Читать книгу Close to the Bone - Stuart MacBride - Страница 20

Chalmers pulled away from the kerb as Logan fastened his seatbelt. Her mouth was one thin line, tiny wrinkles standing out at the side of her eye. Face fixed dead front.

Logan turned his phone on. ‘I take it there’s a reason you’re sulking?’

‘I’m not sulking, sir.’

‘Come on then, out with it.’

Her jaw twitched a couple of times, as if she was biting down on something bitter. ‘With all due respect: you sent me off to make tea while you were searching the cupboard under the stairs. The little woman makes the tea while the big strong man does the actual police work.’ She wrenched the steering wheel left, taking them out the end of the road. ‘Let me guess: you didn’t think my pretty little head was up to it. Making the bloody tea’s all we’re good for.’

‘I see.’ He scrolled through his list of contacts until the number for Control appeared. ‘Feel better now?’

‘It’s sexist.’

‘Seriously?’ A smile broke across his face, then bloomed into a grin. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to go make tea with the grieving relatives while Steel’s off rummaging through their stuff. That’s what happens when you’re a DS: you’re the distraction.’ He hit the button, listening to it click, then ring on the other end. ‘And when you make DI, you can get your own back on whatever poor sod gets lumbered with you…’

A woman’s voice boomed in his ear. ‘Control room.’

‘Yeah, it’s DI McRae, have you picked up—’

‘Hold on…’ A pause. Some rustling. Then a muffled conversation. ‘Yeah, it’s him again. Wants to know if we’ve got the big ugly bloke that works for Wee Hamish yet.’

‘Hasn’t he got nothing better to do?’

‘You’d think, wouldn’t you?’

‘I can hear you, you know!’

And she was back, full volume. ‘Just checking now, sir.’

Click. Then a creaky version of some waltz. He was on hold.

Chalmers took them out onto the main road, heading back past yet another building site. The whole place was a breeding ground for sandstone-clad little boxy homes with tiny gardens and garages too small to get an actual car in.

Logan reached into his jacket and pulled out the red leather notebook from the cupboard. Stuck it on the dashboard. ‘Found that, hidden in one of the hollowed-out books.’

She gave a small, one-shouldered shrug. ‘What is it?’

‘Some sort of witchcrafty journal thing. Got magic circles and things… Hello?’

The voice of Control was back. ‘Yes.’

‘Yes what?’

‘Yes he was picked up an hour ago by Alpha Three Nine. Was in the Burning Buck, absolutely plastered. They’re checking him every fifteen minutes to make sure he doesn’t choke on his own vomit.’

Chance would be a fine thing.

‘Give it a bit, then stick him in interview room three. We’ll be back in…’ Five minutes to traverse Kintore, half an hour to mollify Anthony Chung’s parents, call it another twenty minutes from there back into town… ‘Make it an hour.’

Pause. ‘Yeah, you better take that up with the desk sergeant.’ And she was gone.

Chalmers picked the book off the dashboard, weighing it in her hand as she drove. ‘Agnes knows her mum and dad are checking up on her, so maybe she keeps a fake diary in the bedroom where they can find it, and a real one in the cupboard under the stairs.’

‘Read it. And call the Procurator Fiscal: I want a GSM trace authorized on Agnes and Anthony’s mobile phones. Then get on to every hospital in Scotland – tell them to look out for attempted suicides.’

‘Can you imagine someone watching you all the time like that, never giving you any privacy? I’d have run away years ago.’

The last-known address for Anthony Chung – before he ran away to rescue his girlfriend from her demented overbearing mother – occupied a corner plot in a swanky development on the southern edge of Kintore. Big houses with big gardens and big cars parked outside. The Chung residence even had a set of wrought-iron gates, mounted on sandstone pillars, but there was nothing behind them – the driveway was empty.

Chalmers pulled up at the kerb. Left the motor running. ‘Not looking good, is it?’

Logan climbed out into the sunshine.

The whumping blades of a helicopter thrummed from somewhere over Kirkhill Forest; a child’s happy squealing came from nearby, punctuated by the high-pitched yip of a small dog; the distant bagpipe drone of a lawnmower. Tuneless whistling from the man three houses down as he washed his Range Rover Sport.

Logan opened the gate and marched up the drive. A portico jutted out of the building, making a little rectangle of shade from the sun. He pressed the button on the intercom and classical music sounded deep within the house, followed by a dog barking. Something big, with lots of teeth.

A minute later, Ravel’s Bolero faded away. Still nothing from the intercom. But the hell-hound sounded like a gun going off, over and over again.

Logan gave the bell another try.

Chalmers wandered up beside him. ‘Maybe they’re out?’

‘Or maybe they’re just— Sodding hell, what now?’

Steel’s ringtone blared out of his pocket. He hauled out his mobile and pointed Chalmers at a sweep of lockblock leading around the side of the house. ‘Try round the back.’

She looked up at the house, rubbing her thumb across the tips of her fingers. ‘What if the dog—’

‘If it could get outside, we’d be running for our lives with no arse in our trousers by now. Go.’

