Close to the Bone (29 page)

‘
No it doesn’t. Thirty grand could make a massive difference to some charities, so grow a pair and pick one.
’

He stopped, leaned against a garden wall, and peered down the street at the handful of journalists and TV crews loitering outside the Abernethy house, doing bits to camera with the ‘F
OR
S
ALE
’ sign and line of ‘P
OLICE
’ tape in the background. They looked about as bored as it was possible to be and still remain awake. ‘It’s not right.’

‘
You’re getting as bad as Rennie
.’ More chewing. ‘
Fancy Chinese for tea tonight?
’

‘Can’t, I’ve got that NPIA review thing. And what am I supposed to do about being executor for Wee Hamish’s will? ’

‘
That I
can’t
help you with. Don’t stay out too late
.’ And she was gone. Some rotten sods just enjoyed other people’s misfortune.

Right. Back to work. He tucked the plastic bag under his jacket, the cold leaching into his ribs as he marched up the road. No making eye contact, face the front, act like any other normal person out for a walk. He passed the BBC outside broadcast van, a Renault with two journalists reading newspapers and smoking cigarettes. Not one of them looked up. So far, so good. Then he took a sharp left, ducking under the line of barrier tape and onto the Abernethys’ driveway.

The uniform standing guard nodded at him. ‘Guv.’

By the time the assembled members of the press realized he wasn’t just a passer-by he was through the gate at the side of the property.

A voice behind him: ‘Have you identified the remains yet? ’

Then another: ‘Do you have any suspects? ’

And another: ‘Is it true the victim was dismembered? ’

He clunked the gate shut.

Alex Hay was where he’d left him, sitting on a wooden bench in the back garden with his head between his knees.

‘Feeling any better? ’

The historian shrugged. ‘Sorry, I didn’t think it would. . . The smell was a bit. . .’

‘Yeah, I know.’ Logan produced the carrier bag, dug out a tin of Diet Coke and handed it over. ‘Got you a Cornetto. Might settle your stomach.’

Alex cracked the tin and took a sip of Coke, swishing it between his teeth as if it was mouthwash. ‘The whole thing’s wrong.’

‘Violent death always is.’ Logan perched on the edge of the bench and stretched his legs out. Helped himself to a bottle of water and a choc ice. ‘They wash the body when they’re getting it ready for post mortem. Want to see? ’

‘He was staked out
inside
the pentagram, right? That’s the wrong way round. A magic circle like that’s for protection, you create one and then you stand in it when you’re dealing with Satanic forces. Summoning the devil, or demons, or spirits, or raising the dead, or questioning witches. They can’t cross the circle and their powers can’t either.’ He put the can down and peeled the wrapper off the Cornetto, licking the ice cream from the underside of the cardboard top. ‘It’s like a condom that stops evil screwing you.’

Logan took out the pre-post-mortem photos again and placed them on the bench between them. ‘Didn’t do our victim much good, did it? ’

‘That’s
why
it’s wrong. In
Witchfire
, Hunter created this kind of hodgepodge of different belief systems, stealing things from all over the place. I suppose that’s the joy of writing an alternative history, go back far enough and you can change things to suit yourself: who’s going to complain? ’

‘That magic circle: it’s in the book, isn’t it? ’ A lot of the story was a blur, but there were definitely a few magic circles in it.

‘The Fingermen call it the Ring Knot, it’s meant to keep them safe during interrogations.’ He glanced down at the photographs. ‘How could anyone
do
that to another human being? ’

Logan licked a dribble of melted choc ice from his wrist. ‘You’d be surprised.’

‘You see all those little wounds? It’s called “pricking”, they do it to find the Devil’s mark. Theory was that when you enter into the Devil’s service, he gives you this mark that shows you’re his. It’s meant to be impervious to pain, so they’d jab you all over with pins and knives, looking for some spot where it didn’t hurt. If they found it, that meant you were a witch. And they
always
found it, even if it wasn’t there.’ He took a deep breath and checked the photos again. ‘In the fifteenth century, the
Malleus Maleficarum
was the witch-finders’ bible. It details shaving off all the witches’ body hair before interrogation begins, because they could be hiding something underneath – a charm, or power, or something else they can use against the inquisitor.’

‘But he should’ve been outside the circle.’

