Shatter the Bones

finished here.’

That had to go on record as the shortest post mortem ever.

‘Doctor?’ Finnie straightened up. ‘Where are you-’

‘She’s dead.’ He removed his mask and apron, and sent them after the gloves. ‘A wee girl…’

Steel groaned. Superintendent Green straightened his shoulders, chin up. Finnie swore.

Logan stared at the severed toe. Pale, bloodless, almost translucent. ‘Are you sure she isn’t just-’

‘Look at the cut end.’ Doc Fraser unzipped his SOC suit. ‘No bruising, no discolouration, no lividity. Cut a toe off a living person and you make a hell of a mess: the tissue gets inflamed, blood flows to the damaged area, capillaries burst, subcutaneous bleeding makes a dark stain around the wound.’ He struggled out of the suit, stood there in his vest and pants, one sock crumpled around an ankle. ‘That toe was cut from a dead body. Your wee girl’s dead.’

Logan followed DI Steel back up the mortuary steps and out onto the sun-bathed tarmac of the Rear Podium car park. It was bounded on one side by the seven-storey bulk of FHQ; the squat admin and mortuary blocks on two others; and — across a narrow lane — the dark granite wall of tenement buildings that made up the back of King Street. Normally it was wrapped in chilly shadows, but today it was positively Mediterranean.

Logan didn’t bother stifling a jaw-cracking yawn. Shuddered. Blinked. Dug his hands deeper into his pockets.

Steel paused beside a CID pool car with ‘DIRTY PIGGY BASTARDS!!!’ spray-painted in dripping letters along the side, and produced a little plastic stick coloured to look like a cigarette. She stuck it in her mouth and tried for a puff. Then pulled the thing out and squinted at it. Had another go, sooking her cheeks hollow.

‘Sodding bugger-monkeys…’ She thrust the fake cigarette at Logan. ‘You — man — fix.’

Logan watched DCI Finnie storm through the back doors into FHQ, Superintendent Green flowing along behind him. Like a cat in a reasonably-priced suit.

‘When the press find out Jenny’s dead, we’re screwed. They’ll-’

‘Fix it, fix it, fix it!’

Logan twisted the fake plastic filter, and the e-cigarette went ‘click’, then the end glowed an artificial ruby colour. He handed it back. ‘SOCA’s going to take over the investigation; we’ll all be up in front of Professional Standards; and every newspaper, TV crew, and tosser on the street, is going to play Bash Grampian Police.’

Steel sucked on her fake cigarette. A thin wisp of vapour curled from the end. ‘Aye, that’s the real tragedy here, isn’t it? No’ a wee girl being dead or anything.’

Logan could feel the blush rushing up his cheeks, ears tingling.

Six years old, and they barely had enough to bury.

He looked away. ‘Yeah, sorry.’

Fuck.

So much for the compassionate face of modern policing.

Steel patted him on the arm. ‘Don’t sweat it. I’ll bet Finnie’s arse isn’t eating his frilly man-panties because Jenny’s dead either. But do you no’ think it might be nice if someone kept an eye on what actually matters?’ Another sook. ‘But you’re right — we are fucked.’

‘So what do we do now?’

‘Well, I don’t know about you,’ Steel marched off towards the back door, sticking the fake fag back in her pocket, ‘but I’m no’ lying back and thinking of England.’

Chapter 9

They pushed through the double doors into the custody area — a bare concrete floor, breezeblock walls, ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?’ posters, the smell of old sweat and stale biscuits.

A shrill, jagged, cry echoed down the corridor: ‘I want a fucking doctor!’

The reply sounded as if it was being spat between gritted teeth: ‘If you don’t quiet down-’

‘I’M FUCKING DYING!’

Logan turned the corner to the cell block. A Police Custody and Security Officer was peering through the hatch of number five, hands on her hips, white shirt rucked up at the back. One epaulette nearly torn off. Hairdo all skewed to one side. ‘You don’t need a doctor, you need a good kick up the-’

‘Morning Kathy.’ DI Steel paused on the way past to slap the PCSO on the bum.

‘Hoy!’ Kathy glowered, both cheeks deep pink, eyes scrunched into narrow slits. Then she saw Logan. ‘You!’

He backed off a step. ‘What?’

‘This,’ she slapped a palm against the cell door, ‘is your fault. Trisha Brown — hospital turfed her out half an hour ago and she’s-’

‘RAPE! I’VE BEEN RAPED! HELP!’

‘Do you see what I’ve got to put up with?’

‘I’M DYING!’

‘Shut up!’ Kathy hit the door again. ‘I want her interviewed and out of here now!’

Logan held up his hands. ‘It’s McPherson’s case — he’s supposed to be interviewing the lot of them this afternoon.’

‘This afternoon? I’m not-’

‘I’M DYING IN HERE, YOU FUCKS!’

‘Christ’s sake!’ The PCSO hauled the hatch open. ‘Will you bloody shut it for five minutes!’

Steel glanced at the floor. ‘You’ve sprung a leak.’

Logan followed her gaze, down to where a clear yellow puddle was seeping out from beneath the cell door and pooling around the PCSO’s sensible shoes.

‘Agh, you filthy cow!’ She danced back a couple of steps, leaving damp footprints on the concrete.

They left her to it.

The Wee Hoose smelled of egg sandwiches left in the sun for too long, but Sergeant Biohazard Bob Marshall was nowhere to be seen.

‘I can’t — I’ve got a team briefing in half an hour.’ Logan shifted his mobile from one ear to the other and settled into his seat, then froze, staring at his desk lamp. Someone had attached three socks and a pair of pale-grey lady’s knickers to the metal shade with clothes-pegs.

Ha-bloody-ha.

DI McPherson’s voice had that petulant sound kids used when their mums were dragging them past the sweetie aisle in the supermarket: ‘But I don’t know what you arrested them for! How can I interview them if-’

‘It was your operation: read the report.’ Logan hauled the socks off his lamp, dumped them on the floor.

‘But I can’t-’

‘And I’m not here this afternoon, anyway. You’ll have to do it yourself.’

He reached for the pants, then stopped. Grabbed a blue nitrile glove from the big box by the door and used it to pull the pants from their peg. A thick brown skidmark ran the length of the gusset. He curled his top lip.

‘Filthy bastards…’

‘What?’

‘No, not you, Guv; someone else.’ He almost dropped the grubby knickers in the bin, then turned and stuffed them in Bob’s top drawer instead. See how he liked it.

McPherson moaned for a bit, but eventually got the point and hung up. Logan slumped back in his seat, blinking up at the ceiling tiles. Be nice to just snooze for a couple of minutes. Not that there was any way in hell he’d risk it, not with Finnie storming around the place like an angry bull-frog.

Nothing for it, but to try and get some work done. He poked the power button on his creaky beige computer,