Close to the Bone (6 page)

A knock at the door, then DS Chalmers stuck her head in. ‘Guv? ’ A huge grin split her face, teeth all small, pointy, and glinting. ‘We just got DNA back: it’s a match.’

Looked as if DCI Steel was right after all. There’d be bacon flapping its way past the window any minute now. ‘Get on to the PNC, I want—’

‘Criminal record? ’ She held up a manila folder.

‘And—’

‘Current address? ’ She placed a printout in the middle of Logan’s desk, then stood back, showing off her happy little teeth. ‘And there’s a pool car waiting outside for us.’

Cocky, ambitious, and efficient. Maybe not such a bad combination after all.

Chalmers took them out through the city limits, heading north on the Inverness road, sitting in the outside lane of the dual carriageway, doing eighty, with the blue flashers going. ‘. . .and you’d think he’d be a bit more grateful, wouldn’t you? At least now he knows where his precious Range Rover is. But he was a complete arsehole about it.’

Logan watched the fields go by, fluffy white sheep and big rectangular cows polka-dotting the swathes of almost luminous green. ‘Uh-huh.’

‘OK, so it’s a burned-out hulk, but he’ll have third-party fire and theft, won’t he? Don’t know what he’s moaning about, really. Just because we haven’t got a clue who stole it in the first place. . .’

‘Right.’ A fortress of pine trees flanked the dual carriageway for a minute, needles shining in the sunlight, the earth below wreathed in brambles and sharp-edged shadow. And then more fields. Aberdeenshire at its bucolic best, sliding by outside the car while DS Chalmers jumped from topic to topic in a perpetual-motion monologue.

‘. . .and I know blow’s never really
that
difficult to get hold of, but it’s everywhere right now. Cannabis as far as the eye can see: Inverness, Aberdeen, Ellon, Keith, Peterhead, it’s like a plague. . .’

‘Mmm. . .’

Down the hill to Blackburn, through the roundabout, and on. The sky was a blanket of sapphire blue, streaked around the edges with misty white. Warm in the car. Logan blinked. The army ants had all congregated in the bridge of his nose, and now the little sods were having a hoedown. In clogs.

‘. . .can’t believe the SPSA are
still
fiddling about and re-organizing stuff. Honestly, can you think of a single person who’s actually in favour of all this? Nothing but cost-cutting pirate bollocks – not surprising the SOCOs are all grumbling about industrial action. . .’

Sodding Isobel and her ‘analgesics’. Might as well have downed a couple of kiddie Aspirin for all the good they were doing. Should’ve taken some of the
proper
painkillers from the caravan: the ones that made the world go all fluffy, warm, and soft. Like sleeping on a giant kitten.

‘. . .just have to look at this guy – we get a hit on his DNA, but nothing on the fingerprints. You know why? Because they can’t leave well enough alone, that’s why. If it’s not broken, poke and fiddle with it till it is. Honestly. . .’

‘Hmm.’ Might be nice to move further out of town. The caravan was OK, not that much smaller than the flat, and it was all on the ground floor – which was a bonus. And the view wasn’t bad out over the fields, and trees, and the River Don. Just had to ignore the sewage treatment plant directly opposite. Other than that it was OK. Be nice to have a bigger place though.

‘. . .continual budget cuts. I bet we could catch half the neds in the area if we just stuck a couple of cameras up at the Joyriders’ Graveyard. Make our lives a hell of a lot easier. . .’

Bennachie humped on the horizon, the mountain rising up between the trees. Not much to look at from a distance, the Mither Tap looking like an abandoned breast: nipple pointing at the sky.

Silence. Just the sound of the engine, and the tyres growling on the tarmac at eighty miles per hour.

Logan glanced across the car. DS Chalmers was looking back at him, one eyebrow raised – as if she’d just asked a question.

He cleared his throat. ‘In what way? ’

‘Well . . . can’t they see that it’s interfering with the actual job? Surely that’s more important than saving a few quid? ’

Ah. He went back to the window. Trees and fields and cows and sheep. ‘Austerity measures. We’ve all got to do our bit. All pulling together, in the same boat, etc. Pick your cliché.’ The sun was warm through the glass. Soporific. He closed his eyes for a minute, just to let them rest. Switch off the lights on the ants’ hoedown. ‘Think yourself lucky – you only have to moan about it. Some of us have to implement this crap.’

