Close to the Bone (49 page)

OK, time to come back from Happy La-La Land. ‘Where was your mother buried? ’

Mary took the photo album back and shut it. ‘The family plot, out by Kemnay. The church is deserted now, probably all overgrown. We don’t get out as often as we should.’

Ina licked her lips, tongue snaking in and out of her mouth as if it was scenting the air. ‘And you
will
give us Mother’s bones back, won’t you? So she can be with us where she belongs? ’

Yeah. . . Where she’d probably end up ground to a powder and sold to gullible idiots on the internet.

‘Found the hole!’ Rennie stood up to his waist in nettles, elbows out at ninety degrees to his shoulders, hands curled into paws. ‘There’s a coffin at the bottom and everything. Looks like something out of
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
.’

The graveyard was completely overrun with weeds: the headstones swallowed by jagged coils of brambles and sheaths of bracken, mixed in with nettles and spires of rosebay willowherb. Little parachutes of gossamer fluff drifted through the heavy air to shine against the thunderhead sky.

Logan shuffled through the undergrowth, brushing cat hair from his trousers as he went, following Rennie’s flattened path. ‘Any signs of recent disturbance? ’

‘Nah. The grass is starting to grow back on the stuff she’s excavated. If she’s still digging up magic mojo compost, she’s doing it somewhere else.’ He hauled a rust-coloured spine of docken from the jungle of weeds and poked at the hole. ‘If she’s such a nice girl, how come she’s off killing people? ’

‘Nice? ’

‘You know, keeping the old dears in graveyard soil, bones, and cannabis. . . Most kids these days wouldn’t bother their backsides.’

Cannabis? How did. . .

Of course: the glaucoma ‘medicine’. So Agnes
was
dealing after all. And given the state of Nichole Fyfe and Morgan Mitchell, she was probably helping them out as well.

Very public spirited. No wonder Zander kept giving her second chances.

Logan turned and looked back at the crumbling remains of the church. Three walls, no roof, a handful of black bin-bags, an old fridge, and a soggy mattress. Nowhere to sleep. And even if she’d pitched a tent somewhere in the grounds, there would be trails leading through the waist-high weeds.

She wasn’t here.

So much for that idea.

All that talk of consecrated earth and the power of bones. . .

Never listen to daft auld wifies, no matter how good their shortbread is.

Logan headed back towards the patrol car, leaving Rennie to struggle with the weeds. ‘Get on the phone to the council. I want that grave filled in again before some idiot falls down it and breaks their neck.’

There was a brief shout, a rustle and a crunch.

Logan spun around, but there was no sign of Rennie. ‘Oh, for God’s sake! Tell me you didn’t.’

‘Ow. . . Help! It’s got me! Aaaaaaaargh! Run: save yourself!’ Then Rennie popped up in the middle of a stand of willowherb with a grin plastered across his stupid face and tufts of white all over his suit. ‘Got you.’

No wonder Steel picked on him.

Rennie pulled the patrol car in to the side of the road, ignoring the zigzag lines for the pedestrian crossing. Causeway End was a lot busier than it had been just before seven that morning, the stream of traffic wheeching itself around Mounthooly roundabout’s bulk moving like a twisting snake of steel and glass.

Logan popped off his seatbelt. ‘Tell Chalmers I want her in my office soon as I get back to the ranch.’

Rennie picked another clump of willowherb from the front of his jacket and dropped it in the footwell. Where it promptly stuck to his trousers. ‘Bloody stuff’s like Velcro.’

‘And after that, you can check up on how Guthrie’s doing getting hold of Anthony Chung’s arrest record from San Francisco.’

Another bit of fluff joined the others. ‘Does it really matter? He’s kinda dead, so—’

‘Because I say so, that’s why.’ He climbed out, then stuck his head back through the open door. ‘I want the names of everyone he was associated with, and if any of them have come into the country in the last six months.’

Rennie’s frown turned into a smile. ‘Ah: you think Agnes didn’t kill him after all. It was one of his old gang mates come to settle a score.’

‘Don’t be an idiot: of course Agnes killed him. I want to know who put her up to it. If Goulding’s profile is right, she needs a dominant personality to tell her what to do.’

