Stuart MacBride - Close to the Bone

‘Can you not just let it go? ’

‘Sorry, Guv, but we’ve got a duty to uphold.’

In the 4Trak, the middle finger was joined by the rest of its friends. But the silly sod slowed, then pulled into the bus stop up ahead.

Sim pulled in behind, lights flickering back at them from the four-by-four’s muddy paintwork. ‘Right, you little stinker. .’ She grabbed her hat off the dashboard and climbed out into the drizzle.

Might as well let her get it out of her system.

Logan pulled out his phone and settled back in his seat. Dialled Chalmers’s number. ‘Professor Marks: has he cracked yet? ’

‘ Guv, was just about to call you. We’ve got another Oriental gentleman in A amp;E — says he “fell down some stairs”. Managed to shatter both his kneecaps. According to the orthopaedic surgeon he must’ve fallen on a bag of hammers on the way down. ’

Now there was a blast from the past. ‘Claw hammers? ’

‘ Can’t tell. Gentleman in question is a Hong Gil-dong. Mr Hong entered the country legally on a student visa from South Korea twelve years ago. Never went home. ’

Obviously.

Logan drummed his fingers on the dashboard for a minute. ‘What was he studying? ’

‘ I. .’ A pause. ‘ Sorry, Guv, I’ll find out. ’

‘Want to bet it was horticulture? ’

A deep bass rumble filled Soundstage Two, low and loud enough to make Logan’s lungs vibrate in his chest. All around him, people stood in silence, staring at the four-storey block-of-flats set as Nichole Fyfe scrambled across the roof, chased by three men dressed entirely in black. The action flickered across a massive widescreen TV down on the studio floor.

Half a dozen sprinkler heads were going full pelt, drenching the roof in fake rain, making everything glisten. Then a flash of light turned the world monochrome, followed by another bellow of thunder.

Nichole skidded to a halt at the edge of the roof, arms pinwheeling as a camera swooped up the building on a massive crane.

The three men behind her fanned out, knives and swords sparking in the lights as-

Someone tugged at Logan’s sleeve.

He turned, and there was Nichole Fyfe, looking up at him.

Eh?

Logan glanced back at the roof. No. . she was still up there. Back to the one on the ground.

The likeness was uncanny.

She smiled. Then stood on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear, her breath warm and sweet against the side of his face. ‘Body double. They won’t let me do my own stunts.’ A shrug. ‘Insurance.’ She backed off an inch or two and blinked at him. Then closed in again. ‘I wanted to say thank you for. . well, you know, this morning.’

He moved around, his lips brushing her hair on the way to return the favour. It smelled of mandarins. And something sweet and slightly sweaty. ‘I’m just glad you’re OK.’

Why was it suddenly getting uncomfortably warm?

Another flash, and a BOOM of thunder.

She wrapped her arms around his chest and kissed him on the cheek. Mouthed, ‘Thank you’ at him. Her eyes were huge and dark.

Logan cleared his throat.

And then the word ‘ CUT!’ boomed out of the speakers, followed by Zander’s voice. ‘ Sorry people, we’re getting terrible lens-flare off Inquisitor Three’s sword. Can we get it sprayed? ’

As soon as the instruction was given an army of people swarmed out onto the roof, and everyone on the studio floor started talking at once.

Nichole stepped back. ‘Is Robbie going to be all right? ’ Then a frown. ‘I mean, the real Robbie, not. . you know.’

‘He’s going to be detained under the Mental Health Act so they can run some tests. Then he’s probably going to be treated in a secure facility for a while.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it? That he’s getting help? ’ She wrapped her arms around herself. ‘I can’t believe he’d do that to Wee Robbie.’

‘Sometimes people do strange things.’

She stepped in close and kissed Logan on the cheek again. ‘Thank you for looking after him. And me.’

‘Yes, well. .’

A dark rumbling voice cut through the background noise. ‘Nichole? ’ Insch. ‘They’re ready for you in makeup, if you’re sure you’re up to it? ’

She nodded, patted Logan on the chest. ‘Thanks again.’ Then turned and marched away, arms swinging at her sides, as if she was on parade.

Insch scowled, dug into his pocket, and came out with a little bag of apple slices. Popped one in his mouth. ‘You should’ve spoken to him yesterday. And I don’t appreciate you chatting up my lead actress.’

‘I wasn’t chatting. .’ Every bloody time. ‘Is the writer here? ’

‘Mr Hunter is in conference room two. Try not to piss him off, or he’ll spend the rest of the day hitting the gin and we’ll get nothing decent out of him till tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Can’t promise anything. .’ He craned his neck, scanning the soundstage. ‘Now, have you seen PC Sim? ’

Conference room two was thick with the dark scent of freshly brewed coffee — a percolator gurgling away to itself in one corner of the large rectangular room. A load of desks had been pushed together to make one huge surface, the top nearly invisible beneath piles of different-coloured paper covered in scribbles and highlighter pen. The blinds were down, leaving the room to slump in the unsympathetic glare of fluorescent lighting. One wall was completely plastered in yellow, green, and orange Post-it notes, the opposite one hiding behind what looked like A4 frames from a storyboard.

The room’s only occupant sat in the middle, frowning at the screen of a laptop, a ‘WORLD’S WORST DAD’ mug sitting by his mouse. Mid-forties; curly hair surrounding a high, domed forehead that shone in the overhead lights; goatee beard; glasses obviously bought to look ‘hip’ and ‘with it’, but failing.

Sim grabbed Logan’s sleeve. ‘Eek! That’s him!’

Logan produced his warrant card. ‘Mr Hunter? ’

The man didn’t look up from his screen, just waved a hand at the far corner of the desk. ‘Just put them over there, and tell David I’ve solved his continuity problem with four-fifteen.’

‘Police, Mr Hunter. I’m Detective Inspector McRae, this is PC Sim. We need to ask you a few questions.’

He peered at them over the top of his glasses. ‘You haven’t brought the sandwiches? ’

Logan pulled out a chair and sat. ‘Sim, why don’t you get us all a cup of coffee. I’m sure Mr Hunter would like a refill.’

‘Mmmpnnnn. .? ’ She fidgeted for a moment, blushed, then scurried off to fiddle with the percolator.

Hunter shifted a stack of scripts to one side, and picked up a copy of the Scottish Sun . ‘Let me guess, you’re here about this? ’ The headline, ‘SICKO SATANIC KILLER COPIES FILM MURDER SCENE’ sat above a photo of the house in Kintore, and an artist’s impression of the Ring Knot from Witchfire .

Logan took out his notebook. ‘Do you have a lot of fans, Mr Hunter? ’

‘Why do the police always have to use people’s last names? Is it meant to intimidate us? ’

‘It’s meant to be polite.’

‘Then you can call me William. I hate Will, Willy, Billy, and Bill, so don’t bother.’ He dumped the paper on the table. ‘And yes, I have a lot of fans. Got so many emails I’ve had to employ a young woman to pretend to be me. Which is ironic, it’s normally the other way round on the internet. But all that, “Where do you get your ideas from?” “Who would you cast in a film?” “When’s the next book out?” was driving me mad.’

‘What about. . the more obsessive ones? ’