Читать книгу 22 Dead Little Bodies and Other Stories - Stuart MacBride - Страница 17

‘… OK, let me know what you come up with. And for God’s sake, someone give Guthrie a poke!’

The CID office had a full contingent of grey faces and wrinkly eyes. The four office chairs were lined up along two sides, turned towards the whiteboard for the morning briefing. Their occupants nursed tins of Irn-Bru and greasy bacon butties. Well, all except for PC Guthrie – slumped so far back in his seat that any further and he’d be on the floor. Gob open, head hanging to the side.

DS Baird leaned over and gave him a poke. ‘You’re snoring!’

Blinking, Guthrie surfaced, mouth working like a drowning fish. ‘Mwake …’

Logan folded his arms and leaned back against the filing cabinet. ‘Are we boring you, Constable?’

Wheezy Doug rolled his eyes. ‘He wasn’t even in the pub last night! No excuse.’

‘Yeah.’ DC Stone took another bite of buttie, talking with his mouth full. ‘Should change your nickname from “Sunshine” to “Lightweight”.’ A little tuft of hair clung to the tip of Stoney’s forehead, combed forward, backward, and sideways trying to hide a bald patch the size of a dinner plate. To be honest, Stoney’s head was more bald patch than hair. As if trying to draw attention away from it, a huge moustache lurked beneath his nose like a hairy troll under a bridge. ‘That right, Lightweight?’

Guthrie ran a hand over his face, scrubbing it out of shape. ‘Just knackered from shagging your mum all night.’

That got him a collective, ‘Oooh!’

Logan thumped a hand against the filing cabinet, setting it booming. ‘All right, that’s enough.’ He pointed at the yawning constable. ‘Where are we with Mrs Skinner?’

A shudder. Then Guthrie yawned. Pulled himself up in his seat. ‘Still nothing from the lookout request. And she’s not been back to the house since yesterday morning.’

‘So where is she?’

Shrug. ‘Neither set of grandparents had any idea. But, it’s Sunday, right? Maybe she’s gone to church? Or she stayed over at a friend’s house? Slumber party for the kids?’

Logan frowned out of the window. Early morning sunlight painted the side of Marischal College, making the cleaned granite glow. They’d done their best – waited for her, put out a lookout request, contacted the next of kin. Sort of. What else were they supposed to do? If Mrs Skinner didn’t want to be found, she didn’t want to be found.

Maybe she knew her husband was working up to jumping off a dirty big building and decided to get out of town before he hit?

‘Better get onto the Mire, Tayside, Highland, Fife, and Forth Valley – tell them to keep an eye out for her and the kids. Him diving off the casino roof’s going to make the news sooner or later, and …’ Logan closed his mouth.

Guthrie was shaking his head.

‘What?’

The constable stood and crossed to one of the ancient computers. ‘I wasn’t really shagging Stoney’s mum all last night, I was checking the internet.’ He thumped away at the keyboard. ‘Three people loaded the footage up onto YouTube by midnight. I reported them, but it’s already out there. See?’ The screen filled with shaky cameraphone footage, looking up from Exchequer Row. The casino was five storeys of darkened windows, separated by strips of grey cladding. A figure stood on the roof – too far away to make out any detail on his face – arms by his sides, head down.

Muffled voices crackled from the speakers, ‘Oh my God …’, ‘Look at him …’, ‘Is he going to jump?’, ‘Where? What are we looking at?’, ‘Oh my God …’, ‘Is that a knife?’, ‘Someone call the police!’, ‘Oh my God …’

The scene swirled left, capturing the crowd. Most of them had their phones out, cameras pointing up at John Skinner as he wobbled on the edge.

Bloody vultures. Whatever happened to good Samaritans?

‘There’s someone else up there!’, ‘Oh my God …’

A seasick lurch and the screen filled with the casino again as Logan inched his way out onto the ledge.

In real life, Logan pointed at the video. ‘I want this taken down.’

