Close to the Bone (37 page)

‘As long as it’s free, he can skip bollock-naked up and down Holburn Street for all I care. Now get your backside over there and explain to Anthony Chung’s mum and dad why their wee boy’s no’ coming home for dinner. And speak to that sodding author!’

‘OK. . . Thanks.’ Logan hung up and stuck the mobile back in his pocket.

PC Sim eased the pool car around the Haudagain roundabout, driving as if the car was full of eggs, or sweating dynamite, windscreen wipers squeaking their way back and forth clearing away the misty drizzle. ‘How’s the case review going? ’

Logan wound up his window. ‘Like getting a prostate exam from a grizzly bear.’

Sim licked her lips. ‘Are we
really
going to meet the guy who wrote
Witchfire
? ’

‘Thought you didn’t like the book.’

‘It’s just, if I’d known, I could’ve taken a copy along for signing.’ She stared straight again, picking at the steering wheel cover. ‘Not for me, for my niece.’

Yeah, right.

‘According to Insch, the guy’s going to be there all day, doing script rewrites.’

Sim nodded. Smiled. Picked at the steering wheel some more. ‘And you’re sure we shouldn’t go speak to Anthony Chung’s parents first? ’

A sigh stole the air from Logan’s lungs. ‘Their son’s dead. Soon as we tell them, that’s it: their lives are blighted forever. Half an hour isn’t going to change that.’

‘Yeah, I’m not looking forward to it either.’

A battered Daihatsu 4Trak growled past in the outside lane, blue-grey smoke sputtering from the four-by-four’s exhaust pipe.

Sim pointed at a manila folder on the dashboard. ‘I searched through everything reported in the UK for the last two years – only one dead body still missing: a middle-aged man, killed in a motorbike crash in Shropshire fifteen years ago. They dug up one corner of the graveyard to move a gas main and can’t remember where they put him.’ She changed smoothly into fourth. ‘So I got in touch with every council in Scotland and asked them to check their graveyards, just in case there’s an open grave they don’t know about, and the occupant’s gone walkabout.’

‘And? ’

‘The words “don’t hold your breath” spring to mind. You know what councils are like: it’ll take months.’

Ah well, too much to hope for an easy solution.

The 4Trak switched lanes right in front of them. PC Sim slammed on the brakes, missing it by inches, her face constricting around two flared nostrils. ‘Dirty . . . bleeding . . . poop-head!’

‘How can
no one
be missing a seventy-year-old dead woman? ’

Sim leaned on the horn, the harsh ‘
Breeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!’
cutting through the drizzly afternoon. ‘PICK A LANE!’

‘Will you calm down? ’

‘It’s flipping idiots like that who cause accidents. . .’ Her eyes bugged. ‘Did he just give me the finger? ’

The 4Trak driver’s arm was silhouetted between the front seats. Fist clenched, middle finger extended.

A cold, jagged smile spread across Sim’s face. Then she reached forward and flipped the switch – blue-and-white lights flickered behind the pool car’s radiator grille, the siren giving its two-tone wail.

‘Can you not just let it go? ’

‘Sorry, Guv, but we’ve got a
duty
to uphold.’

In the 4Trak, the middle finger was joined by the rest of its friends. But the silly sod slowed, then pulled into the bus stop up ahead.

Sim pulled in behind, lights flickering back at them from the four-by-four’s muddy paintwork. ‘Right, you little stinker. . .’ She grabbed her hat off the dashboard and climbed out into the drizzle.

Might as well let her get it out of her system.

Logan pulled out his phone and settled back in his seat. Dialled Chalmers’s number. ‘Professor Marks: has he cracked yet? ’

‘
Guv, was just about to call you. We’ve got another Oriental gentleman in A&E – says he “fell down some stairs”. Managed to shatter both his kneecaps. According to the orthopaedic surgeon he must’ve fallen on a bag of hammers on the way down.
’

Now there was a blast from the past. ‘Claw hammers? ’

‘
Can’t tell. Gentleman in question is a Hong Gil-dong. Mr Hong entered the country legally on a student visa from South Korea twelve years ago. Never went home.
’

Obviously.

Logan drummed his fingers on the dashboard for a minute. ‘What was he studying? ’

‘
I. . .’
A pause. ‘
Sorry, Guv, I’ll find out.
’

‘Want to bet it was horticulture? ’

31

A deep bass rumble filled Soundstage Two, low and loud enough to make Logan’s lungs vibrate in his chest. All around him, people stood in silence, staring at the four-storey block-of-flats set as Nichole Fyfe scrambled across the roof, chased by three men dressed entirely in black. The action flickered across a massive widescreen TV down on the studio floor.

