Stuart MacBride - Close to the Bone

‘Yup.’

Two minutes later, the door creaked open and a pale lined face peered up at them, eyes squinted almost shut. She couldn’t have been an inch over four foot five, grey hair up in a lopsided bun, neck like a deformed sock puppet. She smiled, showing off perfect rectangular white teeth. You could’ve stood on her Teuchter accent, it was that thick: ‘Can I help you? ’

Logan checked his notes. ‘Miss Mary Gray?’

The squint got even more pronounced. ‘Are you the man from the council? ’

‘Police. You called about a facial reconstruction? ’

‘Oh, the head! Yes, yes, of course, you’ll have to come in, I’m a little deaf when I don’t have my glasses on.’

Sweat prickled across the back of Logan’s neck. A three-bar fire glowed malevolently in the fireplace, turning the small room into a furnace. Sunlight streamed through the lounge window, two massive spotty cats curled up on the sill, ears fixed in his direction.

Three more cats slumbered in front of the electric fire; a pair of Siamese on the sofa; one on top of a bookcase full of ancient leather-bound volumes, their titles picked out in crumbling gold leaf. A bronze urn gleamed on the mantelpiece, between black-and-white photographs of unsmiling women in heavy black frames.

The sound of tea things clattered through the open door.

Another little old lady snored away in a chair by the fire, mouth hanging open like a damp pink cave, a tartan blanket draped over her knees. A stripy ginger cat sat on her lap, glowering at Logan with emerald eyes when it took a pause from washing its bum.

Mary Gray shuffled back into the room. Rennie was right behind her, carrying a silver tray covered in cups and saucers and a plate of cakes and a big china teapot. He stopped in the middle of the room and looked around him. ‘Erm, where. .? ’

Mary waved a hand at a black-and-brown tortoiseshell curled up on the coffee table. ‘Shipman! Come on, you naughty monkey, move for the nice man.’ She shooed him away and Rennie lowered the tray in the cat’s place.

‘Miss Gray, you said-’

‘Please, sit, sit.’ A wide grin. ‘Don’t mind Sutcliffe and Chikatilo, their bark’s worse than their bite.’

Logan nudged one of the Siamese out of the way and sat. It stuck its tail in the air then hopped down to lurk under the coffee table. Rennie perched on the other end of the sofa, right at the edge so as not to disturb the other cat.

‘You said you can identify our reconstruction.’

‘Oh yes.’ She gave the sleeping woman a poke in the shoulder. ‘Effie? Effie, do you want some tea and a slice of Battenberg? ’

The snoring stopped. ‘Eh? Who’s that? ’ Her voice was wet and shapeless, slurred by a lack of teeth.

‘Do you want tea and cake, Effie? ’

‘Oh. . Is it Thursday? ’

Logan pulled out the media department’s poster and held it out. ‘We haven’t even got these up yet.’

Mary poured five cups of tea with the delicate precision of a neurosurgeon. ‘Now, you help yourself to milk and sugar.’ Then she turned, took a deep breath, and bellowed out a cry that would have shattered concrete. ‘INA! INA, THE TEA’S MADE!’ Mary picked up the plate and squinted at it. Then handed it to Logan, swapping it for the poster.

Battenberg and scones and shortbread. Always a sucker for homemade shortbread.

Crumbs tumbled down his front as he bit into it. ‘You know her? ’

The squinting got so fierce it looked as if her whole face was going to implode. ‘Can’t see a thing without my glasses.’ Another deep breath. ‘INA!’

A large grey cat with dark markings hopped up onto Logan’s lap, stared at him, then plonked itself down. A throaty burring noise, and the whole thing started vibrating.

Mary beamed. ‘My, my: Lopez doesn’t usually like men, you’re honoured.’

‘Yeah. .’ The large furry body leached heat into his trousers, like a hairy hot-water bottle.

‘Just don’t touch his tummy, or he’ll have your hand in shreds.’ One more huge breath. ‘INA! FOR GOODNESS’ SAKE!’

Another little old lady shambled into the room, tugging a pastel-blue cardigan around her shoulders. She had to be at least ten years older than her sister, liver-spotted scalp clearly visible through her thinning hair. A milk-bottle-bottomed pair of glasses perched on the end of her nose, the legs attached to a gold chain around her neck. ‘All right, all right, I’m not deaf.’

‘Do you want some tea? ’

She peered at Logan through her glasses; they made her eyes huge. ‘You don’t look like the police.’

He hauled out his warrant card and she took it with a trembling clawed hand, the fingers arthritic and twisted.

‘Ah. You’ll be here about that clay-head thing.’

Finally. ‘You know who it is? ’

‘Oh aye.’ She took off the glasses and handed them to Mary. ‘See? ’

Mary slipped them on and blinked at the poster she was holding. ‘Oh, that’s much better, I can hear everything now.’ Then she passed the glasses and the picture of Dr Graham’s facial reconstruction to the old lady in the corner. ‘Look, Effie, isn’t that something? ’

‘I had another vision.’ In the magnifying lenses Effie’s left eye was a sea of red, the iris pale and watery.

‘Put your teeth in, Effie. No one can understand a word you’re saying.’

Ina hobbled over to the bookcase and pulled out a photo album. She opened it, smiled, then ran a hand across the pages. ‘I need the glasses.’

They were passed back along the line. ‘Right. .’ She flipped forward a couple of pages, then placed the album on the coffee table, next to the tea things. ‘There you go.’

A woman stared out of the album, with seventies hair and sixties glasses, the colours faded to pale yellows, orange and brown. She was the spitting image of the clay head. Dr Graham was good .

Under the stern, lined face, were the words, ‘A HAPPY HOLIDAY IN LOSSIEMOUTH, JUNE 1978’.

And now the family resemblance was clear: Ina, Effie, and Mary were sisters.

‘She’s your mother.’

‘Oh aye, Agnes Gray: scourge of the parish. She was a firebrand, that one.’

Agnes. Same name as their missing teenager.

Effie rattled her cup in her saucer. ‘Does anyone want to hear my vision or not? ’

Ina settled onto the couch next to Logan. ‘Effie’s visions are remarkably accurate.’

‘How did you know it was her? The picture’s not even been on the news yet.’

‘Oh, Mary heard about it on the radio and I looked it up on the internet. We do most of our business online these days.’

Effie cleared her throat. ‘I walked across a field of gold, towards a huge dog with knives for teeth. Five leaves I counted in the glaring light and five doors too. I fought with a ghost for the price of my soul, but they beat me. Bound me. And drowned me in the pale white deep.’

Silence settled into the baking hot room.

What a load of old bollocks.

Logan finished his shortbread. ‘Can you tell me where your mother was buried? ’

Ina patted him on the knee. ‘She was a very influential witch, you know. Agnes Gray was a power in this land.’

Mary nodded. ‘People came from as far away as Rhynie and Oldmeldrum seeking her help.’

‘Of course, things are different now.’ Ina peeled the marzipan from a slice of Battenberg. ‘The internet’s a wonderful thing — we do spells for people in Australia and California and Moscow.’

Logan put his tea down. ‘Spells. .’

Mary held up her hand as her sister, Effie, drifted off to sleep again. ‘Don’t worry, we always use our powers for good. And we only ever curse people who deserve it, don’t we, Ina? ’

‘Oh yes, we’re very responsible that way. Saddam Hussein, was one of Effie’s.’