Shatter the Bones

bare strip-light in the ceiling. Cardboard boxes were stacked in one corner, a display cabinet full of spider webs and dusty silver things opposite the door.

‘Look, is this going to take long? Only, like I said, I’ve got a plane-’

‘You’re no’ going anywhere till I say you are.’ Steel smiled at him. ‘You must be raking it in: all this publicity?’

Maguire shrugged. ‘I do OK.’

‘Aye, I’ll bet you do. What’s the fund up to now?’

He pulled out a packet of Silk Cut. ‘I don’t see how-’

‘No smoking.’ Logan took the cigarettes from him. ‘Answer the question.’

Maguire scowled. ‘Two-and-a-bit. Million. But it’s not like I get to see any of that, OK? It’s all downloads. Every penny goes into a marked account, and it’s for the ransom. I don’t even have access to it.’

Steel pursed her lips. ‘So what happens if we turn up Jenny and her mum, all safe and sound? What happens to your two-and-a-bit million then?’

Maguire cleared his throat, ran a hand across the back of his neck. ‘I suppose it’d go to charity … or something… After administrative deductions.’

‘Aye, I’ll bet it will.’

‘You can’t just-’

‘Is this all just a big PR stunt?’ Logan tossed the packet of Silk Cut from one hand to the other. ‘Did you set the whole thing up?’

Maguire took off his trendy glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Listen, OK? Yeah, the pre-orders for the album are huge, but if I don’t have Alison and Jenny, I can’t finish recording the bloody thing. We’ve got about half the tracks in the can and I’ve only got three weeks to get it done.’

‘Don’t-’

‘Three weeks — after that the bank call in my overdraft. We’ve sunk everything we’ve got into making Britain’s Next Big Star. Orchestras, backing choirs, classical scores, performance rights payments, cameras, crew, sets… The costs are suffo cating. But we can’t cut corners because we’re up against the X-Factor and Britain’s Got Talent, and the Search for Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Next Whateverthefuck. If we pull it off, we make a sodding mint, but right now the whole production company’s sliding down a razorblade into liquidation using its ball-sack as a brake.’

Maguire ran a hand across his bald head. ‘And you’d think my investors would be rubbing their hands at all the publicity, wouldn’t you? But no, the thieving wankers are waiting for us to go under so they can step in and take a hundred percent, get some cheap-arsed Lithuanian company in to make the next series, and pocket the difference. You lot are lucky — there’s honour amongst thieves. TV companies are all bastards.’

Steel fiddled with her e-cigarette. ‘So you’re no’ the one who sent us a severed toe?’

He closed his eyes. ‘No. I didn’t send you a toe. Where the fuck would I get a toe from?’

‘You’ve done worse for a wee bit of publicity: like them tampons-’

‘It wasn’t even real blood! We dipped them in some fake stuff we got off the internet, OK? We’re a small company, we do everything we can to create a buzz. Alison and Jenny don’t need it — they’re going to win Britain’s Next Big Star… They were going to win. Fuck knows what’s going to happen now.’ He pinched his nose again. ‘Look, I want them back. If they come back, the ratings go through the roof, we finish the record, Blue-Fish-Two-Fish doesn’t have to go into receiver-ship, everyone makes a shit-pile of money, and we all live happily ever after.’

Steel scowled at him. ‘Aye, well, you know what I think? I think-’

The door banged open.

DCI Finnie stepped into the little room. Behind him, Logan could see Superintendent Green and Acting DI Mark MacDonald filling the corridor.

‘Inspector Steel,’ Finnie’s rubbery face pulled itself into something that wasn’t quite a smile, ‘I thought you were supposed to be tracking down a paedophile ring. Did I imagine that? Or have you somehow manage to miraculously work your way through every sex offender in Grampian in time for a jolly into town? Hmmm?’

Chapter 19

‘Afternoon, Guv. If you’re here for Kylie Minogue’s autograph you’re too late — she’s buggered off home. Took the hump when I wouldn’t give her a seeing to.’

‘Do I really have to remind you, Inspector, that one little girl is already dead, and we’ve only got five more days to stop Alison and Jenny McGregor joining her?’

They stood staring at one another.

Steel sniffed, then stuck the e-cigarette back in her pocket. ‘I’m done with Mr Maguire anyway.’

‘Acting DI MacDonald.’ Finnie turned his fake smile in Mark’s direction. ‘Why don’t you do me a favour and escort Mr Maguire back to the station?’

‘Oh, come on!’ The producer threw his hands in the air. ‘I’ve got a bloody plane to catch! We’re shooting a live TV tribute in-’

‘After all, I’m sure he wouldn’t like anyone to think he wasn’t cooperating with the police at this delicate time. Would you, Mr Maguire?’

‘Bloody… OK, OK.’ He barged past into the corridor. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

‘Excellent.’ Finnie gave Logan the once over, top lip curled. ‘If you don’t mind, Sergeant, I’d like to speak to DI Steel in

private. Perhaps you could use the time to pop past Professional Standards? I hear they’d love a little chat with you about some rape allegations.’

Shite. So much for plan A. ‘Yes, right.’ Logan squeezed out of the room, and Finnie closed the door.

A muffled argument.

Standing out in the corridor, Superintendent Green nodded: as if they’d just agreed on something. ‘So, Detective Sergeant…?’

‘McRae. Logan. Sir.’

Another nod. ‘I see.’ He tilted his head on one side, staring, a little crease between his eyebrows. ‘Rape?’

‘Just a junkie making stuff up. Thinks she can blackmail me into giving back the drugs we seized off her boyfriend.’

‘I see… And have you ever investigated a kidnapping before, Sergeant? I mean a real one, not just drug dealers grabbing each other off the street: ransom notes, body parts in the post, that kind of thing?’

No, but you have, haven’t you, you smug bastard. ‘Not really, sir. Kidnapping’s not that common in the north-east.’

More nodding. Then Green patted him on the shoulder. ‘Walk with me, Sergeant.’

The Superintendent turned and marched out into the afternoon. The graveyard was slowly emptying — now the TV cameras were turned off and all the celebrities had gone, the crowd would all be scurrying away home to check their DVD recorders. See if they’d managed to get on the telly.

Green looked down at his feet as they walked along the path from the church — big grey slabs laid in a wide, meander ing walkway. He stopped just in front of a large rectangle of granite. It was a gravestone laid on its back in the middle of the path, the name nearly worn into obscurity by generations of scuffing feet. ‘When I was small, my father would take me to church every Sunday, after Mother…’ Frown. ‘Well, anyway, one day he said, “You see