22 Dead Little Bodies (5 page)

‘Then where the sodding hell is she?’

‘Well, maybe—’

‘Forty minutes! Wandering round like a pair of idiots, knocking on doors.’ The scent of charring meat oozed out from a garden somewhere near, making his stomach growl. ‘Starving now.’

Guthrie gave a big theatrical shrug. ‘I don’t get it. It’s not like it’d be hard to find a parking space here, is it? You’d dump your car right outside the person you’re visiting, right?’

‘Unless you weren’t supposed to be here. Didn’t want people to see your car…’ Logan pushed off the wall. ‘We keep looking.’

‘OK, thanks anyway.’

As soon as the auld mannie in the faded ‘
BRITAIN’S NEXT BIG STAR
’ T-shirt had closed the door, Logan stepped into the shade of a box hedge.

He ran a hand across the nape of his neck and wiped it dry on his trousers. Checked his watch. That was an hour they’d been at it now. Slogging their way along the road in the baking sun. Knocking on doors. Asking questions. Showing people the photo of Emma Skinner that Guthrie had found on Facebook. A selfie of Emma and her two kids, grinning away like lunatics, the background blocked out by the three of them. She had her blonde hair pulled back from her face, a half-inch of brown roots showing. A silver ring in her left nostril. An easy smile. Two small children with chocolate smudges covering half of their faces.

Logan loosened his tie.

A whole hour of shoving the photo under people’s noses.

And still nothing.

Maybe she hadn’t been visiting someone here after all? Maybe this was simply a convenient place to dump the car? Somewhere to keep it hidden.

Why? Why would she want to hide?

‘Guv?’ One house over, Guthrie was backing away from the door – a hand scrabbling at the Airwave clipped to his stabproof vest. ‘Guv!’

Logan hopped the low garden wall and hurried across a manicured lawn ringed with nasturtiums. ‘Someone spotted her?’

Guthrie stopped in the middle of the path and pointed at the house. ‘In there…’

OK.

He walked over to the front window. It was too bright outside, and too dark inside to see anything other than the reflected street scene. Logan cupped his hands either side of his eyes and pressed his forehead against the glass.

A high-heeled shoe lay in front of a glass-topped coffee table. On its side. The foot it belonged to poked out from behind the couch. Skin pale, a thick line of purple running horizontal with the ground where the blood had settled. More blood on the oatmeal-coloured carpet. Little dots and splashes. Dozens of them. More streaking up the walls, making scarlet spatters across a print of the New York skyline.

Definitely dead.

‘Got you ham-cheese-and-mustard, and a tin of Lilt.’ Guthrie held out a Tesco carrier bag.

Sitting back against the pool car, Logan dipped into the bag. ‘Crisps?’

‘Cheese-and-onion.’

Better than nothing. ‘Thanks.’

A cordon of blue-and-white ‘
POLICE
’ tape cut across Newburgh Road, keeping the scene secure – enclosing the house, a patrol car, and the Scenes Examination Branch’s dirty transit van. At least someone’d had the brains to scrub a hand through the filthier bits of finger graffiti.

Guthrie got stuck into an egg-and-cress, making mayonnaise smears either side of his mouth. ‘Starving…’

Logan clicked the ring-pull off his fizzy juice, and chased down a mouthful of sandwich. Then wiggled the can towards the house. ‘Looks like we’re on.’

A pair of figures stepped out of the front door, both done up in full SOC Smurf outfits – blue booties, white Tyvek suit, blue nitrile gloves, facemasks, and eye goggles. Smurf One was tall and lanky, Smurf Two shorter with an itchy bum. Smurf Two dug and scratched away at its backside as the pair of them made their way across to the pool car.

Logan took another bite, talking with his mouth full. ‘Well?’

DI Steel peeled her suit’s hood back, then pulled off the mask and let it dangle beneath her chin. ‘Sodding roasting…’ Her face was a florid shade of red, the skin streaked with glistening lines of sweat. She stuck out her gloved hands, groping for Logan’s Lilt. ‘Give.’ Then glugged away at it as Smurf One unfurled his suit and tied the arms around his waist.