‘The circle’s for protection: if you were the Fingerman, why would you want to protect the witch? ’ He stared into the depths of his Coke can. ‘Did he . . . was it the loss of blood? You know . . . that killed him.’

‘Won’t find out till they’ve done the post mortem.’ Logan pulled out the other set of photographs – the ones from Saturday evening – and placed them on top of the first lot. The unknown necklacing victim stared up at them with cooked eyes. ‘The trial by fire. Identical to the book.’

Alex just sat there with his mouth hanging open.

A wasp swooped down onto the Cornetto in his hand, buzzing like a happy serial killer.

‘Half strangled, then burned alive.’

‘In Scotland they veerit you first. . . Wrap a rope around your neck and twist it while you’re tied to the stake, waiting for them the light the fire and. . . Ayabastard!’ He dropped the ice-cream cone and flapped his hand around, dancing up from the bench.

Logan took another bite of choc ice. ‘Why didn’t they necklace the body in there?’

‘Bloody thing stung me. . .’ He sucked on the back of his hand.

‘I mean, they necklaced the other victim, why not this one? ’

‘Bloody wasps. . .’

Logan’s phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out: unknown number. ‘Hello? ’

‘
Hello? DI McRae? It’s April. I mean, Dr Graham. The forensic anthropologist?
’

‘It’s OK, I know who you are.’

‘
Good. Yes, well, I thought you’d want to know: I’ve almost finished the facial reconstruction. Do you want me to start on the skeletonized remains from the caravan roof next?
’

‘Give me . . .’ Logan checked his watch, ‘half an hour.’

‘
If you can get them to OK the budget for it, a facial reconstruction could—
’

‘Have you heard anything from your friend the isotope man? ’

A pause. ‘
I only sent the samples off last night, he—
’

‘Chase him up, tell him it’s a priority.’

The historian settled onto the bench, flexing his hand and scowling at the swollen nodule between his knuckles. ‘Ow. . .’

‘I’ll be in soon as I’ve sorted something out.’ Logan hung up and stuck the phone back in his pocket. Stood. ‘I’d better get going.’

Alex looked up at him. ‘You think it’s someone involved in the film? ’

‘Something like that.’

A sigh. ‘Horrible to think it might be someone I
work
with.’

‘We’re pursuing several lines of enquiry.’ He checked his watch again. ‘Look, I hate to hurry you, I really have to get—’

‘Yes, of course.’ The historian levered himself to his feet, sucked at the lump on his hand again, then followed Logan down the crazy-paving path towards the house. ‘Do you believe in witches? ’

‘Of course I don’t.’

‘In the book, neither does Rowan. A witch-finder that doesn’t believe in witches. She doesn’t believe in talismans like that either.’

Logan stopped. Turned.

The historian was pointing at the guttering beside the kitchen door.

‘Talismans? ’ Two steps back and there it was: a knot of three small bones, tied with a black ribbon. Just like the ones at the caravan.

‘In
Witchfire
, there’s a Vodun bokor who uses them to protect himself from his enemies.’ A shrug. ‘I said the belief system was a bit of a hodgepodge.’

‘You told me you were finished with the scene!’ Logan shifted the mobile from one ear to the other, foot flat to the floor. The Fiat’s engine whined and complained, the speedometer jiggling its way up to seventy as it hammered down the Tyrebagger hill.

The SEB head tech’s voice was thin, as if he was forcing it through gritted teeth. ‘
We
were
finished. There’s nothing—
’

‘Then why did I just find three human finger bones hanging outside the back door? ’

‘
That’s not—
’

‘Get your people back out there and do it properly!’

‘
Don’t you—
’

‘You left human remains at a crime scene, John, how,
exactly
, is that doing your job? Now get. . . John? ’ Pause. ‘John? ’ Typical, he’d hung up. Bloody prima donna.

Logan overtook an eighteen-wheeler and tried Chalmers instead.

‘
Guv?
’

‘I want you to get over to Agnes Garfield’s house and find us a DNA sample. If the parents give you any trouble, tell them it’s standard procedure when someone goes missing.’

‘
Don’t worry, Guv: I get the feeling they’ll be a lot more cooperative now they know she’s OK.
’

‘Why would they. . .? ’ The cash-machine withdrawal – she was caught on camera. Sodding hell. ‘Her parents don’t know. We didn’t tell them she’d been spotted taking money out of Anthony Chung’s account.’ Bloody
idiot
.

