ She smiled, nodded. ‘Now get out there and catch me those bloody killers!’

Logan made it as far as his office, a mug of coffee clutched in one hand shrouding him in bitter steam and the promise of actually managing to stay awake until lunchtime.

‘Guv? ’

He closed his eyes. Counted to five.

‘Guv? ’

When he opened them again, PC Guthrie was still standing there, pale eyebrows making a question mark on his podgy face.

Well, it was worth a try. ‘Whatever you want, it can wait till I’ve had my coffee.’

Guthrie followed him into the office. ‘Erm. . Do you remember DI Insch? Well, he’s just been on the phone about some bloke going mental at one of his starlets. Says he wants you to deal.’

‘Does he now.’ Logan eased himself into his seat, back creaking and pinging all the way down. The coffee was spoon-meltingly strong, making things fizz behind his eyes. ‘Send a patrol car.’