Shatter the Bones (39 page)

Silence.

Finnie pursed his lips, both hands spread out on the desktop. ‘
Superintendent
, I can assure you Grampian Police are
well
aware of the situation. And while I
deeply
value your input,
if
you don’t mind, I think I might just try to do my job and get a couple of drug-dealing scumbags off the streets.’ He ruffled some papers on his desk. ‘Detective Sergeant McRae – I understand you wanting to be involved,’ he cast a sideways glance at Green, ‘but I think it might be best if nightshift handled this.’

‘Sir, if I can just—’

‘You’ve done more than enough today. Go home; get some rest. We’ll deal with the Marley Brothers.’

‘But—’

Finnie held up a finger, ‘We’ll deal with it.’

Logan frowned at the screen. ‘So the red banana thing—’

‘The Ninky Nonk.’ Steel topped up his whisky. ‘Thanks.’ The living room was warm, a large LCD television mounted above the fireplace filled with bright primary colours. ‘So the Ninky Nonk is some kind of random bus service?’

‘Yup.’

‘And the porcupines—’

‘
Pontipines
. They want to get on the Ninky Nonk so they can go wherever it is Pontipines go. Dole office, most likely. Work-shy bastards.’

‘Only every time they try, the Ninky Nonk drives off?’

She took a sip. ‘Got it in one.’

Susan’s voice floated through from the kitchen. ‘Come on Stinkypants, time for bed.’

Steel patted Logan on the arm. ‘It’s OK, she’s not talking about you.’

There was a sort of toddler jail set up in front of the couch – a big circular enclosure made of plastic and netting. A little girl in a skull-and-crossbones babygrow lay on her back in the middle of it, trying to suck her own feet in that disturbing double-jointed way very small children have.

‘So why does it keep driving off?’ The whisky was making the world go fuzzy at the edges. That or the lack of sleep.

‘Best guess? The driver’s a cunt.’

‘Roberta!’ Susan appeared, wiping her hands on a dish towel. ‘What have I told you about that? What are they going to think when Jasmine starts nursery?’

‘They’ll think, “who’s this beautiful wee monkey with the colourful vocabulary?”’ She creaked up from the couch and broke Jasmine Catherine Cassandra Steel-Wallace out of Baby Barlinnie. ‘Oh-ho, someone’s made trouser truffles…’

Susan smiled. ‘Are you OK, Logan? Do you want some more ice cream?’

‘No, no, I’m fine thanks.’ Just as long as he didn’t think about Shuggie Webster. Or Samantha. Or not being in on the firearms team picking up the Marley brothers. Engineering a little accident for them…

‘…Logan?’

Blink. ‘Sorry?’

‘I said, do you want to kiss your daughter good night?’

‘Oh, er… yeah. Sure.’ He stood and planted a little kiss on the top of her head. Steel was right – Jasmine smelt like she’d been rolling around in something brown and sticky. ‘Sweet dreams.’

‘Say nighty-night to Daddy, Jasmine.’ Susan took hold of a little chubby wrist and waved it at Logan. ‘He gave your mummies a little tub of wriggly sperm, so doctors could put you in my tummy.’

‘Do you have to do that every single time I come round?’ Susan laughed. ‘Could you
be
any more uncomfortable?’ He could feel the blush crawling up his neck. ‘So…’ He went back to the TV. ‘Do you really watch this rubbish all the time?’

‘I
know
.’ Susan laughed, Jasmine cradled against her chest making big wet-mouthed yawns. ‘You get used to it.’

‘Whisky helps.’ Steel finished her glass. ‘Tell you, half the sodding licence fee must go on heroin and tequila.’

‘…movement out the back. Hang on…’
There was a pause, then the harsh whisper came from the Airwave handset again.
‘Nah, you’re OK – just a cat.’

Logan propped the lumpy grey rectangle against the vase of daffodils on the breakfast bar, then turned the volume up.

‘Jesus, that’s no’ a cat, it’s a fucking tiger! Did you see the size of its—’

‘All right, settle down.’
DI Bell sounded as if he was eating something.
‘Timecheck: oh two-fi fty. We are live in ten. Teams Two and Three, take up positions.’

Logan glanced at the clock on the cooker: nearly five minutes fast. The room was bathed in the pale orange glow of the overcast sky, the back garden a jungle of silhouettes and shadows through the window. He filled the kettle, then poured half of it out, before sticking it on to boil. The growing rumble drowned out the babble on his Airwave handset as DI Bell got his firearms team into place.

