Close to the Bone (43 page)

Why did it sound as if she was auditioning for the part of ‘Suspect number one’? Making herself look more dodgy than she needed to. Playing him. . .

Logan paused, then sighed. Of course she was. ‘Yes, well done. Very melodramatic.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t you patronize me.’

‘You
really
think this is the best way to get your daddy’s attention? Get tied up in a murder enquiry? Maybe sell your sordid little story to the papers? Scandalize the neighbourhood? ’

Stacey stuck out her chest, her smile wide, voice silky. ‘I had a threesome with the victim and the girl who killed him. I think I’m entitled to some compensation for my grief and distress, don’t you? It’s not my problem if you—’

Logan slammed the hatch shut on her. ‘Andy, feel free to spit in her tea, OK? ’

Downstairs, in the lower set of cell blocks, the sound of a pissed-up rendition of ‘American Pie’ warbled and roared out from the cell next door to Dr Marks’s. Whoever was on the other side screamed a non-stop barrage of abuse and threats at someone called Baz for sleeping with his girlfriend.

It wasn’t quite Tourette’s, but it was the next best thing. Which meant Logan probably owed Kathy a couple of pints at least.

Dr Marks sat on the floor, backed into a corner, rocking gently away, chewing on the side of his thumb. ‘I know what you’re doing and it’s not going to work. Doctor-patient confidentiality is
imperative
in my line of work.’

Logan settled down on the end of the mattress. ‘It doesn’t have to be like this.’

‘You can’t. . . I
won’t
betray my principles.’ Blood dripped from the end of his chewed thumb. He stuck it in his mouth and sucked. ‘I won’t.’

‘If you think a couple of hours in the cells is bad, just wait till the Sheriff gives you a week in Craiginches for contempt.’

‘I can’t. . .’

‘She’s out there killing people, and
you
can help us stop her. Think about it.’

He sniffed, blinked. Chewed on his bleeding thumb. ‘I can’t. . .’

In the cell next door, ‘American Pie’ was replaced by Billy Joel’s ‘Piano Man’, roared out like a football chant.

Logan stood and smiled down at Dr Marks. ‘I’ll pop past in the morning: say goodbye before they drag you off.’ A wink. ‘Have a nice night.’

Police. They spill out of the ugly striped building like woodlice from beneath a rotting log. Marching about, dragging coils of fizzing blue and red behind them like angry tentacles. Reaching along the granite streets, searching, probing.

They should be on the same side, but they’re not. They don’t see. Don’t see the Beasts and the Angels, the Witches and the Kelpie, the Wraith and the Ogres and the Ghosts. Don’t see the Hand of Death as they prowl the street.

They think everyone is Sheep.

They think
she
is Sheep.

But she’s so much more than that.

Rowan takes a deep breath and crosses the road – walks out into the middle of them.

The Kirk is my sword and my shield.

A pair of them laugh at a shared joke, shoulders hunched against the rain. They don’t even see her.

Then there he is.

In the tunnels beneath the earth he looked so normal, but here. . . His aura is different from the others. It’s blue and red, but ribbons of gold and black undulate around his head. A halo of light and darkness. Is he an Angel, or a Hand of Death? Does he even know himself?

And if she told him, would it make any difference?

He turns up his collar and runs across the road to his weary battered Fiat, fumbles with his keys, swearing in the rain, then gets in behind the wheel. Reverses out of the parking space in a cloud of greasy exhaust, his aura lighting up the inside of the car like an angry disco.

Rowan steps out onto the road, watching him disappear into the rain. Then reaches into her pocket and feels the knot of bones, safe in its nest of tissue paper.

Soon. . .

She turns her face to the heavy orange clouds and closes her eyes. The rain is cool and soothing on her skin, tiny cold kisses from the heavens. Making everything—

The hard blare of a car horn makes her flinch. She spins around and there’s a patrol car less than three feet away. Its headlights flash at her, and she holds up a hand, then steps back onto the pavement.

The patrol car drives by. Its occupants don’t even look in her direction. They think she’s just another Sheep.

Rowan steps back out into the road. His Fiat is nothing but a memory written on tarmac with raindrops. But that’s all right. She has plenty of time to wander back to where her own car’s parked.

After all, there’s no need to rush: she knows where he’s going.