‘Oh my God …’ A collective gasp as the green plastic bag from Markies kamikazed down to the cobbles, a bomb of crisps and sandwiches that exploded on impact. ‘Someone has to call the police!’, ‘Oh my God …’, ‘This is so cool, it—’

Logan jabbed at the mouse and the image froze. ‘Get it deleted off the internet.’

Guthrie screwed up one side of his face. ‘It’s kinda gone viral, Guv. Copies popping up all over the place.’

‘Then get out there and find me John Skinner’s wife. Now!’

‘I see.’ Superintendent Young folded his hands behind his head and leaned back in the visitor’s chair. He’d forgone his usual Police-Scotland-ninja-outfit for a pair of blue jeans and chunky trainers. A red T-shirt with ‘SKELETON BOB IS MY COPILOT’ on it under a grey hoodie. As if he was fourteen instead of forty. Forty something. Probably nearer fifty. ‘And is Justin Robson going to pursue this?’

Logan shuffled a mess of paperwork into a stack and popped it in the out-tray. ‘You didn’t have to come in on your day off, Guv. I’m sure we can cope till Monday.’

‘It’s this, or clearing out the garage.’ A shrug. ‘Call me dedicated. So: Robson?’

‘Well, it’s civil, rather than criminal, so he’d have to take her to court. But he’s got her bang to rights for defamation. Posters up all over the area saying he’s a drug dealer? No way she’ll wriggle out of it.’

‘Hmm …’ Young stuck his legs out and crossed his ankles, head back, looking up at the stained ceiling. ‘On the one hand, if he does sue her it’ll serve her right. Maybe make her rethink her obsession. On the other hand, it could tip her off the deep end.’

‘Either way she’s going to end up a bigger pain in our backsides.’

‘True.’ A shrug. ‘Anything else you need my help with? This suicide victim’s missing wife thing?’

Logan bared his teeth. ‘Thanks, Guv, but I think you’ve helped enough.’

‘Ah well, if you’re sure.’ Young stood. Stretched. Slumped. ‘Suppose I’d better go clear out the garage. No rest for the saintly.’ He paused, with one hand on the door. ‘I hear you had a run in with Gordy Taylor yesterday?’

‘Wants to drop the charges in exchange for two litres of whisky.’

‘And so we support those brave souls who fight in our name …’ A sigh. ‘Right. Well, drop me a text or something.’ Another pause. ‘You’re sure there’s nothing else?’

Logan did his best to smile. ‘Not unless you want to buy a one-bedroom flat?’

Logan licked his top lip. Stared down at his mobile phone. Couldn’t put it off any longer. Well, he could, but it probably wasn’t a great idea. He dug his thumbs into the back panel and slid the cover off. Prised out the battery and replaced the SIM card with a cheapy pay-as-you-go from the supermarket checkout loaded up with a whole fiver’s worth of calls. Clicked everything back into place.

‘Guv?’

When he looked up, Wheezy Doug was standing in the doorway, clutching a manila folder to his chest.

‘Is it quick?’

A nod. Then a cough. Then a gargly clearing of the throat. ‘Got the lookout request extended across all of Police Scotland. And the Media Office want clearance on a press release and poster.’ He dug into the folder and came out with two sheets of paper. ‘You want to OK them?’

Logan gave them a quick once-over, then handed both back. ‘If they can figure out how to spell “Saturday” properly, tell them to run it.’

‘Guv.’ He put the sheets away. ‘You hear they turfed Gordy Taylor out of hospital last night? Shouting and swearing and making an arse of himself.’

What a shock. ‘Nothing broken when he got himself run over, then?’

‘Nah. Lurched out the door and found himself some more booze. Uniform got a dozen complaints from Harlaw Road about him staggering about, knocking over bins and doing pretty much the same thing he’d been doing up at the hospital.’ Wheezy sooked on his teeth for a bit. Then shook his head. ‘I knew his dad. Decent enough bloke. Bit racist, with a drink in him, but other than that …’

‘OK. Let me know if anyone spots Mrs Skinner.’

