Stuart MacBride - Close to the Bone

‘We. .’ A breath. ‘We left San Francisco, because Anthony was getting into trouble. Falling in with the wrong crowd. They weren’t good for him, so we thought, hey — let’s go somewhere nice and quiet and calm. Somewhere he can grow up safe. . If anything, it got worse.’ Raymond Chung sniffed. ‘How did it happen? ’

No point dragging it out — it’d be all over the papers soon enough. ‘He was murdered. Tortured, then strangled. About four days ago.’

‘Tortured. Oh God. .’ Ray Chung wiped his hands down the sides of his jeans. ‘God, I. . His girlfriend, Agnes, is she. .? ’

‘We’re still looking for her.’

‘I should’ve asked first, her parents must be. .’ He blew out a shallow breath, then eased himself down onto one of the sofas. ‘Tortured. .’

‘How well do you know Agnes Garfield? ’

‘She. . I don’t know, it was. .’ He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. ‘Sorry. If I’m honest, you know, one hundred percent honest, she was always too good for him. Anthony had her wrapped around his ego like creeping ivy. He said jump and she wouldn’t even ask, “How high?” she’d just do it. But he doted on her. .’

‘Did Anthony ever talk about running away somewhere? Or moving out? ’

‘He always gets. . He always got what he wanted.’

‘Maybe he talked about a friend’s house? Or a family member? ’

‘We don’t have any family over here. Anthony. .’ A deep breath. ‘We left San Francisco after Anthony’s cousin got shot. He was dealing drugs on the wrong street corner. My brother and his wife said it was all Anthony’s fault: that he got Grant involved in it. We haven’t spoken in eight years.’

Raymond Chung turned his head, staring at the gardening magazines on the coffee table. Not looking at Logan. ‘I. . I guess I always knew Anthony would end up. . that he’d. .’ He wiped his eyes again. ‘Oh, boy. .’

Logan stepped over to the large window, giving him a bit of space to nurture his grief. A fat ginger cat picked its way along the fence at the bottom of the garden, tail making snake curves through the drizzly air. ‘I’m sorry, I know this must be incredibly distressing. A Family Liaison Officer is going to get in touch with you soon. They’ll keep you up to date on the investigation, answer any questions you’ve got.’

‘Will. . Can we see him? ’

Rotting away on a slab in the mortuary, with his teeth ripped out, covered in bruises and burns and cuts? ‘I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. He was very badly beaten, and after four days in the heat, he’s-’

‘I want to see my son!’

PC Sim humped the mattress back into place, then tucked the sheet in again.

Logan leaned back against the wardrobe. ‘Anything? ’

Anthony Chung’s room was almost as big as his father’s study. A king-sized bed, shelves of DVDs and CDs, a dining-table-sized flatscreen TV, games consoles, sofa, desk, big shiny silver laptop, nautilus weight machine, collection of empty beer bottles stacked up into a pyramid.

She fluffed the duvet back where it’d come from. ‘Not a sausage. But if his mum’s up here making the bed and doing the hoovering. .? ’

He was never going to leave anything incriminating where she’d find it. Not unless he was trying to provoke a reaction. ‘So: nothing under the bed, nothing in the desk drawers, or under the socks and pants.’ Logan did a slow three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn, with his eyes half-squinted shut.

Where would a rich, spoiled, manipulative little sod keep things he didn’t want anyone to find?

Sim sank down on the edge of the bed. ‘What makes you think he’s hiding something? ’

‘Teenagers always are.’ Logan nodded towards the window. ‘Take a look.’

She picked herself up and wandered over, standing on her tiptoes to peer out at the garden. ‘What? ’

He joined her, pointing at the black plastic guttering a couple of feet down. Little white twists of paper lay amongst the shrivelled leaves, small cylinders of grey cigarette filters poking out. ‘See that? ’

A crease appeared between her narrowed eyes. ‘So he smokes roll-ups. That’s not-’

‘Every single one of his friends said he was stoned off his face the whole time. And if he’s up here smoking weed, then he’s got a stash.’

‘Are you sure, Guv? ’ She did a bit more peering. ‘Why would he put filters in his joints? What kind of person does that? I mean, I know he was American, but still. .’

‘So, where did he hide it? ’

‘Hmm. .’ Sim stepped back from the window. Then crossed to the shelves, fingers walking along the spines of the DVD cases, head tilted to one side — presumably so she could read the titles. And she thought Americans were weird.

Logan pulled out his phone, ignored the list of waiting text messages and called Control instead. ‘Did DI Leith get an FLO organized for Anthony Chung’s parents? ’

The voice on the other end was nasal and gluey. ‘ Hold on. . ’ She paused for a moment, then a massive sneeze boomed out of the earpiece, followed by some bunged-up sniffing. ‘ Sodding hay fever. Sorry, erm. . Here we go: PC Munro, she’s down to visit soon as she’s finished with a fatal RTI. You want me to put you through? ’

‘Just wanted to make sure it was-’

‘ What? ’ A scrunching noise, then some muffled voices. ‘ Sorry about that. The Super wants to know if you’ve spoken to your visitor yet, only he’s lowering the tone of the place. ’

‘I don’t have any visitors: I’m out at Anthony Chung’s house.’

‘ You’ve got a visitor in reception. ’

‘Well. . why didn’t someone say something? I’m not bloody psychic!’

‘ We tried calling you about a dozen times. ’

Brilliant. ‘I’ve been delivering the death message to Anthony Chung’s parents.’ Oh God. . What if it was Wee Hamish’s lawyer, back for another round of How Screwed Are You ? Logan licked his lips. ‘Who is it? ’

More scrunching and muffling. Then, ‘ Seriously? That’s his name? OK. . ’ And she was back full-volume. ‘ Someone called “Dildo”? From Trading Standards? ’

Logan let his breath out in a long slow sigh. Whatever Dildo wanted, it could wait.

‘ DI McRae? ’

‘Tell him I’ll give him a call when I get back.’

‘ But what about- ’

He hung up.

PC Sim was grinning at him.

‘What? ’

She hooked a thumb over her shoulder at the shelves of DVD cases. ‘He’s got PlayStation games, and he’s got Wii games, but he doesn’t have. .? ’

‘Is this going somewhere? ’

‘He doesn’t have any Xbox games, but look,’ she waved a hand at the stack of electronic equipment in the unit below the flatscreen TV, ‘he’s got an Xbox. Not a new one either, one of the old suitcase jobs.’

Sim hunkered down in front of the unit and pulled the black plastic games console from the shelf. It was about the size of two shoeboxes, with a big plastic ‘X’ on the top. ‘Isn’t even plugged into anything.’ She dumped it on the computer desk and pulled on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. ‘Should be easy enough to. . There we go.’ A click and the whole top came off.

Inside were two clear plastic bags of weed, half a dozen packs of Rizla papers, a few small metal tins, a little rolling machine, and a box of filters. No wires, no electronics.

Sim lifted one of the bags out and gave it a shoogle. The marijuana inside rustled. ‘Wow, that’s a poop -load of weed. Maybe he was dealing? ’

‘Anything else in there? Diary? Address book? Anything like that? ’