Shatter the Bones

The line went dead.

The sun glared down from a pale blue sky, a few thin wisps of white making sod all difference to the harsh light. Logan trudged up Marischal Street, hands in his pockets.

Bunch of bastards. An hour: was that too much to ask for? An hour in his own bloody bed. Never mind actually getting to take some bloody time off.

High above, fat seagulls screamed and swore, spattering a rusty hatchback with stinking polka dots.

Logan came to a halt at the top of the hill, where the road joined onto the tail end of Union Street, and stared across the road. Lodge Walk — the little alley that ran between the Town House and the Sheriff Court — was choked with journalists, photographers, and TV crews. DI Bell was caught in the middle of them, a little hairy island in a sea of bastards, all shouting questions and waving cameras. Poor sod had probably been caught trying to sneak out of Force Headquarters’ secret side door.

Well, he was on his own, because there was no way Logan was wading in to help.

A newsagents lurked on one side of the Mercat Cross, the windows dulled by a thin film of dust. One of those redand-white sandwich boards was parked out on the cobbled pedestrian area in front of the shop: ‘TORTURED JENNY LOSES TOE — POLICE POWERLESS’ printed in thick black lettering above the Aberdeen Examiner logo.

Logan hesitated for a moment, then went in. Every tabloid newspaper in the place had something similar screaming from the front page. The Sport had gone for ‘TOE HORRIBLE FOR WORDS’, the Press and Journal — ‘KIDNAP HORROR FIND’, Evening Express — ‘“I CAN FIND JENNY” SAYS NE PSYCHIC’… He bought an

Examiner and a P amp;J, then nipped next door to the bakers for a couple of bacon butties and something for himself.

Steel could get the damn coffees for once.

He dragged his phone out as he trudged along the pavement and made a quick call.

‘What the bloody hell are you eating?’ DI Steel had her feet up on the desk, one hand wrapped around a white floury roll with slivers of deep-fried pig sticking out the edges.

‘Fish finger buttie. And I’m only here till twelve, understand?’

‘You’re no’ right in the head, Laz: butties are all about the bacon.’ She took a huge bite, getting a smear of tomato sauce on her cheek. ‘So, come on then — what did you get out of Shaky Jake? He still on the crutches?’

‘I mean it: twelve o’clock on the dot. I’ve got a thing on and I can’t be late, or-’

‘Focus for five minutes, will you? Shaky Jake.’

Logan frowned at her. ‘It’s McPherson’s case.’

‘Humour me.’

‘Yeah, he’s still on the crutches. They had to fuse his ankle-bones into one big lump after Wee Hamish’s lads took a pickaxe to them. Walks like a penguin now. Lucky the hospital didn’t just amputate his feet.’

‘Silly sod shouldn’t have helped himself to the merchandise then, should he? How much gear did you get?’

‘Three bricks of heroin, two of cannabis resin, some E, a big suitcase full of mephedrone, two replica handguns, and some dodgy porno DVDs.’

‘Oh aye?’ Steel sat upright. ‘Anything I should be reviewing?’

‘Already sent them over to Trading Standards.’

She slumped back again. ‘Sod.’ Another bite of buttie. ‘And which one of your daft buggers let Shuggie Webster escape?’

Logan squirted another sachet of tartar sauce onto his fish fingers, not looking the inspector in the eye. ‘It’s all in the report.’

‘“Operational difficulties” my sharny arse — it was that useless bum-crack Ferguson, wasn’t it?’

‘We had to get the social out to-’

‘Aye, Trisha Brown’s wee lad. I do read these things, you know. How was her mum?’

‘How do you think?

‘Pished, rancid, and racist?’ Steel nodded. ‘Her granny was the same. Trisha’s your genuine third-generation drug user. Really makes you hold out hope for her wee boy, doesn’t it? Other kids’ll be showing each other their knickers behind the bike sheds: he’ll be doing crack.’ She sooked a greasy fingertip clean. ‘What else you got on for McPherson?’

‘Not till you tell me why you-’

‘Laz, it always pays to keep an eye on what DI Disaster’s up to: you never know when he’s going to get himself bashed over the head, break a limb, fall down the stairs, be hit by a car, punched in the nose…’ She wrinkled her forehead. ‘Am I missing anything?’

‘He got rabies once.’

‘Exactly. And while he’s off on the sick, who do you think gets lumbered with his caseload? Muggins. Like I don’t have enough on my plate.’ Steel puffed out her cheeks and slumped even further. ‘I’m knackered the whole time; Jasmine won’t stop screaming; Susan’s nerves are in tatters so she’s getting on mine; nobody’s sleeping…’ Sigh. ‘Don’t get me wrong: Jasmine’s a wee darling, but Jesus. Now I know why some animals eat their young.’

Logan yawned again. ‘At least you didn’t get dragged out of your bed after an hour, by a grumpy-’

‘Oh boo bloody hoo. For your own good, remember?’ The inspector polished off the last of her buttie, swilling it down with another mouthful of coffee. ‘Dying for a shag too. Bloody Susan’s still no’ up for it — they had to stitch her bits back together, and you know it-’

Logan held up a hand. ‘I’m eating.’

‘-like a doner kebab. If I don’t get my end away soon I’m going to… Morning, Guv.’

Logan scrunched around in his seat. DCI Finnie was standing in the doorway, his face crumpled down at the edges. As if it needed a good iron.

‘Inspector,’ the head of CID held up a manila folder, ‘why are there still no suspects in the Douglas Ewan case?’

Steel sniffed. ‘You told me the McGregors took precedence. Remember?’

‘I see…’ Finnie’s rubbery mouth became a thin-lipped line. ‘Well, I’m sorry if I gave you the impression that you could drop everything and sit in here having a wee tea party instead. But perhaps, if it’s not too much trouble, you wouldn’t mind solving something?’

She put her mug down. ‘It’s no’ that I haven’t got any suspects for the Ewan case: I’ve got too bloody many. Dougy Ewan is a nasty raping wee bastard: half that bloody estate’s got reason to kick the shite out of him. Interviewed fifty-two people so far, and they all think whoever did it deserves a knighthood. So coming in here “motivating” me’s no’ as helpful as you think.’

Finnie stiffened. ‘I don’t appreciate your-’

‘Fuck’s sake, Andy, I know you’ve got SOCA dancing on your bollocks with clogs on, but it’s no’ my fault, OK? We’re doing our best here.’

Silence.

‘And you…’ The DCI turned on Logan. ‘Tell me, Sergeant, did I imagine it, or did you swear to me that you could do a much better job on that drug bust than DI McPherson? Yet what do I find when I get in this morning? A matching set of signed confessions? A stack of seized drugs in the evidence stores?’

Logan shifted in his seat. ‘Actually, sir-’

‘No: I find half the evidence has been fl ushed down some junkie’s toilet, and you let the ringleader get away!’

‘It was … erm … we were-’

‘Operational difficulties, Guv.’ Steel tapped a fingernail against her mug. ‘McRae was just debriefing me on the incident. Nothing he could’ve done without a firearms team: dirty big dog like that. It’s remarkable he got the result he did, really. McPherson would’ve come back with half the team dead.’

Finnie’s scowl slipped a bit. ‘I see.’ He looked at Logan in silence for a moment, raised an eyebrow, then back