22 Dead Little Bodies (7 page)

Baird dipped into the big evidence bag and came out with a wee, individually wrapped, dead parakeet. Wrinkled her nose. ‘Poor thing.’

Logan’s office was warmer than it had any right to be. He cracked open the window, letting in a waft of stale air tainted by cigarette smoke. ‘Killed all twenty of them.’

She placed it back in the bag with the others. ‘Twenty dead little bodies.’

‘If you were Mrs Black, what would you do?’

‘Me?’ Baird scrunched her lips into a duck pout. ‘If I was a total nutjob, what would I do? Cut his knackers off. No, not cut, I’d
hack
them off. With a rusty spoon.’

Logan sank into his seat. ‘That’s what worries me.’ He pointed at the big bag. ‘Get it off to the labs. I want anything they can get linking the birds to Justin Robson before this goes any further. At least if one of them’s banged up they can’t kill each other.’

‘Guv.’ She picked it up. ‘What about the Skinner kids?’

‘No idea.’

‘Seems a shame, doesn’t it? Wasn’t their fault their mum was screwing around.’

‘Never is.’ Logan pulled his keyboard over. ‘If the lab gives you stick about analysing a bunch of parakeets, tell them I’ll be round to insert a size nine up their jacksy next time I’ve got a minute. It’s—’

A knock on the door and there was Guthrie, face all pink and shiny, out of breath as if he’d been running. ‘Guv … It’s … It’s…’ He folded over and grabbed his knees for a bit. ‘Argh … God…’

Baird patted him on the back. ‘That’s what you get for eating so much cheese, Sunshine.’

He shook her off and had another go. ‘Guv, it’s … Gordy Taylor…’

Logan groaned. ‘What’s he done now?’

‘Dead…’

Baird dumped the evidence bag back on Logan’s desk. ‘I’ll get a pool car.’

Baird tucked her hair into the SOC suit’s hood, then pulled the zip up all the way to her chin. Grabbed a handful of material around the waist and hoiked it up, setting the white Tyvek rustling. ‘You ready?’

Behind her, a double line of blue-and-white ‘Police’ tape cut off a chunk of Harlaw Road, tied between trees on opposite sides of the street, casting a snaking shadow. A crime scene dappled with light falling through the leaves.

The houses on the opposite side of the street didn’t look all that fancy – detached granite bungalows with attic conversions and dormer windows – but they overlooked the green expanse of the playing fields, so probably cost an absolute fortune.

Logan snapped a second set of blue nitrile gloves on over the first. ‘Might as well.’

They ducked under the outer cordon and rustled their way across the tarmac to the inner boundary of yellow-and-black – ‘
CRIME SCENE – DO NOT CROSS
’ – where a spotty uniform with huge eyes demanded to see their ID then wrote their names in the log before letting them past.

Two large council bins were lined up against the kerb, and behind them someone in the full Smurf outfit was squatting beside the body. He had a bony wrist in one hand, turning it over, letting the attached filthy hand flop one way, then the other.

Logan sank down next to him, blinking at the stench of alcohol and baked sewage. ‘Doc.’

The figure looked up and nodded – more or less anonymous behind the facemask and safety goggles. ‘Well, it’s official: this gentleman’s definitely dead.’

He let go of the wrist and shuffled back, letting them get a proper look at the body.

Gordon Taylor lay curled up on his side; knees drawn up to his chest; one arm thrown back, the hand dangling against his spine; the other reaching out in front. Head twisted back, mouth open. Eyes glazed. Beard and hair matted with twigs and vomit.

A bluebottle landed on Gordon’s cheek, and the Duty Doctor wafted it away. ‘Well, there’s no sign of serious trauma. He’s not been stabbed, or bludgeoned to death. The only sign of blood is that…’ The doctor pointed at the grubby bandage wrapped around Gordon’s right hand. It was stained with dark-scarlet blobs.

‘You want to guess at time of death?’

‘Very roughly? Sometime between him getting chucked out of hospital, and the bin men finding him here this morning.’ A shrug. ‘Anyone who gives you anything more precise is a liar.’

‘Any sign of foul play?’

‘Doubt it: your friend here choked on his own vomit. If you want
my
opinion, you’re looking at what happens when you spend your life downing litre bottles of supermarket vodka, whisky, and gin. Sooner or later it catches up with you.’ He straightened up with a groan and rubbed at the small of his back. ‘And with that, the brave Duty Doctor’s work was done, and he could get back to treating hypochondriac morons who think they know better than him because they’ve looked leprosy up on the internet.’

