Stuart MacBride - Close to the Bone

Ma Stewart sat behind the counter, one plump cheek propped up on her hand, pulling her face out of shape as she leafed through something glossy with telephoto snaps of celebrities in their bikinis. Big red circles drawn around their thighs and tummies so the reader could indulge in a bit of cellulite schadenfreude. Not that Ma had anything to gloat about, she was like an overstuffed sofa in a violent orange-and-gold silk blouse, unbuttoned to expose a vast crevasse of pale quivering cleavage bedecked with gold chains and little sparkly things. She’d swept her wiry grey hair up into a bun that wobbled on top of her head every time she sighed and turned a page.

Dildo marched over, the sports bag slung over one shoulder, and knocked on the countertop. ‘Shop.’

Ma looked up from ‘CELLULITE BIKINI BODIES SHOCKER!’ and a huge smile spread across her huge face. ‘Mr Mair, how nice to see you again. Would you. .’ Her eyes drifted across to Logan, then her scarlet lips parted in a wet O, like a bullet hole. ‘Sergeant McRae, we haven’t seen you in ages! Oh, what happened to your poor face? ’ She closed her magazine, then reached across the counter and pinched his cheek. ‘You’re skin and bone! That’ll never do.’

The cover had a photo of Nichole Fyfe on it, posing in her witch-finder’s costume. ‘NICHOLE’S TROUBLED PAST: “ACTING SAVED ME FROM A LIFE OF CRIME”’ in lurid Helvetica.

Dildo hefted the sports bag up onto the counter. ‘We need to talk.’

But Ma wasn’t looking at him. She turned towards the back of the shop and took a deep breath. ‘Janice! Janice, put the kettle on: the police are here. And see if we’ve got any rowies left, poor Sergeant McRae’s wasting away.’

The replica sword glittered in the overhead strip-lights. ‘You recognize this? ’ Dildo clunked it next to the sports bag, then went back in and came out with a dittay book. ‘How about this? ’

A little old man shuffled out of the door behind the counter, hands dug deep into the pockets of a shapeless cardigan. He’d wedged a Witchfire baseball cap onto his head, far enough down to make the tops of his ears stick out at right angles. He blew his nose on a tatty grey hanky. ‘Dougie says we’re running out of blanks.’

Ma patted him on one sloping shoulder. ‘I’ll chase the suppliers up. Everything else all right? ’

‘We’re doing Peggy’s birthday cake in a minute — her daughter’s picking her up at quarter past for a day’s shopping in Dundee. Takes all sorts.’ He folded up the hanky and stuck it back in his pocket. ‘You want to come sing? ’

A big smile. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Just let me see to these nice police officers , and I’ll be right through.’ Then she mouthed, ‘Police!’ at him.

He just stared at her.

Dildo plonked the pricking dagger, witch-finder’s badge, T-shirts and caps down in front of Ma. ‘Care to explain these? ’

Her thick fingers drummed on the counter, gold and diamond rings shining. ‘These. .? Sorry, I really have no idea what you’re talking about. Now, how about a nice cup of tea? ’

‘How many times do we have to have the talk, Ma? You can’t counterfeit other people’s merchandise.’

‘How about a slice of birthday cake? It’s a Victoria sponge, Janice makes the best-’

‘I’ve got a warrant.’

Her face sagged around a scarlet pout. ‘But I’ve not done anything wrong . .’

The last wobbling strains of ‘Happy Birthday to You’ faded away, then Peggy leaned forward and huffed out the candles in three wheezing breaths. A cheer went up from the assembled dozen-or-so OAPs and she sat back beaming her dentures at them, rubbing knobble-knuckled hands as Ma Stewart cut the cake.

Radio 2 burbled out into the large room. The ceiling was a patchwork of stained grey tiles, the breezeblock walls painted white and covered with posters of kittens and ‘You Don’t Have To Be Mad To Work HERE’, the floor with beige carpet tiles patched with duct tape. .

Metal modular shelving ran around the outside of the room, between the posters, spider plants trailing their pale-green tendrils down from between cardboard boxes of dittay books and baseball caps. Benches and tables filled the middle of the room, some with sewing machines, others with glue and glitter, another handful with assorted tools, bales of fabric, sheets of leather, cutting tools. . A proper little cottage counterfeiting industry.

The wee man in the baggy cardigan handed out china plates with slices of birthday cake on them. A blue-rinsed woman — hunched over like a quaver — followed him with cups of tea.

Logan took one of each and settled back against a workbench festooned with blank notebooks. A pile of red leather covers lay next to them — each one tooled with the dittay book’s swirls and patterns. He took a bite, and a sip of tea. Good cake. Nice and moist.

Ma swept her hands up, until she stood there like an over-inflated letter T. ‘See, how can this possibly be wrong? ’

Dildo picked up a witch-finder badge, the enamel only half done. ‘Because it’s illegal.’

‘I’m providing a service to the community. These poor dears need something to keep them busy, don’t you, Dougie? ’

A man in a tank-top, shirt, and tie nodded, making his comb-over bang up and down like a trapdoor. ‘Better than listening to some wee tosspot singing ye olde wartime songs at us. I’m seventy-five, not ninety — I saw the Rolling Stones live about a dozen times. And the Sex Pistols. “Knees up Mother Brown” my sharny arse.’

Peggy put an arthritis-twisted hand to her chest and rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, Mr Galloway, such language!’

He grinned. ‘Ah, you love it when I talk dirty.’

Ma’s chest swelled up, as if she was about to explode. ‘You see? They get out and about, we have nice lunches, tea and biscuits, they get to make new friends, gossip, maybe a little romance. .? ’

A blush spread across Peggy’s lined cheeks. ‘One knee-trembler after the pub shuts and they never let you forget it.’

‘And you know what the state pension’s worth these days, don’t you? Nowhere near enough to keep body and soul together. I provide my ladies and gentlemen with a nice little income and a lovely place to work.’

Dildo sighed. ‘That’s not the point. It’s still-’

‘And who’s it hurting? The film people aren’t making anything themselves, are they? So it can’t be illegal. Stands to reason. You can’t counterfeit something that doesn’t exist yet.’

‘Ma, you have to stop doing this.’

‘They like getting together and making things. And they do such a good job too, have you seen the quality? ’

‘It — doesn’t — matter!’

Logan plucked a pricking knife from a box. They’d fixed the guard in place, but the pommel was missing and the hilt wasn’t wrapped in leather yet, the words ‘MADE IN ABERDEENSHIRE’ stamped into the metal. Eight-inch blade at one end, tiny half-centimetre blade at the other. ‘How many of these have you made? ’

She smiled. ‘Lovely, aren’t they? There’s a wee engineering works I know that produces the most wonderful metalwork. Between you and me: the manager picks his nose, but you have to overlook that kind of thing in an artiste.’

‘How many? ’

‘Oh, we’ve got about three hundred in the store, don’t we, Charles? ’

The man in the saggy cardigan shrugged. ‘Can’t make any more till we get those blanks in.’

Three hundred. So much for tracking down the murder weapon.

Dildo held up his warrant. ‘Right, I’m confiscating this lot. You know the drill: stop what you’re doing. And if anyone wants to lend a hand loading it all into the van. .? ’