Shatter the Bones

‘Fingerprints.’

‘Oh.’ She looked at Logan and smiled… Probably. It was difficult to tell under the full SOC get-up. ‘That you in there?’

Logan smiled back behind his own mask. ‘Last time I checked.’

‘Got your envelope in the superglue box. Not holding my breath though, been in there ten minutes already and nothing’s come up.’

‘O rhesus negative.’ The tech held up a card. ‘Does that help?’

Same as Jenny McGregor.

‘Post mortem?’

‘No idea.’ The man picked up the evidence bag with the toe in it — using two fingers as if it was a dirty nappy — handed it to Logan, then wiped his gloves down the front of his oversuit. ‘The Ice Queen’s off at a conference in Baltimore, and the silly sod they got in to cover for her’s off with the squits. So…’

Logan tried not to groan. ‘When’s her highness back?’

‘Tuesday week.’

Brilliant.

He signed for the toe, then headed down to the mortuary: quiet and cold in a subterranean annex off the Rear Podium car park. The duty Anatomical Pathology Technician was sitting in a small beige office by the cutting room, feet up on the desk, reading a celebrity gossip magazine.

Logan knocked on the door frame. ‘Got some remains for you.’

‘Ah, indeed.’

‘WAG LOVE CHEAT EXCLUSIVE!’ went into a desk drawer, and the APT unfolded herself from the chair. Tall, thin, and insect-like, with trendy glasses and wide flat face, fingers constantly moving. ‘Is the hearse in the loading bay?’

Logan held up the bag containing the tiny chunk of flesh and bone.

‘Oh…’ She raised a broad, dark eyebrow. ‘I see. Well, we’ve had a busy day; I dare say this will represent a change of pace when Mr Hudson returns from his illness.’ She prowled through to the cold storage room, selected a metal door, opened it, and slid a large metal drawer out of the wall.

A waxy yellow face stared up at them. Swollen golf-ball nose; scraggy grey beard; the skin around the forehead and cheeks slightly baggy, as if it hadn’t been put back properly.

The APT frowned. ‘Now that’s not right. You should be in number four.’ Sigh. ‘Never mind.’ She opened up the next one along. ‘Here we go.’

‘I need the PM done soon as possible. We have-’

‘Sadly, with Dr McAllister away, and Mr Hudson … indisposed, it may be a few days before we can do anything.’ She reached towards him, fingers searching like the antennae on a centipede. ‘May I have the remains?’

Logan got her to sign for the toe, then watched her solemnly place the little pale digit in the drawer. It looked vaguely ridiculous: a tiny nub of flesh in an evidence bag, lying in the middle of that expanse of stainless steel. Then she slid the drawer back into the wall and clunked the heavy door shut.

Out of sight, but definitely not out of mind.

Chapter 3

‘Rose Ferris, Daily Mail. You still haven’t answered the question: did you find Jenny McGregor’s body or not?’ The gangly reporter shifted forward in her seat, nostrils flaring.

Up on the podium DCI Finnie opened his mouth, but the man sitting next to him got in first.

‘No, Ms Ferris, we did not.’ Chief Superintendent Bain straightened the front of his dress uniform, the TV lights glinting off the silver buttons and his shiny bald head. ‘And I’d thank the more excitable members of the press to stop spreading these unsubstantiated rumours. People are distressed enough as it is. Is that clear, Ms Ferris?’

Standing at the side of the room, Logan scanned the sea of faces gathered in the Beach Ballroom’s biggest function suite — the only place near Force Headquarters large enough to fit everyone in. TV cameras, press photographers, and journalists from every major news outlet in the country. All here to watch Grampian Police screwing everything up.

They were arranged in neat rows of plastic chairs, facing the little dais where DCI Finnie, his boss — Baldy Brian — and a chewed-looking Media Liaison Officer perched behind a table draped in black cloth. A display stand with the Scottish Constabulary crest on it made up the backdrop: ‘SEMPER VIGILO’, ‘Always Vigilant’. Somehow Logan doubted anyone was buying it.

A rumpled man stuck his hand up: a sagging vulture in a supermarket suit. ‘Michael Larson, Edinburgh Evening Post. “Unsubstantiated,” right? So you’re saying this is all just a big hoax? That the production company-’

Everything else was drowned out: ‘Here we bloody go…’, ‘Hoy, Larson, your dick’s unsubstantiated!’, ‘Tosser…’

Larson’s back stiffened. ‘Oh come on, it’s obviously fake. They’re just doing it to boost record sales, aren’t they? There never was a body, it’s all-’

‘If there are no other sensible questions, I’m…’ Chief Superintendent Bain frowned out into the crowd as a reporter in the middle of the pack stood up. The whole room turned to stare at the short, stocky bloke, dressed in an expensive-looking grey suit, silk shirt and tie, hair immaculately coiffed. As if he’d come shrink-wrapped in a box.

He waited until every microphone and camera was pointed in his direction. ‘Colin Miller, Aberdeen Examiner.’ His broad Glaswegian accent didn’t really go with the fancy clothes. The wee man pulled out a sheet of paper in a clear plastic sleeve. ‘This turned up on my desk half an hour ago. And I quote: “The police isn’t taking this seriously. We gave them simple, clear, instructions, but they still was late. So we got no other choice: we had to cut off the wee girl’s toe. She got nine more. No more fucking about.”’

The room erupted. ‘Is it true? Did you find Jenny’s toe?’, ‘Why aren’t Grampian Police taking it seriously?’, ‘How can you justify putting a little girl’s life at risk?’, ‘Will you hand this case over to SOCA now?’, ‘When can we see the toe?’, ‘…public inquiry…’, ‘…people have a right to know…’, ‘…think she’s still alive?’

Camera flashes went off like a firework display, Finnie, Bain, and the Media Liaison Officer not getting a word in.

And standing there, basking in the media glow: Colin Miller.

Wee shite.

‘Enough!’ Up at the front of the room, Chief Superintendent Bain banged his hand on the desk, making the jug of water and three empty glasses chink and rattle. ‘Quiet down or I’ll have you all thrown out, are we clear?’

Gradually the hubbub subsided, bums returned to seats. Until the only one left standing was Colin Miller, still holding the note. ‘Well?’

Bain cleared his throat. ‘I think…’

The Media Liaison Officer leaned over and whispered something in Bain’s ear and the Chief Superintendent scowled, whispered something back, then nodded.

‘I can confirm that we recovered a toe this afternoon that appears to have come from a small girl, but until DNA results-’

And the room erupted again.

Chapter 4

Shouts; telephones ringing; constables and support staff bustling about the main CID room with bits of