Close to the Bone. Stuart MacBride

       Script V: 4.0.2

      The name ‘NICHOLE FYFE’ was written in red ink on the top-right corner… Nichole Fyfe… Nichole Fyfe… Wasn’t she the blonde woman? The one in that awful Disney romcom about undertakers last year? The one on the telly that morning with the red hair?

      Logan pulled an evidence bag out of his pocket and stuck the weed and pills into it, sealed the sticky flap, and wrote down the details on the form printed onto the plastic.

      ‘…I mean it isn’t right, is it? Boy like that sniffing around our…’ Mrs Garfield’s mouth clicked shut as Logan walked into the room.

      The kitchen was warm, the units painted a terracotta colour, French doors lying wide open, as if they were in the middle of the Mediterranean and not a housing estate in Northfield, overlooking the backside of Middlefield Primary School.

      Chalmers nodded towards a mug on the counter. Her mouth turned down at the edges. ‘Milk and two.’

      Probably came with free spit.

      Logan dumped the evidence bag next to it. ‘I found this in your daughter’s room under the stairs.’

      Chalmers whistled. ‘That’s a lot of marijuana.’

      Agnes’s mum squared her shoulders, voice getting louder with every word: ‘You planted that, didn’t you? You planted it to deflect attention from the fact your lot are doing nothing to find my bloody daughter! You sick—’

      A man’s voice blared out across the kitchen. ‘For God’s sake, Doreen!’ Agnes’s dad shuffled in: black goatee, long greying hair swept back from his high forehead with a black Alice band, wearing a T-shirt and torn jeans. Like a middle-aged skateboard dude. He even had a tattoo snaking down his left arm. ‘It’s hers, OK? They didn’t plant anything.’

      Doreen Garfield’s mouth hung open. ‘You knew about this?’

      ‘Why do you think I kept buying all that incense? It covered the smell. The weed kept her … level. Meant she didn’t need the pills as much.’

      Doreen grabbed Logan’s mug and sent it hurling across the kitchen, tea spraying out behind it like a banner. ‘HOW COULD YOU NOT TELL ME?’ It hit the wall by Agnes’s dad’s head and exploded.

      ‘You wouldn’t listen! You’re so busy controlling everything, you never stop to talk to her.’ He slapped a hand against his chest. ‘I did, OK? While you were busy making rules and trying to control everything and everyone, I sat down and listened to what she had to say.’

      ‘How could you?’

      He brought his chin up. Stared Logan in the eye. ‘She was doing so much better: had a boyfriend, got good marks in her exams; she was going to Aberdeen University in September to do accountancy…’

      Doreen dug her fingers into her hair. ‘It’s all that … Chung boy’s fault. If he’d left her alone, we’d—’

      ‘Oh, come off it, she dotes on him. You have no idea how depressed she was when you said she couldn’t see him any more, have you? No sodding clue at all.’

      ‘He was a bad influence on—’

      ‘You’re the bad bloody influence! She didn’t slit her wrists for fun, did she?’

      Silence.

      ‘She tried to kill herself?’ Logan closed his eyes. Gritted his teeth. Counted to five. ‘Did you not think it would be important to actually tell us that when you reported her missing?’

      ‘It was… We didn’t want it spread all over the papers. What would she think if she saw it? That we betrayed her?’ He looked away. ‘She’s been doing so much better.’

      ‘When did it happen?’

      ‘Just after Christmas. I found her in the back garden with a bottle of tequila and a packet of razor blades…’ A little shudder twitched at his shoulders.

      Doreen took another mug from the dishwasher and put it on the working surface. The porcelain rattled against the terracotta tiles, shaking in time with her hand. But her voice was perfectly level as she plucked a teabag from the box. ‘That’s why we read her diary every week. We have to be sure she’s not … having those kinds of thoughts. We have to be ready to help.’

      The kettle growled and rumbled back to the boil.

      Logan pulled out his notebook. ‘Does Agnes have a car?’

      Her mother shook her head. ‘We don’t allow her to drive. Not on her medication – it wouldn’t be safe.’

      Agnes’s dad bent and picked up the bits of broken mug from the floor. ‘What if she’s hurt herself?’

      Logan slipped the evidence bag into his pocket. ‘The fact that Anthony Chung is missing too means they’ve probably run away together. Let’s not get all worked up over nothing.’ He turned towards the door. Then stopped. ‘Now before we go, is there anything else you’re not telling us?’

       11

      Chalmers pulled away from the kerb as Logan fastened his seatbelt. Her mouth was one thin line, tiny wrinkles standing out at the side of her eye. Face fixed dead front.

      Logan turned his phone on. ‘I take it there’s a reason you’re sulking?’

      ‘I’m not sulking, sir.’

      ‘Come on then, out with it.’

      Her jaw twitched a couple of times, as if she was biting down on something bitter. ‘With all due respect: you sent me off to make tea while you were searching the cupboard under the stairs. The little woman makes the tea while the big strong man does the actual police work.’ She wrenched the steering wheel left, taking them out the end of the road. ‘Let me guess: you didn’t think my pretty little head was up to it. Making the bloody tea’s all we’re good for.’

      ‘I see.’ He scrolled through his list of contacts until the number for Control appeared. ‘Feel better now?’

      ‘It’s sexist.’

      ‘Seriously?’ A smile broke across his face, then bloomed into a grin. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to go make tea with the grieving relatives while Steel’s off rummaging through their stuff. That’s what happens when you’re a DS: you’re the distraction.’ He hit the button, listening to it click, then ring on the other end. ‘And when you make DI, you can get your own back on whatever poor sod gets lumbered with you…’

      A woman’s voice boomed in his ear. ‘Control room.’

      ‘Yeah, it’s DI McRae, have you picked up—’

      ‘Hold on…’ A pause. Some rustling. Then a muffled conversation. ‘Yeah, it’s him again. Wants to know if we’ve got the big ugly bloke that works for Wee Hamish yet.’

      ‘Hasn’t he got nothing better to do?’

      ‘You’d think, wouldn’t you?’

      ‘I can hear you, you know!’

      And she was back, full volume. ‘Just checking now, sir.’

      Click. Then a creaky version of some waltz. He was on hold.

      Chalmers took them out onto the main road, heading back past yet another building site. The whole place was a breeding ground for sandstone-clad little boxy homes with tiny gardens and garages too small to get an actual car in.

      Logan reached into his jacket and pulled out the red leather notebook from the cupboard. Stuck it on the dashboard. ‘Found that, hidden in one of the