Wednesday

36

The kettle’s grumbling rattle came through from the kitchen, fighting against the sound of Breakfast News in the living room where, apparently, everyone was getting great weather except for the north-east of Scotland. As bloody usual.

Logan lay back on the bed, arms folded behind his head. Have to get up in a minute. Any minute now. . .

A clunk and the kettle lost its battle with the weatherman.

Jackie padded through wearing nothing but a Strathclyde Police Judo Team T-shirt, with a mug of tea in each hand and a slice of toast sticking out of her mouth. ‘Mnnnphnnn gnnph? ’

He sat up and accepted the proffered mug. ‘Still raining? ’

She pulled the toast out and chewed. ‘Give me two reasons why I should stay with Bill.’

Oh great: this again. ‘He’s Rory’s father? ’

‘That’s one. And it’s not even that good a reason. He’s still a selfish prick.’ She tore a bite out of the toast. ‘I am
not
moving to London, I don’t care if this is the job opportunity of a lifetime.’

The sigh escaped before he could stop it. Logan swung his legs out of the bed. ‘If you don’t like him, why do you stay with him? ’

‘That’s what I just asked
you
.’

Logan picked yesterday’s socks and pants off the floor and dumped them in the laundry basket, before shuffling and yawning through to the bathroom for a pee and a shower.

By the time he got back, Jackie was levering herself into the feat of mechanical engineering that was a concrete-coloured Doreen Triumph bra. Making it look as if she was wearing two halved zeppelins from the 1930s. The shiny crescent-shaped scar above her industrial grey pants disappeared as she hauled on her suit trousers.

At least she only had the one scar.

A linen shirt went over the bra that time forgot. ‘What are we doing? ’

Good question. Logan sat on the bed and pulled on a fresh pair of socks. ‘Same as usual, I suppose.’ Next: a pair of lucky bright-red pants, then suit trousers. ‘Reaching out because we’re lonely. Looking for a little comfort. A little human warmth. . . What? ’

She was staring at him with her mouth hanging open. ‘I meant what are we doing
tonight
? Not what,’ she pointed at them both, ‘whatever this is.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Heat raced up his neck into his cheeks and ears. ‘OK. Well, if you’re not going back to Glasgow, we could—’

‘Are you feeling guilty? Is that it? Guilty because she’s in the hospital? ’

Logan picked the nearest shirt in the wardrobe. ‘Yes.’

‘In the name of the wee man. . .’ She grabbed her jacket. ‘Where did I leave my shoes? ’ Then stomped out of the bedroom, making the caravan floor shake.

Yes, because it was all
his
fault. He followed her into the living room, hauling the shirt on. ‘So you don’t feel guilty for cheating on Bill? ’

‘She’s been up there for two years, Logan, you really think that’s what she wants? You feeling guilty for having
sex
three or four times a year? ’

A wrinkled satchel of a face frowned out at them from the TV. ‘
. . .important to remember that these are the people who support police investigations. They help catch killers. How can they do their job if the SPSA keeps changing everything?
’

‘You didn’t answer the question.’

‘I. . .’ Her face pinched, eyes narrowed, then she turned and grabbed a pair of low-heeled boots from under the coffee table. ‘Going to be late.’

Mr Satchelface was replaced by a woman in an ugly blouse. ‘
Aberdeen now, and Grampian Police have issued a fresh appeal for information regarding the whereabouts of Agnes Garfield. . .
’

‘Jackie, it’s—’

‘Of course I feel bloody guilty! OK? And I shouldn’t, he doesn’t
deserve
my guilt – he’s a selfish, thoughtless bastard who never even
sees
me any more. Even when he does come home, it’s like I’m not there.’

‘
. . .any information to call the hotline number, or contact your local police station. . .
’

Jackie thumped down on the couch and hauled on her boots. ‘But would I leave him? Nooooo, I had to make it work for Rory’s sake, didn’t I? Why be happy in life when you can be bloody miserable? ’

‘So leave him.’

‘What about Rory? ’

‘
In other news, police checkpoints are in place on the A96 between Kintore and Blackburn. . .
’

Logan sat down on the couch beside her. ‘What’s going to be better for him growing up: you happy, or you miserable? ’

‘
. . .witnesses following the discovery of what appears to be a satanic murder inspired by the bestselling novel
Witchfire
on Monday evening. . .
’

She stared at the screen. ‘It’s not that simple.’

