Close to the Bone (42 page)

‘If you spent more time doing your job and less time stuffing your face, you’d know.’

‘Why didn’t you arrest him? ’

Seriously? ‘Because I’m trying to catch a
murderer
: I couldn’t give a toss about shoplifted bacon and cheese. You want him? Go get him.’

‘Ah, right. . .’ Rennie dumped his paper bowl in the bin fixed to the side of the catering unit, then scurried off, doing a tour of the little groups of people.

Idiot.

Three more minutes and Logan was at the head of the line.

A dark face smiled back at him from the hatch, perfect teeth and a white goatee. ‘What can we do for you, my man? ’

Logan pulled a copy of the ‘H
AVE
Y
OU
S
EEN
T
HIS
W
OMAN
’ poster from his pocket and held it out. ‘Have you seen—’

A deep, rumbling voice sounded at his shoulder. ‘You’re too late: DI Bell’s already been around with the photographs. Do you not trust him, or are you just trying to muscle in on his operation? ’ Insch hefted his thermos up onto the counter. ‘We’re out of coffee, Rudy.’

‘No problem, boss.’

Logan shifted his shoulders. ‘I’m not muscling in on anything, I’m just—’

‘Everyone knows to keep an eye out for Agnes Garfield. We’re not idiots.’ Insch took the poster from Logan, folded it up, and handed it back. ‘Rudy and Lola do the cast and crew catering. That’s why everyone’s getting free-range chicken and chorizo casserole, penne arrabiata, Cullen skink, and tiramisu, instead of watery vegetable soup and a stale roll. Costing us a bloody fortune, but Zander insists. We’re giving something back to the local community, once a week.’

‘And it’s always a Tuesday? ’

‘Everyone on the film knows to look out for the Garfield woman. I’m not having her anywhere near my people.’

Which explained the secret-service-style muscle.

A pale woman appeared in the hatch, wearing far too much eye makeup, her spiky ash-blonde hair sticking up in all directions. ‘What can we get you, my darling? ’

‘I don’t know. . . Chicken? ’

‘Coming right up.’

Insch scowled at him. ‘I forgot what a bunch of freeloading bastards CID—’

‘It’s not
for
me, it’s for someone too terrified to come over, in case he gets grabbed and killed like Roy Forman.’ Logan pointed at the pair of heavies with the earpieces. ‘Or maybe it’s your rent-a-thugs scaring him away? ’

The scowl didn’t shift. ‘Your bloody colleagues act like they’ve never seen food before. I swear some of them are having seconds. And it’s supposed to be for the homeless!’

Rudy reappeared with the huge thermos and a stack of polystyrene cups in a plastic sleeve. ‘There you go, boss: hazelnut latte.’

‘Thanks.’ Insch took them both, cradling the sleeve against his chest. ‘McRae: walk with me.’

The spiky-haired woman placed a paper bowl heaped with glistening beans, chunks of amber sausage, and slivers of chicken, on the counter. A spork stuck out of the top, like an antenna. ‘Watch, it’s hot.’

Heat leached into his hands as he followed DI Insch away down the tunnel, back towards the nightclub. ‘Well? ’

‘I need you to do something about this counterfeit
Witchfire
merchandise. I don’t care if it
is
high quality: I’m not having some thieving git making fake stuff and flogging it. They’re doing replica props from the film, and we haven’t even finished shooting it yet!’

‘Seriously? ’

‘Why aren’t you doing anything about it? I told Mair to liaise with you, because you’re the only one in CID who isn’t going to sod it up. The rest of these idiots couldn’t investigate their own feet for toes.’

35

Insch stopped at a knot of three men, all stick-thin and trembling, long sleeves pulled down to their fingertips, hiding the needletracks. He gave each one a polystyrene cup, then filled it with frothy pale coffee. ‘Here you go. . .’

Logan stared at him. ‘You do know I’m trying to catch someone who’s killed at least two people, don’t you? Never mind the grave robbing.’

They moved on to the next group, Insch doling out more hazelnut latte. ‘Do you have any idea how much money I’ve sunk into this thing? Every bloody penny. I don’t need people stealing from me as well! And counterfeiting
is
theft.’

Insch kept walking, on towards a couple of women in shapeless grey jogging bottoms and hooded tops, his voice dropped to a rumbling whisper. ‘Now try not to act like a lovesick teenager this time.’

‘Why would I—’

‘Ladies: I come bearing hazelnut lattes!’