‘Guv.’

Soon as Wheezy was gone, Logan grabbed his phone and headed out.

Sunlight sparkled back from the white granity mass of Marischal College, caught the wheeling seagulls and set them glowing against the blue sky. A taxi grumbled by, followed by a fat man on a bicycle wearing nowhere near enough Lycra to keep everything under control.

Logan nipped across the road, past the council headquarters and along Broad Street. Kept going onto the Gallowgate. Nice and casual. Up the hill, and right into the council car park in front of the squat DVLA building.

Nice and out of the way.

He pulled out his phone and dialled Wee Hamish’s number. Listened to it ring.

And ring.

And ring.

That brittle, gravelly voice: ‘Hello?’

‘Hamish. It’s Logan McRae.’

‘Ah, Logan. Yes. Good. How are you? How’s that young lady of yours?’

‘Still in a coma.’ Strange how it didn’t hurt to say that any more. Perhaps four years was long enough for it to scab over? ‘What can I do for you, Hamish?’

‘Is she getting all the help she needs, do you think?’

Logan wandered across the car park. ‘The doctors and nurses are very good.’

‘Oh I’ve got nothing but admiration for the NHS, believe me. They were very kind to my Juliette those last few months. But … Maybe a private hospital would provide a more individual service? Where there’s not so much pressure to meet performance targets.’

A path ran along the back of the car park, bordered by a wall. Logan leaned on it, looking down the hill to the dual carriageway and the big Morrisons. ‘We got knocked back from Sunny Glen. No places.’ A small laugh clawed its way out of his throat. ‘Not that we can afford it. Anyway, it’s too far away. I couldn’t get all the way up to Banff to visit her every day. What’s the point of that?’

‘Hmm … I hear you’re still trying to sell the flat. Any luck?’

‘Hamish, you said you wanted to talk about Reuben.’

‘Are you in financial difficulties, Logan, because if you are I’d be more than happy to lend—’

‘No. I’m fine. I just … felt like selling the flat, that’s all.’

‘I thought you loved it there. Nice central location. And it’s very convenient for work.’

‘It’s got memories I don’t need.’ Down below, an ambulance skirled its way along the dual carriageway, all lights blazing. ‘Time for a change.’

‘I understand.’ There was a small pause, filled with a hissing noise, as if Wee Hamish was taking a hit from an aqualung. ‘Would you like me to put in a word for you? There are a couple of neurology specialists I know who could help you find a place. Somewhere Samantha can get the individual attention she deserves. Let me see what I can do.’

Logan tightened his grip on the phone. Puffed out a breath. ‘What about you? How are you feeling?’

‘I’ve been thinking about us a lot recently. You, me, and Reuben. When I’m gone, he’ll come after you. You’re too big a threat for him to ignore.’

‘I’m not a threat! I keep telling—’

‘It doesn’t matter if you turn down the mantle or not, Logan. To Reuben you’ll always be a threat.’ Another hisssssssss. ‘Would you like me to kill him for you?’

All the moisture evaporated from Logan’s mouth. ‘What?’

‘It would pain me, of course – he’s been my right-hand man for a long, long time – but sometimes you have to sacrifice a rook to keep the game going.’

‘Now, hold on—’

‘Oh, it won’t be until I’m gone. The least I can do is let him come to the funeral. But after that. Before he’s had time to move against you …’

Logan turned away from the road. Squinted up at the DVLA’s windows. No one looked back at him. Thank God. ‘Hamish, I’m a police officer: I can’t be part of a plot to murder someone! Not even Reuben.’

‘Are you sure? He’s more dangerous than you think.’ This time, the hiss-filled pause stretched out into silence. Then: ‘Well, perhaps that would be best. After all, if you’re taking over the company, the staff will respect you more if you get rid of him yourself.’

‘That’s not what I meant! It—’

‘Don’t leave it too long, Logan. When I die, the clock starts ticking.’

‘You OK, Guv?’ Guthrie lowered his pale eyebrows, making little wrinkles between them.

