Читать книгу Close to the Bone - Stuart MacBride - Страница 18

Logan shifted the hot mug of coffee from one hand to the other, wedging the manila folder under his arm as he struggled with the doorknob. Down the corridor, the main CID office was noisy: the dayshift coasting towards quitting time, the backshift grumbling about all the jobs they’d been lumbered with on a Sunday evening.

Click, and the handle finally turned. He pushed through into his own private sanctuary— Crap.

Detective Chief Inspector Steel was sitting in his chair, feet up on his desk, electronic cigarette clamped between her teeth puffing artificial smoke into the room. ‘Where the hell have you been? ’

He dumped the mug on the desk, then swatted at her feet with the folder. ‘Out.’

She didn’t move. ‘Did I no’ tell you about those bloody teenagers? ’

‘For God’s sake, they’re shacked up somewhere, banging each other’s hormone-addled brains out. It’s not—’

‘I don’t give a badger’s hairy arsehole if they’re on Jeremy Kyle with “My Girlfriend Won’t Swallow”: I told you to get your finger out and visit the bloody parents and at least look as if you’re doing something.’

‘They—’

‘No.’ She slammed a hand down on the desk. ‘This isn’t a debate, it’s an order. Finger – out – now. You made the ACC look a right prawn.’

‘You know what? Sod it.’ He pulled out his warrant card, in its little leather holder, and tossed it into her lap. ‘I’m with Doc Forsyth: screw this for a game of soldiers. I never asked you to make me up to DI, did I? No, I was quite happy where I was, but you had to have someone to run around after your backside, doing all your bloody paperwork.’

‘There we go.’ She checked her watch. ‘Lasted a whole two weeks as acting DI before threatening to flounce off in a strop. That’s a record for you. Was starting to worry you’d grown up a bit.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a big girl’s blouse.’

‘I’ve had enough.’

‘Moan, moan, whinge, bitch, moan. Now I know where Rennie gets it from.’ She flipped open the little leather case and peered at the warrant card within, holding it out at arm’s length. ‘Jesus, there’s a face only a proctologist could love.’

He grabbed his coat from the hook by the door. ‘Enjoy your paperwork.’

‘Park your arse.’ She pointed at the visitor’s chair on the other side of the desk. ‘Soon as Disaster McPherson’s finished screwing things up in Holyrood, you can go back to being a lowly defective sergeant. God, you’re such a drama queen.’

‘I am not a drama—’

‘You don’t see me whingeing on about running CID till Finnie returns from his wee jolly to Malaga, do you? Even though the sodding ACC’s down here every five minutes bitching about the budget and the rotas and the overtime bill? No: because I’m a team player, one of the lads, knuckling under and getting the job done like a pro.’ She had a dig at the underside of her left breast, scratching and tugging at the bra-line. ‘Course, the extra cash helps.’

Logan stared at her. ‘You got a pay rise? ’

Scowl. ‘Don’t change the subject. You, Logan Bum-Face McRae, need to get your act sorted. Being a DI’s no’ about running all over the place, arresting people and getting punched in the nose: it’s about taking a strategic overview, staying in FHQ at the centre of your wee web of influence and organizing things, making the best use of the available manpower. And solving bloody cases!’

‘Like you ever—’

‘Now get your backside in gear and go see those poor missing kids’ parents!’

Silence settled into the room, then a hiss and click as Steel’s electric cigarette gave another puff of steam.

‘What happened to, “being a DI’s no’ about running all over the place”? ’

‘Parents need to see a senior officer, no’ some junior idiot in uniform wiping their nose on their sleeves. And if you’d done something about it in the first sodding place, you wouldn’t be in this mess.’ She chucked his warrant card back at him. ‘Now sod off before I decide to motivate you some more.’

In the main CID office a lone detective constable was bent over the fax machine, cursing and swearing as she pounded away at the keypad. Other than her, the place was deserted: most of the dayshift would be down at their lockers already, getting changed to go home – or hiding so they wouldn’t have to answer the phones and get dragged into anything at five to five on a Sunday evening – while the backshift were off actually doing things, leaving the little corrals of chest-high partitions and scuffed beech desks to sulk unloved beneath stacks of forms and reports, empty sandwich wrappers and dirty mugs.

Logan tried the small walled-off annex at the side of the room – the one with a brass plaque mounted on the door: ‘THE WEE HOOSE’. Someone had stuck a Post-it note to the thing, with ‘CONDEMNED FOR PUBLIC HEALTH REASONS!’ scrawled across it.

Inside, DS Bob Marshall was frowning at a pile of receipts and an expenses form. His desk looked as if a stationery cupboard had thrown up on it. A big orange-and-black biohazard sign was mounted on the wall in front of him. As if anyone actually needed any warning. . .

The other three desks were almost tidy, no sign of their owners, just the shelves laden with box files and manuals, the whiteboards covered with case lists for each DS complete with notes and dates.

Bob scribbled something down on his form. ‘If you’re here to moan about them not catching Reuben yet: don’t. It’s sod all to do with me.’

