Close to the Bone (3 page)

‘Yes, sir.’ Chalmers wrote something in her notebook, then stashed it away in her jacket. ‘I was right about the Colombian drug cartel thing, by the way. Had a boyfriend who downloaded videos of them hanging there, on fire like they were these. . .
horrible
Christmas decorations. He always got really horny after watching them too.’ She wiped her hands down the front of her jacket, then rubbed the fingertips together, as if they were dirty. ‘I broke it off:
way
too creepy.’

Logan just stared at her.

‘Ah. . . Too much information from the new girl. Right.’ Chalmers backed away a couple of steps. ‘I’ll go chase up that . . . yes.’ And she was gone.

‘I know, I know, I’m sorry.’ Logan shifted the mobile from one side to the other, pinning it between his ear and his shoulder as he took the battered Fiat Punto around the Clinterty roundabout, heading back along the dual carriageway towards Aberdeen. ‘You know what she’s like.’

Samantha sighed. ‘
Logan McRae, you’re not supposed to let her walk all over you any more. You
know
that. We talked about this.
’

He changed gear and put his foot down. The Punto’s diesel engine coughed and rattled, struggling to haul the car up the hill. ‘I’m going to be a little late.’

‘
Pfff. . . I’ll forgive you this time.
’

‘Good. I’ll even—’

‘
On one condition: you wash the dishes.
’

‘Why’s it
always
my turn to wash the dishes? ’

‘
Because you’re too cheap to buy a dishwasher.
’ There was a pause. ‘
Or a decent car.
’

A Toyota iQ wheeched past in the outside lane. One-litre engine, and it was
still
faster than the bloody Punto.

‘I’m not cheap, I’m just—’

‘
“Prudent” is another way of saying “cheap”. Why I put up with you, I have no idea.
’ But it sounded as if she was smiling as she said it. ‘
Don’t be too late. And stand up for yourself next time!
’

‘Promise.’ Logan hung up and fumbled with the buttons until the words ‘DS R
ENNIE
’ appeared on the screen.

Ringing. . . Ringing. . . Ringing. . . Then, ‘
Mmmph, nnnng. . .
’ A yawn. A groan. ‘
Time is it?
’

Logan checked. ‘Just gone ten.’

‘
Urgh. . .
’ Scuffing noises. ‘
I’m not on till midnight.
’

‘Yeah, well I was supposed to be off at five, so I think I’m winning the “Who Gets To Whinge About Their Day” game, don’t you? Jewellery heist.’

‘
Hold on. . .
’ A clunk, followed by what sounded like someone pouring a bottle of lemonade into a half-filled bath. ‘
Unnnng. . .
’

For God’s sake.

Logan grimaced. ‘You better not be in the toilet!’

A long, suspicious-sounding pause. ‘
I’m not in the toilet, I’m . . . in the kitchen . . . making a cup of tea.
’

Disgusting little sod.

‘I want a list of suspects for that jewellery heist before you clock off, understand? Go round the pawnshops, the resetters, and every other scumbag we’ve ever done for accepting stolen goods.’

‘
But it’s the middle of the—
’

‘I don’t care if you have to drag them out of their beds: you get me that list. Or better yet, an arrest!’

‘
But I’m—
’

‘And while we’re at it, what’s happening with those hate crimes? ’

‘
It’s not. . . I. . .
’ His voice broke into a full-on whine. ‘
What am I supposed to do? I’m on night shift!
’

‘Rennie, you’re. . .’ Logan closed his mouth. Sagged a little in his seat as the Punto finally made it over the crest of the hill. It wasn’t really fair, was it: passing on the bollocking, just because Steel had had a go at him? ‘Sorry. I know. Just . . . tell me where we are with it.’

‘
No one’s talking. All the victims say they fell down the stairs and stuff. Even the guy with two broken ankles won’t blab.
’

‘Still all Chinese? ’

‘
Latest one’s Korean. Makes it four Oriental males in the last month and a half.
’

‘Well . . . do what you can.’

‘
You heading back to the ranch?
’

‘Going to see a man about a drugs war.’

‘
Yeah.
’ Another yawn. Then a whoosing gurgle. ‘
Oops. I just. . . Emma must’ve . . . em . . . flushed the washing machine?
’

The young woman in the nurse’s uniform scowled up at him, one hand on the door knob. ‘I don’t like this. It’s late. You shouldn’t be here.’ Her eyebrows met in the middle, drawing a thick dark line through her curdled-porridge face, as if trying to emphasize the razor-straight fringe of her bottle-blonde hair. Small, but wide with it, arms like Popeye on steroids. Hard. Shoulders brushing the tastefully striped wallpaper of the hallway.

