Close to the Bone (38 page)

‘And dead.’ Logan set his phone on silent, climbed out of the car, and hurried up the path to the front door – huddling under the porch as Sim ambled after him, glancing back over her shoulder every couple of steps at the signed limited edition hardback copy of
Witchfire
on the dashboard.

She straightened her stab-proof vest. Then reached for the doorbell. Ravel’s Bolero kicked in, followed by the bellowing of the massive Alsatian.

There was a buzz, then a woman’s voice crackled from the intercom, mounted beneath a security camera. ‘
Who is it?
’ The accent was posh and English. One of those BBC announcer voices, before they went all regional.

Sim took a step back, looking up into the lens. ‘Mrs Chung? It’s the police.’

Inside, the dog was going mental. Barking and barking and barking.

‘
Can I see some identification please?
’

As if the ninja black outfit with stab-proof vest, airwave handset, utility belt, and bowler hat with a chequered band around it wasn’t enough. Sim held her warrant card up to the camera. ‘We need to talk to you about Anthony.’

A pause. Then, ‘
Yes. Yes, of course. . .
’ Click. The intercom went silent.

Sim puffed out her cheeks. ‘How do you want to play this, Guv? ’

‘Rock, paper, scissors? ’

Logan sat on the sofa in an opulent lounge. White walls, oil paintings, life-sized marble statue of a tiger with bronze stripes, deep-red leather furniture, and a cream carpet. The kind of room that probably got dirty if you looked at it.

Mrs Chung stood by the oversized marble fireplace, fidgeting with the heavy gold bracelet on her wrist. She was immaculately dressed in a red silk jacket and blue jeans, long glossy black hair framing a delicately featured face. An Alsatian sitting at her feet like a statue of Anubis. She cleared her throat. ‘Is this. . . Should I get you a cup of tea or something? ’

Sim took off her bowler and held it against her chest. ‘Maybe you should have a seat.’

‘Oh no. . .’

Even though he’d won, Logan stood. ‘Mrs Chung, did Anthony have any distinguishing marks? Any tattoos, or something like that? ’

‘Oh no, no, no, no. . . Please. . .’ She clutched a hand over her chest, scrunching the scarlet fabric into a fist.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Chung, but we believe we found Anthony’s body last night.’

She stared down at the coffee table. Rocking back and forward. ‘No.’

He took a step towards her. ‘PC Sim’s right, you should. . .’ Logan froze. The Alsatian was on its feet, teeth bared – a deep, bowel-loosening growl directed right at him.

He backed away, slow and careful. No sudden moves. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’

Sim’s right hand slid down to the small canister of pepper-spray clipped to her belt, never taking her eyes off the dog. ‘Do you want us to call someone for you? Your husband? Relatives? Maybe a friend? ’

She just stared at them. ‘Anthony can’t be dead. He
can’t
.’

A rattling clunk came from the hall outside the lounge – someone coming in through the front door – followed by an American accent, ‘Honey? Thought we’d go out tonight. You know, bit of a celebration? ’

Mrs Chung sank down onto the arm of a scarlet sofa, the dog still growling at Logan.

‘What’s eating Enfield? ’ The living-room door opened. ‘Sounds like. . .’ A small man in a pastel-green polo shirt froze on the threshold, a sports bag in one hand, greying short-back-and-sides slowly retreating up a high forehead. He blinked at PC Sim, standing there in her police uniform and the smile died on his lips. He took a deep breath, then took off his glasses and hung his head. ‘I see.’

‘Ray,’ Mrs Chung placed a hand against her chest, one hand fanning her face, ‘tell them Anthony can’t be dead!
Tell
them.’

Raymond Chung stood at the study window, overlooking a perfectly manicured garden, the borders and bushes aglow with flowers and shining leaves. ‘I. . . I must apologize for my wife, Kim gets. . . She dotes on Anthony.’ His hands trembled at his sides. ‘
Doted
.’

Logan settled back against the large teak desk. ‘Please: there’s nothing to apologize for. It must have been a horrible shock.’

The room was nearly bigger than Logan’s entire caravan, lined with crowded wooden bookshelves. A couple of green leather sofas sat on the polished wooden floorboards, a small stack of gardening magazines lined up on a glass coffee table.

‘We. . .’ A breath. ‘We left San Francisco, because Anthony was getting into trouble. Falling in with the wrong crowd. They weren’t good for him, so we thought, hey – let’s go somewhere nice and quiet and calm. Somewhere he can grow up safe. . . If anything, it got worse.’ Raymond Chung sniffed. ‘How did it happen? ’

No point dragging it out – it’d be all over the papers soon enough. ‘He was murdered. Tortured, then strangled. About four days ago.’