‘Ah . . . And it’s not like any of her friends had the stones to go up against Anthony Chung. Even Dan Fisher, with his unrequited crush, wouldn’t dare. And last time he tried, she scrambled his eggs with her knee.’ Rennie huffed a breath onto his fingernails then polished them on his fuzzy lapel. ‘Oh yeah: I do read the case notes, you know. It’s—’

A horn blared out behind them: a dirty big articulated lorry hissed to a halt six foot from the back of the patrol car, its driver giving them the one-fingered salute.

Logan slammed the door and stepped back onto the pavement.

Rennie pulled away and the lorry grumbled after him.

Chasing down Anthony Chung’s old associates was probably a waste of time, but at least they’d be doing something.

Logan hurried down to the pedestrian crossing, then worked his way across both dual carriageways to the Kwik Fit garage on the corner overlooking Mounthooly.

He popped over the low wall, squeezed between two parked cars in the MOT section. . . Then froze.

A mud-streaked Transit van sat on the forecourt, right outside the entrance. Rusty dents and scrapes marred the once-white paintwork. Reuben’s van.

Time to turn around and—

A low growling voice, right behind him: ‘Get in the van.’

Shite. . .

‘No. Don’t think so.’

A big hairy hand appeared from his left-hand side, it was holding a mobile phone, the screen showing a small photo of Wee Hamish Mowat’s sunken face, below the word ‘C
ONNECTED
’.

OK. . . He took the phone. ‘Hamish? ’

‘
Ah, Logan, I’m so glad to hear that you’re all right after your close shave this morning. Do you have a minute to talk?
’

Not really. He took a step forward, then turned to face the mountain of muscle and scar tissue – standing there in his grubby blue boilersuit with a face like cracked stone. ‘
Someone
cut my brake lines.’

A pause. ‘
I see. That
is
an unfortunate development, isn’t it. Very unfortunate indeed. But I need you to put that behind you for a moment and go with Reuben.
’

‘Not a chance in hell.’

‘
Logan, remember I told you about the cannabis farms and the violence and the uncertainty and concern that breeds? Well, I’m afraid this little business rivalry has come to a bit of a head. And I’d appreciate it if you would help Reuben sort things out.
’

‘You have got to be—’

‘
I give you my word that Reuben is there to facilitate your role as an officer of the law, nothing more. We all want to see an end to the senseless violence, don’t we?
’

‘Facilitate.’

Reuben grinned at him, the scar tissue on his cheeks pulling it all out of shape.

‘Do I have a choice? ’

‘
Of course you do, Logan. Everyone always has a choice.
’

Reuben stepped forward, closing the gap until the swollen barrel of his stomach was pressed against him. ‘What do you think? ’

Logan got in the van.

41

The Transit van growled away from the garage, the gear changes a symphony of grinding metal. A smell of stale fat and old garlic filled the cab, overlaid on something sharp and metallic and the sickly pear-drop scent of fresh plastic.

Logan shifted on the sticky seat. ‘How did you know where I’d be? ’

‘None of your business.’ Reuben flexed his shoulders beneath the blue boilersuit. ‘And just for the record: I don’t cut brake lines. When I come for you, McRae, I’ll not be sneaking about under your car with a pair of pliers.’

Probably because the fat sod wouldn’t fit.

‘“
When
” you come for me? ’

‘You’ll bloody well know about it. You’ll get to see it coming.’

Oh joy.

‘That’s the way it’s going to be, is it? ’

‘You, me, and a chainsaw.’

‘You know what, Reuben? You can. . .’ Logan frowned. There was a noise coming from the back of the van. A sort of muffled moaning to go with the creak and rattle of the old Transit.

He turned in his seat and peered into the cavernous interior.

Plastic sheeting covered the floor and walls – held in place with thick strips of grey duct tape. A figure was scrunched up in the far corner, sitting with his back to the van doors, knees up against his chest, cable-ties around his ankles, arms behind his back, an off-white pillowcase over his head. It was stained dark brown around the front.

‘There’s someone in the back of the van. . .’

No reply.

‘Reuben: why have you got someone trussed up in the back of your van? ’

A shrug. ‘Everyone’s got to have a hobby.’

Logan dropped his voice to a hissing whisper. ‘I’m a police officer, you bloody idiot – do you really think—’

‘Mr Fisher here’s been a very naughty boy.’

