Stuart MacBride - Close to the Bone

‘Shut up. What’s she in for? ’

‘Yes. .’ He scurried off to a shelf on the wall and came back with a clipboard and a whiteboard marker. Then printed the words ‘MORGAN MITCHELL ~ ASSAULT’ on the little A5-sized board beside the cell door. ‘Look, it really wasn’t-’

‘I’m pretty sure you’ve got something important to be getting on with, Andy. So I’m going to count to three.’

‘But-’

‘One.’

‘It really-’

‘Two.’

‘Erm. .’ Andy stuck the clipboard under his arm and hurried away, shoes squeaking on the concrete floor.

Logan closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was like working in a sodding primary school.

Then he slid back the hatch in the cell door.

Morgan stood in the middle of the small space, arms out, nostrils flaring, rocking gently from side to side as she did a slow-motion pirouette. When she was facing back towards the door again, she lowered her arms and smiled at him through the little hatch. ‘I like a man who knows how to take charge.’

‘You think this is funny? ’

She flipped the scarlet curls back from her face. ‘You wouldn’t arrest me, so I had to improvise.’

‘By assaulting someone.’

‘Thought you would’ve loved getting me in a pair of handcuffs.’ She bit her bottom lip. ‘I can be very naughty.’

‘And this film you’re doing next, is it worth getting a criminal record for? ’

She just smiled at him.

Perfect. Logan stared back. ‘Let me guess: tomorrow, just as you’re about to go up in front of the Sheriff, whoever it was you assaulted is going to miraculously drop the charges. No criminal record. No problems getting in and out of the country.’

‘ Witchfire is a really important stepping stone for my career. I turn in a great performance here and next time I’m the one playing the lead in the Hollywood blockbuster. I’ll get to pick and choose my projects. I’ll get to work with legends.’

‘Not if I do you for wasting police time, you won’t.’

‘You know, when Nichole and I found out we were going to be in Witchfire , the pair of us arranged to stay with this coven in Wyoming. They’ve got a compound way up in the hills, where “The Man” can’t get at them. And we learned what it’s like to be a witch in real life.’

‘Wasting police time is an offence .’

‘Did you know voodoo dolls have got nothing to do with voodoo? They originated in Europe: “Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble.”’

‘Who did you bribe to say you assaulted them? ’

‘You see, that’s what it takes to turn in a really great performance — you have to throw yourself into the character, not just turn up and drone out your lines like an amateur. You have to inhabit the part: live it. That’s what makes the difference between-’

Logan slammed the hatch shut. Bad enough they had genuine criminals out there without the cells being full of nutjobs getting themselves arrested for the fun of it.

Her voice came through, muffled from the other side. ‘So. . you want to take a raincheck on those handcuffs? ’

Logan stuck his feet up on his desk, a cup of tea in one hand, his paperback copy of Witchfire in the other, while the speakerphone rang and rang and rang.

‘ You’ve reached Lorna Chalmers. I can’t come to the phone right now, but you can leave a message after the beep. ’

‘It’s half three: where the bloody hell are you? ’ He leaned over and stabbed the red button, hanging up.

No joy from her mobile, and no joy from the number for the flat she was renting on Jasmine Terrace either.

He tried Rennie instead. ‘You heard from Chalmers yet? ’

Rennie’s voice boomed out from the speakers. ‘ Course not. Why should her holiness have to come into work like the rest of us plebs? Probably hung-over, kneeling on some dirty old man’s bathroom floor, with her knickers round her ankles, vomiting lobster-and-chips all over the porcelain. ’

‘Yes, very funny. Tell me, Detective Sergeant , have you found your missing tramp yet? ’

A pause. ‘ Actually. . it’s a bit complicated. I- ’

‘Then you’re in no position to be a smartarse, are you? Get on to Control — I want the nearest patrol car sent round Chalmers’s flat. Unless she’s dying of flu, I want her in here right now.’

‘Gah. .’ Logan pulled a face, then spat the cold tea back into the mug. He moved it across to the other side of the desk, where it would be out of reach for next time.

He scanned down the page, looking for where he’d left off. Mrs Shepherd was just about to pull out someone’s fingernails. .

A knock on the door and PC Sim stuck her head in. ‘Guv? Alpha-One-Three’s just been on the blower: no sign of DS Chalmers at her flat.’

He put the book down again. Stared out of the window for a bit.

Sim cleared her throat. ‘Guv? ’

Wasn’t like someone like Chalmers to just fall off the map, was it? An ambitious career-obsessed go-getter like her? No: she was the brown-nosing and hard-work type. The type who wouldn’t take a sick day if her leg fell off.

Not unless she’d done something really stupid. .

‘Guv, do you need me, or can I-’

‘Get your coat. We’re going round.’

The trees on Jasmine Terrace trembled in the wind, dusty dark-green leaves hissing against each other. Sim stood in a lonely blade of sunlight, one hand holding onto her black bowler as she stared up at Chalmers’s flat.

The other side of the road was a long terrace of traditional granite buildings, but Chalmers’s place was part of a slightly more modern block, set back from the cobbles behind a rectangle of parched grass. Three storeys with a flat roof and Dutch-barn-style upper floor. Four units, with six flats in each. Only a five-minute walk from FHQ.

Logan stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Anything? ’

‘Nope.’ Sim tried the intercom again. Waited for a bit. Then stepped back to watch the top-floor flat. ‘Maybe she’s not in? ’

Maybe. .

Logan pressed the ‘SERVICES’ button, holding it down until someone got fed up of the noise and buzzed them in.

It was nice inside. Clean. He followed Sim up to the top floor.

The door to flat number five had a sticky label underneath the doorbell: ‘LORNA CHALMERS’.

Sim thumbed it and a grating drrrrrrrrrrrrrrring! sounded on the other side of the door followed by a long high-pitched yowl. She hunkered down, levered the letterbox open, and peered inside. ‘Mail on the doormat. . Oh, hello, puss. Who’s a pretty boy or girl then? ’

The yowling got louder.

‘Guv? ’

Logan squatted down beside her, sniffing at the letterbox. Something floral and plasticky, a hint of pine that could’ve been disinfectant? At least it didn’t smell as if anything — or anyone — was rotting away in there. ‘Try the neighbours, see if anyone’s got a key.’

As soon as Sim was off knocking on doors, Logan pulled out his phone and called Control. ‘Does DS Chalmers own a car? ’

‘ Hud oan. . ’ The nasal Aberdonian accent faded away, replaced by the sound of a rattling keyboard. ‘ Aye: it’s a Mini, you want the number plate? ’

Logan jotted it down in his notebook. ‘I want a lookout request on her and her vehicle. And get me a GSM trace on her mobile.’

More keyboard noises. ‘ Fit’s she done? ’

‘Hopefully, nothing stupid. Now put me on to DS Rennie.’

‘ He’s no’ in the office, but give us a mintie. . ’

A bleep, a pause, another bleep, then Rennie was on the line. ‘ Hello? Guv? ’