Close to the Bone. Stuart MacBride

hint of grey was creeping in at the temples of her dark-brown hair. Blue tweed Jackie Onassis suit, cherry-blossom nail varnish. Distinguished, in a cougary kind of way. ‘Could you not have found a less . . . complicated solution? ’

      Sitting at the boardroom table, Logan shrugged. ‘It wasn’t really up to me, ma’am.’

      From here, most of central Aberdeen was laid out in a patchwork of slate and flat roofs, bristling with satellite dishes and obsolete aerials. Big fat seagulls spiralled in the pale-blue sky, like bleached vultures, hunting for scraps and any dogs or children small enough to carry off.

      ‘There’s no way we’ll get a conviction for murder, not in the circumstances. . . Manslaughter, at a stretch, but it won’t be popular.’ She rested her hands on the windowsill. ‘We’ll have to prosecute him for the jewellery robbery, of course. That’s going to play well in the press.’ A sigh. ‘Inspector McRae—’

      ‘I didn’t do it on purpose.’

      ‘No, I suppose not. But still. . .’ She turned, took off her glasses and polished them on a little yellow cloth. ‘Do we have any good news about the necklacing case? ’

      ‘We’re—’

      ‘If you’re about to say, “pursuing several lines of enquiry”, I’m going to stab you in the eye with a pencil. And don’t think I won’t get away with it.’

      Ah. . . ‘The fact he was necklaced out at the Joyriders’ Graveyard has to be significant. Up a rutted track on a dead-end road past Thainstone Mart – it’s not exactly somewhere you just stumble across on your way to the shops, is it? ’

      ‘So whoever it is has local knowledge.’

      ‘They’ve probably got form for unlawful removal as well, or know someone who does. We’re still waiting on a full DNA work-up; you know what it’s like these days. Until we’ve ID’d the victim it’s going to be hard to get anywhere.’

      She slipped her glasses back on. ‘I don’t like this, DI McRae. I don’t like this at all.’

      ‘We could get a forensic anthropologist in? Do a facial reconstruction? ’ He cleared his throat. ‘You know, if we had the budget. . .? ’

      Her eyes narrowed. ‘Find the budget. I’m authorizing it. This case is now Grampian Police’s number one priority.’

      Steel would love that.

      ‘. . .no, that’s not what I’m saying at all.’ The Assistant Chief Constable waved a finger and twenty flashguns went off, reflecting off his high forehead, catching him in all his chunky glory. He must have shaved right before the briefing, because the lower of his two chins was an angry shade of puce flecked with tiny spots of scarlet. ‘What I’m saying is we have to treat these two cases separately. That’s how the law works.’

      The briefing room was packed with row after row of journalists and TV crews, all sticking their hands up and asking questions at the same time:

      ‘Was the surgery a success? ’

      ‘Would you say Guy Ferguson is a hero? ’

      ‘Why did your officers tell his parents he was dead? ’

      ‘Why is Grampian Police persecuting a man who sacrificed his fingers trying to save someone? ’

      The ACC thumped his hand on the table. ‘We’re not persecuting anyone, and it’s irresponsible to suggest otherwise. What Mr Ferguson tried to do for the victim was admirable, breaking into a jewellery store and making off with thirty-four thousand pounds’ worth of merchandise was not.’

      Sitting next to him, the Press Liaison Officer put one hand over the microphone, leaned across and whispered in his ear. Probably something along the lines of, ‘Stop antagonizing the bastards. . .’

      Standing at the back of the room, behind a forest of microphone booms, Logan checked his watch. Fifteen minutes in and they were already struggling.

      Steel nudged him in the ribs, her ancient-ashtray breath congealing around his head. ‘You’re a jammy bugger.’ She jabbed him again. ‘See if it’d been me? No way I’d let you weasel out of it: you’d be up there getting your wee pink bum paddled with the rest of them.’

      ‘I’m not weaselling out of anything. The ACC said he’d do it on his own – not everyone’s out to cover their own arse, some senior officers actually look after their team.’

      A snort. ‘More fool him, then.’

      Logan kept his eyes fixed forwards. ‘PF wants us to get a forensic anthropologist in.’

      ‘Oh, I see: I told you no, so you ran off and clyped to the Fiscal. Judas.’

      Up on stage, the ACC ran a hand across his shiny forehead. ‘I’m not at liberty to discuss that for operational reasons.’ Which meant he didn’t have a clue.

      One of the journalists stood: a scraggy man in an ill-fitting suit, all bones and sharp edges, nose hooked like a beak, Dictaphone pointed like a handgun. ‘Assistant Chief Constable! Michael Larson, Edinburgh Evening Post: how come Grampian Police refuse to mount a proper search for missing teenagers Agnes Garfield and Anthony Chung? ’

      The ACC’s mouth fell open for a moment, then a frown crawled across his face. ‘I’m not at liberty to discuss that.’

      Steel elbowed Logan in the ribs again. ‘Did I no’ tell you to get your bloody finger out and do something on that one? ’

      ‘I haven’t had time, it’s—’

      ‘Now look what you’ve done. And who do you think’s going to get it in the neck, because you’ve no’ bothered your arse? Me. That’s who. Like our delightful ACC needs another excuse. The sweaty chunky wee sod.’

      Larson, from the Edinburgh Evening Post, shook his head. ‘ACC Irvin, why won’t you even listen to the parents’ concerns? Do you just not care, or what? ’

      The press officer leaned forward until the microphone was inches from her face. ‘OK, we’re drifting off topic here. I need everyone to restrict themselves to questions about the case at hand.’

      The journalist turned, looking around at the assembled press. ‘Sounds to me like Grampian Police are doing a cover-up, right? ’

      ACC Irvin thumped his hand on the table again, hard enough to make the microphones wobble. ‘We are not covering anything up!’

      ‘Then answer the question: how come you lot care so little about Anthony and Agnes’s safety that you can’t be bothered looking for them? Eh? ’

      8

      ‘. . .complete and utter disaster.’ The pathologists’ office was empty, so Logan shifted Isobel’s ‘MUMMY AT WORK’ mug out of the way, then perched one bum-cheek on her desk. ‘The ACC looked as if he was going to have an aneurysm.’

      Samantha laughed down the phone at him. ‘So you ran away and hid in the mortuary? ’

      ‘I’m not hiding, I’m. . .’ He switched his mobile from one ear to the other. ‘I beat a tactical retreat till Steel and the ACC calm down. And yes: my nose still hurts, thanks for asking.’

      ‘Coward.’

      ‘What am I supposed to do? Everyone’s acting like Agnes and Anthony are this pair of lost wee kids, but they’re old enough to get married, join the army and get shot at. . . So what if they’ve run off to be together? Who are they hurting? ’

      ‘You going to be late again tonight? ’

      ‘It’s Agnes’s bloody parents causing all the trouble. Don’t like to think about their wee girl out there shagging Anthony Chung.’

      ‘Moan,