Logan shrugged. ‘He said it was OK, didn’t he? ’

‘I don’t like it.’ She swung the door open, then stood to the side, face puckered around two big green eyes. Her finger waved an inch from Logan’s nose. ‘I’m warning you: if you upset Mr Mowat. . .’

A thin, shaky voice came from inside: a mix of public school and Aberdonian brogue, rough as gravel. ‘Chloe, is that Logan? ’

The waggling finger poked Logan in the chest, her voice a low growl. ‘Just watch it.’ Then she turned on a smile. It would have been nice to say it transformed her face, but it didn’t. ‘He’s just arrived, Mr Mowat.’

‘Well, don’t just stand there, show him in.’

The room must have been at least thirty foot long. A wall of glass looked out on a garden lurking in the darkness, the occasional bush and tree picked out by coloured spotlights. Wee Hamish Mowat nudged the joystick on the arm of his wheelchair and rolled across the huge Indian rug. His pale skin was mottled with liver spots and looked half a size too big for his skeletal frame, the hair on his head so fine that every inch of scalp was visible through the grey wisps. An IV drip was hooked onto the chair, the plastic tube disappearing into the back of his wrist. It wobbled as he reached out a trembling hand.

Logan took it and shook. It was hot, as if something burned deep beneath the skin. ‘Hamish, how have you been? ’

‘Like a buggered dog. You? ’

‘Getting there.’

A nod, setting the flaps of skin hanging under his chin rippling. Then he dug a handkerchief from the pocket of his grey cardigan and dabbed at the corner of his mouth. ‘Are you on duty, or will you take a wee dram? ’ He pointed at a big glass display case, full of bottles. ‘Chloe, be a dear and fetch the Dalmore. . . No, the other one: the Astrum. Yes, that’s it.’

She thumped it down on the coffee table and gave Logan another glare. ‘It’s late, and you need your sleep, Mr Mowat.’

Wee Hamish smiled at her. ‘Now you run along, and I’ll call if I need you.’

‘But, Mr Mowat, I—’

‘Chloe.’ A glint of the old steel sharpened his voice. ‘I
said
, run along.’

She nodded. Sniffed at Logan. Then turned and lumbered from the room, thumping the door behind her.

Wee Hamish shook his head. ‘My cousin Tam’s little girl. Well, I say “little”. . . Her heart’s in the right place.’

Logan took two crystal tumblers from the display case. ‘Not Tam “The Man” Slessor? ’

‘I promised I’d look after her when he was done for that container of counterfeit cigarettes.’ Wee Hamish fumbled with the top of the whisky bottle. ‘If you want water, there’s a bottle in the fridge.’

‘So how
is
Tam the Man doing these days? ’

‘Not too good: we buried him a month ago.’ A sigh. ‘Look, can you get the top off this? My fingers. . .’

Logan did. ‘Do you know anything about the body we found out by Thainstone today? ’ He poured out one generous measure and another small enough to drive after. Passed the huge one to Wee Hamish.

‘Thank you.’ He raised the glass, the dark-amber liquid shivering in time with his hand. ‘Here’s tae us.’

Logan clinked his tumbler against Wee Hamish’s. ‘Fa’s like us? ’

A sigh. ‘Gie few . . . and they’re a’ deid.’ He took a sip. ‘Unidentified male, chained to a stake and, I believe the term is: “necklaced”.’

‘We think it might be drug-related.’

‘Hmm. . . What do you make of the whisky? Forty years old, nearly a grand and a half a bottle.’ A little smile pulled at the corner of his pale lips. ‘Can’t take it with you.’

Logan took a sip. Rolled it around his mouth until his gums went numb and everything tasted of cloves and nutmeg and burned toffee. ‘Is there another turf war kicking off? ’

‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Well, one does, doesn’t one: when time’s running out? What’s going to be my legacy? What am I going to leave behind when I go? ’

‘We need this to stop before it gets even worse.’

‘Don’t get me wrong: I’m not ashamed of the things I’ve done, the things I’ve had other people do, but . . . I want . . . something. Got my lawyers to set up bursaries at Aberdeen University and RGU, helped people become doctors and nurses, sponsored vaccination programmes in the Third World, paid for wells to be drilled, mosquito nets for orphans. . . But I don’t
feel
any different.’

