Stuart MacBride - Close to the Bone

Seagulls screamed abuse from the slate rooftops far above as he followed East Green into the bowels of the city and out of the rain.

A row of neon squiggles glowed around the entrance to Blofeld’s Secret Underground Lair, casting multicoloured light on a big bald bloke in a white shirt and bow tie, standing all on his own. Looking for someone to bounce as dance music thunked out of the door behind him.

At the end of the road, where it hooked around before climbing back up onto Nether Kirkgate, a mobile catering unit was parked up on the narrow kerb. The thing was a rec-tangular white trailer with a fold-down flap on the front beneath a sign ‘LOLA amp; RUDY’S TASTY TREATS’. Steam curled from the open hatch, and a handful of figures formed an orderly queue in front of it. About a dozen others were gathered in small groups, eating and talking over the growl of a diesel generator. At least three of them were nightshift CID, blending in like lumps of coal in a bowl of porridge.

They weren’t the only ones: a brick outhouse with a crew cut, dressed in black jeans and a red T-shirt, stood guard a hundred yards from the catering unit: Mr Muscle from the hotel. The one who spoke like he was giving evidence. Another heavy stood at the far end, hands folded in front of his groin, narrow eyes constantly moving back and forth.

No way Agnes Garfield would come anywhere near the place with that kind of security hanging around.

Logan took two steps towards them, then stopped.

Someone was moving in the shadows, halfway between the nightclub and the soup kitchen, lurking in one of the barrel arches that lined the road. Too dim to make out who. . Logan wandered across the road, nice and casual, hands in his pockets, keeping the figure in the corner of his eye. Then turned and walked slowly and quietly up behind them.

Whoever it was, they were layered up in a padded parka jacket with a hoodie on underneath, tracksuit bottoms. A woolly hat pulled down over their ears. Then they shuffled to the side and the lights spilling out from the nightclub caught the once-white case of a plaster cast — left leg, from the knee all the way down. His foot was encased in a shapeless black leather boot to keep the cast out of the dirt and damp.

So it wasn’t Agnes in disguise, it was Henry Scott, AKA: Scotty Scabs, from the Gilcomston Church steps. The only tramp Rennie needed to complete his set.

Logan stopped creeping. ‘You avoiding someone, Henry? ’

The wee man flinched, spun around, then backed away until he was hard up against the brick wall. ‘He’s deid. .’

‘Did you see her again: Agnes Garfield? The woman who took Roy Forman? ’

Henry blinked at him, eyes gleaming in the darkness. ‘She killed him. He’s deid.’

OK. So much for that. ‘Are you hungry? Why don’t you go get yourself a nice bowl of soup or something? ’

‘What if the witch gets me? I don’t want to be deid. .’

‘She’s not really a witch, Henry, she’s just lost and sick and can’t tell what’s real any more.’

The rubber tips of Henry’s crutches squeaked on the cobblestones. A little sob caught in his throat. ‘She killed him. .’

‘You want me to go get you something to eat? Would you like that, Henry? ’

‘If she catches me, she’ll kill me too. .’

Logan came within an inch of patting him on the shoulder, but Henry flinched away again. ‘OK, it’s OK. . You stay here and keep an eye out, and I’ll go get you some soup.’

Poor sod needed more than soup. Like somewhere safe to sleep, medication, therapy, and a bath.

Logan made for the mobile catering unit, joining the queue. Only five people to go and it’d be his turn.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Guv? ’ Rennie, wearing his leather jacket and a scarlet T-shirt, a paper soup bowl in one hand and a plastic spork in the other. ‘Thought you were going home? ’

A shrug. ‘Any luck? ’

‘Yeah: the chicken and chorizo casserole is bloody lovely. I’m having thirds.’

‘Any luck with Agnes Garfield , you idiot.’

Rennie scooped up a sporkful of butter beans and chunks of sausage. ‘Nope.’ Then stuffed it in and chewed. ‘Spoken to all of the regulars, and the organizers, and the volunteers, and you’ll never guess what. .’ He leaned in close, enveloping Logan in a waft of herbs and spices. ‘See that tall thin bloke over there,’ he pointed to a figure doling out hot drinks from a catering-sized thermos, ‘the one who looks like he’s two sizes too small for his skin? That’s DI Insch! Can you believe it? ’

‘If you’re looking for a pat on the head, you’re too late: I know.’ Logan had another peer around. ‘Where’s Chalmers? ’

‘Pffffff. .’ The last of the stew disappeared, then Rennie licked his piece of plastic cutlery clean. ‘Sloped off, didn’t she. Want to bet she puts in for a whole night’s overtime anyway? Can’t trust people like-’

‘If you spoke to all the regulars, you’ll know where Henry Scott is, won’t you? ’

Rennie’s mouth popped open for a moment, then he closed it again with a clack. ‘Scotty Scabs? He’s here ? ’

‘If you spent more time doing your job and less time stuffing your face, you’d know.’

‘Why didn’t you arrest him? ’

Seriously? ‘Because I’m trying to catch a murderer : I couldn’t give a toss about shoplifted bacon and cheese. You want him? Go get him.’

‘Ah, right. .’ Rennie dumped his paper bowl in the bin fixed to the side of the catering unit, then scurried off, doing a tour of the little groups of people.

Idiot.

Three more minutes and Logan was at the head of the line.

A dark face smiled back at him from the hatch, perfect teeth and a white goatee. ‘What can we do for you, my man? ’

Logan pulled a copy of the ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN’ poster from his pocket and held it out. ‘Have you seen-’

A deep, rumbling voice sounded at his shoulder. ‘You’re too late: DI Bell’s already been around with the photographs. Do you not trust him, or are you just trying to muscle in on his operation? ’ Insch hefted his thermos up onto the counter. ‘We’re out of coffee, Rudy.’

‘No problem, boss.’

Logan shifted his shoulders. ‘I’m not muscling in on anything, I’m just-’

‘Everyone knows to keep an eye out for Agnes Garfield. We’re not idiots.’ Insch took the poster from Logan, folded it up, and handed it back. ‘Rudy and Lola do the cast and crew catering. That’s why everyone’s getting free-range chicken and chorizo casserole, penne arrabiata, Cullen skink, and tiramisu, instead of watery vegetable soup and a stale roll. Costing us a bloody fortune, but Zander insists. We’re giving something back to the local community, once a week.’

‘And it’s always a Tuesday? ’

‘Everyone on the film knows to look out for the Garfield woman. I’m not having her anywhere near my people.’

Which explained the secret-service-style muscle.

A pale woman appeared in the hatch, wearing far too much eye makeup, her spiky ash-blonde hair sticking up in all directions. ‘What can we get you, my darling? ’

‘I don’t know. . Chicken? ’

‘Coming right up.’

Insch scowled at him. ‘I forgot what a bunch of freeloading bastards CID-’

‘It’s not for me, it’s for someone too terrified to come over, in case he gets grabbed and killed like Roy Forman.’ Logan pointed at the pair of heavies with the earpieces. ‘Or maybe it’s your rent-a-thugs scaring him away? ’

The scowl didn’t shift. ‘Your bloody colleagues act like they’ve never seen food before. I swear some of them are having seconds. And it’s supposed to be for the homeless!’