Mug. Teabag. Boiling water. Milk—

The kitchen burst into sudden brightness.

Logan screwed his eyes up, peering through the glare. Steel was standing in the doorway, wearing a pair of tartan pyjamas, clutching a brass poker like a baseball bat.

‘Christ’s sake, Laz, thought you were burglars.’ Her hair looked as if she’d lent it out to a colony of howler monkeys. She flicked the light off again. ‘Couldn’t sleep?’

He fished the teabag out and dumped it in the bin. ‘Kind of.’ DI Bell:
‘And we’re live in fi ve. Everyone where they’re meant to be?’

Steel sighed. ‘What’s going on?’

‘You want tea?’

‘Peppermint. What’s going on?’

‘Team One, ready to rock.’

‘Team Two, readiness: we has it.’

‘Logan?’

‘Team Three, good to go.’

‘Team Four, hot to trot.’

He rinsed the teaspoon under the cold tap. ‘Ding-Dong’s raiding the Yardies’ flat in Kittybrewster.’

‘Aye, I gathered that. What I want to know is why you’re down here keeping tabs on it, and no’ upstairs in your beddie-byes.’

Logan placed Steel’s tea on the breakfast bar, the smell of mint curling through the air, the little paper tag dangling over the side of the mug like the tail on a herbal tampon. ‘Told you: couldn’t sleep.’

She hauled a stool out and settled down opposite. ‘Do I look like a sodding idiot?’

‘Here we go: five, four, three, two, one. Do it.’

The bang and crack of a Big Red Door Key smashing into wood crackled out of the handset.

Steel’s eyes narrowed to wrinkly slits. ‘You think they’re the ones who torched your house, don’t you?’

‘I didn’t—’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Laz – do you
never
bloody listen? Finnie’ll do his nut when he finds out!’ She buried her head in her hands. ‘Why did I let that wee jobbie Rennie talk me into helping you come back to work today?’

Logan stared out of the window. There was a hollow-eyed face staring back at him. ‘I couldn’t get them on my own. Not both of them…’

‘So what, you thought Finnie would let you grab an MP5 and go
shoot
the wee buggers?’ She looked up. ‘What about Shuggie Webster?’

The ghost in the glass shrugged. ‘I don’t think I want to be a police officer any more.’

‘Fuck’s sake, Laz. Are you the one beat the poor sod up?’

‘I…’ He rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘It’s…’

‘You bloody idiot! Soon as they question him, he’ll land you in it. Do you no’ remember what happened to Insch? They’ll lock you up, you daft bastard.’

‘Probably. Maybe. I don’t know.’ There was nothing funny about it, but Logan couldn’t help laughing, just a little bit, the sound bitter and cold. ‘Might not be a bad idea.’

Steel hunched over her mug. ‘I can’t get you out of this one. I mean … fucking hell, Laz.’

‘I know.’

‘ON THE FLOOR! ON THE FLOOR NOW!’

They both turned and looked at the handset. ‘You sure they’re the ones who torched your flat?’

‘Find out soon enough.’

She sighed. ‘Then what? You go for them in the cells? Get yourself up on a couple of murders as well as the assault? You really think that’s what Samantha wants?’

‘What would you do if someone tried to kill Susan, or Jasmine? Bake them a cake?’

‘GOOD. NOW MOVE AND I’LL BLOW YOUR ARSE OFF!’

‘I’d…’ She fiddled with her mug, making it click against the working surface. ‘Doesn’t make you any less of a daft bastard.’

‘Team One: clear.’

‘Team Four: clear.’

He stared down at his hands. ‘Don’t think I can’t do this any more.’

‘Team Three: we have the suspects.’

‘Team Two: Guv, we’ve got enough smack, coke, speed, and weed up here to keep Keith Richards stoned off his tits till he’s ninety! Holy crap, Cath, you ever see so much weed in your life?’

Steel dumped her teabag on the draining board. ‘Don’t be an arse: you can’t quit. What the hell would you do? Go be a rentacop down the Trinity Centre? Shoplifting and old ladies who’ve peed themselves?’

‘Believe it or not, I got a job offer this morning.’

If you ever decide police work is no longer the career for you… Well, as I said, it would be nice to know that my legacy was in good hands.

Go from a police officer to heading up Aberdeen’s biggest criminal empire… Let’s face it, he was already halfway there.

Strange how much could change in just twenty-four hours.