A spaniel loped along the pavement, unaccompanied, sniffing each and every lamppost before cocking a leg and leaving its calling card. Logan looked up from the manila folder’s contents and peered out at a line-up of identikit houses. ‘You sure this is the right street? ’

‘No.’ Chalmers turned the wheel and they drifted onto another road lined with yet more pale-cream buildings with the occasional patch of sandstone cladding thrown in for fun. White PVC windows, lockblock drives, satellite dishes, and a tiny garage where a front room should have been. All topped with fresh brown pantiles. Detached homes built so close together you’d be lucky if you could walk between them without your shoulders brushing either side. ‘Place is like a maze. . .’

She did a three-point turn and headed back the way they’d come. A wee boy on a yellow bike with tassels on the handlebars cycled slowly by, excavating the inside of his nose as if it held buried treasure.

‘Has to be around here somewhere. . .’

According to the Police National Computer, Guy Ferguson was the lucky recipient of umpteen warnings, and three stints of community service. Everything from shoplifting in John Lewis when he was twelve, to drunk and disorderly when he was fourteen. Then there was a string of vehicle offences – theft from opening lockfast places, unlawful removal, vandalism, driving without insurance. . . One count of breaking into the corner shop and making off with the till. Almost went to prison eighteen months ago when he was caught helping himself to the contents of ladies’ handbags in the Kintore Arms.

And that was the last thing on his record. Either Guy had cleaned up his act, or he’d finally figured out how not to get caught.

‘God’s sake. Everything round here’s Castleview: Castleview Place, Castleview Avenue, Castleview Crescent. Where’s the castle? Can you see one? ’

Logan flicked back to the mugshot at the front of the file. ‘Developers are like politicians – never believe anything they say.’

In the photo, Guy looked as if he’d just been dragged through an Alsatian, backwards. His left cheek was a patchwork of bruises, his eye swollen almost shut, split lip and swollen jaw. Apparently some bloke objected to Guy stealing things from his wife’s handbag. An earlier pic showed a plain young man with doormat eyebrows, acne-flecked cheeks, and a moustache that barely qualified as enthusiastic bumfluff.

Very gangsta.

Chalmers pointed through the window. ‘Here we go.’ She pulled up in front of yet another barely detached sandstone-clad box, blocking the Audi and Renault parked on the driveway. Then wiped her hands on the steering wheel, leaving a shiny film behind. ‘Guv, about the death message. . .’

‘Let me guess, you’re not keen? ’ Logan slipped the printouts back into the file. ‘Our victim had form for stealing cars and breaking into places to rob them. Sound familiar? ’

‘The jewellery job.’

‘Car was stolen a couple of streets away from here, used in a robbery, then dumped and burned just past Thainstone Mart. Next to Guy Ferguson’s body.’

Chalmers left another layer of palm sweat on the steering wheel. ‘They do the job, then his mates turn on him after they’ve divvied up the loot. Maybe he was holding out on them? ’

‘Could be.’ Logan climbed out into the warm afternoon. ‘What about the registered keeper? ’

‘Straight up, far as I can tell: no record in the PNC. Pretty hacked off to lose the car too, was a present from his dad.’ She straightened her wrinkly suit, then marched up to the front door and rang the bell.

A minute later, it was opened by a wee girl in a bright yellow dress with bears on it, head a mess of black curls. She looked up at DS Chalmers with big blue eyes, then stuck her thumb in her mouth.

A voice came from somewhere inside: a man. ‘Who is it, Bella? ’

The thumb came out with a soft pop. ‘My name’s Bella and I’m five and I’m getting a pony for my birthday.’

Chalmers hunkered down until she was roughly at eye-level. ‘Hello, Bella, my name’s Lorna. Can you tell your mummy and daddy the police are here and they need to speak to them? ’

A nod sent her curls bobbing, then she turned and shouted back into the house. ‘It’s the pigs!’ Before squealing her way down the corridor, arms waving above her head. ‘You’ll never take me alive, Copper!’

Chalmers cleared her throat. ‘Well that was . . . nice.’

A man poked his head out into the corridor. Pulled a face. Then sauntered towards them: jeans, flannel shirt, the top of his head poking through a crown of greying frizz. He wiped his hands on a tea towel. ‘Sorry about that – someone let her watch
Life on Mars
the other day and she’s been impossible ever since.’ He gave them a smile. ‘How can I help? ’

Logan stepped forward. ‘Mr Ferguson? ’

The smile slipped a little. ‘Yes? ’

‘Can we come in please, Mr Ferguson? We need to talk.’

