Close to the Bone. Stuart MacBride

‘You take that off him, and you take it off him now.’

      The stairwell echoed with footsteps and murmured conversations, overlaying the background hum of the hospital. Then Logan’s phone joined in – Darth Vader’s theme again. Should have left the damn thing turned off. He pulled it out. ‘It’s not—’

      ‘Have you got him? Where are you?’ She sounded like a small child with a new puppy. If the kid had smoked forty a day for its whole life.

      Chalmers pushed through the doors onto the ground floor, holding them open for Logan.

      ‘We’re heading back to the car, but—’

      ‘There! I see you!’

      He froze.

      DCI Steel was marching along the corridor towards them, mobile held against her ear, a big Cheshire grin pulling her wrinkles into a starburst. ‘Who’s Aunty Roberta’s special wee soldier then?’

      He hung up. Stood there, waiting for her.

      Steel gave a hop-skip, then grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a little squeeze. Then frowned. ‘Where is he? How come you’re no’ taking him in?’

      ‘He’s … upstairs under guard. They’re amputating most of his fingers this afternoon.’

      ‘And you’re sure he’s our boy?’

      DS Chalmers held up her notebook. ‘Confessed to the killing, and the jewellery heist too.’

      ‘Excellent!’ Steel let go of Logan and gave Chalmers a hug. Holding on for long enough that the DS started fidgeting.

      Logan took a deep breath. ‘There’s something I need to—’

      ‘The ACC looks like he’s won free boobs for a year; scheduling a press conference for half three.’ She released Chalmers. ‘You’re both invited. Is this no’ great?’ Steel poked at the screen of her mobile, then held it up to her ear. ‘ACC wants a word…’

      ‘Actually, Guy Ferguson—’

      ‘Aye.’ She stuck a finger in her other ear. ‘Dougie? Is his nibs about? Yeah…’

      ‘Look, it’s not as simple as—’

      ‘Sir? I’ve got him here… Yup, under arrest and under guard as we speak.’ The grin got bigger. ‘Well, you know us: CID always gets its man.’

      ‘Seriously, we need to—’

      ‘I’ll put him on.’ Steel held the phone out to Logan. Nodded at him. ‘Go on then.’

      Sod.

      He took the phone. ‘Sir?’

      ‘McRae, well done.’ The Assistant Chief Constable’s put-on posh telephone voice wasn’t enough to cover up the Teuchter underneath – all elongated vowels, dipping for no reason in the middle of random words. ‘Excellent to get a result so quickly.’

      ‘Sir, it’s—’

      ‘No, no: credit where it’s due. Why haven’t you applied for that permanent DI’s position in Peterhead yet? You’re obviously qualified, and a shoo-in after this!’

      A frown. ‘There’s a permanent DI’s job?’

      Steel cleared her throat, stared up at the ceiling tiles. ‘I… Must’ve slipped my mind.’ Scheming old bag.

      ‘Didn’t Roberta tell you? I could have sworn I asked her to disseminate it to the troops. Anyway, you should definitely get your name down.’ He lowered his voice a notch, as if there was a secret on the way. ‘Listen, we’re having a press conference here at half three, and you know me: I like to ensure my team gets the kudos it deserves. Make sure you’ve got a decent suit on, don’t want them thinking we all fell off the back of a tractor, do we?’

      Deep breath. ‘Actually, sir, it’s a bit more complicated…’

      ‘You don’t have a clean suit?’

      ‘No. I mean yes, I’ve got a clean suit, I mean it’s Guy Ferguson. He claims someone necklaced the victim before he got there. He tried to get the tyre off. And when that didn’t work Ferguson stabbed him so he wouldn’t just … burn to death.’

      Steel’s eyes went wide. ‘You … what?’

      Logan turned his back on her. ‘Ferguson got molten rubber all over his hands trying to save the victim. They’re going to amputate most of his fingers this afternoon.’

      Silence on the other end of the phone.

      ‘Sir?’

      The posh telephone voice was slipping. ‘Are you telling me you arrested a good Samaritan?’

      ‘He confessed. And he was in on the jewellery heist too. We’ve got two of his associates in custody and—’

      ‘How the hell am I supposed to spin that? For God’s sake, McRae, could you not have arrested someone who wasn’t a hero?’

      ‘But the jewellery heist—’

      ‘Please tell me he’s not photogenic.’

      Acne scars, thick eyebrows, junior moustache. ‘No, he’s not photogenic.’

      A sigh. ‘Well that’s something at least…’ The ACC hung up.

      Logan returned Steel’s phone. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the DI’s job?’

      ‘Don’t change the subject: you made me look like a right fanny!’

      ‘Tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen, would you?’ He turned and headed back into the hospital.

      ‘Hoy!’ Steel’s voice boomed down the corridor behind him. ‘Where do you think you’re going – we’re no’ finished!’

      ‘Visiting hours. Got someone to see.’

      Interview room three was baking hot, the usual pervading odour of cheesy feet and stale digestive biscuits was joined by a thick layer of oniony BO. Its owner shuffled his bum in his seat – the one on the wrong side of the scarred Formica table. The one bolted to the floor.

      Sammy McCloist, seventeen and a half, squint nose, sideburns like a pedestal mat, hair down to his hunched shoulders. The fibreglass cast on his right wrist reached all the way from the palm of his hand to just before the elbow. Brand new, and it was already filthy.

      He opened his mouth, but the git in the suit sitting next to him put a hand on his arm.

      ‘My client has nothing to say on that matter.’ McCloist’s lawyer smiled. He was huge, broad and tall enough to tower over everyone, even sitting down. Big hands, big chin, big ears, hair cut short trying to disguise the big bald spot.

      ‘Really.’ Logan checked his watch: quarter to three. ‘Well, you know what, Sammy? That’s fine with me. Right now we’re getting a warrant to search you and your mates’ houses. Think we’ll find anything interesting?’

      A sniff. ‘You broke my bloody wrist.’

      ‘You were resisting arrest. Remember?’

      ‘My client strenuously denies your interpretation of events. He was visiting a friend when you attacked him.’

      ‘Do you know we’ve recovered DNA from the jewellery heist? Nice clear sample. Right now they’re seeing which one of you it matches.’ Which was a lie. The way things were going, they’d be lucky to get any DNA results back before Christmas.

      ‘It cannot possibly match my client, because my client wasn’t there. My client—’

      ‘Was visiting his sick granny. You said.’

      ‘Then there’s