22 Dead Little Bodies and Other Stories. Stuart MacBride

‘I’ve been round all the neighbours: no one’s seen Mrs Skinner since she took the kids to school this morning.’

      Logan turned on the spot. Sixteen houses, all crushed together. ‘It’s Saturday, why was she taking the kids to school?’

      ‘Ballet classes for the wee boy, and maths club for the girl. He’s six, she’s seven.’

      Made sense. ‘You tried the school?’

      A shrug. ‘Closes at two on a Saturday.’

      Well, it wasn’t as if they’d still be there anyway. Not now. ‘OK. Any of the neighbours got a contact number for Mrs Skinner?’

      Guthrie pulled out his notepad and flicked through to the marker. Passed it over. ‘Mobile: goes straight to voicemail.’

      Logan tried it anyway.

      Click. ‘Hello, this is Emma, I can’t do the phone thing right now, so make messages after the bleep.’ Beeeeeep.

      ‘Mrs Skinner, this is Detective Inspector Logan McRae of Police Scotland. Can you give me a call when you get this, please? You can get back to me on this number, or call one-zero-one and ask them to put you through. Thanks.’ He hung up. Put his phone away.

      Guthrie sniffed, then slid the back of a finger underneath his nose, as if trying to catch a drip. ‘Shame we can’t deliver the death message by text, isn’t it?’

      Logan stared at him, until the blush came back. ‘For that little moment of compassion, you can stay here till she comes home.’

      His shoulders dipped. ‘Guv.’

      ‘And stop reading porn in the patrol car!’

      Logan pulled in to the kerb and swore his mobile phone out of his pocket. Checked the display. No idea who the number belonged to. Might be Mrs Skinner calling back?

      He hit the button. ‘DI McRae.’

      Harlaw playing fields lay flat and green behind their high wire fence. Three cricket matches, and a game of rugby, grunting and thwacking away in the afternoon light.

      Logan tried again. ‘Hello?’

      A familiar dark, clipped female voice sounded in his ear: ‘You were supposed to be investigating my tree.’

      ‘Mrs Black.’ Oh joy.

       ‘I’ll be putting in a formal complaint. I know my rights! You have to—’

      ‘We are investigating, Mrs Black.’ Keep it calm and level. No shouting. No swearing or telling her what she can do with her sodding complaints. Don’t sigh. ‘I’ve sent an officer round there. He will be taking statements. He will be photographing any evidence. OK?’ You vile, rancid, old battle-axe.

      Silence.

      Outside, a scruffy man with a beard down to the middle of his chest and hair like a diseased scarecrow lurched along the pavement. Scruffy overcoat, suit trousers, hiking boots, trilby hat. Not the best fashion statement in the world.

      A carrier bag swung from one hand, like a pendulum. Something heavy in there. And from the look of him, it was probably cheap and very alcoholic.

      Then Mrs Black was back. ‘That man is making my life a living hell and you’re doing nothing to prevent it. What about my human rights? I demand you do something!’

      Seriously?

      Deep breath. ‘We are doing something. We’re investigating.’ Logan coiled his other hand around the steering wheel. Strangling it. ‘Mrs Black, if Mr Robson’s done something illegal under Scottish law, we’ll arrest him. Putting dog mess in someone’s tree is antisocial, but it isn’t illegal.’

      ‘Of course it’s illegal! How could it not be illegal?’ She was getting louder and shriller. ‘I can’t sleep, I can’t breathe, I can’t … Mr Black …’ A deep breath. ‘It’s the law. He’s harassing me. He’s putting dog mess in my cherry tree!’

      Captain Scruffy stumbled into the path of a large woman wheeling a pushchair along the pavement.

      She flinched to a halt, detoured around him. Shuddering as she marched off.

      He wobbled in place, plastic bag clutched to his chest, yelling slurred obscenities after her.

       ‘I demand you arrest that Robson creature!’

      ‘Mrs Black, this is a civil matter, not a criminal one. You need to get yourself a lawyer and sue him.’

      ‘Why should I spend all that money on a lawyer, when it’s your job to arrest him? I demand you do your job!’

      Captain Scruffy shook his fist at the escaping woman. The motion sent him off again: one step to the right. One to the left. Two to the right. And on his backside in three, two …

       ‘Are you even listening to me?’

      The next stagger took him backwards, off the kerb and into the traffic.

      Sodding hell.

      A blare of horns. An Audi estate swerved, barely missing him with its front bumper. A Range Rover slammed on its brakes.

      Captain Scruffy pirouetted, carrier bag swinging out with the motion.

      BANG. A bright-orange Mini caught the bag, right on the bonnet, spinning him around and bouncing him off the windscreen. Sending him clattering to the tarmac like a bag of dirty laundry.

      ‘Why won’t anyone there take me seriously? I pay my taxes! I have rights! How dare you ignore me!’

      Logan clicked off his seatbelt.

      ‘I have to go.’

       ‘Don’t you dare hang up on me, I—’

      He hung up on her and scrambled out into the warm afternoon.

      The Mini was slewed at thirty degrees across both lanes, its driver already out of the car staring at the bonnet. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God …’ She had a hand to her mouth, eyes wide, knees trembling. Didn’t seem to be even vaguely interested in the man lying on his back in the middle of the road behind her.

      Then she turned on him. ‘YOU BLOODY IDIOT! WHAT’S MUM GOING TO SAY?’ Two fast steps, then she slammed a trainer into the fallen man’s stomach. ‘SHE’S ONLY HAD IT A WEEK!’ Another kick, this one catching him on the side of the head, sending that stupid little hat flying.

      The other drivers stayed where they were, in their cars. No one helped, but a couple dragged out their mobile phones to film it, so that was all right.

      Logan ran. Grabbed her by the arm and spun her around. ‘That’s enough!’

      She swung a fist at Logan’s head. So he slammed her into the side of her mum’s car, grabbed her wrist and put it into a lock hold. Applying pressure till her legs buckled. ‘AAAAAAAAGH! Get off me! GET OFF ME! RAPE! RAPE! HELP!’

      He pulled his cuffs out. ‘I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Procedure – Scotland – Act 1995, because I suspect you of having committed an offence punishable by imprisonment—’

      ‘RAPE! HELP! SOMEONE HELP ME! RAPE!’

      No one got out of their car.

      ‘You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say—’

      ‘HELP! HELP!’

      Deep breath: ‘WOULD YOU SHUT UP?’

      She went limp. Slumped forward until her forehead was resting on the new Mini’s roof. ‘It’s only a week old. She’ll never let me borrow it again.’

      Logan clicked the cuffs over her wrists. ‘But anything you do say will be noted down