As soon as she was gone, he took the call. ‘I’m doing it, OK? I’ve just been to the Garfields’, and now I’m at the Chungs’.’

‘What’s happening with that sodding necklacing victim? How come you’ve no’ got an ID yet?’

He stared up at the pale-blue sky. A plane roared into view, fresh out of Aberdeen Airport, banking around to head south, or east, going somewhere else. Lucky sods. ‘How many things do you think I can actually do at the one time? I’m looking for—’

‘What did I tell you about organizing things? You’re no’ supposed to be running about—’

‘You told me to come out here! You, not me.’

A harrumph. ‘Aye, well… Don’t change the subject.’

‘We’ll get an ID when we get an ID. Now bugger off and let me do my job.’ He hung up. Chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. Maybe telling Steel to bugger off wasn’t the best of ideas. He switched the thing off.

Chalmers appeared through the gate again. Stopped by the side of the house, and scraped the sole of her shoe across the kerbing that bordered the path. ‘All locked up round there. The only thing moving in there is an Alsatian the size of a horse. So Mr and Mrs Chung are either hiding under the bed, the dog’s eaten them, or they’re out.’ Then more scraping.

Logan took out a business card and printed a note on the back of it in small careful letters: ‘SORRY WE MISSED YOU. CAN YOU GIVE ME A CALL SO I CAN ARRANGE A TIME TO COME OVER AND DISCUSS ANTHONY?’ Then stuck it through the letter box.

Chalmers had finished with the kerbing, now she was dragging her shoe across the grass… ‘Where to?’

Logan marched down the drive towards the gates. ‘Nothing else we can do here. Time to call it a night.’

Logan slid the viewing hatch open and peered into the cell. Blinked. Then backed off a couple of paces, wafting his hand in front of his nose. The sharp-edged stench of stale alcohol curdled the air, making his eyes water. ‘God, it’s like a brewery in there…’

The Police Custody and Security Officer wrinkled her nose. ‘He was doing tequila shots when they picked him up. I hear he’d downed a whole bottle of Bells on his own first.’

Logan stepped up to the hatch again.

The cell wasn’t much bigger than a hotel bathroom. The red-brown terrazzo floor was littered with discarded clothing, bright sunlight streaming through the little square panes of glass that made up the window. They cast glowing cubes of light on Reuben’s naked back, making the tuft of hair between his shoulder blades shine.

He was lying on his side, bum to the door, naked except for a pair of dark-blue pants and a single sock. Snoring. Like a pig from a horror film.

The PCSO shuddered. ‘Took three of us to get him into the recovery position.’

‘He give you any trouble?’

‘Nope: all nice and calm. Told Michelle he loved her, then did the same to Mark. But me?’ She sighed. ‘Always the bridesmaid…’

Reuben twitched and a deep rattling grunt echoed out into the corridor.

She clacked the hatch closed again. ‘Be still my beating heart.’

Logan looked back, along the corridor. ‘Any chance you can stick him in an interview room?’

‘Couldn’t even wake him for the Duty Doc’s examination. That lump of raw sex is dead to the world. Going to have a stinker of a hangover tomorrow morning.’

‘Good.’

The nurse looked up from her copy of Immanuel Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason and smiled. It made little dimples in her plump cheeks. ‘Evening, stranger.’

Logan smiled back. ‘Evening, Claire, how’s Bill’s piles?’

She stuck out a hand, palm down, fingers spread, then wiggled it from side to side. ‘You know what he’s like. Loves a curry, never thinks of the consequences. Men, eh?’

‘That’s why you ladies love us.’ He pointed down the corridor to the private room at the end. Blinds drawn. ‘She in?’

‘Well, she popped out for a bit of shopping, but she’s back now. Why don’t you go in and I’ll be along in a bit?’

Logan let himself into the room. Dark. He squinted in the gloom. ‘What, you’re a vampire now?’

He crossed to the other side and hauled the curtains open. Sunlight streamed in, glittering back from the stainless-steel fixtures. Leaning on the windowsill, he looked down at the little chunk of grass pinned to the ground by thin trees, their green leaves shining in the warm evening. A wee grey shape lumped into view, then hunkered down, eating.

‘That rabbit’s back again. And I think he’s got a knife…’

‘Don’t be daft.’ Sam sat up in the bed. She must’ve had her hair done since lunchtime, because it was a shocking shade of bright scarlet. The tattoos on her arms poked out from the short sleeves of her Skeleton Bob T-shirt. She threw the covers back, exposing a pair of red shorts and thigh-high black-and-white stripy stockings. ‘You bring me a present?’

He stuck a bottle of Lucozade on the bedside cabinet, then followed it up with a copy of Skin Deep – ‘CYANIDE GIRLS GONE WILD’ and a Now – ‘NICHOLE SPEAKS: ACTING SAVED ME FROM A LIFE OF CRIME’. Then collapsed into the visitor’s chair, arms and legs hanging loose. ‘God, what a day.’

‘Did you get milk and Marmite?’

‘In the car.’ He slipped his shoes off and stuck his feet up on the bed. ‘Steel’s being an absolute … pain in the neck. You’d think I’d get some sympathy for getting punched in the nose, wouldn’t you?’