Half a dozen sprinkler heads were going full pelt, drenching the roof in fake rain, making everything glisten. Then a flash of light turned the world monochrome, followed by another bellow of thunder.

Nichole skidded to a halt at the edge of the roof, arms pinwheeling as a camera swooped up the building on a massive crane.

The three men behind her fanned out, knives and swords sparking in the lights as—

Someone tugged at Logan’s sleeve.

He turned, and there was Nichole Fyfe, looking up at him.

Eh?

Logan glanced back at the roof. No . . . she was still up there. Back to the one on the ground.

The likeness was uncanny.

She smiled. Then stood on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear, her breath warm and sweet against the side of his face. ‘Body double. They won’t let me do my own stunts.’ A shrug. ‘Insurance.’ She backed off an inch or two and blinked at him. Then closed in again. ‘I wanted to say thank you for . . . well, you know, this morning.’

He moved around, his lips brushing her hair on the way to return the favour. It smelled of mandarins. And something sweet and slightly sweaty. ‘I’m just glad you’re OK.’

Why was it suddenly getting uncomfortably warm?

Another flash, and a BOOM of thunder.

She wrapped her arms around his chest and kissed him on the cheek. Mouthed, ‘Thank you’ at him. Her eyes were huge and dark.

Logan cleared his throat.

And then the word ‘
CUT!’
boomed out of the speakers, followed by Zander’s voice. ‘
Sorry people, we’re getting terrible lens-flare off Inquisitor Three’s sword. Can we get it sprayed? ’

As soon as the instruction was given an army of people swarmed out onto the roof, and everyone on the studio floor started talking at once.

Nichole stepped back. ‘Is Robbie going to be all right? ’ Then a frown. ‘I mean, the real Robbie, not . . . you know.’

‘He’s going to be detained under the Mental Health Act so they can run some tests. Then he’s probably going to be treated in a secure facility for a while.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it? That he’s getting help? ’ She wrapped her arms around herself. ‘I can’t believe he’d
do
that to Wee Robbie.’

‘Sometimes people do strange things.’

She stepped in close and kissed Logan on the cheek again. ‘Thank you for looking after him. And me.’

‘Yes, well. . .’

A dark rumbling voice cut through the background noise. ‘Nichole? ’ Insch. ‘They’re ready for you in makeup, if you’re sure you’re up to it? ’

She nodded, patted Logan on the chest. ‘Thanks again.’ Then turned and marched away, arms swinging at her sides, as if she was on parade.

Insch scowled, dug into his pocket, and came out with a little bag of apple slices. Popped one in his mouth. ‘You should’ve spoken to him yesterday. And I
don’t
appreciate you chatting up my lead actress.’

‘I wasn’t chatting. . .’ Every bloody time. ‘Is the writer here? ’

‘Mr Hunter is in conference room two.
Try
not to piss him off, or he’ll spend the rest of the day hitting the gin and we’ll get nothing decent out of him till tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Can’t promise anything. . .’ He craned his neck, scanning the soundstage. ‘Now, have you seen PC Sim? ’

Conference room two was thick with the dark scent of freshly brewed coffee – a percolator gurgling away to itself in one corner of the large rectangular room. A load of desks had been pushed together to make one huge surface, the top nearly invisible beneath piles of different-coloured paper covered in scribbles and highlighter pen. The blinds were down, leaving the room to slump in the unsympathetic glare of fluorescent lighting. One wall was completely plastered in yellow, green, and orange Post-it notes, the opposite one hiding behind what looked like A4 frames from a storyboard.

The room’s only occupant sat in the middle, frowning at the screen of a laptop, a ‘W
ORLD’S
W
ORST
D
AD
’ mug sitting by his mouse. Mid-forties; curly hair surrounding a high, domed forehead that shone in the overhead lights; goatee beard; glasses obviously bought to look ‘hip’ and ‘with it’, but failing.

Sim grabbed Logan’s sleeve. ‘Eek! That’s him!’

Logan produced his warrant card. ‘Mr Hunter? ’

The man didn’t look up from his screen, just waved a hand at the far corner of the desk. ‘Just put them over there, and tell David I’ve solved his continuity problem with four-fifteen.’

