Shatter the Bones

be asked what a ‘tiger’ was.

Tough.

Logan dumped the pile on the desk. ‘What about older cases?’

‘You know: when you abduct someone’s family, ’cos you want them to help you rob their bank or something?’

‘You want me to take that coffee back?’

‘Just trying to-’

‘Rennie!’

A sigh. ‘I’ve got an appointment with the force historian at ten. She’s got a bunch of stuff booked out for an exhibition she’s putting on.’

‘Good. While you’re there, see if you can’t go back another ten years, just to be on the safe side.’ Whatever shite-storm Napier was whipping up with SOCA, no one was going to accuse Logan of not being thorough.

The constable groaned. ‘Can we not stick this stuff on the back burner for a bit? I mean, I could help you interview Alison’s student mates instead? Maybe we can crack the case: get Alison and Jenny back before Superintendent Soapy-Tit-Wank takes it off us?’ He struck a pose, one hand on his chest, the other reaching out towards the manky ceiling tiles. ‘Rennie and McRae save the day!’ A grin. ‘Hey, that rhymes.’

Logan chewed on the inside of his lip. ‘You want to help interview everyone on Alison McGregor’s course?’

Nod. ‘OK, you can.’

‘Woot!’ Rennnie punched the air. ‘Thanks, Sarge!’

‘Just as soon as you’ve finished digging stuff out of the archives.’

‘Nope.’ Sergeant Eric Mitchell looked up from his computer screen, then ran a finger through his oversized moustache, sunlight glinting off his bald head. ‘Everything’s booked out.’

‘How can everything be booked out?’ Logan tried to peer at the screen, but Eric twisted it away.

‘Finnie’s got everyone off interviewing doctors and vets again, that’s why. Take a bus like normal people. Or get a taxi.’

‘Right. A taxi. You ever tried to claim one of those back on expenses?’

‘So walk.’

‘To Hillhead?’

‘Ahem…’ The voice came from just over Logan’s shoulder. ‘Perchance I can be of assistance, young Logie? I happen to be going that way myself.’

Logan closed his eyes. ‘I’m not sharing a car with you, Bob.’

‘I’ll let you drive?’ Bob jangled a set of keys at him. ‘Come on, what’s the worst that could happen?’

Logan climbed out into the cool morning and slammed the pool car’s door shut. Hauled in a lungful of clean air.

Bob got out of the other side. ‘What? I opened the window, didn’t I?’

‘You need medical help. Or a bloody cork.’

‘Better out than in, as my granny always said.’ He stood and stared up at the soulless collection of Stalin- style concrete apartment blocks, then bit at his top lip. ‘Don’t fancy coming in with me, do you? I fucking hate suicides.’

‘Thought you took the body in yesterday?’

‘Yeah, but…’ He shuffled his shoulders beneath his shiny grey suit jacket. ‘Murder’s different: something horrible happened and we catch whatever sick bastard did it. Make sure the victim gets justice. With suicide, they’re the same person.’ He sniffed. ‘Don’t tell me it’s not creepy. Bloody depressing too.’

The room wasn’t huge, just enough space for a single bed, a built-in wardrobe, a little table and one chair. A pair of bookshelves sat above the desk, full of dog-eared medical textbooks. The obligatory Monet, Klimt, and Star Wars posters. A copy of FHM lay on the floor by the bed. ‘KAREN GETS THEM OUT! IS THERE A DOCTOR IN THE HOUSE?’

The little window looked out onto yet another block of student accommodation. Pale and drab and lifeless.

‘Bruce Sangster, twenty-one. Got pissed on Highland Park, then shot himself full of morphine, tied a plastic bag over his head, never woke up again.’ Bob tucked his hands into his armpits. ‘Twenty-one and you go do that to yourself. What a fucking waste.’

Whisky, opiates, and suffocation. It wasn’t a cry for help: whatever Bruce Sangster was running away from he’d made bloody sure it wasn’t going to catch him. How could anyone’s life be so bad they’d just throw it all away?

Bob shuddered. ‘Was going to be a doctor…’

Medical textbooks and lads’ mags weren’t the only reading material in the place. There was a little pile of Heat, Hello!, Now and OK!: ‘ALISON’S SECRET SCHOOLGIRL SHAME: “I WAS A TEENAGE TEARAWAY”, ADMITS BNBS SEMI-FINALIST.’

DI Steel had got it word perfect. Which was worrying.

Logan picked the magazine up and skimmed through all the cheesy smiles, fake tan, flock wallpaper and chandeliers, until he got to Alison McGregor’s photo. She was sitting in her living room, looking off into the middle distance, holding that framed portrait of Doddy in his uniform. Hair: immaculate, make-up: perfect, dressed in a silky top that managed to be respectable and revealing at the same time.

No doubt about it, she was a very attractive woman. Very, very attractive.

The article seemed to be about her admitting she’d done everything Vicious Vikki accused her of. And more. Acting out because her foster parents couldn’t relate to her on an emotional level, whatever the hell that meant. Then she’d met Doddy and discovered she wasn’t a horrible person after all and there was more to life than drinking, smoking, and vandalizing bus shelters. Along came the little miracle that was Jenny growing inside her, then the tragedy of losing Doddy’s parents, a fairytale wedding, the birth…

Tearaway turns her life around, becomes a loving wife and a devoted mum, Doddy dies in Iraq, Alison gets on

Britain’s Next Big Star to honour his memory, and the rest is history.

More shots of Alison and Jenny at home, then… Logan frowned. The next two pages were stuck together. They came apart with a ripping sound, and there was a photo of Alison at the beach, wearing a yellow bikini, smiling at the camera, one hand behind her head, Jenny building a sandcastle at her feet. There were bits of the opposite page stuck to Alison’s stomach chest and face.

Bob appeared at his shoulder. ‘Someone got a bit excited…’ Logan dumped the magazine in the bin. ‘What the hell’s wrong with people?’

‘Give the kid a break. Like you’ve never entertained a fivefingered shuffle over a photo of some half-naked bird.’

‘There was a wee girl in the pic, Bob.’

He curled his top lip. ‘Aye, I’ll give you that.’

Maybe that’s what he’d been running away from? ‘Sangster leave a note?’

‘Yeah, the usual. I’m sorry, I couldn’t take it any more, I’ve let everyone down…’ Bob shook his head, then settled on the edge of the bed. ‘Do you have any idea how often people write exactly the same thing? Their last words on earth, and they’re sorry they let everyone down. How fucked up is that?’ He ran a hand through his hair, until he got to the bald patch at the back. ‘At least I’m not doing the death notice this time, some poor sod in York can tell Bruce’s parents he couldn’t live up to their expectations… I fucking hate suicides.’

Logan looked around the room. ‘So, come on then — why are you here? We’ve got no suspicious circumstances: why aren’t the GED dealing with it?’

‘They are. I’m not here because Bruce’s dead — apparently Finnie doesn’t care about that. What Finnie does care about is where Bruce got the morphine from. Controlled substance. Must be someone dealing on campus.’ Bob raised his chin. ‘So now I’ve got to go tell all of Bruce’s mates he’s dead, and ask them, “Are you a drug dealer?”’ He pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and passed it over. ‘Got them off his phone and laptop contacts. Don’t fancy helping do you?’

Fat chance.