Shatter the Bones (17 page)

The two little toes were missing, the stumps where they should have been puffy and red, the skin stitched together over the holes with black thread. The knots looked like spiders, bursting out of the angry flesh.

‘Holy fuck…’ Someone in the bar dropped their pint. A crash of splintered glass.

The camera swung upwards. There was no mistaking the wee girl lying on her back, on what looked like a swathe of white plastic sheeting. Blonde curls, that long straight nose, the apple cheeks. Eyes half shut, a sheen of drool streaking down from the corner of her open mouth. An IV line was taped to the inside of her left wrist.

She groaned and twitched.

A purple-gloved hand moved into shot, holding a copy of the
Edinburgh Evening Post
. ‘TOE NOT JENNY’S BUT POLICE
STILL
DENY HOAX’. The camera zoomed in on the date. It was today’s edition.

The picture faded to black, then the familiar artificial voice burst out into the silent bar.

‘This is not a hoax. You have four days left. If you raise enough money, they will live. If you do not, they will die. Do not let Jenny and Alison down.’

A pause, then the newsreader appeared back on the screen.
‘Harrowing footage there. We go live now to Grampian Police Headquarters and our correspondent Sarah Williamson. Sarah, what can you tell us?’

‘…man’s a complete prick.’ Biohazard Bob wrinkled his nose. The Wee Hoose’s door was closed, muting the noise from the main CID room: phones ringing; constables and support staff running about, trying to cope with the sudden barrage of calls from people who’d seen the broadcast. ‘You’ll never believe what he said to me yesterday: gave me this big monologue about the McGregor case and then—’

‘“One thing’s for certain”,’ Rennie struck a pose, ‘“We’re dealing with no ordinary kidnappers!” Like he thinks he’s on TV.’

Bob raised his big hairy eyebrow. ‘You too?’

Logan nodded. ‘And me.’

DS Doreen Taylor sighed. ‘And there I was, thinking I was special.’

The sound of phones and borderline panic got louder as the door swung open. DI Steel slouched into the room. ‘Right, listen up, ’cos I can’t be arsed saying this twice.’ She nudged the door shut with her heel, then stared at Rennie. ‘Well? Move it!’

The constable stood, and perched himself on the edge of Bob’s desk instead.

Steel groaned her way into the vacated chair. ‘In light of recent developments we’re having a wee reorganization. McPherson’s trying to track down the dead kid the first toe came from; Acting DI MacDonald’s taking over the hospital enquiries; Evans has the vets, and I’m sticking with the sex offenders.’

Rennie held up his hand. ‘Does this mean—’

‘I’m no’ telling you again.’

He put his hand down. ‘The media’s going mental. The Chief Constable’s arse is knitting buttons. SOCA’s rubbing its grubby wee hands. And Bain’s decided to give Superintendent Green a “more active role in the investigation”.’

Here we go. ‘Apparently he’s got
experience
with kidnap cases.’

Every bloody time. ‘So,’ Steel dug a hand into her armpit and rummaged, ‘we need someone to “facilitate” Green’s “interactions”, whatever the hell that means. Logan—’

‘Why? Why does it
always
have to be me? Why do I have to babysit every tosser that comes up to Aberdeen?’

‘If you’d shut up moaning for ten sodding seconds and let me
fi nish
… Logan: you’re excused from Mongtown – with Bell doing the back shift we’re nearly through them anyway. As of now you’re on arse-covering duty. Go over everything we’ve done so far: victim profile, door-to-doors, everything, make sure there’s nothing a public enquiry can do us for screwing up. Get yourself a minion.’ She gave up on the armpit and started hauling at her bra instead. ‘Doreen: Superintendent Green has chosen you to hold his hand. Try an no’ get carried away, eh? We know what you horny divorcees are like.’

Bob reached over and patted Doreen on the shoulder. ‘See, you
are
“special” after all.’ Then he grinned at the Inspector. ‘What about me, Guv?’

Steel sniffed. ‘You found Stinky Tam yet?’

‘Well… Not as such…’

‘Then you’d better get your finger out, hadn’t you?’

Logan paused the video. Swore. Hauled out his ringing phone and cut
Lydia The Tattooed Lady
off short. ‘Sam?’

Her voice nipped from the earpiece.
‘Forget something did we?’

‘No, I didn’t. I’m coming home in a minute.’

