22 Dead Little Bodies and Other Stories. Stuart MacBride

– it’s Wheezy Doug’s turn.’

      ‘My heart bleeds.’ Superintendent Young prodded the complaint file. ‘What about this man Mrs Black complained about in the first place …?’

      ‘Justin Robson. She claims to have seen him smoking cannabis in his garden two and a bit years ago. Says he’s now festooning her cherry tree with what she calls “dog mess”.’

      ‘I see.’ Young narrowed his eyes, tapped his fingertips against his pursed lips. ‘And how has CID investigated this unwelcomed act of garden embellishment?’

      Logan shrugged. ‘I told Wheezy Doug to go take a look this afternoon. Haven’t had time to catch up with him yet.’

      ‘Hmm …’

      Silence.

      Young pursed and tapped.

      Logan just sat there.

      Tick. Tick. Tick.

      More pursing and tapping. Then: ‘I think it’s about time someone looked into Mrs Black’s neighbour. I want you to have a word with this Justin Robson. Ask him, politely, to defuse his feud with Mrs Black. And tell him to stop decorating her tree with dog shit. Or at least wait until Christmas. It’s only August.’

      Wonderful. Make-work. As if they didn’t have enough to do.

      ‘Guv, with all due respect, it—’

      ‘Get cracking this evening; I’ll authorize the overtime. Let’s see if we can’t at least look like we’re taking her seriously.’

      ‘Sorry, Guv, still no sign of Mrs Skinner or the kids.’ Guthrie sniffed down the phone. ‘You want me to hang on some more?’

      ‘Does she have her own car?’ Logan unbuckled his seatbelt, as DC Wheezy Doug Andrews parked the pool car behind a Volvo Estate.

      Pitmedden Court basked in the evening light. A long collection of grey harled houses, some in terraces of three or four, some semidetatched. Some with tiny portico porches, some without. A nice road. Tidy gardens and knee-high garden walls. Speed bumps. Hello, Mrs McGillivray, I hope your Jack’s doing well the day.

       ‘Hold on … Yes: dark-green Honda Jazz.’

      ‘Get a lookout request on the go. And make sure the Automatic Number Plate Recognition lot are keeping an eye out. Enough people filmed her husband jumping off the roof on their phones; I don’t want the poor woman seeing him splattered across the cobbles on the evening news.’

       ‘Guv.’

      ‘What about the grandparents?’

       ‘Got an address in Portlethen, and one in Stoneywood. You want me to pack it in here and go speak to them? Or hang about in case she comes home?’

      Logan checked his watch: five past six. ‘Abandon ship. Better give his parents the death message first, then see if either set knows where she is. And get on to the media office too – we need a blanket ban on anything that can ID John Skinner till we’ve spoken to the wife.’ Logan put his phone back in his pocket. Turned to Wheezy Doug. ‘We ready?’

      His bottom lip protruded an inch as he tugged the fluor-escent yellow high-viz waistcoat on over his suit jacket. ‘Feel like a right neep.’

      ‘It’s what all the stylish young men about town are wearing this season. And if you’d looked into it when I sodding well told you to, we wouldn’t be here now.’

      A blush darkened Wheezy’s cheeks. ‘Sorry, Guv.’ He fiddled a BWV unit onto one of the clips that pimpled the waistcoat’s front, like nipples on a cat. The body-worn video unit was about the same size and shape as a packet of cigarettes; with a white credit-card style front with the Police Scotland logo, a camera icon, and the words ‘CCTV In Operation’ on it. ‘Don’t see why you couldn’t have got some spod from Uniform to do this bit, though.’

      ‘Because she’s filed complaints against all the spods from Uniform. No more whingeing.’ Logan climbed out into the sunshine. ‘Come on.’

      The street’s twin rows of tidy gardens were alive with the sound of lawns being mowed. Gravel being raked. Cars being washed. The screech and yell of little children playing. The bark of an overexcited dog. The smell of charcoal and grilling meat oozing its way in through the warm August air.

      Wheezy Doug sighed, then joined him. Pulled out the keys and plipped the pool car’s locks. ‘That’s the one over there – wishing well, crappy cherry tree, and leylandii hedge.’

      The hedge was a proper spite job: at least eight-foot-tall, casting thick dark shadows across the neighbouring property’s lawn.

      Logan puffed out a breath. ‘Suppose we’d better do this.’ He marched across the road to the garden gate. Stopped and looked up at the cherry tree.

      It was thick with shining green leaves, the swelling fruits drooping on wishbone stalks. And tied onto nearly every branch was a small blue plastic bag with something heavy and dark in it. There had to be at least twenty of them on there. Maybe thirty?

      Young was right – it did look … inappropriately festive.

      ‘Right. First up, Justin Robson.’ Logan walked along the front wall, past the thicket of spiteful hedge, and in through the gate next door. All nice and tidy, with rosebushes in lustrous shades of red-and-gold, and a sundial lawn ornament that was two hours out.

      Honeysuckle grew up one side of the front door and over the lintel, hanging with searing yellow flowers. Scenting the air.

      Wheezy Doug stifled a cough. ‘Doesn’t really look like a drug den, does it?’ Then turned and nodded at the white BMW parked out front: spoiler, alloys, low-profile tyres. ‘The car, on the other hand has Drug Dealer written all over it.’ A howch and a spit. He wiped the line of spittle from his chin. ‘Right, everyone on their best behaviour, it’s Candid Camera time.’ He slid the white credit-card cover down, setting the body-worn video recording. Cleared his throat. ‘Detective Constable Douglas Andrews, twentieth August, at thirteen Pitmedden Court, Kincorth, Aberdeen. Present is DI McRae.’ A nod. ‘OK, Guv.’

      Logan got as far as the first knock when the door swung open.

      A short man with trendy hair and a stripy apron stared up at them through smeared glasses. ‘Yes?’

      He held up his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector McRae, CID. Are you Justin Robson?’

      ‘That was quick, I only called two minutes ago.’ He stepped back, wiping his hands on the green-and-white stripes, leaving dark-red smears.

      OK … That definitely looked like blood.

      ‘Mr Robson?’ Logan’s right hand drifted inside his jacket, where the small canister of CS gas lurked. ‘Is everything OK, sir?’

      ‘No it’s not. Not by a long sodding chalk.’ Then he blinked a couple of times. ‘Sorry, where are my manners, come in, come in.’ Reversing down the hallway and into the kitchen.

      Wheezy Doug’s voice dropped to a whisper, a wee smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘Was that blood? Maybe he’s killed Mrs Black and hacked her up?’

      They should be so lucky.

      Logan gave it a beat, then followed Robson through into the kitchen.

      It was compact, but kitted out with a fancy-looking oven and induction hob. Built-in deep-fat fryer, American-style double fridge freezer. A glass of white wine sat on the granite countertop, next to two racks of ribs on a chopping board.

      Wheezy Doug reached for his cuffs as Robson reached for a cleaver. Pointed. ‘Oh no you don’t. Put the knife down and—’

      ‘Knife …? Oh, this.’ He wiggled it a couple of times. ‘Sorry, but we’ve got friends coming round and I need to get these ready.’