Stuart MacBride - Close to the Bone

‘Did Chalmers say anything to you last night? ’

A sigh. ‘ How come it’s always “Chalmers, this”, “Chalmers, that” with- ’

‘Anything about where she was going? Any ideas she had about where Agnes Garfield was? ’

‘ You really think she’d tell me? God forbid she’d have to share the glory. Tell you, she’s- ’

‘Did she talk about the case at all? ’

Sim bounded back up the stairs, holding a Yale key aloft like the Olympic torch. ‘Old lady in flat three had one. Says she hasn’t seen Chalmers since yesterday morning.’

‘ All she ever did was ask questions. All take, take, take, and no- ’

Logan took the phone from his ear and slapped a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Open it.’

‘But we don’t have a warrant, and. .’ Sim scrunched up one side of her face. ‘Ah, got you: yes, I think I can smell gas. Someone inside might be in difficulty!’ She stuck the key in the lock, twisted, then stepped inside.

Back on the phone, Logan followed her. ‘What did she ask about? ’

‘ Usual. Kept going on about the Anthony Chung murder. Said we must’ve missed something. As if! Wouldn’t stop nagging me till I gave her the interview transcripts from when we spoke to the house buyers. ’

The ones Logan had just read.

‘ And it’s not like there’s anything in there — none of them knew Anthony Chung or Agnes Garfield, and they’ve all got alibis. Complete waste of time. ’

Logan bent down and picked up the mail from the mat. Mostly fliers from charities, a leaflet from the local Tory candidate — nothing like blinkered optimism — what looked like a council tax bill, and two copies of the Aberdeen Examiner . Yesterday’s and today’s. ‘Maybe the estate agent’s left someone off the list? ’

‘ Nah, got the guy who works there to show me the files. Everyone who’s seen that place was on there .’ A sniff. ‘ You want me to do anything? ’

‘Yes: find your missing tramp.’ Logan hung up on him and slid the phone back in his pocket.

Sim appeared from the flat’s kitchen, carrying a ginger tabby in her arms. Its stripy tail lashed back and forth as it glowered at him. ‘Poor thing must’ve been starved.’

‘Any sign of a disturbance? ’

She shook her head. ‘Wish my place was this tidy.’ The cat wriggled, legs sticking out at random angles. She let it down and it charged away into another room. ‘Plates washed in the kitchen, bed’s made, all the magazines are lined up on the coffee table.’

Logan followed the cat through to a small double bedroom. It disappeared under the bed. Sim was right: everything was tidy and ordered. Which was quite an achievement, given that Chalmers had only transferred down from Northern Constabulary a couple of weeks ago. Any normal person would still be living out of boxes.

Sim picked up a book from the bedside cabinet — a hardback copy of Witchfire with a red tasselled bookmark about halfway through. She flipped it open. ‘Signed and everything.’ Then she put it down again. ‘Tell you, I had nightmares for weeks after reading that bit in the tower block.’ A shudder. ‘Baby oil. .’

‘Something’s wrong.’

‘Apparently he based the three old witches on real people. Think they tried to sue Hunter for putting them in the book, but it all got settled out of court.’

Logan turned slowly on the spot. There was nothing here. Chalmers had just headed off to work like any other day, and never come back. And the only thing she’d definitely done was ask about the people who’d been to see the home where Anthony Chung died. God forbid she’d have to share the glory. .

Sim tucked her hands into the armholes on her stab-proof vest. ‘So. .? ’

‘Time to go see a man about a house.’

‘I really don’t understand how we can be of any more assistance.’ Mr Willox fiddled with the buttons on his desk phone, shoogling them from side to side. His grey hair was piled up into a combination comb-over and quiff on top of his wide head, a dark-blue suit and a thick purple tie making him look as if he’d just fallen through a portal from the early eighties.

Logan tapped a finger on the glass desk, leaving a smudge. ‘Agnes Garfield and Anthony Chung got the keys to that property from somewhere.’

‘Do you have any idea how much it’s going to cost to clean the kitchen in the Abernethy house? And even if they can get all the stains out, who’s going to want to buy a house where someone was tortured to death in the kitchen? It’s not like we can make a feature out of it.’

‘And you’re sure everyone who viewed the place was on the list? ’

He waved a hand at the lever-arch file on the desk. ‘You’ve seen the paperwork. That’s everyone.’

‘So who else had access to the keys? ’

‘Well, I did, obviously; Jennifer on reception; Jake Smith, my partner; our trainee, Duncan Cocker; and a couple of people we use for viewing rural properties when it’s simply not convenient to send someone out from the office.’

Cocker. Cocker. .

Logan pulled out his notebook and went flipping back through the days until he got to Monday when they were interviewing Anthony Chung’s friends. ‘Duncan Cocker — young, bit vague, sounds as if he just wandered off the set of some awful American teenage rom-com? ’

A sigh. ‘At Willox and Smith we pride ourselves on quality and service. Duncan’s. . He still has a lot to learn.’

Damn right he did. ‘I need to see him.’

‘Well,’ Willox thumbed through a big desk diary, ‘he’s down to show a couple round a detached cottage with two bedrooms, sun porch, and excellent potential as an equestrian property, in twenty minutes, but you can-’

‘I don’t think you’re really getting the seriousness of this.’

‘We do have a business to run, and-’

‘Get him in here now .’

Willox puffed out his cheeks, ran a hand across his comb-over quiff. ‘I. .’ Then he leaned forward and pressed one of the shoogled buttons on his desk phone. ‘Jennifer, can you ask Mr Cocker to step into my office please? ’

Duncan Cocker shifted in his seat, licked his lips. Pulled on a twitchy smile. ‘Nah: honest, I got no idea, you know? ’

Logan sat back in Mr Willox’s executive office chair and steepled his fingertips, the top two just under the tip of his nose. Doing his best Superintendent Napier impression. Staring at Duncan Cocker in silence.

‘So, you. .’ A shrug. ‘It’s all OK, right? ’

More silence.

He started to rise out of his seat, so Logan gave PC Sim the nod and she loomed over him, both hands on his shoulders, pushing him back down. ‘Don’t think so.’

‘But I told you, I don’t know, it’s just, like, one of them coincidences? ’

Sim patted him on the cheek. ‘Tell me, Mr Cocker, do we look thick? ’

Pause. ‘No? ’

‘So why do you think it’s OK to lie to us? ’

‘But I’m totally not lying, and-’

‘Mr Cocker, it’s not polite to call someone thick, is it? ’

‘I didn’t say anyone was thick, it’s like a-’

‘Some people might take a lot of offence at that.’

He stared at Logan, hands up at chest height, as if miming the ‘Please, sir, can I have some more? ’ bit from Oliver Twist . ‘I didn’t tell anyone about me knowing Ton, ’cos I didn’t want to lose my job, and it wasn’t like I had anything to do with it, yeah? ’

Logan smiled at him. ‘You have no idea how much trouble you’re in, do you? ’

‘But. .’ A breath. Then he looked at the floor. ‘Ton would kill me.’

‘He’d have to join the queue. You see, the people he’s been stealing from aren’t the let-bygones-be-bygones type. They’re more claw-hammer-to-the-knees kind of guys. And as soon as they know you helped Anthony Chung rip them off. .’ Logan sooked a breath in through his bared teeth. ‘Well, they’re going to be very interested in paying you a visit.’