Close to the Bone. Stuart MacBride

But if I can’t trust Reuben to run things, what can I do? You don’t want it, he can’t handle it; do I sell up to Malcolm McLennan instead?’

      ‘Malk the Knife’s dangerous enough without handing him Aberdeen on a plate too. He’s already got everything south of Dundee.’

      The wheelchair bleeped, then whined back a few feet, before spinning around to face Logan. Wee Hamish wasn’t smiling any more, instead a frown made hills and valleys in the pale skin of his forehead. ‘I shall endeavour to find out who is responsible for your burning victim. And don’t worry, if whoever did it is on my team, they’ll be getting a … disciplin-ary hearing. This isn’t the kind of legacy I want to leave behind.’

      Outside, Logan’s fifth-hand Punto was bathed in the glow of a security light. A huge man leaned back against the bonnet, tree-trunk arms folded over a great barrel of a chest. His three-piece suit looked brand new – the waistcoat straining over that vast belly. Shiny black brogues. Face a patchwork of scar tissue and fat, knitted together with a greying beard. A nose that was barely there any more.

      Logan nodded. ‘Reuben.’

      No response.

      OK… Logan took his keys out. ‘Thought you were more of an overalls and steel toecaps kind of guy.’

      Reuben just stared at him. Then slowly hauled himself off the bonnet.

      The Punto’s suspension rose about three inches.

      Logan drew his shoulders back, brought up his chin. ‘Go on then, out with it.’

      But Reuben just turned and lumbered off into the darkness, brogues scrunching on the gravel. Didn’t say a word.

      Logan stood there until the huge man disappeared, then slid in behind the wheel. The world was full of bloody weirdoes.

      The windows of the caravan next door glowed pale yellow in the darkness and Logan climbed out of the Punto, engine ticking and pinging in the silence. On the other side of the River Don, the lights of the big Tesco glittered through the trees.

      A noise, behind him…

      Logan spun around, hands balling into fists.

      Nothing.

      Grove Cemetery was a mass of silhouettes, reaching up the hill to the railway line and the dual carriageway at the top. The first three rows of headstones were just visible in the orange streetlight. Beyond their reach everything was black and silent. Just the faint rumble of late-night traffic working its way through the Haudagain roundabout.

      ‘Hello?’

      Stand very still, don’t breathe, listen…

      Nope, he was on his own. Which was just as well – no one about to see him acting like something out of a cheap horror movie.

      Twit.

      Logan found his house key and— Stopped. Another knot of bones hung from the door handle. More bloody chicken bones, wrapped up in a ribbon that was stained a greeny-grey by the sodium glow.

      ‘Very funny.’ He unhooked the bundle and chucked it into the bushes that separated the tiny caravan park from the riverbank. ‘Little bastards.’

      Just because the Grampian Country Chickens factory used to be across the road, didn’t mean people had to be a dick about it.

Sunday

       4

      ‘…sometime in the next week. And we’ll have more top eighties hits between now and nine, but first here’s the weather…’

      ‘Unggg…’ Logan rolled over and peered up at the bedroom ceiling. A slice of golden light jabbed through the gap in the curtains, making motes of dust shine against the scarlet walls. He reached out a hand, but Samantha wasn’t there – her side of the bed a rumpled mess of duvet and pillows. Always was a restless sleeper.

      The alarm clock blinked ‘06:15’ at him in cheerless green.

      ‘…expect the sunshine to continue all the way through till Tuesday morning, when an area of high pressure from the east’s going to bring rain with it…’

      He blinked and yawned, scratched, then flopped back in the bed. ‘Come on, you lazy sod: up.’

      Maybe in a minute.

      Logan dug his knife into the jar. ‘Tea and toast, tea and toast, la-la-la-la tea and toast…’ There was only just enough Marmite in the jar to leave a thin skid mark across the melted butter. Better than nothing. He slouched through to the living room, taking breakfast with him.

      A permatanned face on the TV grinned out at the piles of books and cardboard boxes littering the room. ‘…February next year. I went to see two of the film’s stars on the set…’

      The little red light on the answering machine blinked at him. Four messages. Probably all from Steel, moaning at him.

      Two women appeared on the telly, sitting in director’s chairs in front of a poster for Witchfire. They smiled and waved at the camera. Pretty, in a superficial, Hollywood, FHM-calendar-girl kind of way. One with natural-looking ginger hair, the other with full-on postbox scarlet like Samantha’s. The words ‘NICHOLE FYFE’ and ‘MORGAN MITCHELL’ appeared across a banner at the bottom of the screen.

      Logan pressed the button on the answering machine and the electronic voice droned into the untidy room, ‘MESSAGE ONE:’ It was replaced by DCI Steel’s familiar, gravelly tones. ‘Laz? You there? Pick up.’ Pause. ‘I’m no’ kidding, get your arse—’

      Delete.

      On the TV, Mr Fake-Tan simpered. ‘And you’re a redhead now!’

      The one called Nichole laughed. There was a slight trans-Atlantic twang to her accent, but the Aberdonian was still there underneath: ‘I know, isn’t it great? We both had to do it for the film, but I really like it, it’s so liberating. And absolutely no one recognizes me: it’s like being a completely different person!’

      Morgan twirled a lock of her screaming red hair, smiling at the camera as if she was about to rip its clothes off and make it do unspeakably kinky things right there on the studio floor. Her accent was pure New York, ‘Everyone should try it at least once. Unleash the naughty, people!’

      ‘MESSAGE TWO:’ was followed by, ‘Laz, I’m serious—’

      Delete.

      ‘Nichole, what’s it like starring in something as big as Witchfire?’

      ‘It’s immense. My first really meaty dramatic role, and—’

      ‘MESSAGE THREE:’ A man’s voice, sounding depressed. ‘Hello? This is a message for Logan McRae. Logan, it’s Preston’s the architects, it’s been two years since we got the roof on the flat…’ Sigh. ‘And I wondered if you’re any nearer making a decision about going ahead with the build?’

      Should really call him back.

      Delete.

      ‘—was such a shock: I’d actually auditioned for Mrs Shepherd.’

      Morgan flapped her hands, grinning. ‘And I was up for Rowan, but apparently someone was just too fabulous—’

      Logan ripped a bite out of his toast, chasing it down with a slurp of tea.

      ‘MESSAGE FOUR:’ An ominous pause. ‘Logan, it’s your mother. You know I don’t like talking to this thing—’

      Delete.