A pause. Then Chalmers was back with a smile in her voice. ‘
Even better: means I get to break the good news. Be no problem getting a sample after that. We— Oh, hold on. . .’
There was a scrunching noise, as if she’d put a hand over the mouthpiece. Then she was back. ‘
Constable Guthrie says there’s a Dr Goulding here to see you?
’

‘Put Goulding in an interview room with Robbie Whyte. I want a full psych evaluation.’

‘
Emergency detention?
’

‘And tell Goulding to find out if Whyte’s capable of murder.’ Logan stuck on the brakes, pulling into the slip lane to turn right across the dual carriageway.

‘
You think he might be the one who. . .
’ There was a pause. ‘
Who did he kill?
’

Good question.

Logan gunned the engine, nipping across the carriageway in the gap between a bread van and a minibus. ‘And soon as you’ve got some of Agnes’s DNA, make sure they test it against the necklacing victim and the body we found last night. And the bones from my roof too.’

Chalmers whistled. ‘
You think she killed all three of them?
’

‘Bloody hope so, otherwise we’ve got a whole
bunch
of nutters out there murdering people.’ Nutters. . . Better safe than sorry. ‘Get them to test Robbie Whyte’s DNA against them as well.’

There was a pause, then the intercom buzzed and the gate swung open. Logan edged the car off the road and onto the long gravel driveway. Little chunks of granite pinged and clunked in the rusting wheel-arches.

Wee Hamish Mowat’s house was a big Victorian mansion in solid grey granite. All bay windows and little twiddly bits at the gables and guttering. Logan parked the Fiat next to a bright-red Land Rover Defender that didn’t look as if it’d ever been off road in its life.

His phone rang as he climbed out of the car. He hit the button. ‘What? ’

‘
Laz? It’s Tim. . . Tim Mair? Need to talk to you about some hooky merchandise that’s—
’

‘It’ll have to wait, Dildo, I’ve got something on.’

‘
OK. This afternoon? About three? I’ve got some knock-off custard creams you can cadge.
’

Bloody Trading Standards and their counterfeit biscuits. ‘Fine. Three.’

‘
I’ll need at least. . .’
Dildo was still talking, but Logan wasn’t listening any more.

The front door opened and there was Tam ‘The Man’ Slessor’s niece, wearing a blue nurse’s uniform, white trainers, and a scowl that could sour milk. She folded her arms across her wide chest. ‘He’s busy.’

Back to the phone.

‘
. . .in Mastrick, so it shouldn’t be—
’

‘Bye, Dildo.’ He hung up, locked the Fiat and scrunched his way across the gravel to the foot of the stairs. ‘Do you know it’s an offence to provide a false alibi, Ms Slessor? ’

A sharp-edged smile pulled at her lips. ‘Reuben was here with me the whole time. At it like rabbits, we was. He’s a very sensuous lover.’

Dear God, now
there
was a mental image that’d take a wire brush and Dettol to shift. ‘He wasn’t, he was outside my bloody caravan.’

‘Nah, you must’ve walked into a door or something. Think you can blame it on poor Reuben, when he’s never done nothing to no one. You’re a lying bastard.’

Logan took a step towards her.

She unfolded her arms, both fists clenched like bags of rocks. The smile grew wider. ‘Come on then.’

He stopped. Took a deep breath. Counted to five. ‘I need to see Hamish.’

‘Mr Mowat’s indisposed.’

‘I’m not buggering about here, I
need
to speak—’

‘You need to back up your rusty wee hatchback and get the hell off Mr Mowat’s property,
that’s
what you need to do.’

Logan pulled out his warrant card. ‘Understand? ’

She tilted her head to one side, making a crescent moon of chin-fat. ‘You got a search warrant? ’Cos if you don’t, you can— Hey! Come back here!’

No chance.

He marched around the side of the house, the sound of Nurse Slessor’s trainers crunching on the gravel behind him. For a wee chunky lass, she was quick.

The path wrapped all the way around the house, and round the back the place opened up in a wide swathe of emerald green lawn, punctuated with trees and bushes, a flower bed in full Technicolor riot.

‘Come back here!’

The conservatory doors were open, leading out onto a raised decking area surrounded by roses growing in big wooden tubs. Wee Hamish’s wheelchair was parked in the sunshine, a tartan blanket draped over his knees, an oxygen mask on his face. Head down, shoulders slumped.