22 Dead Little Bodies and Other Stories. Stuart MacBride

They’ve bought a new-build out by Inverurie instead. The market isn’t all that buoyant for one-bedroom flats right now.’

      Great. Just – sodding – great.

      ‘Yeah, thanks anyway.’ The line went dead and he slipped the phone back in his pocket.

      Eighteen months, and they’d achieved exactly bugger all.

      He deflated a little further, then thunked his forehead off the CID door three times.

      No reply. So Logan let himself in.

      The main CID office wasn’t anywhere near as big as the one they’d shared before the change to Police Scotland: no big fancy flatscreen TV for briefings; no sink for making tea and coffee; no vending machine full of crisps, chocolate, and energy drinks. Instead, it was barely large enough to squeeze in four desks – one on each wall – and a pair of whiteboards covered in low-level crimes and lower-level criminals. A motley patchwork of manky carpet tiles clung to the concrete floor. Ceiling tiles stained like a toddler’s nappy. Ancient computers with flickering screens.

      Even the filing cabinets looked depressed.

      Logan wandered over to one of them and checked the kettle perched on top: half empty. He stuck it on to boil. ‘Where’s everyone?’

      DS Baird looked up from her screen. Pulled the earbuds out. ‘Sorry, Guv?’ Her short blonde hair formed random spikes on top of a rectangular face with heavy eyebrows. A pair of thick-framed glasses in black magnified her eyes to twice the size they should have been. Her smile was like a wee shiny gift. ‘Coffee with two, if you’re making.’

      He pulled two mugs out of the top drawer. ‘Where’s Stoney and Wheezy Doug?’

      She pointed at one of the empty desks. ‘DC “couldn’t find his own backside with both hands” Stone’s off trying to find who’s been vandalizing cars in Mannofield, and DC “just as useless” Andrews is off taking witness statements for that fire-raising at the Garthdee Asda.’

      ‘You going to forgive them any time soon?’

      ‘No. You need something?’

      ‘Just interested.’ The kettle rumbled to a boil.

      ‘Hear you caught a jumper this afternoon.’ Creases appeared between those thick black eyebrows. ‘Well, not “caught” caught, but you know what I mean.’

      ‘Guthrie’s delivering the death message.’

      A nod. ‘I hate doing suicides. Don’t mind telling someone their loved one’s died in a car crash, or an accident, or they’ve been stabbed, but suicides …’ Baird shuddered. ‘It’s the look of betrayal, you know?’

      Logan dug a spoon into the coffee, breaking the kitty-litter clumps back into their individual grains. ‘How many times do I have to tell people not to put damp spoons in the jar?’

      ‘Like you’re making it up to spite them.’ A sigh. ‘Can’t really blame the family, though, can you?’

      The office phone rang, and she picked it up. ‘CID: DS Baird.’ Then her expression curdled. ‘Not again… Really? … Uh-huh …’

      Two sugars in one mug, milk in the other.

      ‘No. I can’t … He’s not here.’

      Logan put the black coffee on her desk. She looked up and gave him a grimace in return. Put the phone against her chest, smothering the mouthpiece. ‘Sorry, Guv, but Mrs Black’s downstairs again.’

      He took a sip of his own coffee. ‘Which brave soul doth possess the Nutter Spoon of Doom upon this dark day?’

      Baird scooted her chair over to DC Andrews’s desk and pulled a wooden spoon from the top drawer. It had a photo of a woman’s face stuck to the bowl end: grey hair, squinty eyes, long nose, mouth stretched out and down, as if she’d taken a bite out of something foul.

      ‘Ooh …’ Logan sooked a breath in through his teeth. ‘Looks like it’s not your lucky day, Denise, for whomever wields the Nutter Spoon of Doom must—’

      ‘I’m on the no-go list. Apparently I’m in collusion with McLennan Homes and the Planning Department to launder drug money for the Taliban.’ She held out the spoon with its glowering stuck-on face. ‘Sorry, Guv.’

      Logan backed away from it. ‘Maybe someone in uniform could—’

      ‘They’re all banned from talking to her. She’s got complaints in against everyone else.’

      ‘Everyone?’

      ‘Yes, but …’ Baird waggled the spoon at him. ‘Maybe she’ll like you?’

      Logan took the Nutter Spoon of Doom. It was only a little bit of wood with a photo Sellotaped to the end, but it felt as if it was carved from lead.

      Oh joy.

       3

      Logan stopped outside the visiting-room door. Took a deep breath. Didn’t open it.

      The reception area was quiet. A bored PC slumped behind the bulletproof glass that topped the curved desk, poking away at a smartphone. Posters clarted the walls, warning against drug farms in cul-de-sacs and walking home alone at night. An information point cycled through views of Aberdeen. And a strange smell of mouldy cheese permeated the room.

      No point putting it off any longer.

      He shifted his grip on the thick manila folder tucked under his arm, opened the door, and stepped inside. It wasn’t much bigger than a cupboard, with a couple of filing cabinets on one wall and a small opaque window that didn’t really overlook the rear-podium car park.

      Mrs Black was sitting on the other side of the small table that took up most of the available space. She narrowed her eyes, tugged at the hem of her skirt, and sniffed – turning that long nose up towards the ceiling. Her short grey hair shimmered as if it had been conditioned within an inch of its existence. Then the glasses came out of the bag clutched to her chest. Slipped on with all the pomp and circumstance of a royal wedding. Voice clipped and dark. ‘I have been waiting here for nearly an hour.’

      Logan suppressed a sigh. Did his best to keep his voice polite and neutral. ‘Mrs Black.’ Stepped inside and closed the visiting-room door. ‘I’m sorry if my trying to catch criminals and keep the streets safe has inconvenienced you in any way.’

      Her lips pursed. Pause. Two. Three. Four. ‘He’s doing it again.’

      Of course he is.

      Logan thumped the manila folder down on the little table. It was about as thick as a house brick, bulging with paperwork; a red elastic band wrapped around it to keep everything in. Then he settled into the room’s remaining seat and took out his notebook. ‘Right, we’d better take it from the beginning. You said, “He’s doing it again.” Who is?’

      Mrs Black folded her arms across her chest and scowled. ‘You know very well, “Who”.’ A small shudder. ‘Justin Robson.’ The name came out as if it tasted of sick. ‘He’s … He’s covering my cherry tree with … dog mess.’

      ‘Dog mess.’

      ‘That’s right: dog mess. I want him arrested.’

      Logan tapped his pen against the folder. ‘And you’ve seen him doing it?’

      ‘Of course not. He’s too careful for that. Does it in the middle of the night when Mr Black and I are sleeping.’ Another shudder. ‘Up till all hours listening to that horrible rap music of his, with all the swearing and violence. I’ve complained to the council, but do they do anything? Of course they don’t.’

      ‘You do know that we can’t arrest someone without proof, don’t you?’