Close to the Bone (58 page)

Growling and scrabbling came from the front door as a pair of dog handlers hauled the Alsatian outside on the end of a long pole, both of them struggling to keep the noose tight around its neck.

Chalmers wouldn’t look him in the eye. ‘Bumped into Agnes at a house near Fyvie. Literally.’ Chalmers fiddled with the oxygen mask, twisting the soft plastic back and forth. ‘And when I woke up, I was tied up in a grubby little kitchen. . .’ She wiped a hand across her eyes. ‘I didn’t tell her anything. . .’

‘You wouldn’t have been in that situation if you’d called for backup.’ Logan took a step back, pulse thumping in his neck, heat spreading behind his temples. ‘Because of you, PC Sim nearly died. Rennie nearly got electrocuted. And I was
this
close,’ he held up his hand, thumb and forefinger almost touching, voice getting louder with every word, ‘to being shot in the face!’

‘I just wanted. . . It wasn’t meant to work out like this.’

‘Really? Well
that’s
OK then, isn’t it? Everything’s forgiven!’ He poked her in the shoulder and the space blanket crackled. ‘You listen up and you listen good: I’m the one who’d have to tell Sim’s husband and kids she died because you couldn’t face sharing the bloody credit!’

Tears spilled down Chalmers’s cheeks. ‘It wasn’t my fault. . .’

‘Hope you’re proud of yourself.’ He turned his back and walked away.

Thursday

50

The wub-wub-wub of a floor polisher dragged Logan back above the cold green waves and thumped him down in the visitor’s chair in Samantha’s room.

‘Gagh. . .’ Someone had sneaked in at some point during the night and replaced his spine with sharp rocks and broken glass. He creaked himself upright. Yawned. Stretched. Slumped. Then shuffled through to the bathroom, rubbing the grit out of his eyes.

The face in the mirror peered back at him with two beautiful black eyes.

Then frowned: there was something he was meant to do. . .?

Nope, no idea.

Time for a pee and a wash.

Samantha didn’t move as he pulled his shoes back on, just lay there like a corpse, all wires and tubes and lank brown hair.

He cleared his throat. Forced a smile. ‘Probably going to be a long day today. Do you fancy pizza or something for. . .’

What was the point?

Something heavy settled on his shoulders, trying to crush him down into the grey terrazzo floor.

And then his phone went – ‘If I Only Had a Brain’.

Logan hauled it out. ‘Do you have any idea what time it is? ’

‘
Nearly half seven, Guv.
’

It was? He checked his watch. Sodding hell. ‘Why didn’t anyone say? ’

‘
They’ve turned up another body at the farm. Looks like the poor sod was stabbed all over, throttled, then buried in the ruined chapel. Dr Graham says the bones in that cook pot in the kitchen are definitely human too: scapula, skull, five ribs, and an ulna. Apparently they’re a bit on the ancient side. PM’s at ten if you fancy it?
’

So Agnes Garfield was planting corpses in her very own garden of bones.

‘Not really.’ He hauled his tie back with one hand and tightened it. ‘But I think I know who your bones in the pot belong to: one Nicholas Alexander Balfour.’

‘
Ah, right: the spiritualist bloke from the graveyard. Cool. Wondered where he’d got to. Anyway, I spoke to Guthrie – he’s heard back from SOCA’s American Justice Department goons. Anthony Chung’s got form for dealing and a couple of DUIs, but you want to know what’s
really
interesting?
’

Logan held the phone against his chest, then leaned over and kissed Samantha on the forehead. Her skin was cool and clammy against his lips. ‘Got to go. I’ll see you later, OK? ’

Back to the phone.

‘
Guv? You there?
’

‘Go on then: what’s really interesting? ’

‘
Turns out his dad’s linked to about two dozen hydroponic cannabis farms in San Francisco. They couldn’t prove anything, but everyone knew it was him.
’

Like father, like son. ‘Thanks. Tell Steel I’ll be there in twenty.’

Rain pattered against the window of Steel’s office, making shining ribbons that glittered their way down the glass. She sat back with her feet up on her desk, fake cigarette dangling out the side of her mouth. ‘So she’s a nutbag then? ’

Dr Goulding shrugged, then crossed his legs the other way. ‘Let’s just say she’s a deeply disturbed young woman.’

Steel looked up at Logan. ‘That’s Liverpudlian for “nutbag”.’

