Close to the Bone. Stuart MacBride

      3

      Midges bobbed and weaved in the glow of a SEB spotlight, shining like tiny blood-thirsty diamonds. In the middle distance, Tom Jones had given way to ABBA’s ‘Dancing Queen’. Logan stuck a finger in his ear and shifted a couple of paces further away from the grumbling diesel generators. ‘What? I can’t hear you.’

      On the other end of the phone, DCI Steel got a notch louder. ‘I said, what makes you think it’s drugs? ’

      ‘Might not be, but it looks like an execution. We’ll know more when we get an ID on the body: my money’s on a scheemie drug runner from Manchester or Birmingham.’

      ‘Sodding hell, that’s all I need: some flash bastard knocking off rival dealers like it’s a performance art.’ Silence. Then a plastic sooking sound. ‘No way I’m carrying the bucket on this one.’

      ‘Thought that was the point of being in charge of CID? ’

      ‘Sometimes shite flows uphill, Laz, and this one’s got “Assistant Chief Constable’s Oversight” written all over it in black magic marker. Let him deal with the members of the press.’

      The SEB tech who’d taken him to see the body shuffled into view, holding one corner of what looked like a crate wrapped in miles of thick blue plastic. It was big enough to take a kneeling man chained to a metal stake. She grimaced at him. ‘Budge over a bit, eh? This is bloody heavy. . .’

      ‘And by “members” I mean—’

      ‘Got to go, the Procurator Fiscal wants a word.’ Which was a lie – she’d left nearly half an hour ago.

      ‘Oh no you don’t: you’re no’ going nowhere till you tell me where we are with that bloody jewellery heist. You think you get to dump all your other cases just because you’ve got a juicy wee gangland execution on the cards? ’

      ‘Investigations are on-going, and—’

      ‘You’ve done sod all, haven’t you? ’

      ‘I’ve been at a bloody murder scene!’

      The SEB hauled their blue plastic parcel through the graveyard of burned-out cars, swearing and grunting all the way, feet kicking up a cloud of pale dust from the parched earth.

      ‘Well, whose fault is that? You’re a DI now: act like it! Park your arse behind your desk and organize things – send some other bugger off to play at the scene.’

      Rotten, stinky, wrinkled, bastarding. . . ‘You’re the one who told me to come out here! I wasn’t even on duty, I was having my tea.’ He pulled the mobile from his ear and glared at it. Concentrate hard enough and her head would explode like an overripe pluke on the other end of the phone. BANG! Brains and wee bits of skull all over the walls.

      ‘Er. . . Guv? ’ DS Chalmers tapped him on the shoulder, a frown pulling one side of her face down. ‘Are you OK? Only you’ve gone kinda purple. . .’

      Logan gritted his teeth, put the phone back to his ear. ‘You and I are going to have words about this tomorrow.’

      ‘Sodding right we will. I’m no’—’

      He hung up. Glowered at his phone for a beat, then jabbed the ‘OFF’ button. Leave it on and she’d just call back, again and again, until he finally snapped and murdered someone. Logan took a deep breath and hissed it out through his nose. ‘I swear to God. . .’

      Chalmers held up her notebook, like a small shield. ‘We got chassis numbers off all the cars, and guess what: I found my Range Rover.’ Pause. ‘The Range Rover on the CCTV? The one that ram-raided the off-licence? ’

      ‘What about the Golf? ’

      ‘Reported stolen at half ten this morning. According to Control: the registered keeper says he drove down the Kintore chippy for his tea Friday evening, came back and parked outside his mum’s house, and when he woke up it was gone.’ She checked her notes. ‘The car, not his mum’s house.’

      ‘Go see him. Tell him sod all, just rattle his cage and see what flies out.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’ Chalmers wrote something in her notebook, then stashed it away in her jacket. ‘I was right about the Colombian drug cartel thing, by the way. Had a boyfriend who downloaded videos of them hanging there, on fire like they were these. . . horrible Christmas decorations. He always got really horny after watching them too.’ She wiped her hands down the front of her jacket, then rubbed the fingertips together, as if they were dirty. ‘I broke it off: way too creepy.’

      Logan just stared at her.

      ‘Ah. . . Too much information from the new girl. Right.’ Chalmers backed away a couple of steps. ‘I’ll go chase up that . . . yes.’ And she was gone.

      ‘I know, I know, I’m sorry.’ Logan shifted the mobile from one side to the other, pinning it between his ear and his shoulder as he took the battered Fiat Punto around the Clinterty roundabout, heading back along the dual carriageway towards Aberdeen. ‘You know what she’s like.’

      Samantha sighed. ‘Logan McRae, you’re not supposed to let her walk all over you any more. You know that. We talked about this.’

      He changed gear and put his foot down. The Punto’s diesel engine coughed and rattled, struggling to haul the car up the hill. ‘I’m going to be a little late.’

      ‘Pfff. . . I’ll forgive you this time.’

      ‘Good. I’ll even—’

      ‘On one condition: you wash the dishes.’

      ‘Why’s it always my turn to wash the dishes? ’

      ‘Because you’re too cheap to buy a dishwasher.’ There was a pause. ‘Or a decent car.’

      A Toyota iQ wheeched past in the outside lane. One-litre engine, and it was still faster than the bloody Punto.

      ‘I’m not cheap, I’m just—’

      ‘“Prudent” is another way of saying “cheap”. Why I put up with you, I have no idea.’ But it sounded as if she was smiling as she said it. ‘Don’t be too late. And stand up for yourself next time!’

      ‘Promise.’ Logan hung up and fumbled with the buttons until the words ‘DS RENNIE’ appeared on the screen.

      Ringing. . . Ringing. . . Ringing. . . Then, ‘Mmmph, nnnng. . .’ A yawn. A groan. ‘Time is it? ’

      Logan checked. ‘Just gone ten.’

      ‘Urgh. . .’ Scuffing noises. ‘I’m not on till midnight.’

      ‘Yeah, well I was supposed to be off at five, so I think I’m winning the “Who Gets To Whinge About Their Day” game, don’t you? Jewellery heist.’

      ‘Hold on. . .’ A clunk, followed by what sounded like someone pouring a bottle of lemonade into a half-filled bath. ‘Unnnng. . .’

      For God’s sake.

      Logan grimaced. ‘You better not be in the toilet!’

      A long, suspicious-sounding pause. ‘I’m not in the toilet, I’m . . . in the kitchen . . . making a cup of tea.’

      Disgusting little sod.

      ‘I want a list of suspects for that jewellery heist before you clock off, understand? Go round the pawnshops, the resetters, and every other scumbag we’ve ever done for accepting stolen goods.’

      ‘But it’s the middle of the—’

      ‘I don’t care if you have to drag them out of their beds: you get me that list. Or better yet, an arrest!’

      ‘But