The uniform with the spots held up the barrier tape and the undertaker’s plain grey van eased back out onto Harlaw Road. The driver nodded to Logan and drove off.

Wheezy Doug was in conversation with a middle-aged man with a walking stick, two houses down. Stoney was at the far end of the street, nodding and taking notes as a mother of two waved her arms about, a pair of red-haired kids running screaming around her legs. DS Baird wandered up the road, hands in her pockets.

She stopped beside Logan and nodded at the departing van. ‘That him off, then?’

‘You get anything?’

‘Far as we can tell, Gordon Taylor’s been hanging around here for about a fortnight. I got Control to pull anything relating to Harlaw Road and three streets either side. There’s been an increase in breaking and enterings: low-level stuff, shed padlocks forced, meths and white spirit nicked kind of thing. One stolen handbag – owner put it on the roof of her car while she unloaded the shopping, came back: no handbag. Loads of complaints of antisocial behaviour.’ She pulled out her notebook and flipped it open at the marker. ‘And I quote, “There’s a smelly tramp staggering up and down the street at all hours, singing filthy rugby songs and rummaging through the bins.”’ Baird turned the page. ‘Eight counts of public urination. No one ever caught him at it, but in the morning people’s doorways would smell of piddle. That lot,’ she pointed at a tidy house with an immaculate garden, where a little old lady was pruning a rosebush, ‘called the police eight times in the last week.’

Well, the old dear wasn’t so much pruning the bush as nipping
tiny
bits off the one branch, probably using it as an excuse to have a nosy. She wasn’t the only one. At least half a dozen others were out, taking their time washing cars or raking the lawn. Pretending not to snoop.

A glazier’s van sat outside the old lady’s house. The driver and his mate were in the cab, stuffing down chocolate biscuits and pouring tea from a thermos. Staring as if this was the most interesting thing to happen all day. An episode of
Taggart
, playing out right there in front of them.

Logan turned his back on the gawkers. ‘So what happened?’

Baird shrugged. ‘Patrol car did a drift by a couple of times, but you know what it’s like. Don’t have time to attend every moaning numpty.’

True. But if they’d
actually
done something about it – if they’d turned up and arrested him – Gordon Taylor would probably still be alive today. Hard to drink yourself to death in a police cell.

Something heavy settled behind Logan’s eyes, pulling his whole head down.

And if
he’d
arrested Gordon Taylor on Saturday for being drunk and incapable, or done him for biting two security guards and a nurse, or for punching that other nurse on the nose…

Pfff…

‘You OK, Guv?’

A one-shouldered shrug. ‘Missed opportunities.’ He looked off down the road.

Didn’t really matter in the end, did it? Lock Gordon Taylor up for a night, or a week, and he’d still hit the bottle as soon as he got out. All it would’ve done was delay the inevitable. Sooner or later, he’d be in the undertaker’s van on the way to the mortuary.

Logan dragged in a deep breath, then let it out. Checked his watch. Might as well head back to the office and do something productive. ‘Get Wheezy to deliver the death message. He knows Gordon Taylor’s dad. Might be better if he finds out from a friend.’

There was only so much you could do.

Logan spat the last cold dregs of coffee back into his mug and shuddered. Time for a fresh cup.

He’d got as far as his office door when his mobile launched into its anonymous ringtone. Please let it be anyone other than Mrs Sodding Black again.

He hit the button. ‘McRae.’

‘Mr McRae? It’s Marjory from Willkie and Oxford, Solicitors? How are you doing? That’s great. I’ve had Mr and Mrs Moore on the phone again and they’re prepared to go as far as fifteen thousand below the valuation.’

‘Then Mr and Mrs Moore can go screw themselves.’

A fake laugh came down the phone as Logan let himself out into the corridor, making for the stairwell.
‘Well, I had to let you know anyway. I’ll get back to their solicitor. And I wanted to know if you’re available this afternoon? We’ve had a call from a young man interested in viewing the property.’

‘I’m on duty.’ Which part of serving police officer did she not understand?

‘Right. Yes. Well, not to worry, I can show him around.’

Nice to know she’d be doing something for her one-percent-cut of the price.

He slid his phone back in its pocket and clumped up the stairs to the canteen. Froze in the doorway.

DCI Steel sat at the table in front of the vending machine, working her way through a Curly Wurly and a tin of Coke. A large parcel lay on the floor at her feet, wrapped in brown paper and about a mile of packing tape. She hadn’t seen him yet – too busy chewing. All he had to do was back out of the door and—

‘Hoy, Laz, I’ll have a hazelnut latte if you’re buying.’