Logan slumped into his old familiar chair, the one with the wobbly castor and the creaky hydraulic thing, and the coffee stain on the seat that always made it look as if he’d had an unfortunate accident. Loved that chair. He ran a hand along the rough plastic armrest. ‘You’re a jammy sod, Bob.’

‘Mmm. . .’ He didn’t look up. ‘Think I can claim for that bottle of whisky I bought for the Levinston stakeout? ’

‘Being a detective sergeant. OK, so you’ve got to put up with all the crap from the DCs and Uniform – and run around after the DIs like you’re their nanny – but it’s not bad, is it? ’

‘Maybe I can kid on it’s for an informant? ’

Logan swivelled left and right, then back again. The bearings groaned underneath him. Just like the old days. . . ‘You’re not allowed to have unregistered informants: anything Chiz-related would have to go through the Secret Squirrel Squad. Put it down as a teambuilding expense under Finnie’s “Forward To Tomorrow” cost-code. By the time he gets back from Malaga no one will remember what it was meant to be used for anyway.’

‘Ta.’ Bob’s biro scribbled something down on the form.

Logan creaked the seat around in a full circle, drawing his knees in at the last minute to avoid the leg of the desk. ‘See, that’s what I’m talking about: you’re out on stakeouts with a bottle of Glenfiddich, and I’m up to my ears in spreadsheets, cost centres, and budget plans. I remember when—’

‘Yeah, being dragged about, moaned at, and told to do stuff is just great. At least you get a shot at being DI, when’s my go? ’ He grabbed another receipt from the pile and scowled at it. ‘You want anything in particular, or are you just slumming it for fun? ’

‘Going out to the Garfield and Chung houses – fly the flag for community policing.’ Hydraulics go up, hydraulics go down, hydraulics go up.

‘The missing kids? ’ Bob stood and picked a beige corduroy jacket off the back of his chair. ‘Suppose you want me to drive.’

Logan stopped playing with the chair. Narrowed his eyes. ‘What did you have for lunch? ’

Bob pulled the jacket on. ‘Why? ’

‘Bob. . .? ’

‘Cauliflower and lentil curry from that wee place on Belmont Street.’

Which explained the Post-it note on the door.

‘In that case, you can stay here and finish your expenses. No way I’m sharing a car with you.’

‘That’s discrimination.’

‘Self-bloody-preservation more like.’

The Wee Hoose’s door opened and DS Chalmers marched in, carrying a stack of printouts, glasses perched on the tip of her nose. She smiled. ‘Keeping it warm for me? ’ Pause. ‘The chair? ’ Then dumped the paper on the desk behind him.

Right: not his chair any more. Not his desk. He stood. ‘It’s your lucky day, Chalmers – instead of sitting here being gassed to death by Biohazard Bob, I’m rescuing you. Grab your jacket, we’ve got parents to visit.’

Agnes Garfield’s mother glowered at them from the doorway. ‘Well, perhaps if you’d done something when we told you she was missing, she’d be home by now.’ Her long brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she fiddled with the ends, teasing them apart with yellow-tipped fingers. A smoker. But instead of stale cigarettes she stank of Ralgex and spearmint.

Posters festooned Agnes Garfield’s bedroom walls: brooding vampires with greasy hair, mono-browed werewolves, Harry-Bloody-Potter. . . Then there were a few for books that looked as if they’d been lifted from the local Waterstones: The Night Circus, Golden Compass, Witchfire, Narnia. . . One wall was completely given over to bookshelves stuffed full of paperbacks, the occasional hardback sticking out like a tombstone.

The window was open a crack, letting in the scent of freshly mown grass and the smoky promise of a back-garden barbecue from somewhere nearby. Agnes’s room was at the back of the house, with a view out over the rooftops towards the sprawling housing estates of Danestone on one side, and rolling countryside on the other. Fields of violent-yellow rapeseed shone like burnished gold in the evening light.

Logan stepped back. The computer desk in the window recess didn’t have a single piece of clutter or dust on it. ‘And they haven’t been in touch at all? ’

Agnes’s mum stuck her chin out. ‘If they had, we’d have said something! Think we kicked up all this fuss trying to get you to do something because we thought it would be fun? ’

‘Girls that age . . . well, they’re not girls any more, are they? Eighteen years old: they’re adults.’

‘Our Agnes would never run away from home. She loves us. She’s safe here. She knows that.’ The yellowed fingers pecked at her hair, like jaundiced crows going after roadkill. ‘It’s that bloody Anthony Chung. He’s done this. Abducted her. I said so, last time you were round, but you didn’t do anything about it, did you? Bloody police. . .’

DS Chalmers patted her on the shoulder. ‘We’re going to do everything we can, Mrs Garfield.’

Agnes’s mother scowled at her. ‘Don’t you patronize me. If you’d taken us seriously and done something in the first—’

‘Why don’t you leave us to it for a bit, and we’ll come down when we’re done? ’

The chin went up again. ‘You won’t find anything. I’ve been through this room a dozen times, there’s nothing here. Agnes has no secrets from me. You need to be out there, hunting down that bloody Chung!’

