Shatter the Bones. Stuart MacBride

with trendy glasses and wide flat face, fingers constantly moving. ‘Is the hearse in the loading bay?’

      Logan held up the bag containing the tiny chunk of flesh and bone.

      ‘Oh…’ She raised a broad, dark eyebrow. ‘I see. Well, we’ve had a busy day; I dare say this will represent a change of pace when Mr Hudson returns from his illness.’ She prowled through to the cold storage room, selected a metal door, opened it, and slid a large metal drawer out of the wall.

      A waxy yellow face stared up at them. Swollen golf-ball nose; scraggy grey beard; the skin around the forehead and cheeks slightly baggy, as if it hadn’t been put back properly.

      The APT frowned. ‘Now that’s not right. You should be in number four.’ Sigh. ‘Never mind.’ She opened up the next one along. ‘Here we go.’

      ‘I need the PM done soon as possible. We have—’

      ‘Sadly, with Dr McAllister away, and Mr Hudson…indisposed, it may be a few days before we can do anything.’ She reached towards him, fingers searching like the antennae on a centipede. ‘May I have the remains?’

      Logan got her to sign for the toe, then watched her solemnly place the little pale digit in the drawer. It looked vaguely ridiculous: a tiny nub of flesh in an evidence bag, lying in the middle of that expanse of stainless steel. Then she slid the drawer back into the wall and clunked the heavy door shut.

      Out of sight, but definitely not out of mind.

      3

      ‘Rose Ferris, Daily Mail. You still haven’t answered the question: did you find Jenny McGregor’s body or not?’ The gangly reporter shifted forward in her seat, nostrils flaring.

      Up on the podium DCI Finnie opened his mouth, but the man sitting next to him got in first.

      ‘No, Ms Ferris, we did not.’ Chief Superintendent Bain straightened the front of his dress uniform, the TV lights glinting off the silver buttons and his shiny bald head. ‘And I’d thank the more excitable members of the press to stop spreading these unsubstantiated rumours. People are distressed enough as it is. Is that clear, Ms Ferris?’

      Standing at the side of the room, Logan scanned the sea of faces gathered in the Beach Ballroom’s biggest function suite – the only place near Force Headquarters large enough to fit everyone in. TV cameras, press photographers, and journalists from every major news outlet in the country. All here to watch Grampian Police screwing everything up.

      They were arranged in neat rows of plastic chairs, facing the little dais where DCI Finnie, his boss – Baldy Brian – and a chewed-looking Media Liaison Officer perched behind a table draped in black cloth. A display stand with the Scottish Constabulary crest on it made up the backdrop: ‘SEMPER VIGILO’, ‘Always Vigilant’. Somehow Logan doubted anyone was buying it.

      A rumpled man stuck his hand up: a sagging vulture in a supermarket suit. ‘Michael Larson, Edinburgh Evening Post. “Unsubstantiated”, right? So you’re saying this is all just a big hoax? That the production company—’

      Everything else was drowned out: ‘Here we bloody go…’, ‘Hoy, Larson, your dick’s unsubstantiated!’, ‘Tosser…’

      Larson’s back stiffened. ‘Oh come on, it’s obviously fake. They’re just doing it to boost record sales, aren’t they? There never was a body, it’s all—’

      ‘If there are no other sensible questions, I’m…’ Chief Superintendent Bain frowned out into the crowd as a reporter in the middle of the pack stood up. The whole room turned to stare at the short, stocky bloke, dressed in an expensive-looking grey suit, silk shirt and tie, hair immaculately coiffed. As if he’d come shrink-wrapped in a box.

      He waited until every microphone and camera was pointed in his direction. ‘Colin Miller, Aberdeen Examiner.’ His broad Glaswegian accent didn’t really go with the fancy clothes. The wee man pulled out a sheet of paper in a clear plastic sleeve. ‘This turned up on my desk half an hour ago. And I quote: “The police isn’t taking this seriously. We gave them simple, clear, instructions, but they still was late. So we got no other choice: we had to cut off the wee girl’s toe. She got nine more. No more fucking about.”’

      The room erupted.

      ‘Is it true? Did you find Jenny’s toe?’, ‘Why aren’t Grampian Police taking it seriously?’, ‘How can you justify putting a little girl’s life at risk?’, ‘Will you hand this case over to SOCA now?’, ‘When can we see the toe?’, ‘…public inquiry…’, ‘…people have a right to know…’, ‘…think she’s still alive?’

      Camera flashes went off like a firework display, Finnie, Bain, and the Media Liaison Officer not getting a word in.

      And standing there, basking in the media glow: Colin Miller.

      Wee shite.

      ‘Enough!’ Up at the front of the room, Chief Superintendent Bain banged his hand on the desk, making the jug of water and three empty glasses chink and rattle. ‘Quiet down or I’ll have you all thrown out, are we clear?’

      Gradually the hubbub subsided, bums returned to seats. Until the only one left standing was Colin Miller, still holding the note. ‘Well?’

      Bain cleared his throat. ‘I think…’

      The Media Liaison Officer leaned over and whispered something in Bain’s ear and the Chief Superintendent scowled, whispered something back, then nodded.

      ‘I can confirm that we recovered a toe this afternoon that appears to have come from a small girl, but until DNA results—’

      And the room erupted again.

      4

      Shouts; telephones ringing; constables and support staff bustling about the main CID room with bits of paper; the bitter-sweet smells of stewed coffee and stale sweat overlaid with something cloying, artificial and floral. A little walled-off section lurked on one side, home to Grampian Police’s six detective sergeants. The sheet of A4 Blu-Tacked to the door was starting to look tatty, ‘THE WEE HOOSE’ barely readable through all the rude Post-it notes and biroed-on willies. Logan pushed through and closed the door behind him, shutting out the worst of the noise.

      ‘Jesus…’

      He nodded at the room’s only occupant, a slouching figure with an expanding bald spot, taxi-door ears, and a single eyebrow that crossed his forehead like a strip of hairy carpet. Biohazard Bob Marshall: living proof that even natural selection had off days.

      Bob spun around in his seat. ‘I had a whole packet of fags in here yesterday and they’ve gone missing.’

      ‘Don’t look at me: gave up four weeks ago.’ Logan checked his watch. ‘How come you managed to skip the briefing?’

      ‘Our beloved leader, Acting DI MacDonald, thinks someone needs to keep this bloody department’s head above the sewage-line while you bunch of poofs are off being media hoors.’

      ‘You’re just jealous.’

      ‘Bloody right I am.’ He turned back to his desk. ‘See when it’s my turn to be DI? You bastards are going to know the wrath of Bob.’

      Logan settled behind his desk and powered up his computer. ‘You got that new pathologist, Hudson’s number?’

      ‘Ask Ms Dalrymple.’

      Logan shuddered. ‘No chance.’

      ‘Hmm.’ Bob narrowed his eyes. ‘She still playing the creepy morgue attendant?’

      ‘Three weeks straight. Started doing this weird thing with her fingers too, like she’s got spiders for hands.’

      Bob nodded. ‘Like it. Dedication.’ He scooted his chair forward. ‘Did I ever tell you about the time—’

      The