The living room was bright and airy, the sounds of music and laughter coming through from the dining-kitchen. Mr Ferguson sat on the edge of the couch, his wife perched beside him. She fidgeted with the hem of her orange cardigan, working it back and forth between her fingers, pulling little tufts of fluff from the wool.

She looked over her shoulder at the open door. Slipped a fleck of orange fuzz into her mouth and chewed on it.

The wee girl who’d swore they’d
never
take her alive was sitting at the table, shovelling peas into her mouth while an older man cut something up on her plate.

Mrs Ferguson pulled another tuft of orange fluff. She stared off over Logan’s shoulder, not making eye contact. ‘What’s he done now? ’

Her husband sighed. ‘Why do you always have to do that? ’

‘I’m not doing anything, I’m being realistic. Of course Guy’s done something, why else are
they
here? ’ She pointed at Logan and Chalmers.

‘Sheila, he’s—’

‘That boy could cause a fight in a cemetery.’

Mr Ferguson laid a hand on her knee. Smiled at Logan again. ‘Guy’s a good kid, he just . . . he’s easily led.’

Logan licked his lips. Cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid we have some bad news. . .’

Mrs Ferguson’s mouth fell open, eyes wide. Then she stood, walked over to the door and closed it, shutting out the sounds of laughter. ‘I see.’

‘Oh God. . .’ Her husband rocked back and forward in his seat. ‘Oh God, no. . .’

She blinked, wiped the heel of her hand across her eye, then brought her chin up. ‘We only saw him this morning. He was supposed to be getting out on Wednesday.’

‘Oh God, Guy. . .’ Mr Ferguson dropped his chin onto his chest and sobbed, fingers digging into the soft cushions of the couch. ‘Oh God. . .’

Logan glanced at Chalmers, then back at Mrs Ferguson. ‘You saw him this morning? ’

‘At the hospital. They said he was going to be all right. Just keeping him in for observation.’ She settled onto the arm of the couch and wrapped an arm around her husband’s heaving shoulders. ‘Was it . . . did he suffer? ’

‘He was in hospital? ’ Oh, shite.

‘They were fooling around and he got petrol all over his hands. How can someone die from burned hands? ’ A thick line appeared between her eyebrows, two more slashing down from the corners of her mouth. ‘It was that MRSA, wasn’t it? ’

‘Ah.’ Logan stood, put his hands in his pockets. Took them out again. Shuffled his feet. ‘There may have been a bit of a . . . mistake.’

6

The pool car’s sirens carved a path through the afternoon traffic. Chalmers jinked the car around an eighteen-wheeler loaded down with bags of gravel. ‘Don’t think I’ve ever been so embarrassed in my
life
.’

Logan pressed the mobile against his chest. ‘Slow down! I said I wanted to go up to the hospital, not end up in bloody A&E.’ Then back to the phone. ‘What do you mean, he’s not there? ’

A small pause. Then Sergeant Big Gary McCormack’s bunged-up Aberdonian accent grumbled down the line. ‘
What do you think I mean? I mean, he’s not there. Sent a car round there three times this morning and there’s still no sign of him.
’

‘He’s six foot tall, five foot wide, and looks like someone took a burning cheese grater to his face,
how
can you not find him? ’

‘
Are you asking for another punch in the face? I’ve got a whole city to keep safe here, dayshift’s got better things to do than run around after your ungrateful arse!
’ A clunk and the line went dead. The bastard had hung up on him.

Logan rammed the phone back into his pocket. ‘Typical. Ask them to do one simple thing and— Bloody hell!’ He grabbed the handle above the passenger door as Chalmers threw the car into the roundabout, tyres screeching all the way.

She ground her hands around the steering wheel. ‘They’re going to make a complaint, aren’t they? I don’t want that on my record, how am I supposed to make promotion with that hanging over my—’

‘Let them complain. The lab didn’t screw up on the fingerprints, they screwed up on the DNA. It’s not the victim’s: it’s the killer’s. So as soon as we get to the hospital. . .? ’

‘We get the killer.’ Chalmers brought her little pointy teeth out to shine. ‘One week on the job and I’ve solved a gangland execution.’

Logan stared at her. ‘You do know I’m sitting here, don’t you? ’

At least she had the decency to blush. ‘I meant,
we’ve
solved a gangland execution. Team effort. . . Sorry, Guv.’

‘Just drive.’

Footsteps clattered back from the spearmint-green walls. Paintings and arty photographs lined the corridor. People in dressing gowns shuffled to the side, leaning on the handrails, watching them march past.