Chalmers smiled, showing off those pointy little teeth. ‘I know, but you want us to be thorough, don’t you? We’ll be down soon as we’re done.’

A sniff. A thinning of the lips. Then she jabbed a finger at Logan. ‘If he’d done his job when he came here, instead of drinking tea and eating my biscuits, she’d be home by now.’ A nod. Agnes’s mum backed out of the room and slammed the door.

‘Pffffff. . .’ Logan sank down on the single bed. The wooden frame creaked, the mattress sagging beneath him. ‘Before you say anything, it was DI McPherson. Sent me out here, told me to poke about a bit, reassure them, then get back to solving actual crimes. Course, then he gets seconded to the Scottish Parliament on the Force Integration Project – as if they didn’t have enough bloody numpties screwing things up already – and hey presto, suddenly it’s my problem.’

He glanced up. . . The roof was covered in pale-yellowy-green and white stars. Had to be hundreds of them up there, filling the ceiling from edge to edge. Oh to be young and daft again.

Chalmers poked her way through the bookshelves. ‘Whenever my mother hated any of my boyfriends, it just made them more appealing. Even Hamish Campbell with his big teeth and stickie-out ears. Dad hated him too, and after that I’d have run away with him in a heartbeat. . .’

The bedside cabinet contained a mix of hankies, granny-pants, and a tiny collection of cheap jewellery – each piece individually wrapped in tissue paper. Logan slid the last drawer back into place, then pushed aside the little troupe of fluffy toy animals to peer into the gap between the mattress and the wall. Nothing.

‘What you looking for? ’

‘A diary. Address book. Something like that.’

Thump. A black leather journal landed on the duvet. It was held shut with a black ribbon.

Logan picked it up, weighed it in his hand. ‘Where was it? ’

Chalmers pointed at the bookcase. ‘Top shelf, next to the collected Roald Dahl.’

Left in full view, where anyone could find it? Bizarre.

He undid the ribbon and flicked through the pages to the last entry. It was dated three weeks ago, the day before she disappeared. He held it out. ‘Read.’

‘OK. . . Er. . .’ Chalmers dug out her glasses and slipped them on. ‘“Today was a good day, I didn’t cry once, and Mum made tuna casserole for tea. Jemma and Penny want to go see a band on Saturday night, but I’ve got a history test to revise for, so I don’t think I can go”. . .’ A sniff. She looked up from the pages. ‘Nothing very dramatic. Nothing that says, “I’m running away to set up house with my boyfriend.”’ Chalmers flipped back a few pages. ‘Here she’s talking about watching TV. . .’ Back another two. ‘They went to the shops and bought some new socks and she got a book. . .’ Further back. ‘She wants to have a couple of friends over for dinner, but her mum won’t let her, says they’re a bad influence. And Agnes is actually OK with that.’ Chalmers curled her top lip. ‘Kid’s got no spine.’

‘Does she mention Anthony Chung at all? ’

‘Not so far. Mind you. . .’ Chalmers nodded at the neatly ordered bookcase, then the tidy desk, then the chest of drawers with a single porcelain figurine of a dragon on top of it – perfectly centred in a lace doily. ‘Doesn’t exactly come off as a wild child, does she? Even her books are alphabetically arranged by author. When I was her age I was getting blootered every weekend with Duncan Peters in his parents’ summerhouse, while they were out getting the weekly shop from Asda.’

Logan stood. ‘So she was keeping secrets from the diary? ’

‘With a nosy mum like that? ’ Chalmers closed the book and tied the ribbon. ‘Or maybe Agnes is just really, really boring. . .’ Frown. ‘You notice there’s no photos in here? No birthday parties, or holiday snaps, or hanging out with friends? Just book and movie posters? ’

‘Parents seem genuinely worried about her. Maybe a bit too much? ’

‘Think they’ve killed her and buried her in the basement? ’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time someone did it.’

Chalmers slid the diary back on the shelf. ‘Is it just me, or is there something . . . wrong with the room? You know, like. . .’

Silence.

‘Like what? ’

‘Don’t know. Like someone doesn’t really live here? It’s too ordered, too tidy, there isn’t any personal stuff.’ She picked a stuffed tiger from the group on the bed. ‘Look at these: none of them are worn, or tatty, or threadbare. They’ve never been loved, they’re just things.’ She gave the tiger a hug. ‘Maybe the thing that’s missing is the childhood? ’

Logan looked down at the tidy little room. ‘Or maybe her mum just tidies the hell out of everything any time Agnes goes out? She’s the type. And what sort of freak calls their kid “Agnes” for God’s sake? Should report them to child protection.’ He took the tiger from her and dumped it back on the bed. ‘Five more minutes with the parents, then we’re out of here.’

‘Yes, Guv.’ She followed him out of the bedroom.

‘Tomorrow you can get on to the bus stations and the airport and the ferry terminal – have someone knock up “Have you seen Agnes?” posters.’ He started down the stairs. ‘Then go round all her friends. I want to know if she and Anthony Chung talked about going anywhere.’