‘She’s as much a victim of Anthony Chung’s drug baron fantasy as anyone she hurt for him. He cast himself in the role of Moderator, the man in charge of the Fingermen in
Witchfire
. Kept her off her medication and on high-concentration THC cannabis. She believed everything he told her.’ Goulding held his hands out –
nothing up my sleeves
. ‘I’ve started her on Risperidone, so we should see an improvement in her mental state before too long. In the meantime, I’ve arranged for a Mental Health Officer to see her later this morning. Agnes needs to be transferred to a secure psychiatric facility where she can be taken care of,
not
locked in a prison cell.’

Steel puffed on her fake cigarette. ‘Tell that to the four poor sods she tortured to death.’

‘Yes, well. . .’

She hauled open a bottom drawer, and pulled out a box the size of a thermos flask. ‘Laz: you caught her, and Anthony Chung; rescued Chalmers; and didn’t get anyone killed. Here.’ She chucked it to him. ‘You can have your present after all.’

Logan caught the box. Whatever it was, it was wrapped in brown paper. ‘Do I want to know? ’

Steel grinned at him. ‘Open it.’

OK. . .

He peeled back the paper, exposing a plain cardboard box. Lifted the lid and stared. It looked like a plastic vagina, stuck on top of a thermal travel mug. ‘What the sodding hell is
this
? ’

‘It’s a Fleshlight: you stick your Wee Willie Winkie in it and jiggle it about. You’ve been a right miserable tosser since your girlfriend ended up in the hospital, do you good to relieve a bit of tension now and then.’

Oh dear God.

‘For the tape, I’m showing Mr Chung exhibit six, a semi-automatic handgun of Eastern European origin.’ Logan held up the ugly black weapon in its clear plastic evidence pouch. ‘Mr Chung, would you like to tell us where you got this? ’

Anthony Chung grinned. ‘Dude, it’s—’

His lawyer put a hand on his arm. ‘My client has no comment to make.’

Again.

‘Mr Blake, your client’s prints are all over it, and we have three police officers as witnesses, do you really think a jury will—’

‘My
client
has no comment to make.’

A knock on the door, then PC Guthrie stuck his head into the room. ‘Guv? ’

Logan sat back in his seat, closed his eyes. Gritted his teeth. ‘Interview suspended at . . . nine forty AM. DI McRae leaving the room.’

Outside, Guthrie shifted from foot to foot, glancing up and down the corridor as Logan closed the interview-room door.

‘This better be important.’

Guthrie dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘It’s Insch. He’s downstairs going ballistic. Something about an early court date for his Hollywood starlet? Says he’s been calling you all morning.’

Oh. . . crap. Logan sagged against the wall. He was supposed to get Morgan Mitchell up in front of the Sheriff first thing. Knew he’d forgotten something. ‘OK, OK, I’ll sort it.’ He pointed back, over his shoulder at the interview-room. ‘Go tell them we’re taking a fifteen-minute break. Give them a bit more time to work on their lies.’

The cell block was a lot quieter than yesterday. Today the only sound came from the PCSO office radio, oozing out hits of the nineties. Which probably counted as cruel and unusual punishment under the European Convention on Human Rights, but what the hell.

No sign of Kathy in the lower cell block, so he tried the one upstairs instead.

She was bootfaced, dragging a mop back and forth across the concrete floor. A bucket of dirty water sat beside an open cell, filling the air with the pine-fresh stench of disinfectant. ‘. . .but no, it’s
Muggins
here who has to clean it up. . .’

Logan stayed well out of mop-range. ‘Having fun? ’

She glowered at him. ‘Why is it that as soon as anyone pukes their guts all over the place, everyone disappears? ’

Maybe not then. ‘I need to get Morgan Mitchell bumped up the court schedule.’

‘What am I, their mother? Lazy bunch of—’

‘Kathy: court schedule.’

She jabbed the mop into the grey water, sending a little wave slopping out and onto the concrete. ‘I’m
busy
.’

‘OK. . .’ He put his hands up. ‘I’ll wait.’

He backed off a couple of paces, stuck his hands in his pockets, rocked on his heels. Then pulled out his phone and switched it back on. There was a pause then it bleeped at him: eight new voicemails and a dozen text messages. All from Insch. He deleted the lot.

Kathy scrubbed the mop across a stubborn spot. ‘Not even my sodding job!’

It looked as if most of the cells in the women’s section were empty. According to the boards by the doors, only three still had their occupants: an Amy Brooke – shoplifting; Morgan Mitchell – assault; and Agnes Garfield – four counts murder.

Logan slid the hatch back.

