Shatter the Bones

Behaviour

‘I really don’t see how this concerns me, Mr…?’

‘Sergeant McRae.’

‘Ah…’ Frank Baker crossed his legs, made sure the crease in his tan chinos was perfectly straight, then did the same with the parting in his floppy brown hair. ‘Well, Sergeant, you see, I’ve never actually met-’

‘You live on the same street.’ Detective Constable Rennie crossed his legs, ran a hand through his own hair. Little flakes of skin were peeling off of his nose and forehead, glowing in the sun’s rays. ‘You have to see why we’d want to talk to you, Frank.’

‘Yes, well…’ He cleared his throat, then glanced at the little video camera mounted on a cheap tripod in the corner. ‘It’s really all just a silly mistake, you see, it was a misunderstanding, I really shouldn’t be on the register in the first place, I just-’

‘You just happened to expose yourself through the railings of a primary school?’ Logan checked the notes pinned to his clipboard. ‘Then did it again at the duck pond in Duthie Park.’

‘Well…’

‘And then you tried to get a little boy to come into the toilets with you in Hazlehead Park, didn’t you Mr Baker?’

Frank Baker’s cheeks turned a fiery shade of pink. Then his chin came up. ‘I don’t see how that makes me a kidnapper!’

Rennie leaned forward and patted Baker on the knee. ‘It’s OK, Frank, no one’s saying you kidnapped anyone, we-’

‘They dragged me out of work to come here, you know! Two hairy constables, where I work!’

Logan checked his notes. ‘Says here you’re a welder?’

‘They came to my work.’ He uncrossed his legs, then crossed them the other way around. Went through the same routine with all his creases. ‘No one there knows about … my mis understanding. And I’d like to keep it that way.’

‘A welder?’ Somehow it was difficult to imagine the prissy floppy-haired neat-freak sitting in front of them doing anything as messy as that.

‘They had no business bundling me into a patrol car like some sort of criminal.’ Baker brushed imaginary lint from his sleeve. ‘I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong. I would never ever touch a little girl. They’re not…’ He shuddered slightly. ‘I never even spoke to her. Or her mother. I wouldn’t know them if I passed them on the street.’

Rennie uncrossed his legs, then crossed them again. Brushed something from his trouser leg. ‘Not even when they got on the TV?’ He’d been doing this since the start of the interview: every time Baker did anything, Rennie copied it. Like a sunburnt reflection.

‘Dear God, it was a nightmare. Soon as they made it through the first two stages there were reporters everywhere. I couldn’t go out my front door without a half dozen of the grubby little swines pointing cameras in my face. “Do you know Alison and Jenny?”, “What do they like to eat for breakfast?”, “Does Alison have a man in her life?” On and on, every single day.’ He took a deep breath, and Logan watched Rennie do exactly the same thing.

Baker looked out of the window. ‘It’s very … inconvenient for someone in my position to be harassed by the media. It makes me uncomfortable.’

Logan tapped his pen against the clipboard. ‘So you’re saying you never spoke to, interacted with, or had anything to do with Alison and Jenny McGregor?’

Baker closed his eyes, pursed his lips. ‘I don’t know them. I’ve never known them. I don’t want to know them.’

‘Do you watch a lot of television, Mr Baker?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Documentaries, the news, or are you an X-Factor and Britain’s Next Big Star kinda guy?’

Baker gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘OK, OK… I watched them. Every week, up there singing and dancing and getting famous. For what? What the hell was so special about Alison Bloody McGregor and her little girl? Oh, Jenny’s daddy died in Afghanistan, boo bloody hoo.’

‘Iraq, Mr Baker. James McGregor died in Iraq.’

‘Same difference.’ He scowled at the floor. ‘I never touched them. I didn’t kidnap them. I didn’t kill her, or her horrible little child. I wouldn’t dirty my hands…’

Darren McInnes (52) — Exposing Children to Harm/Danger or Neglect, Possessing Indecent Images of Children, Theft by Housebreaking, Serious Assault

‘No, that’s not what I’m saying.’ McInnes brushed his long, greasy yellow-grey hair from his face and tied it in a loose ponytail. He pursed his lips, the folds around his grey eyes deepening behind thick glasses. ‘I’m saying I had nothing to do with them.’

At least he looked like a paedophile. Baker could have passed for a swimming pool attendant, but there was no mistaking Darren McInnes.

McInnes shifted in his seat, Rennie copying his every move. ‘Can I smoke?’ He pulled out a tin of tobacco.

Logan shook his head. ‘There’s a hundred and fifty pound fine for smoking in the hotel, Mr McInnes. Where were you last week: Wednesday night, Thursday morning?’

‘Bloody government. I should be able to smoke if I want to, they’re my bloody lungs.’

Logan banged on the arm of his chair, making the lanky man flinch.

‘Where — were — you?’

‘I don’t know. I was at home. Probably. Watching TV. Maybe I had a couple of beers, it’s not illegal is it?’

‘How well do you know Alison and Jenny McGregor?’

‘We’ve been over this. I don’t, OK? Yes, I was aware of them, but I don’t follow all that reality television shite. Whatever happened to the good old days, eh? When they used to make decent drama and comedy and documentaries? Now it’s all about sticking a bunch of nobodies on the box and raking the cash in with dodgy telephone scams. Makes you sick.’ He produced the tobacco tin again, popped it open and pulled out a packet of Rizla papers.

‘I said no smoking.’

McInnes looked up at Logan. ‘I’m not smoking, I’m rolling, OK? That still allowed in Nazi Britain?’

Rennie pulled a pen from his pocket and fiddled with it. ‘And you never watched Alison and Jenny on the TV, at all?’

‘Oh, I heard them on the radio. Everywhere you go, they’re on the radio, singing that bloody awful song. They didn’t even write it. Cover versions, that’s all people can do these days.’

Logan stood and walked around until he was standing directly behind McInnes. Looming. Up close he smelled of unwashed hair and stale cigarettes. ‘Do you know anyone who’s selling a little girl?’

‘Ah.’ The lanky man pulled a sheet of translucent paper from the little packet, then dug into a pouch of tobacco. ‘Well, sometimes one hears certain … rumours. Internet chat rooms, news groups, that kind of thing.’

‘Anyone talking about Jenny McGregor?’

He fiddled a line of thin brown curls down the middle of the paper, then ran a pale yellow tongue along one edge. ‘Celebrity child like that… Hmm… It would give things an extra kick, wouldn’t it? Knowing everyone’s out there, looking for her, but she’s all yours. And you can do anything you want…’ McInnes rolled the cigarette into a tight cylinder and pinched the excess tobacco from the ends. ‘Can you imagine what she’d be worth on the open market?’ He cleared his throat. ‘If she wasn’t dead.’

Logan stared at him. ‘You tell me.’

McInnes popped the newly formed cigarette in the tin and produced another rolling paper. ‘I really wouldn’t know. And before you ask: Jenny isn’t my type.’ He smiled, showing off a set of uneven brown teeth. ‘Far too