Shatter the Bones

listening to it bleep and groan and whir. Then the speakers made that psychic durrrrrrrrum-durrrrrrrrum-durrrrrrrrum buzz that meant his mobile was about to ring.

Sodding hell. What now?

But when the call came through the phone played the metal-chicken rendition of Lydia the Tattooed Lady Samantha had programmed into it for whenever she called.

‘Hey, you.’

‘Logan? How come you’re not home yet? Big day: you better not be getting cold feet on me!’

‘Two guesses.’

‘Oh for… You’re in work, aren’t you? You do know the Church’s booked for half one?’

‘Yes, but-’

‘Half one. On the dot.’

‘Had to sort out a PM for Jenny McGregor’s toe, and-’

‘Don’t make me drag you out of there, ’cause I will.’

‘Doc Fraser says she’s dead.’

Silence. ‘Shit… I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah, me too.’ Logan glanced up at the poster on the wall: ‘HAVE YOU ANY INFORMATION?’ The photo was a smiling mother and daughter, standing on Aberdeen beach, caught in a shaft of golden light, the cold grey swell of the North Sea foam-flecked and angry behind them. Now it was only a matter of time before the bodies turned up.

‘Anyway, yes: half one. I’ll be there, OK?’

‘Good. Love you.’ And the line went dead.

He checked his watch — just gone eleven — then his email. Memo; directive; memo; Sheriff Court times for everyone arrested last night at Shuggie Webster’s house; general update on the hunt for Jenny and Alison McGregor’s kidnappers; details of the emergency media briefing at half three; an invitation to PC Henderson’s leaving bash-

A knock on the door.

Logan looked up from his screen to see Acting DI Mark MacDonald, clutching a little parcel — about the size of a hardback book.

Logan nodded. ‘Guv.’

MacDonald cleared his throat. ‘Look, it’s been a bastard of a week…’ He clunked the door shut behind him and settled on the edge of his old desk, one finger tracing a figure-of-eight on the laminate wood surface. He held out the parcel. ‘Peace offering?’

Logan unwrapped the brown paper. There was a brass plaque inside, mounted on a dark wooden plinth: ‘THE WEE HOOSE’. A couple of screws and rawlplugs were Sellotaped to the back.

‘I thought it could, you know: go on the wall outside.’

‘Thanks.’

MacDonald nodded. Then sagged. ‘Fuck me, being a DI is a pain in the arse. You don’t want to swap do you?’

‘Do I hell.’

‘When it was Doreen’s turn, what did she get? Two attempted murders and a run of unlawful removals. Three sodding months, Bill got nothing but break-ins. Me? I get the fucking McGregors.’ He tugged at the edges of his goatee beard. ‘It’s not bloody fair.’

Logan powered his computer down again. ‘Never is.’

‘Sure you don’t want to take your turn early?’

‘Sorry, Mark — got a briefing to go to.’

‘Three month job-share trial period my arse.’ He picked the plaque up from Logan’s desk. Held it against his chest. ‘You remember how Insch used to take his pulse the whole time? Stick two fingers to his throat whenever he was going purple? I don’t need to do that. I can hear the bloody thing pounding in my ears.’

‘All right, that’s enough.’ Finnie stood at the front of the room with his hands up, until silence settled across the crowd again. Everyone involved in the investigation was jammed into FHQ’s major incident room, the biggest in the building: CID, uniform, and support staff perched on chairs and desks, staring. The top brass sat at the front with Finnie, looking as if they were on their way to a funeral — Chief Superintendent Baldy Bain, the Assistant Chief Constable, the Deputy Chief Constable, and God himself — Chief Constable Anderson — all done up in full dress regalia, their silver buttons polished to a mirror shine.

One of the admin officers stuck up her hand.

Finnie stared at her for a moment. ‘Yes?’

‘Are you sure she’s dead?’

The head of CID pursed his lips. ‘No, I just made that bit up, because I thought it would be a fun excuse to get everyone together so we could plait each other’s hair! Anyone have any other stupid questions?’

The admin officer went pink and lowered her hand. Finnie scowled around the room. ‘We are now investigating the abduction and murder of a six-year-old girl, and the abduction of her mother. Media briefing’s at half three; Chief Superintendent Bain will be making the announcement about Jenny’s death. I’m sure the media will do its usual sterling job of appealing for calm and reasoned reflection at this diffi cult time, but just in case: Acting DI MacDonald, you are now in charge of crowd control. I don’t want some journalistic toss-pot using this to whip up a riot, understand?’

Logan watched Mark squirm in his seat.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And I want every chiz handler we’ve got, out there pulling in their sources — someone, somewhere has to know something. DI McPherson, you can handle that.’

Which was bloody doubtful, McPherson could barely handle tying his own shoelaces. But at least this would keep him out of trouble: Covert Human Intelligence Sources were OK for burglaries and low-level drug trafficking, but whoever snatched Alison and Jenny McGregor weren’t going to brag about it over a pint in Dodgy Pete’s, were they?

Finnie pointed at the crumpled mess sitting next to Logan. ‘DI Steel will be coordinating with all the other forces in the UK. Just because they were snatched in Aberdeen, doesn’t mean they’re being held here.’ Finnie turned to his boss, Chief Superintendent Baldy Bain. ‘Sir?’

Bain stood, gave the standard motivational — we’re all in this together/everyone’s depending on us/justice for Jenny — speech. Then he turned and nodded at the newcomer, sitting with the bigwigs. ‘Right: we have Superintendent Green from the Serious Organized Crime Agency with us. Superintendent, I think you want to say a few words?’

‘Thanks.’ He got to his feet and flashed them a smile, straight white teeth and furrowed brow. ‘Before we go any further I just want you all to know that SOCA isn’t here to tell you how to do your jobs, or take the investigation away from Grampian Police. I’m just here to provide a fresh pair of eyes, a sense-check, and all the support I can.’

And now Acting DI Mark MacDonald wasn’t the only one squirming in his seat. But no one stood up and called Green a lying tosser.

‘OK, so, while I’m up here: other options. How about background checks?’

Finnie’s smile looked painful. ‘Ongoing. I’ve got six teams working their way through Alison McGregor’s colleagues and neighbours. We’ve already interviewed everyone on her course.’

‘Family?’

‘Adopted when she was three. Foster parents are both dead — one cancer, one heart attack. Husband’s parents went in a house fire seven years ago.’

Green nodded, chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. ‘What about the production company?’

Finnie looked at Acting DI MacDonald.

Mark fumbled his way into a blue folder and pulled out a trembling sheet of paper. ‘I spoke to the Met this morning and they say they’ve been through Blue-Fish-Two-Fish Productions with a nit comb. Company has a