Both women turned, one holding a black plastic bin-bag in her gloved hands, the other holding a long-handled grabber. She used it to pluck an empty crisp packet from the pavement and dropped it into the open bin-bag. Nichole Fyfe. ‘Ah, David, you’re an absolute
lifesaver
!’

The other one dumped the bag at her feet and pulled off her gloves. ‘Lovely.’ She peeled back her hood, exposing a curly mass of scarlet curls, every bit as post-box red as Samantha’s. That would be Morgan Thingummy – the one on the TV Sunday morning making come-to-bed-for-kinky-fun eyes at the camera.

Insch handed them each a polystyrene cup, grinning away like a proud parent. ‘Slumming it, I’m afraid: we left the bone china back at the studio.’ He pressed the plunger on the thermos and the sticky sweet scent of roasted coffee and hazelnut syrup coiled around them. ‘Logan, this is Morgan Mitchell, she’s our
incredibly
scary Mrs Shepherd. Morgan, this is DI McRae.’

She curled her hands around the polystyrene cup, peering at him over the edge. Her accent was pure New York, a lot stronger than the one she’d used on the TV and
completely
unlike the voice she’d used on film, necklacing the man whose face wasn’t composited properly. ‘Well, well, well. . .’ A slow, naughty smile. ‘Nichole, you said he was cute, but you didn’t tell me he was a hunk too.’

It got very hot between Logan’s neck and his collar. ‘Well, it. . . I. . .’

‘That’s some pair of black eyes you got there. Makes me think of
Fight Club
, God I loved that film.
Very
sexy.’ She stuck out her hand for shaking. ‘McRae. . . You’re the guy who used to be David’s protégé, right? ’

‘Well, I don’t know if I’d—’

Insch thumped Logan on the back. ‘Of course you were.’ The grin changed into a frown as he hunched forward in front of his stars. ‘Now, are you both OK? Need anything? ’

Nichole smiled at him. ‘We’re fine, honestly.’ Then she slipped her arm through Logan’s. Looking up at him with those pale-blue eyes, the pupils large, dark, and shiny as buttons. ‘So, DI McRae, have you come here to sample Rudy and Lola’s chicken casserole, or. . .? ’

It was definitely getting warmer out here. ‘We need to find anyone who’s seen Agnes Garfield, or knows where she is.’

‘God, Agnes. . .’ Morgan made choking noises. ‘Don’t get me wrong, lovely girl, but jeesh, she could be
intense
.’

Nichole gave his arm a squeeze. ‘It was such a shame, she was so desperate to get into film. It was her life’s ambition.’

Insch cleared his throat. ‘Yes, well. . .’

‘Zander was going to give her a trial as my body double. She was
so
excited. And then she just. . .’ Nichole shrugged. The movement rubbed Logan’s arm up, then down the side of her breast.

‘She flipped. Wigged out.’ Morgan bugged her eyes. ‘Went
totally
pill-popping crazy. I came back from makeup one time, and she was in my trailer trying on my
underwear
. True story. Then she has a complete fit because she says I’m not doing Mrs Shepherd’s lines right and the character has to be more creepy, and I’m like,
you’re
the creepy one: get out of my bra!’

Nichole took a sip of coffee. ‘Well, to be fair, she did a lot of good too. We wouldn’t be doing this right now if it wasn’t for her. Giving something back to the community’s really important and she set it all up.’

Morgan rolled her eyes. ‘Ack, you’re so
nice
I could stab you.’

Logan pulled out his poster again. ‘Have you seen her recently? She might have changed her appearance, dyed her hair? ’

Morgan squinted at it. ‘Wow. Is it just me, or does she look like she’s trying to turn herself into Rowan? All she needs is the scar. . .’

Nichole looked away, back down the tunnel towards the soup kitchen. ‘She was here last Friday night. Morgan and I like to help out down here when we can – the usual food’s nowhere near as good as tonight’s, but the people making it really care about the homeless. I was on bread-and-butter duty and I. . .’ A frown painted little creases between her eyebrows. ‘I thought I saw someone watching from the shadows. As if they were afraid to come out into the light.’ She shrugged. ‘So I went over to say hello, see if they needed help. It was Agnes, she. . . She said some pretty hurtful things, then she ran away. I went after her, tried to make her see it was OK, but she lost me in the St Nicholas Kirk graveyard.’