‘Tortured. Oh God. . .’ Ray Chung wiped his hands down the sides of his jeans. ‘God, I. . . His girlfriend, Agnes, is she. . .? ’

‘We’re still looking for her.’

‘I should’ve asked first, her parents must be. . .’ He blew out a shallow breath, then eased himself down onto one of the sofas. ‘Tortured. . .’

‘How well do you know Agnes Garfield? ’

‘She. . . I don’t know, it was. . .’ He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. ‘Sorry. If I’m honest, you know,
one hundred
percent honest, she was always too good for him. Anthony had her wrapped around his ego like creeping ivy. He said jump and she wouldn’t even ask, “How high?” she’d just do it. But he doted on her. . .’

‘Did Anthony ever talk about running away somewhere? Or moving out? ’

‘He always gets. . . He always got what he wanted.’

‘Maybe he talked about a friend’s house? Or a family member? ’

‘We don’t have any family over here. Anthony. . .’ A deep breath. ‘We left San Francisco after Anthony’s cousin got shot. He was dealing drugs on the wrong street corner. My brother and his wife said it was all Anthony’s fault: that
he
got Grant involved in it. We haven’t spoken in eight years.’

Raymond Chung turned his head, staring at the gardening magazines on the coffee table. Not looking at Logan. ‘I. . . I guess I always knew Anthony would end up . . . that he’d. . .’ He wiped his eyes again. ‘Oh, boy. . .’

Logan stepped over to the large window, giving him a bit of space to nurture his grief. A fat ginger cat picked its way along the fence at the bottom of the garden, tail making snake curves through the drizzly air. ‘I’m sorry, I know this must be incredibly distressing. A Family Liaison Officer is going to get in touch with you soon. They’ll keep you up to date on the investigation, answer any questions you’ve got.’

‘Will. . . Can we see him? ’

Rotting away on a slab in the mortuary, with his teeth ripped out, covered in bruises and burns and cuts? ‘I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. He was very badly beaten, and after four days in the heat, he’s—’

‘I want to see my son!’

PC Sim humped the mattress back into place, then tucked the sheet in again.

Logan leaned back against the wardrobe. ‘Anything? ’

Anthony Chung’s room was almost as big as his father’s study. A king-sized bed, shelves of DVDs and CDs, a dining-table-sized flatscreen TV, games consoles, sofa, desk, big shiny silver laptop, nautilus weight machine, collection of empty beer bottles stacked up into a pyramid.

She fluffed the duvet back where it’d come from. ‘Not a sausage. But if his mum’s up here making the bed and doing the hoovering. . .? ’

He was never going to leave anything incriminating where she’d find it. Not unless he was trying to provoke a reaction. ‘So: nothing under the bed, nothing in the desk drawers, or under the socks and pants.’ Logan did a slow three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn, with his eyes half-squinted shut.

Where would a rich, spoiled, manipulative little sod keep things he didn’t want anyone to find?

Sim sank down on the edge of the bed. ‘What makes you think he’s hiding something? ’

‘Teenagers always are.’ Logan nodded towards the window. ‘Take a look.’

She picked herself up and wandered over, standing on her tiptoes to peer out at the garden. ‘What? ’

He joined her, pointing at the black plastic guttering a couple of feet down. Little white twists of paper lay amongst the shrivelled leaves, small cylinders of grey cigarette filters poking out. ‘See that? ’

A crease appeared between her narrowed eyes. ‘So he smokes roll-ups. That’s not—’

‘Every single one of his friends said he was stoned off his face the whole time. And if he’s up here smoking weed, then he’s got a stash.’

‘Are you sure, Guv? ’ She did a bit more peering. ‘Why would he put filters in his joints? What kind of person
does
that? I mean, I know he was American, but still. . .’

‘So, where did he hide it? ’

‘Hmm. . .’ Sim stepped back from the window. Then crossed to the shelves, fingers walking along the spines of the DVD cases, head tilted to one side – presumably so she could read the titles. And she thought Americans were weird.

