Stuart MacBride - Close to the Bone

The door swung shut again, silencing the sound of violent retching.

Samantha made chewing noises down the phone at him, as if she was eating something. ‘ Well, you can’t just do nothing and hope it’ll go away, can you? ’

Logan wandered up the street in the hazy sunshine, plastic bag from the wee shop swinging at his side. ‘Well, what am I supposed to do? I can’t accept a cheque for-’

‘ You’re not accepting it, are you? All you’re doing is nominating a charity. ’

‘But that makes me-’

‘ No it doesn’t. Thirty grand could make a massive difference to some charities, so grow a pair and pick one. ’

He stopped, leaned against a garden wall, and peered down the street at the handful of journalists and TV crews loitering outside the Abernethy house, doing bits to camera with the ‘FOR SALE’ sign and line of ‘POLICE’ tape in the background. They looked about as bored as it was possible to be and still remain awake. ‘It’s not right.’

‘ You’re getting as bad as Rennie .’ More chewing. ‘ Fancy Chinese for tea tonight? ’

‘Can’t, I’ve got that NPIA review thing. And what am I supposed to do about being executor for Wee Hamish’s will? ’

‘ That I can’t help you with. Don’t stay out too late .’ And she was gone. Some rotten sods just enjoyed other people’s misfortune.

Right. Back to work. He tucked the plastic bag under his jacket, the cold leaching into his ribs as he marched up the road. No making eye contact, face the front, act like any other normal person out for a walk. He passed the BBC outside broadcast van, a Renault with two journalists reading newspapers and smoking cigarettes. Not one of them looked up. So far, so good. Then he took a sharp left, ducking under the line of barrier tape and onto the Abernethys’ driveway.

The uniform standing guard nodded at him. ‘Guv.’

By the time the assembled members of the press realized he wasn’t just a passer-by he was through the gate at the side of the property.

A voice behind him: ‘Have you identified the remains yet? ’

Then another: ‘Do you have any suspects? ’

And another: ‘Is it true the victim was dismembered? ’

He clunked the gate shut.

Alex Hay was where he’d left him, sitting on a wooden bench in the back garden with his head between his knees.

‘Feeling any better? ’

The historian shrugged. ‘Sorry, I didn’t think it would. . The smell was a bit. .’

‘Yeah, I know.’ Logan produced the carrier bag, dug out a tin of Diet Coke and handed it over. ‘Got you a Cornetto. Might settle your stomach.’

Alex cracked the tin and took a sip of Coke, swishing it between his teeth as if it was mouthwash. ‘The whole thing’s wrong.’

‘Violent death always is.’ Logan perched on the edge of the bench and stretched his legs out. Helped himself to a bottle of water and a choc ice. ‘They wash the body when they’re getting it ready for post mortem. Want to see? ’

‘He was staked out inside the pentagram, right? That’s the wrong way round. A magic circle like that’s for protection, you create one and then you stand in it when you’re dealing with Satanic forces. Summoning the devil, or demons, or spirits, or raising the dead, or questioning witches. They can’t cross the circle and their powers can’t either.’ He put the can down and peeled the wrapper off the Cornetto, licking the ice cream from the underside of the cardboard top. ‘It’s like a condom that stops evil screwing you.’

Logan took out the pre-post-mortem photos again and placed them on the bench between them. ‘Didn’t do our victim much good, did it? ’

‘That’s why it’s wrong. In Witchfire , Hunter created this kind of hodgepodge of different belief systems, stealing things from all over the place. I suppose that’s the joy of writing an alternative history, go back far enough and you can change things to suit yourself: who’s going to complain? ’

‘That magic circle: it’s in the book, isn’t it? ’ A lot of the story was a blur, but there were definitely a few magic circles in it.

‘The Fingermen call it the Ring Knot, it’s meant to keep them safe during interrogations.’ He glanced down at the photographs. ‘How could anyone do that to another human being? ’

Logan licked a dribble of melted choc ice from his wrist. ‘You’d be surprised.’

‘You see all those little wounds? It’s called “pricking”, they do it to find the Devil’s mark. Theory was that when you enter into the Devil’s service, he gives you this mark that shows you’re his. It’s meant to be impervious to pain, so they’d jab you all over with pins and knives, looking for some spot where it didn’t hurt. If they found it, that meant you were a witch. And they always found it, even if it wasn’t there.’ He took a deep breath and checked the photos again. ‘In the fifteenth century, the Malleus Maleficarum was the witch-finders’ bible. It details shaving off all the witches’ body hair before interrogation begins, because they could be hiding something underneath — a charm, or power, or something else they can use against the inquisitor.’

‘But he should’ve been outside the circle.’

‘The circle’s for protection: if you were the Fingerman, why would you want to protect the witch? ’ He stared into the depths of his Coke can. ‘Did he. . was it the loss of blood? You know. . that killed him.’

‘Won’t find out till they’ve done the post mortem.’ Logan pulled out the other set of photographs — the ones from Saturday evening — and placed them on top of the first lot. The unknown necklacing victim stared up at them with cooked eyes. ‘The trial by fire. Identical to the book.’

Alex just sat there with his mouth hanging open.

A wasp swooped down onto the Cornetto in his hand, buzzing like a happy serial killer.

‘Half strangled, then burned alive.’

‘In Scotland they veerit you first. . Wrap a rope around your neck and twist it while you’re tied to the stake, waiting for them the light the fire and. . Ayabastard!’ He dropped the ice-cream cone and flapped his hand around, dancing up from the bench.

Logan took another bite of choc ice. ‘Why didn’t they necklace the body in there?’

‘Bloody thing stung me. .’ He sucked on the back of his hand.

‘I mean, they necklaced the other victim, why not this one? ’

‘Bloody wasps. .’

Logan’s phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out: unknown number. ‘Hello? ’

‘ Hello? DI McRae? It’s April. I mean, Dr Graham. The forensic anthropologist? ’

‘It’s OK, I know who you are.’

‘ Good. Yes, well, I thought you’d want to know: I’ve almost finished the facial reconstruction. Do you want me to start on the skeletonized remains from the caravan roof next? ’

‘Give me. .’ Logan checked his watch, ‘half an hour.’

‘ If you can get them to OK the budget for it, a facial reconstruction could- ’

‘Have you heard anything from your friend the isotope man? ’

A pause. ‘ I only sent the samples off last night, he- ’

‘Chase him up, tell him it’s a priority.’

The historian settled onto the bench, flexing his hand and scowling at the swollen nodule between his knuckles. ‘Ow. .’

‘I’ll be in soon as I’ve sorted something out.’ Logan hung up and stuck the phone back in his pocket. Stood. ‘I’d better get going.’

Alex looked up at him. ‘You think it’s someone involved in the film? ’

‘Something like that.’