Stuart MacBride - Close to the Bone

His mouth stretched out and down. ‘Nutters, you mean? Every writer gets them. People who think the characters are real, people who think they’ve got the right to tell you how to do your job, people who want to be Fingermen, people who want me to write their life story. You name it, I’ve had it.’

Sim plonked a coffee down in front of Logan, her hand shaking hard enough to slop some out over the side and onto the blue pages from a revised script. Then she scurried around to the other side and picked up Hunter’s ‘WORLD’S WORST DAD’ mug and took it round to the percolator.

‘And it’s got worse since they started making the film? ’

‘Pfff. .’ He scratched at the curls fringing his big shiny forehead. ‘Like mushrooms in a damp basement. Still, I suppose it’s a small price to pay. I was fed up of being screwed around by the big Hollywood studios promising the earth, then delivering sod all. Eight times this thing was going to be made, before fizzling out. Eight times.’ He swept his hands out, gesturing at the table and its piles of paper. ‘But this time I get a percentage and a say in the production, so I let them have the rights cheap. Of course, I’m stuck in here, rewriting scenes, but at least the thing’s actually getting made.’ He let his hands fall back to the tabletop. ‘Mind you, soon as they found out, the nutters came out in force.’

‘Did any strike you as particularly odd, or threatening? Anyone speak about necklacing witches, or torturing them? ’

‘I don’t even read most of them. If I did I’d have no time to get any writing done.’

Sim put the mug back on the table, by the laptop, blushing so hard she couldn’t have been far off spontaneously combusting.

Hunter nodded at her. ‘Thanks.’

The blush grew even darker and Sim just stood there, staring at him, not saying anything.

He patted her on the arm. ‘It’s all right, I don’t bite. Would you like a signed book? I’m sure there’s a copy or three knocking about here somewhere.’

‘Eeek. .’

Logan took out his Grampian Police business card and passed it across the tabletop. ‘Your woman who answers the fan mail, can she forward everything suspicious on to us? ’

‘Don’t know if she keeps it, but we can find out. .’ He moved the mouse about and clicked on things for a moment, then his fingers rattled across the laptop’s keyboard like machine-gun fire. ‘Done. She’s in Iowa, so it might take a while. I can never remember how many hours they are behind UK time.’

‘But you’ve not noticed anyone hanging around, behaving suspiciously? ’

Hunter raised an eyebrow. ‘The place is full of actors and film people, Inspector. All they do is behave suspiciously.’

It looked as if Anthony Chung’s parents were actually home this time. An ugly Alfa Romeo four-by-four and a silver Porsche sat on the driveway behind the gates, both of them looking brand new, with custom number plates. Hard to believe that only three people lived in a house that big; a football team would have rattled around in it.

PC Sim pulled up at the kerb and peered out through the rain-flecked windscreen. ‘Not short of a bob or two, then. Probably explains why their kid turned out the way he did. Rich and spoiled.’

‘And dead.’ Logan set his phone on silent, climbed out of the car, and hurried up the path to the front door — huddling under the porch as Sim ambled after him, glancing back over her shoulder every couple of steps at the signed limited edition hardback copy of Witchfire on the dashboard.

She straightened her stab-proof vest. Then reached for the doorbell. Ravel’s Bolero kicked in, followed by the bellowing of the massive Alsatian.

There was a buzz, then a woman’s voice crackled from the intercom, mounted beneath a security camera. ‘ Who is it? ’ The accent was posh and English. One of those BBC announcer voices, before they went all regional.

Sim took a step back, looking up into the lens. ‘Mrs Chung? It’s the police.’

Inside, the dog was going mental. Barking and barking and barking.

‘ Can I see some identification please? ’

As if the ninja black outfit with stab-proof vest, airwave handset, utility belt, and bowler hat with a chequered band around it wasn’t enough. Sim held her warrant card up to the camera. ‘We need to talk to you about Anthony.’

A pause. Then, ‘ Yes. Yes, of course. . ’ Click. The intercom went silent.

Sim puffed out her cheeks. ‘How do you want to play this, Guv? ’

‘Rock, paper, scissors? ’

Logan sat on the sofa in an opulent lounge. White walls, oil paintings, life-sized marble statue of a tiger with bronze stripes, deep-red leather furniture, and a cream carpet. The kind of room that probably got dirty if you looked at it.

Mrs Chung stood by the oversized marble fireplace, fidgeting with the heavy gold bracelet on her wrist. She was immaculately dressed in a red silk jacket and blue jeans, long glossy black hair framing a delicately featured face. An Alsatian sitting at her feet like a statue of Anubis. She cleared her throat. ‘Is this. . Should I get you a cup of tea or something? ’

Sim took off her bowler and held it against her chest. ‘Maybe you should have a seat.’

‘Oh no. .’

Even though he’d won, Logan stood. ‘Mrs Chung, did Anthony have any distinguishing marks? Any tattoos, or something like that? ’

‘Oh no, no, no, no. . Please. .’ She clutched a hand over her chest, scrunching the scarlet fabric into a fist.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Chung, but we believe we found Anthony’s body last night.’

She stared down at the coffee table. Rocking back and forward. ‘No.’

He took a step towards her. ‘PC Sim’s right, you should. .’ Logan froze. The Alsatian was on its feet, teeth bared — a deep, bowel-loosening growl directed right at him.

He backed away, slow and careful. No sudden moves. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’

Sim’s right hand slid down to the small canister of pepper-spray clipped to her belt, never taking her eyes off the dog. ‘Do you want us to call someone for you? Your husband? Relatives? Maybe a friend? ’

She just stared at them. ‘Anthony can’t be dead. He can’t .’

A rattling clunk came from the hall outside the lounge — someone coming in through the front door — followed by an American accent, ‘Honey? Thought we’d go out tonight. You know, bit of a celebration? ’

Mrs Chung sank down onto the arm of a scarlet sofa, the dog still growling at Logan.

‘What’s eating Enfield? ’ The living-room door opened. ‘Sounds like. .’ A small man in a pastel-green polo shirt froze on the threshold, a sports bag in one hand, greying short-back-and-sides slowly retreating up a high forehead. He blinked at PC Sim, standing there in her police uniform and the smile died on his lips. He took a deep breath, then took off his glasses and hung his head. ‘I see.’

‘Ray,’ Mrs Chung placed a hand against her chest, one hand fanning her face, ‘tell them Anthony can’t be dead! Tell them.’

Raymond Chung stood at the study window, overlooking a perfectly manicured garden, the borders and bushes aglow with flowers and shining leaves. ‘I. . I must apologize for my wife, Kim gets. . She dotes on Anthony.’ His hands trembled at his sides. ‘ Doted .’

Logan settled back against the large teak desk. ‘Please: there’s nothing to apologize for. It must have been a horrible shock.’

The room was nearly bigger than Logan’s entire caravan, lined with crowded wooden bookshelves. A couple of green leather sofas sat on the polished wooden floorboards, a small stack of gardening magazines lined up on a glass coffee table.