Logan pulled out his phone, ignored the list of waiting text messages and called Control instead. ‘Did DI Leith get an FLO organized for Anthony Chung’s parents? ’

The voice on the other end was nasal and gluey. ‘
Hold on. . .
’ She paused for a moment, then a massive sneeze boomed out of the earpiece, followed by some bunged-up sniffing. ‘
Sodding hay fever. Sorry, erm. . . Here we go: PC Munro, she’s down to visit soon as she’s finished with a fatal RTI. You want me to put you through?
’

‘Just wanted to make sure it was—’

‘
What?
’ A scrunching noise, then some muffled voices. ‘
Sorry about that. The Super wants to know if you’ve spoken to your visitor yet, only he’s lowering the tone of the place.
’

‘I don’t have any visitors: I’m out at Anthony Chung’s house.’

‘
You’ve got a visitor in reception.
’

‘Well . . . why didn’t someone say something? I’m not bloody psychic!’

‘
We tried calling you about a dozen times.
’

Brilliant. ‘I’ve been delivering the death message to Anthony Chung’s parents.’ Oh God. . . What if it was Wee Hamish’s lawyer, back for another round of
How Screwed Are You
? Logan licked his lips. ‘Who is it? ’

More scrunching and muffling. Then, ‘
Seriously? That’s his name? OK. . .
’ And she was back full-volume. ‘
Someone called “Dildo”? From Trading Standards?
’

Logan let his breath out in a long slow sigh. Whatever Dildo wanted, it could wait.

‘
DI McRae?
’

‘Tell him I’ll give him a call when I get back.’

‘
But what about—
’

He hung up.

PC Sim was grinning at him.

‘What? ’

She hooked a thumb over her shoulder at the shelves of DVD cases. ‘He’s got PlayStation games, and he’s got Wii games, but he doesn’t have. . .? ’

‘Is this going somewhere? ’

‘He doesn’t have any Xbox games, but look,’ she waved a hand at the stack of electronic equipment in the unit below the flatscreen TV, ‘he’s got an Xbox. Not a new one either, one of the old suitcase jobs.’

Sim hunkered down in front of the unit and pulled the black plastic games console from the shelf. It was about the size of two shoeboxes, with a big plastic ‘X’ on the top. ‘Isn’t even plugged into anything.’ She dumped it on the computer desk and pulled on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. ‘Should be easy enough to. . . There we go.’ A click and the whole top came off.

Inside were two clear plastic bags of weed, half a dozen packs of Rizla papers, a few small metal tins, a little rolling machine, and a box of filters. No wires, no electronics.

Sim lifted one of the bags out and gave it a shoogle. The marijuana inside rustled. ‘Wow, that’s a
poop
-load of weed. Maybe he was dealing? ’

‘Anything else in there? Diary? Address book? Anything like that? ’

Sim went back to the hollowed out Xbox and rummaged about. ‘Nope. Couple of tins of resin, some pills, but nothing old-fashioned like a diary. Kids these days are all electronic.’

Too much to hope for. ‘Right, confiscate the drugs, the laptop, and any phones you can find.’

She clicked the top back on the Xbox. ‘Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky? ’

There was always a first time.

32

The mortuary was quiet: no shrieking bone-saw, no music playing in the cutting room, no roar of the extractor fans whisking away the stench of death. Just the sound of Mrs Chung breathing – jagged, gasping, as if she was about to pass out – clutching onto her husband’s arm like a life raft. Adrift in a sea of fear and pain.

Logan cleared his throat. ‘Are you sure you want to do this? ’

She nodded, setting a couple of tears free to sparkle against her cheeks in the dimmed lighting.

‘Because you don’t have to. Remember the photos I showed you: he’s been very badly—’

‘No.’ The words came out strangled and choked: ‘I need to see my baby. . .’

‘OK.’ Deep breath.

He gave the nod and Rennie pressed the button. The curtains slid open, revealing Anthony Chung’s remains.

They’d done the best they could – covered up everything below his chin with white ruffled fabric – but there was nothing they could do about his face.

Anthony’s mother paled. Her whole body shuddered. Then her eyes bugged and she slapped both hands over her mouth, turned and scrambled out of the room. Rennie hurried after her.

‘He’s. . .’ Raymond Chung swallowed, staring down at the ruined features. ‘What did they do to his eyes? ’

‘It’s just the decomposition. Remember, we went over this in the family room? It’s natural: they’re one of the first things to go.’

‘Right. . . Decomposition. . .’ He blinked a couple of times, sweat glistening on his forehead.

‘Mr Chung? ’

He licked his lips, then his Adam’s apple bobbed, as if he was forcing something down. ‘There’s something sticking out. On his neck.’ Raymond Chung’s finger traced a circle on the glass. ‘There. The tattoo? ’