Shatter the Bones. Stuart MacBride

kept in a fridge. Maybe up to a week?’

      So Bob was right – Jenny was dead before they’d even received the first ransom demand.

      ‘The amputation’s pretty good, certainly done by someone with medical training using a thin, fine blade. And thiopental sodium is used to knock people out before they go in for surgery – before they put you on the air and gas. So you’re looking at hospitals: operating theatres, in-house pharmacy, neurology, the ITU … Or maybe a vet? I think they use it on animals too.’

      ‘What about doctors’ surgeries, GPs, people like that?’

      ‘They don’t get anything stronger than lidocaine. Same with dentists.’

      ‘Thanks, Doc.’ Deep breath. ‘Can you do me a favour?’

      ‘Depends.’

      ‘When you tell “the wankers”, don’t call them that, OK? Just because you’re retired doesn’t mean they won’t take it out on us.’ Logan pressed disconnect, then looked up to see Steel staring at him.

      ‘Well?’

      He told her about the drugs and a smile broke across her face.

      ‘Right.’ She banged her hand against the table. ‘Listen up you shiftless bunch of jessies – when you’re interviewing your mongs and stots this afternoon, I want to know if anyone’s got connections up the hospital or at a vet’s, OK? Job, volunteer work, friend, family – the lot.’ She stuck two fingers up. ‘Hospitals, vets.’

      Rennie frowned. ‘How come?’

      ‘’Cos I say so. Laz, call Ingram – tell him we need everyone we’ve seen today back tomorrow morning.’ She beamed, then punched Logan in the arm. ‘We’ve finally—’

      ‘Ow!’ Bloody hell, that stung! He wrapped a hand around his deltoid, trying to squeeze the pain away. ‘What was that for?’ The skin underneath throbbed and burned.

      ‘Oh stop moaning, you big girl’s blouse. Barely touched you. We’re actually going to catch the bastards.’

      ‘That hurt!’

      ‘Jesus, and I thought Rennie was a wimp.’

      The constable paused, halfway through a huge sausage roll. ‘Hey!’

      Logan rubbed at his arm. ‘I don’t go around hitting you, do I?’

      ‘Inspector?’ The lumpy constable hooked a thumb over her shoulder at the corridor outside.

      ‘Aye, I know.’ Steel wiped her fingers down the front of her red satin shirt, leaving little greasy smears. ‘Come on, Laz, carpe pervertum.’

      13

      Bruce Preston (46) – Possession of Indecent Images; Animal Cruelty; Obstructing, Assaulting, Molesting or Hindering an Officer in the Course of their Duty; Bestiality

      ‘Well, I suppose…’ Bruce Preston shifted in his seat, squiggling his bum left and right, as if he had worms, or an unreachable itch. He was slightly chubby, slightly balding; completely unremarkable in every way, except for the huge collection of photos of people having sex with dogs the IB had found on his computer. Apparently Bruce’s home-made snaps all featured next door’s Cairn terrier.

      He gave a huge, overacting shrug, arms coming out to forty-five degrees. The bitter-oniony stench of stale armpits got even worse. ‘But it’s not really the same thing, is it? Besides, I don’t really watch the TV any more. Not since that cow on Channel Five did that “Britain’s Secret Sex Shame” show.’

      ‘And you’re sure you don’t know anyone at the hospital, or a vet’s?’

      Preston rubbed his fingers along his thighs, cheeks flushing pink. ‘Told you – I’m not allowed within a hundred metres of a veterinary surgery or dog-walking park.’

      Logan logged the end of the interview, thanked Bruce Preston for his time, then told him he could see himself out.

      As soon as the door clunked shut, Logan sprawled in his chair, hanging over the edges; arms dangling, fingertips brushing the carpet. ‘That was fun.’

      Rennie gagged. ‘Bloody hell … Mind if I open the window?’

      ‘Oh, God, please!’

      Clunk. And the sound of traffic filtered in from the nearby dual carriageway, the rumble of a plane fading into the distance, the tweet and whitter of birds.

      ‘Do you think Steel’s right?’

      Logan checked his watch – nearly twenty to four. He stretched, then flopped back again. ‘Been rumours doing the rounds about the “livestock” market for years. Kids, women, snatched to order, sold in secret auctions … All we need to do is catch one of these bastards and the whole thing falls apart.’ There was a creaking noise. He looked over to see Rennie slumped in the other seat, arms hanging over the edges, fingertips brushing the tartan carpet.

      ‘Will you stop doing that?’

      Rennie raised an eyebrow. ‘What?’

      ‘The bloody monkey-see-monkey-do routine. It’s getting on my nerves.’

      ‘NLP, my dear Sergeant McRae. Did it when I was on the Interviewer Accreditation Course last month. Got top marks, by the way.’ He slumped back, just like Logan. ‘It puts the subject at ease subconsciously, makes them think they have a connection, an ally in the room.’

      ‘There’s going to be a bloodstain in the room if you don’t cut it out.’

      Rennie sat up straight. ‘What mark did you get?’

      ‘None of your business.’ Sixty-five percent. ‘How many more on the list for today?’

      ‘Three. Then it’s DI Bell’s turn.’ He smiled. ‘Hey, maybe we’ll get lucky and crack the case before the end of the day? Interview Superstar Rennie and his sidekick: Sergeant McRae.’

      ‘You’re a dick, you know that, don’t you?’

      Henry MacDonald (24) – Assault, Possession of a Controlled Drug, Drunk and Incapable, Breach of the Peace, Public Indecency

      ‘Yes, but only on the TV.’ Henry sat completely still in the hotel chair, knees firmly clamped together, hands clasped in his lap. Someone had dressed him up in his Sunday best – a shiny grey suit that looked like a charity shop special. Didn’t really fit him. Hair that he must have cut himself, probably with garden shears.

      Rennie crossed his arms, then uncrossed them again. Rearranged himself into Henry’s mirror image. It didn’t take a perfect score in Neuro-Linguistic Programming to see the technique wasn’t going to work this time.

      Not that it made any difference. No one was admitting to knowing anyone at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary, Albyn, Wood End, Cornhill, or any of the other hospitals in the north-east. And it was the same story with the area’s fifty-eight veterinarian practices.

      Mind you, they were only a third of the way through Grampian’s Sex Offenders’ Register, not to mention the six or seven dozen more on DI Ingram’s unofficial list.

      But at least they were doing something…

      Silence.

      It took Logan a moment to realize both Rennie and MacDonald were staring at him. ‘Hmm…’ He cleared his throat. ‘In what way?’

      ‘Well,’ Rennie shifted in his chair, ‘I mean, it’s not likely, is it?’

      Nope, still no clue.

      Logan shrugged. ‘You never know.’ Checked his clipboard. ‘Erm … your social worker says you’ve applied for chemical castration?’

      MacDonald shrugged, the barest twitch of his shoulders. ‘I don’t like feeling … I…’ A long, hard frown. ‘I don’t want to