Logan straightened his tie. ‘OK.’

Steel looked him up and down. ‘I still think you’re a bloody idiot. Get a Federation rep in there with you!’

The summons to DCI Finnie’s lair had been sitting on his desk when he got in, gritty-eyed and yawning, feeling as if someone had replaced his insides with burning snakes. ‘M
C
R
AE
∼ M
Y
O
FFICE
∼ ASAP!’

‘What good’s a rep going to do? If Shuggie’s made a complaint I’m screwed anyway.’

Of course he’d complained – Urquhart was right, Shuggie Webster was a junkie… And he had every right to complain.

Logan closed his eyes. They were going to suspend him, arrest him, and lock him away for four-to-six years. Maybe by the time he was up for parole, Samantha would have woken up.

Deep breath.

He knocked on the head of CID’s door.

Finnie’s voice came from inside: ‘Enter.’

Logan marched into the office, DI Steel slouching along behind him. ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

Finnie glanced at the clock, mounted on the wall, then sat back in his seat and steepled his fingers.

‘Sir, I—’

‘DI Bell picked up your Marley brothers last night. They came gift-wrapped with half a million pounds’ worth of drugs. It’s significant result.’

‘With all due respect, sir—’

‘I know, I know.’ Finnie held up a hand. ‘You wanted to be there when the firearms team went in, running the operation. But I couldn’t allow it, not after everything you’d been through yesterday. You needed to go home and get some rest.’

‘But, sir—’

‘Don’t worry. Even though DI Bell made the arrests, we’re all aware that it’s only because
you
supplied the information. Nightshift ran their prints and DNA through the system: Robert and Jacob are wanted in connection with one death in Lothian and Borders, and two in Greater Manchester. Their capture represents a considerable feather in Grampian’s police cap, at a time when we’re not
exactly
covering ourselves in glory with the McGregor case.’

The bastard was drawing it out, making him suffer.

Logan shifted his feet. ‘I’d like to—’

‘Then there’s
this
.’ He held up that morning’s
Press and Journal.

And here it was: ‘P
OLICE
D
ISGRACE
A
S
F
ORMER
H
ERO
H
OSPITALIZES
A
DDICT
I
N
R
EVENGE
A
TTACK
…’ only that wasn’t the headline. The front page read, ‘M
OTHER
A
BDUCTED
F
ROM
K
INCORTH
S
TREET
’. There was a photo of a smiling teenager, one eye squinted shut, a bottle of beer in her hand. It almost looked like— Finnie ruffled the paper. ‘Trisha Brown’s mother is telling everyone we’re not taking her daughter’s disappearance seriously. That while
Alison McGregor
gets TV tributes and the Chief Constable making statements, all her daughter gets is one
lowly
sergeant.’

Logan frowned at the photo again. It was her: Trisha Brown, taken before the heroin sank its manky-brown claws into her. She couldn’t have been much older than thirteen.

Finnie’s face curled down at the edges. ‘Not exactly a step in the right direction, is it?’

‘Sir, I want to explain—’

‘And
then
there’s Shuggie Webster. DI Bell went up to the hospital and took his statement last night.’

Too slow. No point jumping when you’ve already been pushed.

Logan raised his chin and straightened his shoulders, staring out through the window behind Finnie’s head. ‘Yes, sir.’

Goodbye career: hello suspension, arrest, prosecution, and jail time.

‘Mr Webster has been kind enough to give us the names and addresses of three of his other suppliers and half a dozen dealers, as well as coughing to nearly twenty unlawful removals.’ Finnie smiled. ‘Isn’t that
nice
of him?’

Logan closed his eyes, waiting for the punchline. ‘I understand Mr Webster told DI Bell that you’d convinced him to turn his life around and come clean.’

Logan risked one eye. ‘He did?’

‘Yes. Said you were very persuasive when you rescued him from the three hoodies who attacked him yesterday morning.’

Hoodies…?

‘…so remember: tempers are going to be running high today. All it’ll take is one idiot and we could have a riot on our hands.’ Acting DI Mark McDonald shuffled the papers in his hands, and shifted from foot to foot at the front of the crowded briefing room – every single member of day-shift CID, and more than two-dozen uniformed constables staring at him. ‘The media are out in force, waiting for something to kick off, so
please
make sure you keep your eyes and ears open.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Thank you.’ Then sat down.

Someone had updated the countdown on the whiteboard behind him. Now it read, ‘D
EADLINE
: TOMORROW!!!’