22 Dead Little Bodies and Other Stories. Stuart MacBride

       ‘Message deleted. Message two:’ Bleeeeeep.

       ‘Hello? Mr McRae? It’s Marjory from Willkie and Oxford, Solicitors. I know Mr and Mrs Moore said they weren’t interested, but they’ve come back with an offer for the flat. It’s twenty thousand less than the valuation though …’

      ‘Pair of wankers.’ Poke.

       ‘Message deleted. Message three:’ Bleeeeeep.

      ‘Hello, Logan? It’s Hamish.’ The voice was a gravelly, breathless mix of Aberdonian and public school. Rattling at the edges where the cancer was eating him. ‘I’ve been thinking about mortality. Yours. Mine. Reuben’s. Everyone … Give me a call back and we can talk about it.’

      The chip fat congealed at the back of Logan’s throat. Crept forward and lined his mouth. Made his teeth itch. Wee Hamish Mowat. Not exactly the kind of message anyone wanted lying about on their answering machine where Professional Standards could find it.

      And tell me, Acting DI McRae, would you care to explain why Aberdeen’s biggest crime lord is phoning you for a chat, like an old mate?

      No Logan sodding wouldn’t. Poke.

       ‘Message deleted. You have no new messages.’

      Mortality.

      With any luck, Wee Hamish had decided to save everyone the bother, and shot Reuben in the face.

      Yeah, well. Probably not.

      But a boy could dream, couldn’t he?

— dearly beloved —

       7

      ‘… 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,