Detective Sergeant Simon Rennie puffed out his cheeks and sagged. Wafted a hand in front of his flushed shiny face. Being inside the hood had done something terrible to his hair, leaving the blond mop sticking out at all angles, like a confused hedgehog. ‘Gah…’

Logan tried again. ‘Is it her?’

Steel gulped. Puffed out a long breath. Then burped. ‘God, that’s better.’

Rennie held out the picture Guthrie found on Facebook. ‘It’s her. Multiple stab wounds to the chest and abdomen – and I mean
multiple
. Has to be at least forty.’ He rubbed a forearm across his face, blotting away the sweat. ‘Don’t have another tin of juice, do you?’

Steel handed him whatever was left of Logan’s. ‘There’s a naked bloke in the bedroom too. Throat cut from ear to ear. Place looks like something out of a B-movie slasher; it’s dripping from the ceiling and everything.’

A sigh escaped from Logan’s chest. ‘Let me guess – she’s naked too.’

‘Nope: kinky bra with matching thong.’

Which explained why Emma Skinner had parked so far away. Didn’t want anyone to see her visiting her lover.

Mr Suicide’s voice trembled, not much more than a broken whisper. ‘How could she
do
that?’
It explained that as well.

The lover had to die, but the wife had to be
punished
.

‘We’ve had the murder weapon since yesterday.’ Logan pointed towards the house. ‘Anyone want to bet you’ll find John Skinner’s fingerprints all over the place? He follows her here, he catches her in the act, slits the lover’s throat, then goes berserk with the knife. Can’t live with what he’s done, so he chucks himself off the casino roof, still clutching the knife.’

‘Aye, well done Jonathan Creek.’ Steel snatched the Lilt back from Rennie and tipped her head back. Frowned. Shook the can a couple of times. ‘You greedy little sod!’

‘You didn’t say I couldn’t finish it.’

‘You don’t glug back the last of someone else’s
drink
. Everyone knows that.’ She unzipped her SOC suit. ‘Idiot.’ Then snapped off her gloves. ‘Got sweat trickling right down the crack of my—’

‘What about the kids?’ Logan nodded towards the picture in Rennie’s hand. Those two chocolatey faces. ‘Mrs Skinner takes them to their school clubs, Saturday morning, drives over here to see her lover. Her
husband
follows her and kills the pair of them, then drives back into town and jumps off the casino roof. Where are the kids?’

Steel closed her eyes. ‘Crap.’ She massaged her forehead for a moment. Then straightened up. ‘Right, finding the kids is now
everyone’s
number one priority. I want lookout requests, I want posters, I want media appeals…’ She frowned. ‘What?’

Logan popped his half-eaten sandwich back in the packet. ‘Already done it. Media office are holding off till you’ve delivered the death message, but other than that they’re ready to go.’

‘Oh.’ A sniff. ‘In that case: Laz, you get started on the paperwork, and I’ll—’

‘Oh no you don’t.’ Logan held up a hand. ‘You took the case over, remember? Turned up here all lights blazing and said it was too
complicated
for us thickies in CID – this was a job for the Major Investigation Team. Remember that?’

She shuffled her feet. Looked off into the distance. ‘Yeah, well, I may have been a bit overenthusiastic with—’

‘Do your own sodding paperwork.’

‘You’re no’
still
sulking, are you?’ Steel leaned against Logan’s office doorway, arms folded, a ‘
WORLD’S GREATEST LESBIAN
’ mug dangling from the fingers of one hand.

He turned back to the duty roster, typing in the team’s work plan for the next shift. ‘Away and boil your head.’

‘You’re going to have to learn to share, Laz.’

‘Share?’ He thumped away at the keyboard, making it suffer. ‘You turn up, you tell us we’re crap, then you take the case away – even though we’ve already
solved
it – and grab all the sodding credit.’

A sniff. ‘Yeah, but I had to do all the paperwork.’

He stared at her. ‘Did you really? Or did you get Rennie to do it?’

A little blush coloured her cheeks. ‘I supervised.’

Back to the roster. ‘Feel free to sod off any time you like.’