‘Never is.’

‘
We spoke to two the film’s stars, Nichole Fyfe and Morgan Mitchell
.’ Onscreen, Mrs Uglyblouse was replaced by the familiar PR setup of Nichole and Morgan sitting in front of
Witchfire
posters.

‘What am I going to do, Logan? Leave Bill and come back and shack up with you? You me and Rory crammed in your girlfriend’s caravan? ’

Oh dear God. . . Don’t say anything. Don’t even breathe!

Jackie stood. ‘That’s what I thought.’

Nichole leaned forward. ‘
First I have to say on behalf of everyone working on the film, that our hearts go out to those poor families.
’

Morgan nodded. ‘
They really do. It’s awful that these guys went through what they did—
’

‘I can’t. There isn’t. . .’

‘You’re just going to sit here, like a bug stuck in fucking amber till she comes back.’

‘
. . .so important to stop this happening to anyone else. Which is why we’re going to do everything we can to help.
’

‘I am
not
stuck in amber.’

‘LOOK AT YOURSELF! It’s been two years and you’re still here. Why haven’t you finished fixing up the flat? I’ll tell you why: because you can’t move on. You were always the bloody same!’ She turned and banged out of the room.

‘Jackie!’

Out into the corridor.

‘Jackie, wait.’

She was in the bedroom, grabbing her rucksack from the floor. ‘You want a sign, Logan? Here’s your sign.’ She ripped down the sheet of paper Sellotaped to the wardrobe mirror and hurled it at him. ‘
That’s
what’s wrong with you.’

She shoved past, wrenched open the front door, then slammed it hard enough to make the mugs in the kitchen clatter.

Silence.

‘
—ask if anyone’s seen, or knows anything about these terrible deaths, to come forward.
’

‘
That’s right, people, you
have
to call the police before anyone else gets hurt.
’

Bit late for that.

Logan bent down and retrieved the sheet of paper. Smoothed it out against the wall. ‘L
IKE
I
T
O
R
N
OT
, Y
OU’RE
S
TILL
A
LIVE
’ printed in big black letters.

‘
And now here’s Russell with the weather.
’

‘
Thanks, Steve. Well, it’s going to be an unsettled couple of days—
’

The doorbell rang out its long mournful chime.

He reached for the handle, paused. The pickaxe handle waited patiently, propped up in the corner. He took it and peered through the spyhole.

Jackie scowled back at him, her features distorted by the lens.

He opened the door. ‘You already had the last word.’

Her eyes went from his face to the pickaxe handle. ‘Didn’t think you were so sensitive.’ Then she hoiked a thumb over her shoulder at a green-haired lanky young man leaning back against Logan’s Fiat. One of Wee Hamish Mowat’s boys, with a courier’s satchel slung over one shoulder. ‘You got a visitor.’

The young man grinned at him as Jackie roared off in her Audi. ‘Bit on the side, eh? McRae, you old
hound
you.’ Acne scars pocked his cheeks, disappearing into a set of wiry sideburns. Eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. Shoulder-length lime green hair swept back from his forehead. ‘Though, how you manage to pull the chicks drivin’ this manky piece of crap. . .? ’ He rapped his knuckles on the Punto’s bonnet.

The bloody magpies had been at the car again, spattering it with grey-and-white droppings, wedging twigs into the windscreen wipers. Logan hefted the pickaxe handle onto his shoulder. ‘What do you want, Jamie? ’

‘No’ to be up at this soddin’ hour. Brutal, man.’ He nodded at the caravan. ‘You gonnae invite me in? ’

‘How’s your friend Reuben? ’

‘Yeah. . ..’ Jamie stuck the tip of his pale-yellow tongue out between his teeth. ‘I heard you and him had a thing. What can I say? The Rubester’s a passionate man.’ He pulled his sunglasses down to the end of his nose and winked a bloodshot eye. ‘But just so you know: if there’s a change of management and that, I’d have no problems workin’ with the new administration. Just between us.’

‘What – do – you – want? ’

Jamie dipped into the satchel and came out with a large brown envelope. ‘Been lookin’ into your battered Chinkies for Mr Mowat. Sod-all clue who the other side are, but the ones doing the hammerin’ are definitively the McLeod brothers.’