Logan sank into one of the CID office chairs. ‘I nearly fell off a roof yesterday, my suit smells of drunk tramp, I’m dealing with a tree festooned with dog turds, I can’t sell my flat, and I had an early-morning run-in with Professional Standards. I’ve had better days.’

A smile. ‘Then I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up.’

‘Is it midget porn again? Because I’ve told you about that already.’

‘Nope.’ He held up his notebook. ‘One dark-green Honda Jazz, parked on Newburgh Road, Bridge of Don. It’s Emma Skinner’s.’

Logan stood. ‘Well, what are you sitting there for? Get a pool car!’

Newburgh Road was a twisting warren of identikit houses, buried away amongst all the other identikit housing developments on this side of the river. Some residents had added porches, or garages, but the same bland boxy stereotype shone through regardless.

Guthrie pointed through the windscreen at the blocky back end of a dark-green hatchback. ‘Patrol car was out cruising for a pervert – been stealing knickers off washing lines – when the Honda pinged up on the ANPR.’

They parked behind it.

Logan climbed out into the sun and did a slow three-sixty. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just more beige architecture, the harling greyed by weather. ‘Any idea which house?’

Guthrie locked up. ‘Thought we’d door-to-door it. Can’t be that far, can it?’

‘Pffff …’ Logan leaned back against a low garden wall and wiped a hand across his forehead. It came away damp. ‘You sure that’s her car?’

Guthrie took out his notebook and checked again. ‘Number plate matches.’

‘Then where the sodding hell is she?’

‘Well, maybe—’

‘Forty minutes! Wandering round like a pair of idiots, knocking on doors.’ The scent of charring meat oozed out from a garden somewhere near, making his stomach growl. ‘Starving now.’

Guthrie gave a big theatrical shrug. ‘I don’t get it. It’s not like it’d be hard to find a parking space here, is it? You’d dump your car right outside the person you’re visiting, right?’

‘Unless you weren’t supposed to be here. Didn’t want people to see your car …’ Logan pushed off the wall. ‘We keep looking.’

‘OK, thanks anyway.’

As soon as the auld mannie in the faded ‘BRITAIN’S NEXT BIG STAR’ T-shirt had closed the door, Logan stepped into the shade of a box hedge.

He ran a hand across the nape of his neck and wiped it dry on his trousers. Checked his watch. That was an hour they’d been at it now. Slogging their way along the road in the baking sun. Knocking on doors. Asking questions. Showing people the photo of Emma Skinner that Guthrie had found on Facebook. A selfie of Emma and her two kids, grinning away like lunatics, the background blocked out by the three of them. She had her blonde hair pulled back from her face, a half-inch of brown roots showing. A silver ring in her left nostril. An easy smile. Two small children with chocolate smudges covering half of their faces.

Logan loosened his tie.

A whole hour of shoving the photo under people’s noses.

And still nothing.

Maybe she hadn’t been visiting someone here after all? Maybe this was simply a convenient place to dump the car? Somewhere to keep it hidden.

Why? Why would she want to hide?

‘Guv?’ One house over, Guthrie was backing away from the door – a hand scrabbling at the Airwave clipped to his stabproof vest. ‘Guv!’

Logan hopped the low garden wall and hurried across a manicured lawn ringed with nasturtiums. ‘Someone spotted her?’

Guthrie stopped in the middle of the path and pointed at the house. ‘In there …’

OK.

He walked over to the front window. It was too bright outside, and too dark inside to see anything other than the reflected street scene. Logan cupped his hands either side of his eyes and pressed his forehead against the glass.

A high-heeled shoe lay in front of a glass-topped coffee table. On its side. The foot it belonged to poked out from behind the couch. Skin pale, a thick line of purple running horizontal with the ground where the blood had settled. More blood on the oatmeal-coloured carpet. Little dots and splashes. Dozens of them. More streaking up the walls, making scarlet spatters across a print of the New York skyline.

Definitely dead.