Stuart MacBride - Close to the Bone

‘Blah, blah, blah.’ Steel took one last puff on her fake cigarette, then pulled it from her mouth and twisted the end till it clicked. ‘When our delightful colleagues from Strathclyde do their review of this morning’s fiasco, try and no’ make it look like we can’t pee in a bucket without someone getting stabbed, eh? ’

‘It wasn’t my fault!’

She pushed away from the windowsill and ambled towards the door, hands in her pockets. ‘Might be an idea to sod off out of it for a bit. Let the dust settle. Maybe. . oh, I don’t know. . have a bash at catching Agnes Garfield for a change? ’

Logan did her the honour of a full two-finger salute.

‘So,’ Logan leaned back against the cell wall, ‘Professor Marks: how’s it going? ’

What was left of the psychologist’s hair stuck out in random directions from the circumference of his big bald pate; his eyes two dark holes in a pale face; two fingers covered in brown scabs where he’d been picking at them. ‘I. . I got them to call you because. . because I want to cooperate.’

A bit late for that, given Goulding had already done them a profile, but what the hell. ‘Have you now? ’

‘They keep putting loud people in the cells next to mine. Swearing and singing and shouting. .’

Logan checked his notebook. ‘And look at that: they’ve got you down for the last slot in the Sheriff Court schedule.’ It took a bit of effort, but he managed not to smile. ‘Anyone would think they were doing it on purpose.’

‘I’m going to release all my files on Agnes Garfield. If you need me to interpret them, I can do that too. Just please get me out of here.’

Logan didn’t even blink.

Marks scrubbed a hand across his eyes. ‘Look, it’s. . I know you say Agnes killed her boyfriend, but it’s simply not possible. She worships him, and I don’t mean that in a sloppy romantic cliched way, I mean she actually worships him. As if he was a god. She believes he’ll make everything better, that he holds the keys to everything she wants and needs out of life.’

‘Yeah, well — he’s lying on his back, in the mortuary, with three hundred and sixty-five stab wounds all over his body. And then she garrotted him.’

‘Agnes is not a killer.’

‘Really? ’ Logan folded his arms. ‘Because I saw her stab a friend of mine this morning, through the chest, with a movie prop. He’s in intensive care. She nearly killed him .’

Marks’s scabby hands trembled up to his temples. ‘She’s. .’ A deep breath. ‘If she’s not taking her medication, the psychotic episodes will get worse. It’ll be a terrifying time for her, she’ll be operating in a world populated with monsters and witches, good and evil. And she genuinely believes she’s on the side of good. Everything she does will be because she thinks she’s saving people. It’s not her fault.’

‘What did you talk about: when she called after she went missing? ’

‘She came in to see me a couple of times. She was. . excited. Jubilant even. She was making a difference, doing the Kirk’s work.’

‘And you didn’t tell anyone. You just let her parents worry.’

‘I couldn’t, she made me promise. I have to respect my patients’ wishes.’

Weaselly little shite.

‘Did she tell you she’d killed someone? ’

‘She didn’t kill anyone. She couldn’t. Not unless Anthony Chung told her to.’

Which would make his torture and death one of the most half-witted suicides on record. Goulding was right: Professor Marks was an idiot.

Logan pointed at the mattress. ‘Wait here. I’ll go have a word with the PCSO. Maybe we can get you out of here without being hauled up in front of the Sheriff.’

A huge smile broke across Marks’s face, tears glittered in his eyes. ‘Thank you.’

‘But that means you have to come up with something that can help us catch her, before she hurts anyone else.’

A nod. ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

Logan stepped outside and closed the cell door behind him.

The PCSO stood in the corridor, head down, tongue poking out the side of her mouth as she thumbed away at her mobile phone. ‘Told you we’d break him.’

‘Remind me never to piss you off. .’ A frown. The sound of voices filtered down from the floor above — where the female cells were. Then a cheer echoed through the breezeblock staircase. ‘What’s all the ruckus? ’

‘Didn’t you hear? We’ve got ourselves a bona fide celebrity in: assault.’

‘Not that dick from the radio again, is it? The one who was on that reality TV singing thing? ’

‘Nope, a genuine Hollywood starlet. Half the dayshift are up there like a pack of randy goats, volunteering to give her a strip-search.’

For God’s sake. . Logan pointed at Professor Marks’s cell. ‘Get him processed and out of here. We’re dropping the charges.’

‘Thanks to my evil genius.’

‘Yes, thanks to your evil genius.’ Logan stuck his notebook in his pocket. ‘And if you’re tweeting about us having someone famous banged up, you can stop right now. This is a police station, not the News of the World .’

Pink spread across the PCSO’s cheeks. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

Yeah, right.

Logan headed up the bare concrete stairs to the next floor, where all the noise was coming from.

The corridor was jammed with uniformed and plainclothes officers, all staring straight ahead at something hidden by the press of bodies. Another cheer.

Logan tapped the nearest PC on the shoulder.

Guthrie turned and grinned at him, a Babybel mini-cheese half unwrapped from its red wax coating in his hand. His pale eyebrows shot up above two watery red-rimmed eyes. ‘Isn’t this great? ’ He bit the tiny cheese in half.

‘What are you all doing? ’

Guthrie nodded towards the crowd, chewing with his mouth open. ‘She’s posing for photos. Of course, half these idiots haven’t a clue, they just think she’s the woman who got her kit off in Three Dead Men , but she’s done some excellent indie films.’

‘And she’s posing for photographs ? ’ Logan dragged in a deep breath. ‘GET BACK TO WORK, YOU BUNCH OF MORONS! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE POLICE OFFICERS!’

He pushed his way into the crowd. ‘You heard me: get out of it!’

Moans. Pouting. Grimaces. ‘Aw, but, Guv. .’

‘Back to work! Go on!’

Slowly they drifted away, slouching and scuffing their feet, until the only ones left were Logan, a shuffling PCSO with a porn star moustache, and Morgan Mitchell.

Her bright-red hair shone in the overhead light, turquoise eyes surrounded in layers of dark makeup, a CSI New Orleans T-shirt and blue jeans, high-heeled boots. She smiled at him. ‘Inspector Logan, hi. Did you come for a photo? ’

Logan glowered at the PCSO. ‘You better have a bloody good explanation for this, Andy.’

‘It. . I thought. . It. .’ He cleared his throat, then looked at Morgan. ‘Erm. .? ’

‘It was my idea. Thought the troops could do with a bit of a lift. And I don’t mind, you know, long as no one tries getting to second base.’

‘Andy, if your prisoner’s not in her cell in thirty seconds, a bollocking from Professional Standards is going to be the least of your worries.’

‘Yes, Guv. Sorry, Guv.’ He wiped his hands down the front of his white short-sleeved shirt, then took hold of Morgan’s arm. ‘If you don’t mind, Miss. .? ’

She went in without a fuss, grinning back at Logan as the door clanged shut, hiding her from view.

Andy shuffled his feet. ‘It wasn’t really a big deal, I mean she’s not getting preferential treatment or nothing like that, it was just a couple of pictures for-’