Close to the Bone

to-’

‘Pin back your lugs: I — don’t — have — the — men. Got a sodding crisis going on here. If it’s no’ life or death, it’ll have to wait.’

‘They might have DS Chalmers.’

Silence.

‘Hello? Can you hear-’

‘You better be joking, Laz.’

‘She got the list yesterday afternoon and didn’t tell anyone. For all we know, Agnes has her staked out on someone’s floor right now.’

A barrage of foul language erupted from the earpiece. Then more wasp-chewing. ‘Fine, I’ll magic firearms teams up out of nowhere. Get them going round the properties. You happy now? ’

Ecstatic.

He gave her the addresses, then she slammed the phone down on him. Like it was his fault Chalmers was a glory-hungry overachiever.

Sim appeared on the other side of the car, her Airwave handset blinking away on her shoulder. ‘Guv? Got Control on the line. They say there’s an NPR hit on Chalmers’s Mini going north on the Inverurie road at half nine last night.’

‘Do they have her going back again? ’

‘Hold on. .’ Sim clicked the button on her handset and repeated the question. Then shook her head. ‘She might have taken one of the back roads? ’

Chalmers would still have come down King Street, or West North Street, or the beach Esplanade to get home, and the Number Plate Recognition system would have picked her up. And, more importantly, she would’ve fed her cat.

‘What about the GSM trace? ’

Sim checked. ‘They say her mobile’s not switched on.’

Logan drummed his fingers on the car roof. Heading north on the Inverurie road. That meant they wanted addresses on the list to the north-west of the city. . And only three fit the bill.

‘Guv? ’

‘Get in.’

They’d just have to do without a firearms team.

The Fiat bumped and ground its way down a dirt track, lined on either side with barbed-wire fences and thick knots of brambles, the ridge of grass in the middle scraping along the bottom of the car every time Sim hit a pothole. And as the track was pretty much all pothole, Logan had to stick his finger in his other ear to hear Rennie at all.

‘What? ’

The radio wasn’t helping: ‘-siege enters its second hour, Grampian Police have cordoned off Fintray Road, and are asking Blackburn residents to remain indoors. We spoke to Mrs Gilmore, who lives next door. .’

Mrs Gilmore sounded as if she’d just French-kissed a set of bagpipes. ‘Aye, and then there was this big bang and a policeman went flying over the hedge into our roses. It’s-’

Logan switched it off. ‘I didn’t hear a word of that.’

Rennie took a deep breath and came back twice as loud. ‘I said, the house at Rickarton is clear. Steel’s got the other four-man team on their way to the place outside Stonehaven. But it’s rush hour, so- ’

‘What about the other two houses? ’

‘Sorry, Guv. We’re going as fast as we can.’

Sim tapped Logan on the shoulder as the car rolled through yet another outbreak of gravel-edged pits in the track. ‘There it is.’

House number two on the north-west of Aberdeen list was an ancient-looking farmhouse set back from the road, partially screened by a patchy beech hedge, the front garden a thicket of weeds. The walls were leper grey, the gable end streaked with rust from a buckled TV antenna. One chimney was missing a chunk off the corner and the slate roof was speckled with yellow lichen. Narrow dark windows glowered out at the surrounding fields. Behind it, a massive steading conversion was all fresh pointing and neat double glazing.

A bright green Willox and Smith ‘FOR SALE’ sign was driven into the jungle of dockens and brambles.

‘Get your team over to the next house and let me know if there’s any sign of Chalmers.’ Logan hung up and put his phone away.

Sim parked the car at the overgrown entrance to a small gravel drive. ‘No sign of a Mini.’

Well, they weren’t going to just leave it outside, were they?

He climbed out of the Fiat. The weeds in the driveway were partially flattened, as if a vehicle had been left there. . Or they’d used it to reverse and turn around on the appalling track.

Sim joined him, pulling on her bowler. ‘What do you think? ’

‘Someone’s been here.’ He pointed. ‘See the trampled path through the weeds to the front door? ’

‘Unless it was sheep? ’

She unhooked the pepper-spray from her utility belt and handed it over. Then snapped out her extendable baton. ‘You want the front or the back? ’

Thistles and nettles bound together around the side of the property. All spiky and stingy. Logan fiddled with the pepper-spray. ‘Think I’ll. . take the front.’

Sim sagged slightly. ‘Poop.’ Then she straightened up and waded her way through the undergrowth, elbows up at shoulder height, keeping her hands out of the danger zone.

Grass and broken dandelions squeaked under his shoes as he picked his way to the front door, hauling on a pair of blue nitrile gloves.

A scrunching crash sounded from the other side of the house, followed by, ‘Oh. . pooping, bum-pooping poop!’

Logan peered in through the front window. The glass was thick with dirt, but there was enough light to see a mildew-speckled front room, the wallpaper peeling away in one corner and stained with damp. No furniture, just marks in the swirly seventies-style carpet where it used to be. The other front window was pretty much the same.

He tried the key in the lock. Opened the door. And stepped into a dank corridor that smelled like mouldy bread.

The house was in a much worse state than the first one they’d tried — a bungalow with a DIY jungle gym out the front. No wonder they’d had trouble selling it.

A staircase led almost straight up, ladder-style to a small landing, but down here there was a bathroom clarted in rust and mould, the two empty front rooms, and a tiny kitchen. Half the units were missing their doors, the other half had them hanging off. Big black stains spread across the ceiling.

Talk about a fixer-upper.

There was another crunch, then more ridiculous pseudo-swearing, and finally Sim’s face appeared at the kitchen window, cheeks flushed, mouth set into a hard line, a strand of sticky willy clinging to the brim of her bowler like a length of furry string.

Logan hauled open the back door and let her in.

She was covered in bits of greenery, sticky geordies all up her trousers, bits of bracken, green stains on her knees and elbows, scarlet scratches on the back of her hands and one cheek. She scowled at him. ‘Not one word.’

The corners of his mouth twitched, but he got it under control. ‘I’ve done downstairs. No sign of anyone.’

Back to the front hall.

The stairs creaked as they climbed, the balustrade wobbling every time it was touched. There was no way Anthony Chung and Agnes Garfield would have holed up here. Not with so many other, cleaner, less. . diseasy properties to choose from.