Shatter the Bones (28 page)

Ooh, look at me, I’m such a rebel. ‘And why was that?’

Clayton curled his top lip. ‘Why do you think? Always swanning about like she was fucking royalty.’ His voice jumped an octave. ‘“Oh, I’m on TV, I’m so
special
, so much
better
than the rest of you ordinary little plebs.” Bitch.’ He brushed the hair from his face. ‘Stuck up, holier than thou, lying, two-faced bitch.’

So predictable. ‘She turned you down.’ Logan tried not to smile. ‘Like
she
was such a fucking catch with a wee kid in tow. Who wants lumbered with that?’ Another scoof of caffeinated sugar. ‘Was doing her a favour.’

Yeah, you and your grow-your-own-moustache kit. ‘So, this kidnapping thing: you think she deserved what she got?’

Clayton’s face soured. ‘You’re kidding, right? When they let her go she’s going to be worse than ever. Everyone’ll be falling over themselves to lick her arse, like she’s Richard Hammond and Princess Fucking Di all rolled into one. Getting kidnapped was the best thing that ever happened to that manipulative cow.’

‘No, I didn’t know Bruce had killed himself. That’s… That’s just terrible.’ Craig Peterson sat on the end of the bed and stroked the little tuft of beard that clung onto his chin. Throw in the big nose, floppy curly brown hair and furrowed eyebrows, and he looked like a vaguely disappointed goat. Posters:
Reservoir Dogs
; Hitchcock’s
North by Northwest
;
War of the Worlds
– the Orson Welles version, not the Tom Cruise one; Marc Caro and Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s
La Cité des Enfants Perdus
. ‘I mean, I knew he’d been a bit stressed recently – what with trying to catch up with his coursework and Tanya dumping him – but
suicide
? Why wouldn’t he come speak to me? He must’ve known I could have helped him.’

‘Tanya?’ Logan flipped a few pages back in his notebook. ‘Tanya Marsden?’

More beard stroking. ‘Likes to call herself “Tiggy” for some reason. I tried to tell Bruce she wasn’t his type, but
“l’oeil de l’amoureux est aveugle à tout défaut”
.’

Oh, to be young and pretentious.

So Tanya Marsden and Bruce Sangster had been an item – she’d kept that quiet.

‘I see…’ Logan underlined the word ‘L
IAR
’ next to her name a few more times.

‘Molière – it means “the lover’s eye is blind to all fault.”’

‘Does it now.’ He moved on a couple of pages and wrote ‘P
ATRONIZING
P
RICK
’ next to Peterson’s. ‘Did he ever say anything to you about drugs?’

‘Well… Off the record?’

Logan smiled. ‘No.’

‘I wouldn’t want his parents to get the wrong idea, they had very high hopes for him.’

‘But?’

‘Where do you stand on the subject of cannabis, Sergeant?’ Logan just stared at him, letting the silence stretch.

A big sigh. ‘Look, Bruce might have said something about hooking up with a woman when he was down in Dundee at one of those Dungeons and Dragons conventions last year. This person – Bruce always called her “Stumpy the Dwarven Queen” – was getting him cannabis, amyl nitrate – poppers, maybe some speed if it was coming up to exam time and Bruce needed to cram. And Bruce always needed to cram.’

‘Stumpy the
Dwarven Queen
?’

Peterson folded his arms, then crossed his legs. ‘Look, I’m really not comfortable talking about a dead friend behind his back, so if you’d like to save the sarcastic tones until you get back to the station, Sergeant, that’d be fine with me.’

‘Sarcastic tone, Mr Peterson? I
think
you’ll find I’m just trying to get to the bottom of a suspicious death. Surely that’s worth treading on a few sensibilities?’

The student’s nose came up. ‘You can’t “tread” on sensibilities, you have to “offend” them.’

Logan smiled. ‘If you insist: where were you yesterday afternoon between the hours of twelve and five?’

‘What?’ His eyes went wide. ‘My God, you’re actually serious. You think Bruce was
murdered
?’

‘And if you can give me the names and addresses of anyone who can confirm your whereabouts, that’ll be a great help.’ You arrogant little prick.

There was a bit of bluster, some self-righteous indignation, but eventually Peterson handed over the details of two friends who were with him most of the day watching DVDs and being pretentious. Logan took down the details. ‘Now: tell me about Alison McGregor.’

Peterson opened his mouth, puckered his forehead, then clamped his lips together. ‘Sorry?’

‘You were in the same psychology class as her.’