Sodding hell.

Too late. He stepped into the canteen. ‘Any luck tracking down John Skinner’s kids?’

She took another bite of Curly Wurly, chewing with her mouth open. ‘Trust me, if there was you’d have heard about it. I’d be running through the station, bare-arse naked singing “Henry the Horny Hedgehog” at the top of my lungs.’

A shudder riffled its way across Logan’s shoulders. ‘Gah…’

‘Oh like
you’re
a sodding catwalk model. Least I’m getting some, unlike you. Surprised your right arm’s no’ like Popeye’s by now.’ Her teeth ripped a chunk off the twisted chocolate. ‘And while we’re on the subject, where the sodding hell have you been? Got missing kids to find, remember?’

He stared at her. ‘It’s
your
case. You took it over,
remember
?’

‘Don’t be so—’

‘And for your information, we’ve got enough on our plate as it is. Spent half the morning dealing with a sudden death.’ He bared his teeth. ‘So forgive me if I’m not available to run about after you all day.’

Steel leaned back in her chair and waved her Curly Wurly at him. ‘Oh aye, I heard all about your “sudden death”. Two missing kids trumps one dead tramp.’ The Curly Wurly jabbed towards the canteen counter. ‘Now backside in gear, and tell them no’ to skimp on the chocolate sprinkles this time.’

Typical.

He got a coffee for himself, and Steel’s hazelnut latte. Brought them both back to the table. ‘I’ve spat in yours.’

‘No you didn’t.’ She took a sip. Sighed. ‘Got two dozen bodies manning the phones. Heidi and Toby Skinner have been spotted everywhere from Thurso to the Costa del Sol, via Peebles and Chipping Norton.’ The creases between her eyebrows deepened. ‘Getting a bad feeling about this one, Laz.’

‘Just because we haven’t found them yet, doesn’t mean we won’t.’

‘When are we ever that lucky?’ Steel sank back in her seat and scrubbed her face with her palms, pulling it about like pasty plasticene. Then let her arms drop. ‘In other news: tomorrow night. You and Jasmine, daddy–daughter time, with
Despicable Me
one and two.’

‘No.’

‘You’re no’ watching a Disney film, Laz: I know you get aroused by all those princesses in their pretty dresses.’

‘I’m not being your unpaid babysitter.’

‘Come on: it’s our
anniversary
.’ Steel nudged the parcel with her toe. ‘Got Susan the perfect gift. Want to know what it is?’

He glanced beneath the table. Large, rectangular, with a website address printed on the delivery label. ‘Something you’ve ordered off the internet? Nah, I’d rather not know.’ It was bound to be something filthy. Probably battery operated.

‘You’re no fun.’ She unwrapped the last inch of twirly toffee and jammed it in her mouth. ‘Tell you what: ten quid,
cash
. And a pizza. Can’t say fairer than that.’

‘No.’

‘OK: ten quid, a pizza, and a bottle of red…’ She narrowed her mouth to a little pale slit. ‘Uh-ho. Crucifixes at the ready, Laz, here comes Nosferatu Junior.’

Logan turned and peered over his shoulder. Superintendent Young was marching across the green terrazzo floor towards their table. Dressed all in black, with a silver crown on each epaulette attached to his black T-shirt. The fabric stretched tight across his barrel chest.

Steel hissed. Then stared at the tabletop, keeping her voice low. ‘
Don’t
move. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t even
breathe
. He’ll get confused and walk away.’ She took a deep breath.

Young stopped at the head of the table. ‘Inspector. Chief Inspector.’

She didn’t move.

Logan nodded. ‘Superintendent.’

He pulled up a chair. ‘Mrs Black has made another complaint.’

What a surprise. ‘Let me guess – Wheezy and I are corrupt because we didn’t arrest Justin Robson this morning?’

‘Apparently he’s bribed you with drugs and dirty magazines. He…’ A frown. ‘Why is Chief Inspector Steel going purple?’

‘Because she’s not right in the head.’ Logan took a sip of coffee. ‘And for the record, there was nothing we could do. Robson killed Mrs Black’s parakeets – no doubt about that – but he burned all the evidence. Even his shoes.’

‘I see. And is DCI Steel planning on holding her breath till she passes out?’

‘Probably. Look, we can’t arrest Robson, because we’ve got nothing on him that’ll stand up in court. I’ve sent the dead parakeets off to the labs, but you know what the budget’s like. Assuming we can even get past the backlog.’