‘Police, Mr Hunter. I’m Detective Inspector McRae, this is PC Sim. We need to ask you a few questions.’

He peered at them over the top of his glasses. ‘You haven’t brought the sandwiches? ’

Logan pulled out a chair and sat. ‘Sim, why don’t you get us all a cup of coffee. I’m sure Mr Hunter would like a refill.’

‘Mmmpnnnn. . .? ’ She fidgeted for a moment, blushed, then scurried off to fiddle with the percolator.

Hunter shifted a stack of scripts to one side, and picked up a copy of the
Scottish Sun
. ‘Let me guess, you’re here about this? ’ The headline, ‘S
ICKO
S
ATANIC
K
ILLER
C
OPIES
F
ILM
M
URDER
S
CENE
’ sat above a photo of the house in Kintore, and an artist’s impression of the Ring Knot from
Witchfire
.

Logan took out his notebook. ‘Do you have a lot of fans, Mr Hunter? ’

‘Why do the police always have to use people’s last names? Is it meant to intimidate us? ’

‘It’s meant to be polite.’

‘Then you can call me William. I hate Will, Willy, Billy, and Bill, so don’t bother.’ He dumped the paper on the table. ‘And yes, I have a lot of fans. Got so many emails I’ve had to employ a young woman to pretend to be me. Which is ironic, it’s normally the other way round on the internet. But all that, “Where do you get your ideas from?” “Who would you cast in a film?” “When’s the next book out?” was driving me mad.’

‘What about . . . the more obsessive ones? ’

His mouth stretched out and down. ‘Nutters, you mean? Every writer gets them. People who think the characters are real, people who think they’ve got the right to tell you how to do your job, people who want to be Fingermen, people who want me to write their life story. You name it, I’ve had it.’

Sim plonked a coffee down in front of Logan, her hand shaking hard enough to slop some out over the side and onto the blue pages from a revised script. Then she scurried around to the other side and picked up Hunter’s ‘W
ORLD’S
W
ORST
D
AD
’ mug and took it round to the percolator.

‘And it’s got worse since they started making the film? ’

‘Pfff. . .’ He scratched at the curls fringing his big shiny forehead. ‘Like mushrooms in a damp basement. Still, I suppose it’s a small price to pay. I was fed up of being screwed around by the big Hollywood studios promising the earth, then delivering sod all. Eight times this thing was going to be made, before fizzling out.
Eight
times.’ He swept his hands out, gesturing at the table and its piles of paper. ‘But this time I get a percentage and a say in the production, so I let them have the rights cheap. Of course, I’m stuck in here, rewriting scenes, but at least the thing’s
actually
getting made.’ He let his hands fall back to the tabletop. ‘Mind you, soon as they found out, the nutters came out in force.’

‘Did any strike you as particularly odd, or threatening? Anyone speak about necklacing witches, or torturing them? ’

‘I don’t even read most of them. If I did I’d have no time to get any writing done.’

Sim put the mug back on the table, by the laptop, blushing so hard she couldn’t have been far off spontaneously combusting.

Hunter nodded at her. ‘Thanks.’

The blush grew even darker and Sim just stood there, staring at him, not saying anything.

He patted her on the arm. ‘It’s all right, I don’t bite. Would you like a signed book? I’m sure there’s a copy or three knocking about here somewhere.’

‘Eeek. . .’

Logan took out his Grampian Police business card and passed it across the tabletop. ‘Your woman who answers the fan mail, can she forward everything suspicious on to us? ’

‘Don’t know if she keeps it, but we can find out. . .’ He moved the mouse about and clicked on things for a moment, then his fingers rattled across the laptop’s keyboard like machine-gun fire. ‘Done. She’s in Iowa, so it might take a while. I can never remember how many hours they are behind UK time.’

‘But you’ve not noticed anyone hanging around, behaving suspiciously? ’

Hunter raised an eyebrow. ‘The place is full of actors and film people, Inspector. All they do is behave suspiciously.’

It looked as if Anthony Chung’s parents were actually home this time. An ugly Alfa Romeo four-by-four and a silver Porsche sat on the driveway behind the gates, both of them looking brand new, with custom number plates. Hard to believe that only three people lived in a house that big; a football team would have rattled around in it.

PC Sim pulled up at the kerb and peered out through the rain-flecked windscreen. ‘Not short of a bob or two, then. Probably explains why their kid turned out the way he did. Rich and spoiled.’