‘Well, yes… I mean, I went over all this with an Inspector McPherson—’

‘And now you’re going to go over it again.’ Logan shifted forward in the seat, getting close enough to make Peterson edge back, until his back was up against the wall.

‘I never really knew her. I mean, I knew who she was – well it’d be difficult not to when there’s paparazzi hanging about outside the lecture theatre – but we never really talked. I tend to be very campus orientated, and she lived on the other side of town, so I didn’t really see that much of her. Outside lectures and tutorials. Maybe a couple of times in the library.’ He rubbed a hand at the side of his neck. ‘It’s terrible, what’s happened, but I didn’t really know her. She seemed really popular…?’

Logan just sat there and stared at him. ‘Lots of friends? Especially when there were photographers about. I think some of the girls had a pool running on who could get their faces in the papers the most. You know, by talking to her while she was being snapped…’

More silence. ‘Erm…’ He licked his lips. ‘Look, I never really knew her, OK?’

‘I see.’ Logan didn’t move. ‘And I’ve got studying to do. So if there’s nothing—’

The
Danse macabre
blared out from Logan’s pocket. He pulled it out and hit the button. ‘McRae.’

‘Sarge?’
Rennie.
‘Where are you? I’m in the car park.’

Logan glanced up at Peterson. It wouldn’t hurt to take the patronizing little sod down a notch or two. ‘Yes, I’m speaking to him now.’

‘Eh? You in the pub already?’

‘No, he claims he,’ Loan checked his notebook, smothered a smile, ‘“never really knew her.”’

‘Knew…? Ah – I get it. OK.’

‘That’s right. Says he has an alibi for the Bruce Sangster death too.’

Peterson shifted from cheek to cheek.
‘I got everything you wanted from the archives, so I’m out at Hillhead, ready to crack the McGregor case!’

Logan stared at Craig Peterson until the student looked away. ‘No, I think I’ll take care of it personally.’

‘Where do you want me to start?’

‘Stay where you are.’ Logan hung up and slid the phone back in his pocket. Then stood. ‘We’ll be in touch, Mr Peterson.’ He leant forward, looming, and the student shrank back again. ‘Don’t leave town; remember I’ll be watching you.’

Rennie leant back against a filthy Vauxhall, pink face raised to the sun, hands in his pockets, little white cables dangling from his ears, eyes closed.

Logan poked him in the shoulder. ‘How did you get a pool car?’

‘Eh?’ He took out his earbuds. ‘Oh, hi, Sarge. Did he cough? Whoever you were noising up?’

‘Bloody Eric told me all the cars were booked!’

‘Really? He was fine with me. Maybe—’

‘What happened with the archives?’

‘Not a lot. Couple of idiots kidnapped a jeweller’s daughter; animal rights activists dug up someone’s mum and demanded an end to animal testing at the Rowett; gang grabbed the wife and kids of a bank manager in Ellon so he’d let them in to loot the place…’ Rennie stared off into the middle distance. ‘Oh-ho, hold your breath, here comes Biohazard.’

Bob was shambling out of the block of student accommodation opposite, jacket over his shoulder, shirtsleeves rolled up to expose two forearms so hairy it looked as if he was wearing a furry pullover. He waved, then ambled over.

Logan turned, looking up at the block behind them. The one where, with any luck, Craig Peterson was currently crapping himself. ‘Waste of time then.’

‘Sorry, Sarge.’ Rennie rubbed his hands together. ‘So, come on – who were you winding up?’

‘Jesus, I bloody hate students. Bunch of animals…’ Bob had a scratch at his pelt, then nodded at Rennie. ‘Constable, what a happy coincidence! I’ve got a big list of tosspots who need interviewed.’

Rennie shook his head. ‘Sorry, Guv, but I’m officially DS McRae’s minion till Friday. We’re grilling Alison McGregor’s classmates. McRae and Rennie, at the ready!’

Bob raised his arms to the sky, then let them fall back to his sides with a theatrical groan. ‘Logie, you’ll let me borrow the loon, won’t you?’

‘Nope. Soon as we’re done here we have a nationwide search on historic kidnappings to wade through.’

‘Aw, come on – we could divvy up Bruce’s mates. Three of us, we’d get through them in no time.’

‘Goodbye Bob…’ Logan took a step away, then stopped, turned, and went back to the car. ‘You might want to keep an eye on one Tanya “Tiggy” Marsden. According to Craig Peterson she was Bruce’s girlfriend, but she says they were just friends.’

Bob raised one side of his monobrow. ‘Oh aye, trying to distance herself after the fact? Think she’s his dealer?’