‘Where are you, like I need to ask?’

He looked around the gloomy room. It was a scruffy admin office on the fourth floor, one of the ones slated for refurbish ment, which was the only reason he’d been able to commandeer it. Half the ceiling tiles were missing, loops of grey cabling snaking between the concrete supports for the floor above. A little oasis of dirty green carpet tiles clung to one patch of grey floor, and that was where Logan had set up the desk he’d conned from Building Services.

One desk. One chair. One laptop. And two heavy brown cardboard boxes full of files.

‘I’ll be home soon, OK?’

‘Half-seven, McRae – I’m holding you to it. Oh, and I’ve got a box of Stella and a couple of Markies’ lasagnes in. We can make a night of it.’

‘Soon, I promise.’ Pause. ‘Look, I’ve got to go.’

‘Half-seven, remember?’

And she was gone.

Logan pressed play again.

On the laptop screen, Alison McGregor was being bundled down the stairs, kicking and struggling, trying to head-butt the guy in the SOC suit carrying her. Through the hallway into the kitchen. The guy was wearing one of those stick-on name badges they handed out at conventions. It was nearly impossible to read, but the BBC’s
Crimewatch
had chucked a pile of licence-fee-payers’ money at a digital imaging house to pull out the word, ‘TOM’.

A little girl in Winnie the Pooh pyjamas was huddled in the corner by the fridge – a pillowcase or something over her head. Hands fastened in front of her. Trembling.

Alison McGregor froze, then exploded. Legs flying, kicking out at random, bucking, writhing. Eyes bugging out above her duct-tape gag.

The guy holding her finally gave up: slammed her into the fridge, then bent her over the working surface and fastened her ankles together with thick black cable-ties. A bag over her head. Then someone stepped into frame and brained her with a cosh, or something similar.

Alison went limp.

All done in total silence.

Whoever hit her, bent and hauled her up into a fireman’s carry. For a whole two frames his name badge was perfectly clear: ‘DAVID’. Fifteen seconds later they were out through the kitchen door and into the darkness of the back garden.

Fade to black.

Then the artificial voice:
‘You will raise money for the safe return of Alison and Jenny McGregor. You have fourteen days, or they will be killed. You will tell the police. You will tell the television stations. You will tell the public. Or they will be killed. If you raise enough money within fourteen days, Jenny and Alison will be released. If not, they will be killed.’

‘You still here?’

Logan turned. DI Bell stood in the doorway, a slice of toast in one hand, a mug of something in the other. A warm, meaty smell drifting out of it. ‘Just heading off, Guv.’

Bell stepped into the room, wandered over to the window, stuck the toast in his mouth – like a rectangular duck’s beak – and peeked through the blinds.

Logan powered down the laptop. ‘Thought you were in charge of back shift interviews?’

The inspector let go of the blind, took the toast from his mouth. Chewed. ‘Got a call from Trisha Brown’s mum – nine, nine, nine. Completely off her face: says someone was round there with a cricket bat smashing her prized heirlooms to smithereens.’ Another bite of toast. ‘Wasn’t you, was it?’

‘Very funny, sir.’

‘Who says I’m being funny?’

Logan just stared at him.

DI Bell shrugged. ‘Anyway, when McHardy and Butler got there the place was even more of a craphole than normal. She’d been given a going over too.’

‘Drugs?’ Logan clunked the laptop shut and slipped it into its carrying case.

‘Poor old Helen probably tried to buy them off with a freebie, but being clean-living and sensible sorts, they beat the shite out of her instead. And the answer to your next question is no: your girlfriend Trisha wasn’t there.’

He hefted the laptop bag over his shoulder. ‘Anyone found Shuggie yet?’

‘If the bugger’s got any brains he’ll be lying low in Dundee or Glasgow by now. Blending in with the scheemie smack-heads till the heat dies down.’

Logan stood. ‘That’s me off.’

‘Right… Right.’ Bell finished off the last chunk of toast, washing it down with whatever was in the mug. ‘I’m not going to have to give you another call at three in the morning, am I?’

‘Christ, I hope not.’

Logan stuck his head through the open door to the main incident room. It was a bit swankier than the one he’d commandeered on the fourth floor: Finnie had a complete set of carpet tiles for a start. It was lined with whiteboards and flipcharts, full of desks – seating for about thirty officers – its own photocopier, and a small glass-walled office in one corner so the Chief Inspector could keep an eye on his troops.

