Stuart MacBride - Close to the Bone

‘If you see Agnes, if she tries to get in touch, I want you to call me: day or night, don’t care.’ He pulled out a couple of Grampian Police business cards and printed his mobile number on the back of each. Then handed them out. ‘We can’t help Agnes if we can’t find her.’

He’d taken half a dozen steps away towards where he’d left Henry Scott, when Morgan’s voice echoed out behind him. ‘OK, so if getting arrested’s out, how about a good spanking instead? I’ll let you tie me up and everything.’ Followed by raucous, filthy laughter.

For God’s sake. . Logan kept going.

Insch huffed up beside him, the grin replaced by a loose-jowled scowl. ‘What did I tell you about chatting up my actresses? ’

‘In what way was that my fault? ’ Logan stopped opposite the barrelled archway where Henry Scott had been cowering. It was empty now, just a lingering sour odour of unwashed clothes and BO to show that he’d been there at all. The little sod could’ve waited — Logan had fetched his bloody dinner for him. ‘Thanks, Henry.’

‘I’m serious.’ Insch glanced back over his shoulder. Nichole and Morgan waved at him. He waved back, then lowered his voice. ‘Do you have any idea how difficult it is to keep everyone happy and motivated? ’

‘That why they’re stoned all the time? ’

Insch stared at him. ‘I have no idea what you’re-’

‘Oh come off it, the pair of them have pupils the size of doorknobs. I’m not an idiot.’

Silence. ‘You know as well as I do: criminalizing cannabis usage is a waste of police time and doesn’t-’

‘Trust me, I’ve got bigger things to worry about than what your stars are smoking.’

Insch closed his eyes and massaged his temples, breath hissing in and out through his nose. ‘Look, I know you’re busy, I know you’ve got other things on, but I really need you to stop this counterfeiting ring. It’s important.’

Logan pulled the spork out of the mound of chicken and chorizo casserole and helped himself to a bite. Well, Henry Scott wasn’t going to miss it, was he? It tasted as good as it smelled, even if it was getting cold.

‘Logan-’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Voices echoed through Grampian Police Force Headquarters as nightshift clocked on and shuffled out onto the rain-misted streets, fluorescent yellow waistcoats on over their black uniforms. Moaning.

Logan ran a hand through his hair and flicked the water off against the painted breezeblock wall of the cell block.

One of the nightshift PCSOs scowled at him from the other end of the corridor, carrying a tray with half a dozen steaming mugs on it. His pornstar moustache bristled. ‘You’re dripping on my floor!’

‘I’m not stopping, Andy. Just checking up on a couple of prisoners.’

‘Bad enough I’ve got drunks puking and peeing on it, without you CID scumbags dripping all over the place.’

Logan helped himself to one of the mugs. ‘Thanks.’

‘Hey!’ He snatched it back. ‘Those are for the guests. You want a cuppa? Get it yourself.’

‘Who stuck an angry badger up your bum? ’ Logan slid back the hatch on the nearest cell, the one with ‘STACEY GOURDON ~ BOTP’ written on the board by the door, and peered inside. ‘She give you any trouble? ’

Stacey sat on the blue plastic mattress with her back against the wall, blood-flecked knees drawn up against her chest. No scabs left, she must’ve eaten them all. She looked up, smiled, then made the universal gesture for ‘wanker’.

Lovely girl.

Stacey stood and padded across the cell floor on bare feet. ‘You here to interrogate me too? Think you can beat a confession out of me? Well, I’ll tell you exactly the same thing I told your hairy little friend: I don’t have to tell you where I was when Anthony went missing, or where I was when he died. And there’s nothing you can do about it.’

Why did it sound as if she was auditioning for the part of ‘Suspect number one’? Making herself look more dodgy than she needed to. Playing him. .

Logan paused, then sighed. Of course she was. ‘Yes, well done. Very melodramatic.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t you patronize me.’

‘You really think this is the best way to get your daddy’s attention? Get tied up in a murder enquiry? Maybe sell your sordid little story to the papers? Scandalize the neighbourhood? ’

Stacey stuck out her chest, her smile wide, voice silky. ‘I had a threesome with the victim and the girl who killed him. I think I’m entitled to some compensation for my grief and distress, don’t you? It’s not my problem if you-’

Logan slammed the hatch shut on her. ‘Andy, feel free to spit in her tea, OK? ’

Downstairs, in the lower set of cell blocks, the sound of a pissed-up rendition of ‘American Pie’ warbled and roared out from the cell next door to Dr Marks’s. Whoever was on the other side screamed a non-stop barrage of abuse and threats at someone called Baz for sleeping with his girlfriend.

It wasn’t quite Tourette’s, but it was the next best thing. Which meant Logan probably owed Kathy a couple of pints at least.

Dr Marks sat on the floor, backed into a corner, rocking gently away, chewing on the side of his thumb. ‘I know what you’re doing and it’s not going to work. Doctor-patient confidentiality is imperative in my line of work.’

Logan settled down on the end of the mattress. ‘It doesn’t have to be like this.’

‘You can’t. . I won’t betray my principles.’ Blood dripped from the end of his chewed thumb. He stuck it in his mouth and sucked. ‘I won’t.’

‘If you think a couple of hours in the cells is bad, just wait till the Sheriff gives you a week in Craiginches for contempt.’

‘I can’t. .’

‘She’s out there killing people, and you can help us stop her. Think about it.’

He sniffed, blinked. Chewed on his bleeding thumb. ‘I can’t. .’

In the cell next door, ‘American Pie’ was replaced by Billy Joel’s ‘Piano Man’, roared out like a football chant.

Logan stood and smiled down at Dr Marks. ‘I’ll pop past in the morning: say goodbye before they drag you off.’ A wink. ‘Have a nice night.’

Police. They spill out of the ugly striped building like woodlice from beneath a rotting log. Marching about, dragging coils of fizzing blue and red behind them like angry tentacles. Reaching along the granite streets, searching, probing.

They should be on the same side, but they’re not. They don’t see. Don’t see the Beasts and the Angels, the Witches and the Kelpie, the Wraith and the Ogres and the Ghosts. Don’t see the Hand of Death as they prowl the street.

They think everyone is Sheep.

They think she is Sheep.

But she’s so much more than that.

Rowan takes a deep breath and crosses the road — walks out into the middle of them.

The Kirk is my sword and my shield.

A pair of them laugh at a shared joke, shoulders hunched against the rain. They don’t even see her.

Then there he is.

In the tunnels beneath the earth he looked so normal, but here. . His aura is different from the others. It’s blue and red, but ribbons of gold and black undulate around his head. A halo of light and darkness. Is he an Angel, or a Hand of Death? Does he even know himself?

And if she told him, would it make any difference?

He turns up his collar and runs across the road to his weary battered Fiat, fumbles with his keys, swearing in the rain, then gets in behind the wheel. Reverses out of the parking space in a cloud of greasy exhaust, his aura lighting up the inside of the car like an angry disco.

Rowan steps out onto the road, watching him disappear into the rain. Then reaches into her pocket and feels the knot of bones, safe in its nest of tissue paper.