She did. But she was back three minutes later with a steaming mug in each hand, a packet of biscuits tucked under her arm, and a Jaffa Cake poking out of her mouth. ‘Mmmnnphh, gnnnph, mmmmnph?’

One of the mugs got placed on the desk in front of him. Then the biscuits.

He scowled at them. ‘What’s this?’

‘Peace offering.’ She sank into one of the visitors’ chairs. ‘Between friends.’

‘What are you after?’

‘Me? Nothing.’ A shrug and a smile. ‘Can’t two old friends share a cuppa and a digestive biscuit or two?’

He picked up the mug and sniffed. It smelled like tea, but it looked like coffee. ‘What happened to the Jaffa Cakes?’

‘Yeah, they’re all gone.’ She plonked her feet up on his desk. ‘So, double murder solved in an hour and a half. Not bad going.’

‘Are you seriously sitting there gloating about solving a case that
I
solved for you?’

‘Moan, bitch, whinge.’ She crunched a bite out of her digestive, getting crumbs all down the front of her shirt. ‘You’re such a princess.’

‘I am
not
a sodding princess.’

‘Whatever you say, Your Majesty.’ More crumbs. Steel stared out of the window, then her shoulders dropped a little. ‘Still no sign of the kids.’

‘Early days yet.’

‘Got a press conference at half six, going out live on the news. No’ exactly looking forward to that. Come Monday morning, going to be like a siege out there.’ She took a slurp of tea. Finished her biscuit. Offered him the packet. ‘So … You busy Tuesday night?’

‘Here we go.’

‘Only it’s Susan and me’s anniversary, and if you’re no’ too busy sitting at home like a sad sack, you could look after Jasmine for the night. Be nice for you to spend a bit more time with your daughter.’

Logan saved the file, then closed down the computer. ‘How come you only think I need to spend more time with Jasmine when you need a free babysitter?’

‘Think of it – I’m going to wheech Susan off to a swanky hotel, get room service to deliver champagne and strawberries, put a bit of porn on the telly, then shag her brains out.’ Steel flicked biscuit crumbs out of her own cleavage. ‘Very romantic.’

‘I’m busy Tuesday.’

‘No you’re no’.’

‘Yes I am.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I’ve got … a viewing. Someone’s coming round to look at the flat.’

‘No they’re no’. You’re going to be sitting at home, watching
The Little Mermaid
, in your pants, with your cat. Nipping off for a touch of onanism when singing along to “Part of Your World” gets you a bit horny.’

A knock on the door and Wheezy Doug stuck his head in.

Oh thank God.

‘Guv? It’s Mrs Black – just called nine-nine-nine.’

Maybe not. Logan folded forwards until his forehead rested on the keyboard. ‘It’s
home
time.’

‘Yeah, but she says her neighbour’s trying to kill her with a cleaver.’

The siren shredded the early evening air as their pool car slewed around onto Pitmedden Court.

Steel latched onto the grab handle above the passenger door as the front wheels hit a speed bump, wheeching them into the air like something off the
Streets of San Francisco
. ‘Yeeeeeeee-ha!’

The car slammed down onto the tarmac again, with a grinding groan.

Sitting in the back, Logan reached out and slapped Wheezy Doug over the back of the head. ‘What did I tell you?’

‘Sorry, Guv, urgent threat to life and that.’ He kept his foot down.

Mrs Black’s thick leylandii hedge appeared in the middle distance, rushing up to meet them as Wheezy screeched the car to a halt, nose in to the kerb. He grabbed a high-viz waistcoat and jumped out, struggling into the thing as he ran across the pavement.

Logan scrambled after him, charging up the path to Mrs Black’s house as Wheezy slid the front down on his body-worn video, setting it recording.

BANG
– Justin Robson battered his bare foot into his neighbour’s front door. ‘YOU BITCH! YOU BLOODY VINDICTIVE BLOODY BITCH!’ His Bagpuss sweat pants billowed as he drew back for another kick, camouflage T-shirt stained beneath the armpits. The same dirty big kitchen knife as last time, clutched in one hand. ‘COME OUT HERE!’

Logan stopped, a good six foot shy of the huge blade. ‘Mr Robson? I need you to calm down for me.’