Agnes was sitting on the edge of the blue plastic mattress, her knees together, feet together, arms at her sides, hands folded in her lap. Still as a stone. Then she turned her head to face him. The heavy black eye makeup made streaks down her cheeks, like ravens’ wings.

A blink. Then she opened her mouth. Closed it. Swallowed. Then tried again. ‘I’m . . . sorry.’

Bit late for that. ‘It’s not your fault. You’re ill.’

‘I never touched your girlfriend, I just. . . She’s very pretty, lying there, all peaceful. . .’ A little smile. ‘I was so jealous. Sleeping for years and years, waiting for her prince to kiss her and wake her up.’

‘That why you hung bones beneath her bed, so she wouldn’t wake up? ’

Agnes frowned at him, as if he’d just said something incredibly stupid. ‘Why would I do that? The bones were meant to protect me from you. Tenet Nine: “The Lord helps those that help themselves.”’ She licked her lips. ‘But they weren’t working. I tried everything I could think of, but you kept looking for me, so. . . I’m sorry I cut your brakes.’

‘That was
you
? I could’ve died!’

Agnes nodded. ‘I’ve been . . .
confused
.’ She looked down at her fingers, twisted them into a knot. ‘Is your police officer friend all right? ’

‘You shaved her head, stabbed her, and tried to drown her. What do you think? ’

A pause. ‘Are you going to kill me? ’

What? ‘No, I’m. . . Why would we kill you? ’

‘I hurt so many people. I thought they were witches. We. . .’ Her red hair fell forward, covering her eyes. ‘I thought I was doing the Lord’s work. Purifying them with the trial by blood. Making them confess. Saving their souls. . .’

So Reuben was right:
Word is, the new kids on the block have an enforcer who’s a card-carrying psycho. Gets off on maximum pain.

‘It was you, wasn’t it? The enforcer.’

The words came out as a low murmur. ‘The Kirk is my mother and father. It is my rod and my staff. My shield and my sword. What I do in its service lights a fire in God’s name.’

‘The witches worked for a rival drug gang, I get that, but what did Roy Forman do? Did he see something he shouldn’t? Was Anthony dealing at the soup kitchen and he found out? Is that why you burned him? ’

Agnes peered up at Logan from behind her curtain of hair. ‘Burned? ’

‘Necklaced. Staked to the ground with a tyre wedged over—’

‘No!’ She shook her head. ‘The trial by fire is
barbaric
. A stain on the Kirk.’

‘But he was—’

‘Rowan would never do that.’ She shuddered. ‘Not ever.’

Logan stared at her. ‘You didn’t burn Roy Forman? ’

Sodding hell.

Steel scowled at him, mouth pulled down, making the wrinkles stand out. ‘Well, of course she’d say that, wouldn’t she? ’

‘Why? She’s got nothing to gain – she’s already admitted to torturing three people to death, robbing graves, and trying to drown Chalmers. She knows she’s going to spend the next twenty to thirty years in a secure psychiatric ward. What’s one more death? ’

‘Arrrgh. . .’ Steel slapped both hands over her face then folded over until her head rested on her desk. The words came out all muffled. ‘You’re no’
seriously
suggesting we’ve still got some mentalist out there burning people? ’

He pulled out his phone and got Control to put him on to PC Sim.

Not answering her Airwave handset. Try her house instead.

She picked up on the seventh ring. ‘
Oh, come on, can’t I even have
one
day off? I got shot yesterday!
’

‘You’ve read
Witchfire
—’

‘
Yes, I’m feeling much better, thanks for asking. The stitches itch a bit where a shotgun went off
in my face
, and my whole chest is one big bruise, but other than that. . .
’

‘Do you want me to send Steel over to kiss it better? ’

A pause. ‘
Urgh. . . I think I just threw up a bit in my mouth
.’

Steel peered up at him between her fingers. ‘What am I kissing now? ’

‘The necklacing – trial by fire – does Rowan ever do it? ’

‘
No. That’s
all
Mrs Shepherd. Rowan doesn’t believe in witches so the whole burning people thing sickens her. . . Why?
’

Of course it did. ‘Thanks. Enjoy your time off, OK? ’ He hung up.

If Rowan wouldn’t do it, Agnes Garfield wouldn’t either. . . But maybe a method-acting nut-bag would. The kind of person who’d go all the way to Iowa to learn about witchcraft. The kind of person who thought they had to live the role in order to play the character. The kind of person who could turn up at a soup kitchen and abduct someone like Roy Forman.