‘Doubt it.’ Logan told him about Stumpy the Dwarven Queen.

A grimace. ‘That’s sod all use…’ The grimace turned into a smile. ‘Still, at least it takes the source off our patch – I can fob it off on Tayside. I was going to renege on buying you that pint, but I’ve changed my mind. Now lend us the wee loon here, and I’ll throw in a packet of crisps.’

Logan looked back up at the block of student flats. Someone was staring back down at them. Craig Peterson, stroking his billy-goat beard. Logan made a gun from his thumb and forefinger, pointed it at Peterson, then shot him in the face.

Logan made a special point of checking up on Peterson’s alibi. Adrian Kerr: MSc E-Commerce Technology; posters of
The
Muppet Show
,
China Town
, a football team composed of half-naked women. Nicholas Tawse: Psychology;
Citizen Kane
, Che Guevara, Monty Python’s Flying Circus.

They both backed up Peterson’s story – of course – but it was still fun to make the stuck-up little sods squirm. Petty, but fun.

Logan met up with Rennie back in the car park.

‘Anything?’

‘Thought a couple were a bit dodgy – one was trying to hide a home-made bong, the other got all gooey-eyed every time I mentioned Alison and Jenny’s names. Swear to God, she had a shrine to them above her bed. Newspaper clippings, magazine articles, signed photos, the lot. I think there was a lock of hair too.’

‘Hair?’

‘Not, like a scalp or anything.’

‘Nobody else?’

‘Nah, mostly they’re just students. Bit of weed, bit of booze, bit of studying, bit of pining away in their rooms wondering why nobody wants to shag them.’

‘Right, let’s go pay Alison and Jenny’s biggest fan a visit.’

Good God… Rennie hadn’t been kidding – there really
was
a shrine above Beatrice Eastbrook’s bed. Right in the middle of the wall was an amateurish watercolour portrait of Alison McGregor, Jenny sitting on her knee. Alison had a tinfoil halo that glimmered in the light of two big church candles, arranged either side of a lock of curly blonde hair in a little glass box, tied with a black ribbon and a sprig of heather. Just like the one on Alison’s photo of her dead husband.

Around the icon, a sea of newsprint and magazine articles spread out like a tumour. ‘M
Y
S
ECRET
F
EARS
F
OR
J
ENNY
– W
ILL
F
AME
D
ESTROY
H
ER
C
HILDHOOD
?’, ‘N
ORTH
-E
AST
M
UM
T
HROUGH
T
O
BNBS S
EMI
-F
INAL
’, ‘A
LISON’S
S
ECRET
S
CHOOLGIRL
S
HAME
: “I W
AS
A T
EENAGE
T
EARAWAY
”, A
DMITS
BNBS S
EMI
-F
INALIST
’, ‘S
HE’S
N
O
A
NGEL
– T
HE
S
KELETONS
L
URKING
I
N
A
LISON
M
C
G’
S
C
LOSET
’…

That last one had a photo of Victoria Murray, AKA Vicious Vikki, on it, her face scrubbed out with angry red biro, until the paper was tattered and sliced through, the word ‘LIAR!!!’ scrawled across the article over and over again.

And around the edge, a series of glossy photos – the kind you could get printed at pretty much any supermarket these days.

No posters: there wasn’t room.

Beatrice Eastbrook would probably have looked like a perfectly normal person a year ago. But… She’d dyed her hair blonde, and had it curled to look exactly like Alison McGregor’s. Her make-up was exactly like Alison McGregor’s. Her clothes were exactly like Alison McGregor’s, right down to the shoes.

Probably had a tinfoil-lined hat lying about the place somewhere too.

She twirled the hair behind her ear. ‘Of course I didn’t hurt them, why would I hurt them? I love them.’ The accent was hard to place, a weird mix of Birmingham and Aberdeen – as if it wasn’t enough to look like Alison McGregor, she was trying to sound like her too. ‘Alison was … is – fantastic. A superstar. I mean, can you imagine it, someone like that living in Aberdeen, and I
know
her. She
talked
to me, like a real person.’

‘And you’ve no idea who might have taken her?’

Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. ‘If I did, I’d kill them. I’m not joking – I’d
literally
kill them. Strangle them with my own hands. They cut off Jenny’s toes! What kind of bastard cuts off a little girl’s toes?’ She sank back onto the bed and shuffled back, feet on the duvet, knees against her chest. ‘You know what, when you catch them, you should cut off
their
toes, like in the Bible. Cut them all off and see how
they
like it.’