Stuart MacBride - Close to the Bone

Logan opened DI Leith’s folder of photographs and laid a glossy eight-by-ten of Roy Forman’s fire-ravaged skull on the table. Then another one. Then one where the tyre was still burning. ‘Agnes Garfield did this.’

The psychologist shrank back in his chair. Looking anywhere but at the photos. ‘I don’t see what this is supposed to achieve. Did you really think I’d be prepared to abandon my professional ethics just because you show me these? Do you honestly believe I got where I am without recognizing blatant manipu-lation when I see it? ’

A sniff, then Steel jabbed a finger at him. ‘You’ll sodding well know the toe of my boot when you see it. Aye, and it’ll be coming out of your gob after I ram it up your arsehole.’

Dr Marks took off his big gold-framed glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Genuinely: if you’re going to resort to threats, try to do it in a way that actually connects to the person you’re threatening. So far all you’ve done is reveal an anal fixation that borders on the manic.’

‘I’m no’-’

‘“Arse” this, and “arse” that. And you say I’m the one who needs to change the record. Then there’s all the “scrotum” threats: you’ll use it as a handbag; you’ll fill it with angry bees and sew it over my bumhole; you’ll make soup in it; you’ll make me wear it as a gimp mask. .’

‘Laz, show the good doctor your photos of Anthony Chung.’

Logan opened the other folder.

Dr Marks sat forward, one hand curled around his barely existent chin. ‘You never really got on with your father, did you, Chief Inspector? You always felt that nothing you did was good enough for him. Did he have a problem accepting your sexuality? He did, didn’t he? Always hoped it’d just be a phase you were going through.’

The first picture of Anthony Chung was of him lying on the kitchen floor, surrounded by Agnes Garfield’s Ring Knot, his skin coloured with mould and decay, his eyes rotted away to dark slits. Logan laid the photo on the table. ‘He would’ve bled to death, but she veerited him first. Wrapped a rope around his throat and twisted.’

‘It must be hard, keeping it up: the posturing, the swearing, the constant scratching. . You’re like someone’s stereotyped idea of a man. More manly than the men you have to work with. I imagine you consider yourself a bit of a womanizer too, don’t you? Always trying to compete. .’

She scowled at the psychologist. ‘Up your hole with a loo-brush, you saggy-chinned wee cockshite.’

Well, that was helping.

Logan placed the next picture of Anthony Chung next to the first. ‘Dr Marks, Agnes Garfield is probably a danger to herself, she’s certainly a danger to other people.’

The psychologist popped his glasses back on. ‘Your father always wanted a son, and you thought that was the only way to get his approval. So you’ve built this whole vile persona around the selfish wishes of a dead man. Did he ever-’

Steel slammed her hand down on the tabletop. ‘YOU LEAVE MY DAD OUT OF IT AND ANSWER THE BLOODY QUESTION!’

A sigh. ‘I can’t breach doctor-patient confidentiality. Even with a warrant. Even if they try to compel me in court. The people who come to me for therapy have to be able to trust me with their darkest thoughts, desires, and secrets. If they can’t, I can’t help them.’

Logan put down the next photo — a close-up of Anthony Chung on the cutting table, his chest opened up and hollowed out. ‘Where’s Agnes Garfield? ’

Dr Marks sat back again, looking at Steel over the top of his glasses, his voice soft and low. Soothing. ‘It must have been very painful for you, having to live up to so many expectations. But it’s not too late to be the real you , instead of this. . projection you’ve become. I’d love to help, I genuinely would.’ A smile tugged at one side of his sausagey face. ‘I’d give you one of my cards, but they confiscated them when they took my belt and my shoelaces. But I want you to know that you can get better.’

Steel stared at him. ‘And you can get bent.’

The Police Custody and Security Officer printed ‘DR RICHARD MARKS’ on the board beside the door of cell number eight. Then frowned. Then smiled. She pointed. ‘Look: his name’s Dick Marks. What kind of parent calls their kid Dickmarks? No wonder he turned out a total knob. .’

‘Just make sure he gets noisy neighbours tonight, OK? Someone who likes to sing on one side, and someone with Tourette’s on the other.’

‘Do my best.’

Steel was standing just outside the back door, smoking her cheeks hollow and glowering at the rain. It bounced back from the roof of grimy patrol cars, sparkling in the rear podium’s security lights. ‘He fall down the stairs yet? ’

‘There’s going to be another victim.’

‘Little prick. Where does he get off with all that psychobabble, eh? Sod all wrong with me. .’ She took another vicious puff, the cigarette trembling between her lips. ‘ He’s the one with bloody issues!’

‘Stacey Gourdon. Anthony Chung was sleeping with her behind Agnes’s back. No one’s seen her since Friday night.’

‘That’s all we sodding need. Media department are already getting phone calls about Chung and his magic circle. Some greasy bugger’s tipped off the papers.’

Brilliant. As if this wasn’t hard enough. ‘Do they know it’s him? ’

‘Will do soon enough: ACC’s doing a press conference at eight. Wheeling out Anthony’s mum and dad, so they can tell the world how they’re worried about Agnes and want her to be safe.’

‘It’s not her I’m worried about.’

A couple of uniforms slogged their way up the rear ramp, water dripping from the brims of their peaked caps. No point in hurrying, they probably couldn’t get any wetter.

One last puff, then Steel pinged her cigarette butt out into the downpour. It bounced off the Chief Constable’s Bentley, sparking against the paintwork. ‘And for the record: I don’t give a flying monkey’s willy-warmer what my father thought.’

A knock at the office door, then Chalmers slipped inside. ‘Guv? ’

Logan signed the last form in the stack and stuck it in his out-tray. Halle-bloody-luiah. ‘Where have you been? ’

‘Chasing down some leads on the Garfield case.’ She shrugged, gave him a half smile. ‘Nothing but dead-ends, sorry. But I wanted to ask if-’

‘If it’s not toe-curling urgent: go home.’ He stood, paused, then cricked his head to one side, then back the other way — something in his neck popped and creaked like a fistful of gristle.

‘I want to volunteer for the soup-kitchen job.’

‘Nothing to do with me: it’s DI Bell’s shout.’ Logan sat back down again. ‘Where are we with the GSM trace? ’

‘Still nothing. I got in touch with their phone companies: neither of them’s used their mobiles for a week and a bit. No outgoing calls or text messages.’

He swivelled his chair from side to side, staring up at the ceiling. ‘So they’ve not used their phones for a week, but Agnes Garfield still manages to get in touch with her therapist. .’

‘Probably just picked up a new pay-as-you-go SIM card. Bet Dr Marks has got the number though.’ A shrug. ‘If we could get him to talk.’

Whatever happened to the good old days, when you could batter a suspect around the legs and back with a length of rubber hose till they confessed? Still, with any luck Goulding was right and a night in the cells surrounded by drunken idiots would break Dr Marks like a stale biscuit. ‘Go home. Get some rest.’

‘But, Guv, the soup kitchen is-’

‘They don’t start serving till nine. Gives you nearly an hour and a half. Tell DI Bell I said you’re to help him out till midnight, no later. I want you in bang on time tomorrow. And look. .’ He picked Agnes Garfield’s stolen dittay book off his desk, then followed it with Chalmers’s report on its contents. ‘I’m taking both home to read tonight. Just make sure that next time, you hand them to me.’