BANG
. Another kick. ‘I’LL BLOODY KILL YOU!’

Wheezy dragged out a canister of CS gas. Held the other hand out in front of him, palm out. ‘Mr Robson, it’s the police. Drop the knife.
Now
.’

Robson turned. Chest heaving. Mouth a wet wobbly line. Glasses steamed up. ‘Did you see what that BITCH did to my car? Did you?’ Back to the house. ‘YOU RANCID, VINDICTIVE, BLOODY BITCH!’

Wheezy raised the canister. ‘Ever been gassed, Mr Robson? It’s not nice. And you’re going to find out what it feels like if you don’t
drop the bloody knife
!’

He looked down at the cleaver, as if seeing it for the first time. Then let go. Backed up a pace, hands up as it clattered on the paving slabs. Cleared his throat. ‘OK, OK, there’s no need for that. This is all a big misunder— ulk!’

Wheezy grabbed him by the camouflage and spun him into the closed front door. Shoved his head against the UPVC. Stuffed the canister of CS gas back where it came from as he whipped out the cuffs. Snapped them on Robson’s wrists. Dragged him away down the path.

‘Get off me!’ Robson shook his head left and right, like a dog with a rat. ‘It’s
her
you should be arresting, not me. Look what she did to my car!’

Logan pulled a blue nitrile glove from his pocket and snapped it on. Bent and picked up the fallen knife. Carried it out to the kerb.

‘Look at my car…’

Justin Robson’s white BMW wasn’t so white any more. What looked like gloss paint Jackson Pollocked across the roof, windscreen, and bonnet in bright splatters of pink and yellow and blue, running in rainbow tears down the wings. The words ‘Drug Dealer!!!’ were scratched into the bodywork, over and over again, gouged deep enough to crease the raw metal underneath.

‘Look at it…’

The sound of someone sooking on a tube appeared at Logan’s shoulder, followed by a puff of vapour. Steel did a slow circuit of the vandalized BMW. ‘No’ the colour I would’ve chosen, but it makes a statement.’

Logan took the knife around to the pool car’s boot, unzipped the holdall in there and pulled out a knife tube. He slipped the cleaver inside the clear plastic tube and sealed it. Marched back to where Wheezy held the sagging man. ‘Right, Justin Robson, I’m arresting you for breach of the peace, possession of a deadly weapon, attempted breaking and entering, attempted—’

‘We get it.’ Steel worked her e-cigarette from one side of her mouth to the other. Nodded at Robson. ‘You: Bagpuss. Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee here tell me you’re on a feud with her next door.’

‘She’s
insane
.’

‘Don’t care.’ A yellowed finger pointed in Logan’s direction. ‘Tweedle Dee – get this wifie…?’

He stared back at her. ‘Marion Black.’

‘Don’t care. You get Wifie Black out here and we’ll see if Saint Roberta of Steel can’t pour some baby oil on these troubled waters. Amen, and all that.’

He didn’t even try to suppress the groan. ‘Seriously?’

‘Finger out, Laz, got bigger fish to fry than this pair of idiots.’ She checked her watch. ‘Got to be on telly in an hour. Chop, chop.’

Fine. Wasn’t as if they didn’t have to take Mrs Black’s statement anyway.

He turned and marched back up the path. Gave the front door the policeman’s knock – three, loud and hard. ‘Mrs Black?’

A thin voice came from the other side of the door. ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s the police.’ As if the pool car sitting out front with its blue lights flashing wasn’t enough of a clue. ‘I need you to open up.’

‘Not if he’s still out there. Is he still out there?’

‘Mr Robson is in custody at the moment, so if…’

The door sprang open. Mrs Black stood on the threshold in her dressing gown and jammies, even though it couldn’t have been much more than twenty past five. She had a fire iron in both hands, clutched against her chest. ‘He’s a menace. I
told
you he was dangerous!’ She grinned up at Logan. The whites were visible all the way around her bulging eyes. ‘I told you, but you wouldn’t listen. Said there wasn’t any proof.’ The words rolled out on a cloud of second-hand alcohol. She shifted from one slippered foot to the other. ‘Is this proof enough for you?
Is
it?’