Samantha poked his left foot. ‘You’ve got a hole in your sock.’

‘But no, all she does is moan and whinge.’

‘Honestly, it’s like going out with a hobo. Give it a decent burial and buy some new socks. Maybe even, shock horror, in a colour other than black?’

He smiled at her. ‘Thought you goths loved black.’

‘Not when it comes to underwear.’ She bounced a couple of times. Then scooted forward, until she was kneeling on the edge of the bed, looming over him. ‘I want a new tattoo. Something spiky and swirly, with a cat.’

‘Of course, Steel’s only moaning because the ACC’s sandpapering her backside over this necklacing thing. Press are going mental after we caught the guy who killed him.’

‘Speaking of cats, I think we should get one. Well, a kitten.’

Logan groaned. ‘Can’t we just—’

‘A little fuzzy kitten. We’ll call it Cthulhu!’

‘Cthulhu? Isn’t that a bit—’

‘Shh!’ Samantha froze. ‘They’re coming.’ Then she jumped back into place and wriggled under the sheets. Winked at him. ‘Not a word!’

The door opened and Claire stuck her head in. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’ She wheeled the trolley in, stacks of cups clinking against each other. Then filled one from a metal teapot the size of her head. ‘How’s herself doing today then?’

Logan helped himself to a slosh of milk and a Jammy Dodger. ‘Wants another tattoo. And apparently we need to get a cat.’

‘That’s a lovely idea. Be company for you while she’s in here. Don’t know about the tattoo though…’ She looked down at him, her eyes softening around the edges. ‘Go on, take another biscuit, I won’t tell anyone.’

He did – custard cream – dunking it in his tea as she lumbered the trolley out of the room. Then the door clunked shut behind her.

‘It’s OK, she’s gone.’

Samantha sat back up again. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Claire’s OK, but if I have to sit through one more discourse on the philosophical nature of being, or her husband’s piles, I’m going to scream.’

‘Play nice with the nurses, they can put spiders in your mouth while you sleep, and then where will you be?’ He ate his biscuit. Drank his lukewarm tea.

Samantha picked up the copy of Now, flipping through its glossy pages. ‘I’m serious about that cat, by the way.’

‘I think Rennie’s going to quit.’

‘Thought his wife was planning on turning into a baby factory. How’s that going to work if he’s got no job?’

‘Steel drew a knob in his notebook. Keeps riding him about finding those shoplifting tramps.’

‘Hmmm?’

‘You know what she’s like. Pick, nag, poke, sarcastic comment, arse-related threat…’

‘Yeah…’

‘It’s a bit of cheese, bacon, and vodka. That doesn’t need a detective sergeant, that needs a uniform PC who’s done something stupid and needs taught a lesson.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

‘What?’ Frown. He looked up – she had her face buried in the copy of Now. ‘Are you even listening?’

She peered at him over the top of her magazine, then turned it around, showing off the centre spread: a big photo of Nichole Fyfe in jeans and an oversized white shirt, laughing, with His Majesty’s Theatre in the background: ‘COMING HOME TO ABERDEEN ~ MY SECRET SHAME AT TROUBLED TEENAGE YEARS’. Samantha gave the thing a shake. ‘If you hire a publicist to tell the whole sodding world about it, it’s not a bloody secret!’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was boring you.’

‘Anything to get their face in the gossip mags. “Oh look at me, I’m special and clever!” “Listen to some crap I made up to make myself sound interesting this week!” “Talk about me! I don’t exist otherwise!”’

He wiggled his toe through the hole in his sock. ‘Then why do you keep buying the things?’

‘“Secret” my pale tattooed backside. She probably thinks we’ll read this rubbish and go, “Gosh, she’s such an inspirational figure! If she can go from a delinquent with a criminal record to a multimillionaire film star, maybe I can too!” When really she’s just boasting about how much better she is than the rest of us. I tell you, it’s—’

Logan reached out and snatched the magazine.

‘Hey!’

‘If you hate this stuff so much, you shouldn’t be reading it. It’s bad for your blood pressure.’ He dumped Now on the floor beside his seat. ‘Call it an intervention.’

Samantha thumped back into the pillows with her arms folded across her chest. ‘Spoilsport.’

‘That’s me.’ He dug into his pocket and pulled out a chunky boxed set of CDs. Then waggled it at her. ‘I got you the new Stephen King on audio book, but if you’re not interested…?’

The scowl on her face faded to a smile. ‘You’re a rotten sod, Logan McRae.’

‘Thought so.’ He nipped out to the nearest vending machine for a Crunchie, an Irn-Bru, and a packet of prawn cocktail, and when he got back they just sat there, talking about everything and nothing: tattoos, Steel, kittens, necklaced bodies, holiday plans, being punched in the face… Until finally Logan checked his watch and groaned. ‘Right, got to go. Early start in the morning.’

Samantha looked up at him, a little dent between her eyebrows. ‘See you tomorrow?’

He put his empty tin on the bedside cabinet, next to three unopened bottles of Lucozade and the stack of unread magazines. Then stood. Took hold of her cold hand and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’