Shatter the Bones. Stuart MacBride

‘Read.’

      It was all in block capitals, the letters lopsided and sloppy, traced over and over again. Probably disguising their handwriting. ‘Sodding hell…’

      The inspector wrinkled her nose. ‘Well? What does it say?’

      ‘It’s a tip-off. Says Alison and Jenny were snatched by a paedophile ring.’

      Bob squeaked around in his chair and peered over Logan’s shoulder. ‘They’ve spelled “paedophile” wrong. And “snatched”…’

      ‘Says they’re going to auction Jenny off – after they’ve all … Shite. After they’ve all “sampled the merchandise”. They’re going to kill her mum soon as they get the ransom.’

      Guthrie nodded. ‘Arrived in the post today. Finnie said I had to show you, then get it up to the lab.’

      Steel crunched her way through her biscuit, frowning. ‘Bit risky, isn’t it?’

      Logan read the note again. ‘Could be a hoax?’

      ‘Don’t know.’ Bob poked the evidence bag. ‘If you’re going to lust after wee girls, what could be better than screwing the pretty six-year-old off the telly? Bet there’s paedos up and down the country recording Britain’s Next Big Star and wanking themselves ragged every time she comes on.’

      Celebrity paedophilia – why not, they’d had celebrity everything else … Logan handed the note back to Guthrie. ‘Anything on the envelope?’

      ‘Just the address. Didn’t even have a stamp; lucky it got delivered at all.’

      ‘Right,’ Steel dumped her mug on Doreen’s desk. ‘Laz, get onto Bucksburn: I want the Diddymen hauling in every pervert they’ve ever dealt with. And no’ just the ones on the register, the lapsed ones too. We’ll start with the paedos, then try our luck with the rapists. And don’t let them fob you off with—’

      ‘Why would rapists—’

      ‘Just because they’ve no’ been done for kiddy-fiddling, doesn’t mean they’re no’ into it. Sometimes you’ve got to convict the filthy fucks for what you can get.’

      Logan thumped the wodge of stapled-together paper down on DI Steel’s desk. ‘Three hundred and thirty-nine sex offenders living in the north-east. That’s them arranged by offence, in order of closeness to Alison McGregor’s house.’

      Steel prodded the paperwork with a stained finger. ‘This all of them?’

      ‘All the ones on the register. Ingram says he’ll get the rest written up by close of play.’

      ‘Sodding hell, that’s a lot of perverts…’

      ‘Can’t drag them all into Bucksburn, or FHQ – someone’s bound to notice and call the media, so I’ve booked a bunch of rooms at the Munro House Hotel. Told them we’re interviewing for Special Constables; they’re even doing us a discount on the corporate rate. If we haul three-hundred-odd people in there over a couple of days, no one’s going to notice.’

      She scrunched one eye closed, flipping through the wodge of printouts. ‘Right, get onto Big Gary, I want—’

      ‘Twelve-man team, all accredited interviewers, six video cameras, and an unmarked minibus. Ready to go whenever you are.’

      There was a pause.

      ‘Nobody likes a smart arse.’

      The hotel was a huge Victorian mock-Scottish-Baronial mansion – a forbidding lump of granite with turrets, bay windows, and gable ends shaped like a staircase for crows – only a five-minute walk from the Bucksburn police station, where the Offender Management Unit were based.

      Steel marched up the sweeping grey steps, past two carved lions. ‘How many we doing?’

      Logan checked the list. ‘As many as we can get through. DI Ingram’s lot are bringing them in from half nine.’

      ‘All paedos?’

      ‘A mixture. I’ve told him to bring them in based on how close they live to Alison McGregor’s house.’

      The unmarked minibus kangarooed into the car park, a grim-faced Rennie wrestling with the steering wheel. It jerked to a halt and a ragged cheer went up from the passengers.

      ‘Fair enough.’ She shoved open the heavy oak door and barged through into the reception, with Logan right behind her.

      The Munro’s carpet was a muted blue tartan, with a pale groove worn into it leading away into the gloomy interior. Wooden panelling lined the walls, peppered with water colours of mountains in heavy golden frames. A stag’s head was stuffed and mounted above the reception desk, glaring out in mild surprise at Logan and the inspector.

      ‘Can I help you?’ A man in a charcoal-coloured suit appeared at the inspector’s elbow. He stood slightly hunched and knock-kneed, as if his underwear was doing horrible things to his undercarriage.

      Logan flashed his warrant card. ‘I called earlier about running some interviews?’

      ‘Ah, yes, of course: the Special Constables.’ The man clasped his hands together in front of his chest. ‘Your six rooms should be ready shortly, but I’ve taken the liberty of setting up a base of operations in the Crianlarich meeting room as well. There should be complimentary teas, coffees, and some pastries waiting for you.’

      Steel wrapped an arm around the concierge, smiling up at him. ‘Throw in a couple of steak pies and a bottle of Macallan, and I might never leave.’

      Frank Baker (24) – Indecent Exposure, Lewd and Libidinous Practices and Behaviour

      ‘I really don’t see how this concerns me, Mr…?’

      ‘Sergeant McRae.’

      ‘Ah…’ Frank Baker crossed his legs, made sure the crease in his tan chinos was perfectly straight, then did the same with the parting in his floppy brown hair. ‘Well, Sergeant, you see, I’ve never actually met—’

      ‘You live on the same street.’ Detective Constable Rennie crossed his legs, ran a hand through his own hair. Little flakes of skin were peeling off of his nose and forehead, glowing in the sun’s rays. ‘You have to see why we’d want to talk to you, Frank.’

      ‘Yes, well…’ He cleared his throat, then glanced at the little video camera mounted on a cheap tripod in the corner. ‘It’s really all just a silly mistake, you see, it was a misunderstanding, I really shouldn’t be on the register in the first place, I just—’

      ‘You just happened to expose yourself through the railings of a primary school?’ Logan checked the notes pinned to his clipboard. ‘Then did it again at the duck pond in Duthie Park.’

      ‘Well…’

      ‘And then you tried to get a little boy to come into the toilets with you in Hazlehead Park, didn’t you, Mr Baker?’

      Frank Baker’s cheeks turned a fiery shade of pink. Then his chin came up. ‘I don’t see how that makes me a kidnapper!’

      Rennie leaned forward and patted Baker on the knee. ‘It’s OK, Frank, no one’s saying you kidnapped anyone, we—’

      ‘They dragged me out of work to come here, you know! Two hairy constables, where I work!’

      Logan checked his notes. ‘Says here you’re a welder?’

      ‘They came to my work.’ He uncrossed his legs, then crossed them the other way around. Went through the same routine with all his creases. ‘No one there knows about … my misunderstanding. And I’d like to keep it that way.’

      ‘A welder?’ Somehow it was difficult to imagine the prissy floppy-haired neat-freak sitting in front of them doing anything as messy as that.

      ‘They had no business bundling me into a patrol