Close to the Bone. Stuart MacBride

pulled up in front of yet another barely detached sandstone-clad box, blocking the Audi and Renault parked on the driveway. Then wiped her hands on the steering wheel, leaving a shiny film behind. ‘Guv, about the death message. . .’

      ‘Let me guess, you’re not keen? ’ Logan slipped the printouts back into the file. ‘Our victim had form for stealing cars and breaking into places to rob them. Sound familiar? ’

      ‘The jewellery job.’

      ‘Car was stolen a couple of streets away from here, used in a robbery, then dumped and burned just past Thainstone Mart. Next to Guy Ferguson’s body.’

      Chalmers left another layer of palm sweat on the steering wheel. ‘They do the job, then his mates turn on him after they’ve divvied up the loot. Maybe he was holding out on them? ’

      ‘Could be.’ Logan climbed out into the warm afternoon. ‘What about the registered keeper? ’

      ‘Straight up, far as I can tell: no record in the PNC. Pretty hacked off to lose the car too, was a present from his dad.’ She straightened her wrinkly suit, then marched up to the front door and rang the bell.

      A minute later, it was opened by a wee girl in a bright yellow dress with bears on it, head a mess of black curls. She looked up at DS Chalmers with big blue eyes, then stuck her thumb in her mouth.

      A voice came from somewhere inside: a man. ‘Who is it, Bella? ’

      The thumb came out with a soft pop. ‘My name’s Bella and I’m five and I’m getting a pony for my birthday.’

      Chalmers hunkered down until she was roughly at eye-level. ‘Hello, Bella, my name’s Lorna. Can you tell your mummy and daddy the police are here and they need to speak to them? ’

      A nod sent her curls bobbing, then she turned and shouted back into the house. ‘It’s the pigs!’ Before squealing her way down the corridor, arms waving above her head. ‘You’ll never take me alive, Copper!’

      Chalmers cleared her throat. ‘Well that was . . . nice.’

      A man poked his head out into the corridor. Pulled a face. Then sauntered towards them: jeans, flannel shirt, the top of his head poking through a crown of greying frizz. He wiped his hands on a tea towel. ‘Sorry about that – someone let her watch Life on Mars the other day and she’s been impossible ever since.’ He gave them a smile. ‘How can I help? ’

      Logan stepped forward. ‘Mr Ferguson? ’

      The smile slipped a little. ‘Yes? ’

      ‘Can we come in please, Mr Ferguson? We need to talk.’

      The living room was bright and airy, the sounds of music and laughter coming through from the dining-kitchen. Mr Ferguson sat on the edge of the couch, his wife perched beside him. She fidgeted with the hem of her orange cardigan, working it back and forth between her fingers, pulling little tufts of fluff from the wool.

      She looked over her shoulder at the open door. Slipped a fleck of orange fuzz into her mouth and chewed on it.

      The wee girl who’d swore they’d never take her alive was sitting at the table, shovelling peas into her mouth while an older man cut something up on her plate.

      Mrs Ferguson pulled another tuft of orange fluff. She stared off over Logan’s shoulder, not making eye contact. ‘What’s he done now? ’

      Her husband sighed. ‘Why do you always have to do that? ’

      ‘I’m not doing anything, I’m being realistic. Of course Guy’s done something, why else are they here? ’ She pointed at Logan and Chalmers.

      ‘Sheila, he’s—’

      ‘That boy could cause a fight in a cemetery.’

      Mr Ferguson laid a hand on her knee. Smiled at Logan again. ‘Guy’s a good kid, he just . . . he’s easily led.’

      Logan licked his lips. Cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid we have some bad news. . .’

      Mrs Ferguson’s mouth fell open, eyes wide. Then she stood, walked over to the door and closed it, shutting out the sounds of laughter. ‘I see.’

      ‘Oh God. . .’ Her husband rocked back and forward in his seat. ‘Oh God, no. . .’

      She blinked, wiped the heel of her hand across her eye, then brought her chin up. ‘We only saw him this morning. He was supposed to be getting out on Wednesday.’

      ‘Oh God, Guy. . .’ Mr Ferguson dropped his chin onto his chest and sobbed, fingers digging into the soft cushions of the couch. ‘Oh God. . .’

      Logan glanced at Chalmers, then back at Mrs Ferguson. ‘You saw him this morning? ’

      ‘At the hospital. They said he was going to be all right. Just keeping him in for observation.’ She settled onto the arm of the couch and wrapped an arm around her husband’s heaving shoulders. ‘Was it . . . did he suffer? ’

      ‘He was in hospital? ’ Oh, shite.

      ‘They were fooling around and he got petrol all over his hands. How can someone die from burned hands? ’ A thick line appeared between her eyebrows, two more slashing down from the corners of her mouth. ‘It was that MRSA, wasn’t it? ’

      ‘Ah.’ Logan stood, put his hands in his pockets. Took them out again. Shuffled his feet. ‘There may have been a bit of a . . . mistake.’

      6

      The pool car’s sirens carved a path through the afternoon traffic. Chalmers jinked the car around an eighteen-wheeler loaded down with bags of gravel. ‘Don’t think I’ve ever been so embarrassed in my life.’

      Logan pressed the mobile against his chest. ‘Slow down! I said I wanted to go up to the hospital, not end up in bloody A&E.’ Then back to the phone. ‘What do you mean, he’s not there? ’

      A small pause. Then Sergeant Big Gary McCormack’s bunged-up Aberdonian accent grumbled down the line. ‘What do you think I mean? I mean, he’s not there. Sent a car round there three times this morning and there’s still no sign of him.’

      ‘He’s six foot tall, five foot wide, and looks like someone took a burning cheese grater to his face, how can you not find him? ’

      ‘Are you asking for another punch in the face? I’ve got a whole city to keep safe here, dayshift’s got better things to do than run around after your ungrateful arse!’ A clunk and the line went dead. The bastard had hung up on him.

      Logan rammed the phone back into his pocket. ‘Typical. Ask them to do one simple thing and— Bloody hell!’ He grabbed the handle above the passenger door as Chalmers threw the car into the roundabout, tyres screeching all the way.

      She ground her hands around the steering wheel. ‘They’re going to make a complaint, aren’t they? I don’t want that on my record, how am I supposed to make promotion with that hanging over my—’

      ‘Let them complain. The lab didn’t screw up on the fingerprints, they screwed up on the DNA. It’s not the victim’s: it’s the killer’s. So as soon as we get to the hospital. . .? ’

      ‘We get the killer.’ Chalmers brought her little pointy teeth out to shine. ‘One week on the job and I’ve solved a gangland execution.’

      Logan stared at her. ‘You do know I’m sitting here, don’t you? ’

      At least she had the decency to blush. ‘I meant, we’ve solved a gangland execution. Team effort. . . Sorry, Guv.’

      ‘Just drive.’

      Footsteps clattered back from the spearmint-green walls. Paintings and arty photographs lined the corridor. People in dressing gowns shuffled to the side, leaning on the handrails, watching