They’d set up a screen on the wall furthest from the door, a roof-mounted projector flickering away in the darkened room. Playing the latest video from Jenny and Alison’s kidnappers.

Finnie, Superintendent Green, Doreen, and a handful of officers were watching as the camera panned across to Jenny’s feet.

Green held up a hand. ‘Stop it there. Go back a bit…’

The picture lurched into reverse. ‘OK, freeze.’ He stood and walked to the screen, took a chunky pen out of his pocket and pointed at the image. Click, and a little red dot appeared on the wall of the graffiti-covered squat, tracing around the timestamp in the bottom right corner. ‘Eleven thirty-two. Now look at the patterns of light on the floor.’

The little red dot traced the shadows and highlights that fell across the bare floorboards. ‘I have some
very
clever boffins in Edinburgh who can work out the position of the sun at eleven thirty-two this morning, relative to Aberdeen. We combine that with the angle of incidence on the shadows and that’ll give us a good idea of where this was filmed.’

One of the uniformed officers whistled. ‘Fucking hell…’ Green turned, a smile on his face, one eyebrow raised. ‘I know: impressive, isn’t it? It won’t give us an exact address, but it’ll let us know roughly which part of the city we should be looking at. Then we search every derelict property in that area.’

Logan frowned.

Finnie nodded. ‘Excellent.’

Green’s chest came out a notch. ‘I’ll get them onto it.’

‘Erm, sir?’ Logan shifted the laptop bag on his shoulder. ‘Are you sure?’

The head of CID turned in his seat and gave him a rubbery scowl. ‘Tell me, Sergeant McRae, do you have a
better
idea?’

‘It’s just that—’

‘You’ve been going through the files for an hour and…’ He checked his watch. ‘Ten minutes, and you’ve
already
solved the case,
all
on your own?’

Logan could feel the heat rushing up his cheeks. ‘No, sir. I just think we should take another look at the footage before we go running off to SOCA’s technical services.’

‘Really?’ Superintendent Green leaned back against a desk, that TV smile of his slipping into a frown. ‘And why is
that
? Exactly.’

‘The kidnappers always take a lot of trouble to make sure we never get any forensic evidence. Why wouldn’t they do the same with the video?’

Green pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Sighed. Shook his head. ‘It’s a
video
, Sergeant – they can’t control the angle and position of the
sun
. Now, if we can get back to the footage?’

‘But they
can
control the timestamp on the camera.’

Green froze, half-turned back to the screen. ‘What?’

‘You have to set the time manually every time you change the battery.’ He pointed at the little digital readout. ‘Eleven thirty-two: the media briefing didn’t even
start
till eleven. And what about the newspaper?’

‘It’s today’s, so I don’t—’

‘The
Edinburgh Evening Post
headline was about the toe not being Jenny’s. How did they manage to write the article, print the newspaper, get it up to Aberdeen, and sell it in a shop, all in under thirty-two minutes? The paper doesn’t even go to press till mid-day. I checked.’

‘Ah…’ Green nodded. ‘I see. Well, that’s a very valid point.’ He turned back to face the screen. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’

‘Anyway,’ Logan pointed at the graffiti-covered room, projected on the back wall, ‘just wanted to grab a copy of the video, if there’s one going spare?’

‘There’s one here.’ Doreen dug a CD in a clear plastic case from a folder on the desk beside her, then handed it over. Whispering. ‘You’ve made him look like a complete idiot.’ She gave Logan’s hand a squeeze. ‘Thanks.’

It was raining, pea-sized drops of lukewarm water that turned the pavement dark grey.

There was no point going out the front – the crowd was back in force, even with the horrible weather, huddling under thrumming umbrellas, being outraged for all the camera crews. The Lodge Walk entrance was just as bad, full of journos sheltering from the downpour while they waited to pounce on anyone leaving FHQ. So Logan hid the laptop bag under his jacket, trying to keep the thing dry as he hurried down the ramp from the Rear Podium and nipped through the little bit at the back of the Arts Centre.

Tonight the billboard sign outside the newsagent on King Street read, ‘
E
VENING
E
XPRESS
: J
ENNY’S
T
ORTURE
– C
AN
W
E
R
AISE
E
NOUGH
T
O
S
AVE
H
ER
?’ the white paper insert going nearly transparent as it soaked up the rain.