Wonderful. ‘Why didn’t you come forward? ’

‘What good would it have done? I didn’t know where she was, I didn’t know where she was going, how could that help? ’

Morgan took a step closer, gazing up into his eyes. Boxing him in. Her pupils were massive too. . . That familiar sweet, slightly sweaty, smell of smoke coming off her. ‘I know this is kinda out of left field, but if I asked very nicely, would you arrest me? I could smash something, or, you know, hit someone, but I just want to spend a night in the cells. See what it’s like? ’

‘Agnes isn’t well, Inspector McRae, she needs someone to stand up for her, not betray her.’

‘See, I gotta film after this one, where I’m this lap-dancer who gets kidnapped by a serial killer, and I figure she must’ve done time, right? She’s hard-as-nails on the outside, but there’s this core of vulnerability to her, and I think the experience of getting arrested would really help me
connect
with her? ’ Morgan placed a hand on Logan’s chest. ‘On an emotional level? ’

He closed his eyes, massaged his throbbing temples. ‘I’m
not
arresting you.’

‘I played a veterinarian once, and spent a month working in an animal pound. Informed my whole interpretation of the character. It was a
very
powerful performance, I—’

‘If you see Agnes, if she tries to get in touch, I want you to call me: day or night, don’t care.’ He pulled out a couple of Grampian Police business cards and printed his mobile number on the back of each. Then handed them out. ‘We can’t help Agnes if we can’t find her.’

He’d taken half a dozen steps away towards where he’d left Henry Scott, when Morgan’s voice echoed out behind him. ‘OK, so if getting arrested’s out, how about a good spanking instead? I’ll let you tie me up and everything.’ Followed by raucous, filthy laughter.

For God’s sake. . . Logan kept going.

Insch huffed up beside him, the grin replaced by a loose-jowled scowl. ‘What did I tell you about chatting up my actresses? ’

‘In what way was that
my
fault? ’ Logan stopped opposite the barrelled archway where Henry Scott had been cowering. It was empty now, just a lingering sour odour of unwashed clothes and BO to show that he’d been there at all. The little sod could’ve waited – Logan had fetched his bloody dinner for him. ‘Thanks, Henry.’

‘I’m serious.’ Insch glanced back over his shoulder. Nichole and Morgan waved at him. He waved back, then lowered his voice. ‘Do you have any idea how difficult it is to keep everyone happy and motivated? ’

‘That why they’re stoned all the time? ’

Insch stared at him. ‘I have no idea what you’re—’

‘Oh come off it, the pair of them have pupils the size of doorknobs. I’m not an idiot.’

Silence. ‘You know as well as I do: criminalizing cannabis usage is a waste of police time and doesn’t—’

‘Trust me, I’ve got bigger things to worry about than what your stars are smoking.’

Insch closed his eyes and massaged his temples, breath hissing in and out through his nose. ‘Look, I
know
you’re busy, I know you’ve got other things on, but I really need you to stop this counterfeiting ring. It’s important.’

Logan pulled the spork out of the mound of chicken and chorizo casserole and helped himself to a bite. Well, Henry Scott wasn’t going to miss it, was he? It tasted as good as it smelled, even if it was getting cold.

‘Logan—’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Voices echoed through Grampian Police Force Headquarters as nightshift clocked on and shuffled out onto the rain-misted streets, fluorescent yellow waistcoats on over their black uniforms. Moaning.

Logan ran a hand through his hair and flicked the water off against the painted breezeblock wall of the cell block.

One of the nightshift PCSOs scowled at him from the other end of the corridor, carrying a tray with half a dozen steaming mugs on it. His pornstar moustache bristled. ‘You’re dripping on my floor!’

‘I’m not stopping, Andy. Just checking up on a couple of prisoners.’

‘Bad enough I’ve got drunks puking and peeing on it, without you CID scumbags dripping all over the place.’

Logan helped himself to one of the mugs. ‘Thanks.’

‘Hey!’ He snatched it back. ‘Those are for the guests. You want a cuppa? Get it yourself.’

‘Who stuck an angry badger up your bum? ’ Logan slid back the hatch on the nearest cell, the one with ‘S
TACEY
G
OURDON
~ BOTP’ written on the board by the door, and peered inside. ‘She give you any trouble? ’

Stacey sat on the blue plastic mattress with her back against the wall, blood-flecked knees drawn up against her chest. No scabs left, she must’ve eaten them all. She looked up, smiled, then made the universal gesture for ‘wanker’.

Lovely girl.

Stacey stood and padded across the cell floor on bare feet. ‘You here to interrogate me too? Think you can beat a confession out of me? Well, I’ll tell you exactly the same thing I told your hairy little friend: I don’t have to tell you where I was when Anthony went missing, or where I was when he died. And there’s nothing you can do about it.’