Close to the Bone. Stuart MacBride

oversuit, then leaned back against the remains of a VW Polo. The bonnet wasn’t just warm beneath his bum, it was hot.

      DS Chalmers pulled out a police-issue notebook and flipped it open. ‘Call came in at eight twenty, anonymous – well, mobile phone, but it’s a pay-as-you-go disposable. Unidentified male said there was a “bloke on fire with a tyre round his neck and that” out by Thainstone Mart.’

      Frown. ‘Why didn’t the local station take it?’

      She grinned, showing off sharp little teeth. ‘You snooze, you lose.’

      Cocky and ambitious with it. Well, if that’s the way she wanted to play it: he swept an arm out at the collection of burned-out vehicles. ‘I need you to get every car here identified. I want names, addresses, and criminal records of the owners on my desk first thing tomorrow morning.’

      She gave him a stiff-lipped smile and a nod. I am determined, nothing will stop me. ‘I’m on it, Guv.’

      ‘Good.’ Logan pushed himself off the VW Polo. ‘And you can start with this one. Or didn’t you notice it was still warm?’

      The smile slipped. ‘It is? Ah, it’s—’

      ‘Was it burning when you got here?’

      ‘I don’t—’

      ‘Details, Sergeant, they’re important.’

      ‘Only I was… I thought the dead man… I was getting everything sorted and…’ A blush pricked across her cheeks. ‘Sorry, sir.’

      ‘Get the SEB to give it a once-over before they go. Probably won’t find anything, but it’s worth a try.’ He struggled out of the oversuit’s lower half, then swore as a tinny rendition of the ‘Imperial March’ from Star Wars blared out of his phone. Didn’t even need to check the caller ID to know who it was.

      Logan hit the button. ‘What now?’

      A pause, then Detective Chief Inspector Steel’s smoky voice rumbled in his ear. ‘Have you still got me ringing up as Darth Sodding Vader, ’cos that’s no’ funny!’

      Logan pressed mute. ‘Sergeant, I thought I asked you to get those vehicle IDs.’

      She kept her eyes on her shoes. ‘Yes, sir.’

      He smiled. Well, it wouldn’t kill him to throw her a bone. ‘You made a good FAO: keep it up.’ He pressed the mute button again. ‘Now bugger off.’

      Spluttering burst from the phone. ‘Don’t you dare tell me to bugger off! I’m head of sodding CID, no’ some—’

      ‘Not you – DS Chalmers.’ He shooed her away, then shifted his mobile to the other side, pinning it in place with his shoulder while he unzipped the rest of his oversuit. ‘What do you want?’

      ‘Oh…’ A cough. ‘Right. Where’s that bloody paperwork?’

      ‘Your in-tray. Did you even bother checking? Or did you just—’

      ‘No’ the overtime report, you divot, the budget analysis.’

      ‘Oh, I thought you meant where was my paperwork. You know, the paperwork I’m actually supposed to do, as opposed to your paperwork.’

      ‘Bad enough I’ve got all this shite to sort out without you throwing a strop every time you’re asked to do a simple wee task—’

      ‘Look, I’m at a murder scene, so can we skip through all the bollocks to the actual reason you called? Was it just to give me a hard time? Because if it was, you can—’

      ‘And what about those bloody missing teenage lovebirds? When are you planning on finding them, eh? Or are you too busy swanning about with—’

      ‘Which part of “I’m at a murder scene” do you not get?’

      ‘—poor parents worried to death!’

      ‘For God’s sake, they’re both eighteen – they’re not teenagers, they’re adults.’ He shuffled his way out of the blue plastic booties. ‘They’ll be shacked up together in an Edinburgh squat by now. Bet you any money they’re at it like rabbits on a manky futon.’

      ‘That’s no excuse for dragging your heels – bloody woman’s mother’s been on the phone again. Do I look like I’ve no’ got anything better to do than run around after your scarred backside all day?’ A loud sniff rattled down the phone. ‘Pull your sodding socks up: you’ve done bugger all on that jewellery heist last night, there’s a stack of outstanding hate crimes… And while we’re on the subject: your sodding mother!’

      ‘Ah, right: here we go. The real reason.’ Logan scrunched the protective gear up into a ball and dumped it in the bin-bag taped to the remains of an Audi. ‘I’m not her keeper, OK?’

      ‘You tell that bloody woman to—’

      ‘I said don’t invite her to Jasmine’s dance recital, but would you listen to me? Noooooo.’

      ‘—sodding paisley patterned Attila the Hun! And another thing—’

      A huge mud-spattered Porsche Cayenne four-by-four growled to a halt on the rutted track, behind the SEB Transit van. Clunk and the headlights went off, leaving the driver illuminated in the glow of the dashboard. Mouth a thin grim line, nostrils flared, eyes screwed into slits. Brilliant, it was going to be one of those evenings.

      ‘—in the ear with a stick!’

      Logan held up a hand and waved at the Porsche. ‘Got to go, Pathologist number two’s up.’

      ‘Laz, I’m warning you, either—’

      He hung up.

      Dr Isobel MacAllister stuck both hands against the base of her spine and puffed. Her SOC suit swelled in front, as if she was shoplifting a floor cushion. She hauled back the elasticated hood, showing off a puffy, rose-coloured face framed by a droopy bobbed haircut that looked a lot more functional than glamorous. ‘Did you really just ask for a time of death?’

      DS Chalmers nodded, biro hovering over a blank page in her notebook.

      Isobel turned to Logan. ‘She’s new, isn’t she?’

      ‘Just transferred down from Northern.’

      ‘Lord preserve us from the Tartan Bunnet Brigade.’ Isobel unzipped the front of her suit. ‘The body appears to have been necklaced – rubber tyre placed over the head and one arm, making it impossible for the victim to remove, then the outer surface is doused with paraffin and set alight. Death is usually caused by heat and smoke inhalation, leading to shock and heart failure. That can take up to twenty minutes.’ She wiped a hand across her shiny forehead. ‘It’s a popular method of summary execution in some African states.’

      DS Chalmers scribbled something in her pad. Then looked up. ‘And Colombia too. I saw this documentary where the cartels would chain the guy up on an overpass, fill the tyre with petrol and light it. Everyone driving home would see them hanging there, burning, so they knew what would happen if they screwed with…’ She cleared her throat. ‘Why are you all staring at me?’

      Isobel shook her head. ‘Anyway, I’ve—’

      A car horn blared across the clearing.

      She stared at the sky for a moment. Gritted her teeth. Tried again: ‘As I was saying, I’ve—’

       Breeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!

      ‘Oh, for God’s sake, I can’t get five minutes to myself, can I? Not even five minutes.’ She jabbed a finger in the direction of her Porsche four-by-four, took a deep trembling breath, and let rip. ‘SEAN JOSHUA MILLER-MACALLISTER, YOU STOP THAT THIS INSTANT!’

      Silence.