‘I don’t care if he’s mooned the Queen and shagged her corgis, you can’t just—’

‘See, Mr Mowat says I’m not allowed to kill you, or mutilate you, or hack your balls off and make you eat them. Didn’t say anything about you falling down a few times and breaking something though.’ Reuben turned his scarred smile in Logan’s direction, eyes dark and hooded. ‘Now, you gonnae shut the fuck up, or do I pull this van over? ’

‘You know what, I’m sick and tired of your—’ Logan’s phone burst into Steel’s sinister ringtone. He dragged it out. ‘For God’s sake, what now? ’

‘
Where the goat-buggering hell are you? Supposed to be in with Professional Standards getting your bum spanked, no’ gallivanting off—
’

As if there weren’t bigger things to worry about. If in doubt: lie. ‘No I’m not.’

‘
Aye, you are – I told Rennie
specifically
to tell you, and he—
’

‘Nope, must’ve slipped his mind. Believe it or not, we’ve been a bit busy trying to catch a killer today, so—’

‘
Oh no you don’t: you’re the one let her escape in the first place! Now get your arse back here so Professional Standards can spank it.
’

‘Can’t. I’m in the middle of something.’

‘
Laz, I’m warning you—
’

‘Got to go.’ He hung up on her and switched his phone off.

Steel could shout at him later. Assuming he survived whatever the hell this was.

Rowan steps back into the outside catering van’s shadow, the smell of sausages and frying onions thick and dark in the air. The industrial estate sulks on the outskirts of Dyce, a sad collection of corrugated metal buildings with unpronounceable names and chunky logos, ringed in with chainlink fencing. Most aren’t even open: just empty shells with ‘F
OR
L
EASE OR
S
ALE
’ signs fastened to the gates.

‘B
ANGERS AND
B
APS
’ is painted along the back of the van in big black letters, not that anyone can see it. It’s parked in a lay-by with nothing behind it but trees and weeds.

The Witch wanders across the road, hands in his pockets, chunky headphones sitting on top of his head, lips pursed in a tuneless whistle. Making noise for the sake of it, hauling his jagged aura of red and orange flames behind him. He pauses in front of the van’s menu board and rubs his hands together. Grins. Then pushes the headphones back so they hang around his neck, and goes up to the counter. His accent is half American, half Scottish, his skin the colour of old newspapers. ‘Yeah, can I get a bacon buttie
with
egg, and a thing of chips? ’

A condemned man’s last meal should be something a bit more special than that, shouldn’t it?

Whoever’s running the van is out of sight, but her voice is like the rumble of faraway thunder. ‘You want tea, or a juice, or something? ’

‘Irn-Bru.’

He should’ve gone for fillet steak and a bottle of champagne.

‘Coming right up.’

The plan is simple enough: follow him back where he came from, question him, then give him the chance to purify his soul, before delivering it to God. Easy.

Two minutes later, a little red Peugeot hatchback pulls into the lay-by, diesel engine grumbling and rattling to a halt. A large man with a dusting of grey hair around his pale forehead turns and says something to the pair of children in the back, then climbs out into the warm afternoon, leaving a black and green trail behind him. It barbs and swirls around his long black coat. Jabbing at the earth beneath his feet.

Rowan shrinks back against the side of the van. A Raptor. . . This isn’t in the plan. This isn’t in the plan at all.

He stops at the serving hatch and smiles. ‘Aye, aye, Betty. Fit like the day, then? ’

‘Can’t complain, Ian. Usual? ’

‘Aye, and a couple bags of crisps for the wains.’ He turns and waves back at the Peugeot. The children wave back. A young boy and a little girl, her golden hair bobbing about an angelic little face.

‘Oh, aren’t they adorable? ’

‘That’s the joy of grandchildren, you can spoil them rotten and no’ have to worry about the consequences.’ He slips his hand into his coat pocket, pulls out an old-fashioned iPod, and goes thumbing through the menu. ‘You keen on
Steppenwolf
, Betty? ’

‘More of a Bruce Springsteen girl, myself.’

He pops the earbuds in, then puts the iPod back in his long black jacket. Like the wings of a crow. ‘“Born to be Wild” – can’t beat it. Got a good rhythm.’ He smiles at the Witch. ‘How about you? ’

A shrug. ‘Dunno about old music.’ He reaches up and takes a tin from the counter. Clicks the tab on it and downs a deep draught of Irn-Bru.

Ian takes out a pair of black leather gloves and puts them on. ‘Kinda my theme tune.’ Then he turns and waves at the kids in the car again. Covers his eyes with his gloved hands, then throws them open. ‘Peekaboo!’