He sipped at his drink. Then frowned up at the ceiling. ‘Perhaps I should try a big public works project? Like Ian Wood and his Union Terrace Gardens thing, or the boy Trump and his golf course? Leave the city something to remember me by. . .’ A grin. ‘Other than the horror stories your colleagues tell.’

‘Do you know who did it? Can you find out? Because as soon as the media get hold of this it’s going to be all over the news and papers.’

Wee Hamish stared out into the dark expanse of garden. Or perhaps he was staring at his own reflection in the glass. Difficult to tell. ‘To be honest, Logan, I’ve rather let my attention waver on that side of the business. Once upon a time I knew the operation inside out, but . . . well, I get a lot more tired than I used to.’ A shrug, bony shoulders moving beneath the cardigan. ‘Reuben’s been looking after our pharmaceutical arm. Like he’s looking after many things. . .’

Silence.

‘Logan, you know I love Reuben like a son – bless his violent little cotton socks – but he’s a foot soldier, a lieutenant. He’s not a leader.’ Another trembling sip. ‘If I leave him in charge it’ll end in war.’

‘I’m not taking over.’ Logan put his glass down on the coffee table.

‘I know, I know. But if I can’t trust Reuben to run things, what can I do? You don’t want it, he can’t handle it; do I sell up to Malcolm McLennan instead? ’

‘Malk the Knife’s dangerous enough
without
handing him Aberdeen on a plate too. He’s already got everything south of Dundee.’

The wheelchair bleeped, then whined back a few feet, before spinning around to face Logan. Wee Hamish wasn’t smiling any more, instead a frown made hills and valleys in the pale skin of his forehead. ‘I shall endeavour to find out who is responsible for your burning victim. And don’t worry, if whoever did it is on my team, they’ll be getting a . . . disciplin-ary hearing. This isn’t the kind of legacy I want to leave behind.’

Outside, Logan’s fifth-hand Punto was bathed in the glow of a security light. A huge man leaned back against the bonnet, tree-trunk arms folded over a great barrel of a chest. His three-piece suit looked brand new – the waistcoat straining over that vast belly. Shiny black brogues. Face a patchwork of scar tissue and fat, knitted together with a greying beard. A nose that was barely there any more.

Logan nodded. ‘Reuben.’

No response.

OK. . . Logan took his keys out. ‘Thought you were more of an overalls and steel toecaps kind of guy.’

Reuben just stared at him. Then slowly hauled himself off the bonnet.

The Punto’s suspension rose about three inches.

Logan drew his shoulders back, brought up his chin. ‘Go on then, out with it.’

But Reuben just turned and lumbered off into the darkness, brogues scrunching on the gravel. Didn’t say a word.

Logan stood there until the huge man disappeared, then slid in behind the wheel. The world was full of bloody weirdoes.

The windows of the caravan next
door glowed pale yellow in the darkness and Logan climbed out of the Punto, engine ticking and pinging in the silence. On the other side of the River Don, the lights of the big Tesco glittered through the trees.

A noise, behind him. . .

Logan spun around, hands balling into fists.

Nothing.

Grove Cemetery was a mass of silhouettes, reaching up the hill to the railway line and the dual carriageway at the top. The first three rows of headstones were just visible in the orange streetlight. Beyond their reach everything was black and silent. Just the faint rumble of late-night traffic working its way through the Haudagain roundabout.

‘Hello? ’

Stand very still, don’t breathe,
listen
. . .

Nope, he was on his own. Which was just as well – no one about to see him acting like something out of a cheap horror movie.

Twit.

Logan found his house key and— Stopped. Another knot of bones hung from the door handle. More bloody chicken bones, wrapped up in a ribbon that was stained a greeny-grey by the sodium glow.

‘Very funny.’ He unhooked the bundle and chucked it into the bushes that separated the tiny caravan park from the riverbank. ‘Little bastards.’

Just because the Grampian Country Chickens factory used to be across the road, didn’t mean people had to be a dick about it.

Sunday

4

‘
. . .sometime in the next week. And we’ll have more top eighties hits between now and nine, but first here’s the weather. . .
’

‘Unggg. . .’ Logan rolled over and peered up at the bedroom ceiling. A slice of golden light jabbed through the gap in the curtains, making motes of dust shine against the scarlet walls. He reached out a hand, but Samantha wasn’t there – her side of the bed a rumpled mess of duvet and pillows. Always was a restless sleeper.