Shatter the Bones. Stuart MacBride

was Guthrie, clutching an assortment of white paper bags, most of them turned peek-a-boo with grease. ‘Wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find an all-night baker’s in Kincorth.’ He handed a bag to Logan.

      ‘Bacon?’

      ‘Fried egg. Us veggies got to stick together, right?’

      Logan took a bite out of the soft, floury roll, getting a little dribble of yolk on his chin. ‘What about the ambulance?’

      ‘Out front. Got Billy Dawson in the back already, they say the other bloke just needs a couple of stitches.’ Guthrie helped himself to a flaky-pastry-log thing. Speaking with his mouth full, getting little chips of pale brown all down the front of his black uniform. ‘Social worker’s here too, Guv. Wants a word.’

      The social worker was in the lounge, poking through a twirly CD tower unit, her black hair streaked with grey: tweedy trousers, yellow shirt, red waistcoat straining over her belly … like something out of Wind in the Willows. She turned and sniffed at Logan. Then held out a clipboard. ‘I need you to sign.’

      He scanned the form, then scrawled his signature in the box with a cross marked beside it. ‘It’s a—’

      ‘Ooh, I’ve got this one.’ She pulled a copy of Annie Lennox’s Diva from the stand. ‘You ever meet her?’

      ‘Er, no. We—’

      ‘I was born in Torry, just like her. Even went to the same school: Harlaw Academy.’ The social worker turned the album over, frowning at the back. ‘Is Trisha still here, or have you carted her off?’

      ‘Trisha?’

      ‘Trisha Brown? The mother? Addict? Has a little boy about so high?’ She held a hand level with her own swollen belly.

      ‘Upstairs.’

      A nod. ‘I remember thinking, “When I grow up, I’m going to be that famous. Going to be on Top of the Pops and MTV and in all the papers.” Sang in a couple of bands, nearly got a record deal.’ She stuck the album back in the tower. ‘Then my dad died, my mum fell apart, and I had to get a job in Asda. Here endeth the pop star’s dream.’

      ‘We’re doing her for possession, resisting arrest, and assaulting a police officer.’

      The social worker took the clipboard back from Logan, squinted at his signature. ‘Loren McRoy? That not a girl’s name?’

      ‘Logan, and it’s McRae, not McRoy.’

      ‘God, your handwriting’s worse than mine. Lucy Woods, nice to meet you.’ She headed towards the stairs. ‘Might as well get it over with.’

      ‘Trisha? Can you hear me, Trisha?’ She squatted in front of the stick-thin figure. ‘Trisha? It’s Lucy. I’ve got to take wee Ricky into care while you’re with the police tonight, OK?’

      Trisha swung her head around, like a lump of pasty concrete attached to a chain. Pupils like tiny bugs, heavy lids, mouth open, lips connected by little strings of drool. ‘Whmmm?’

      ‘I said I’ve got to take wee Ricky into care. While you’re in custody?’

      A frown crawled slowly across Trisha’s pale face. ‘Who’re…?’

      ‘Lucy. Lucy Woods? From the social?’

      The frown turned into a glacial smile. ‘But I’m comfy here.’

      The social worker sighed, looked up at Logan. ‘Heroin?’

      ‘Probably. They tried to redecorate the toilet with it when we forced entry.’

      ‘Oh Trisha, you know it’s not good to you. Makes you do bad things.’

      Trisha blinked. It seemed to take a lot of effort. ‘Don’t let them take Ricky! Don’t…’ She pointed a bony finger at the PC standing in the corner. ‘He tried to rape me!’

      Sigh. ‘How much did you take, Trisha?’

      ‘He did! He tried to rape me!’

      ‘That’s a woman, Trisha.’

      Frown. ‘Oh…’ A string of drool spiralled its way to her sunken chest. ‘Someone tried to rape me…’

      Logan folded his arms. ‘She’s been like this for about an hour. Was fine before that.’

      ‘Yes, well, it takes a while for drugs to be absorbed by the system, especially if you practise as much as Trisha.’ Lucy Woods sat back on her heels. ‘Might be an idea to get her up to A&E for the night, just in case.’

      Which was a pain in the arse, but much better than her dying from an overdose in custody. ‘I’ll get someone to run her up.’

      ‘Good.’ The social worker stood. ‘We’re going to take care of wee Ricky for you, OK Trisha?’

      Blink. Blink. She smacked her lips. ‘No…’ Frown. ‘Mum. Mum’ll take him.’ Blink.

      ‘Your mum? Thought she was still in Craiginches?’

      ‘Someone raped me…’ And this time, when her eyes closed they didn’t open again.

      ‘Craiginches?’ Logan watched the social worker shake her head, check Trisha’s pulse, then haul herself to her feet.

      ‘Where’s the wee lad?’

      ‘Other bedroom. She going to be OK?’

      ‘I took over her case when she was thirteen. She’s averaged about two ODs a year since. Better have the hospital pump her stomach too: never know what she’s swallowed.’

      Wee Ricky was huddled in the corner of the room, eyes darting back and forth as Logan followed the social worker inside. Clothes lay strewn across the scabby beige carpet, a line of syringes and flame-blackened spoons on the bedside cabinet.

      One of the Forced Entry team was leaning back against an ancient-looking sideboard, black crash helmet sitting beside her while she flipped through a copy of Hello! She slapped it down on a pile of celebrity gossip mags.

      Even drug dealers and addicts had aspirations.

      ‘Sarge.’ She nodded at the boy. ‘Watch: he bites.’

      The child bared his teeth, a small growling noise coming from his throat, filthy fingers clutching a plastic Buzz Lightyear like a claw-hammer.

      ‘Ricky?’ Lucy Woods lowered herself down in front of him, waistcoat groaning. ‘You remember me, Ricky?’

      The kid stared at her for a moment, then nodded.

      ‘Good. We’re going to take you to stay with your granny tonight, OK? While your mum’s not feeling well.’

      Logan hauled the pool car around onto Abbotswell Crescent and into a labyrinth of blank grey granite houses, silent in the dawn’s pale glow.

      Wee Ricky sat in the back with PC Guthrie, the constable looking every bit as wary and worried as the three-year-old.

      Lucy Woods tapped on the passenger-side window. ‘How much do you think that lot’s worth then?’

      Bunches of flowers wrapped in cellophane made a slick that nearly covered the pavement outside a nondescript semi-detached. Teddy bears were tied to the knee-high fence, along with angels, unicorns, and other assorted cuddly toys. Candles in glass jars flickered among the tributes, their light fading before the rising sun. A banner with, ‘JENNY, WE’LL NEVER STOP BELIEVING!’ was tied to stakes in the front garden. A smattering of the posters they’d given away with the Scottish Sun at the weekend: ‘ALISON AND JENNY ~ NEVER GIVE UP!’ stuck to walls, stapled to sticks.

      A handful of people sat at one end of the display, wrapped up in sleeping bags and heavy parka coats, two of them were still awake, smoking cigarettes and sharing a Thermos. They stopped to stare at the pool car as it drifted by.

      One