Shatter the Bones

‘Thought a couple were a bit dodgy — one was trying to hide a home-made bong, the other got all gooey- eyed every time I mentioned Alison and Jenny’s names. Swear to God, she had a shrine to them above her bed. Newspaper clippings, magazine articles, signed photos, the lot. I think there was a lock of hair too.’

‘Hair?’

‘Not, like a scalp or anything.’

‘Nobody else?’

‘Nah, mostly they’re just students. Bit of weed, bit of booze, bit of studying, bit of pining away in their rooms wondering why nobody wants to shag them.’

‘Right, let’s go pay Alison and Jenny’s biggest fan a visit.’

Good God… Rennie hadn’t been kidding — there really was a shrine above Beatrice Eastbrook’s bed. Right in the middle of the wall was an amateurish watercolour portrait of Alison McGregor, Jenny sitting on her knee. Alison had a tinfoil halo that glimmered in the light of two big church candles, arranged either side of a lock of curly blonde hair in a little glass box, tied with a black ribbon and a sprig of heather. Just like the one on Alison’s photo of her dead husband.

Around the icon, a sea of newsprint and magazine articles spread out like a tumour. ‘MY SECRET FEARS FOR JENNY — WILL FAME DESTROY HER CHILDHOOD?’, ‘NORTH-EAST MUM THROUGH TO BNBS SEMI-FINAL’, ‘ALISON’S SECRET SCHOOLGIRL SHAME: “I WAS A TEENAGE TEARAWAY”, ADMITS BNBS SEMI-FINALIST’, ‘SHE’S NO ANGEL — THE SKELETONS LURKING IN ALISON MCG’S CLOSET’…

That last one had a photo of Victoria Murray, AKA Vicious Vikki, on it, her face scrubbed out with angry red biro, until the paper was tattered and sliced through, the word ‘LIAR!!!’ scrawled across the article over and over again.

And around the edge, a series of glossy photos — the kind you could get printed at pretty much any supermarket these days.

No posters: there wasn’t room.

Beatrice Eastbrook would probably have looked like a perfectly normal person a year ago. But… She’d dyed her hair blonde, and had it curled to look exactly like Alison McGregor’s. Her make-up was exactly like Alison McGregor’s. Her clothes were exactly like Alison McGregor’s, right down to the shoes.

Probably had a tinfoil-lined hat lying about the place somewhere too.

She twirled the hair behind her ear. ‘Of course I didn’t hurt them, why would I hurt them? I love them.’ The accent was hard to place, a weird mix of Birmingham and Aberdeen — as if it wasn’t enough to look like Alison McGregor, she was trying to sound like her too. ‘Alison was … is — fantastic. A superstar. I mean, can you imagine it, someone like that living in Aberdeen, and I know her. She talked to me, like a real person.’

‘And you’ve no idea who might have taken her?’

Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. ‘If I did, I’d kill them. I’m not joking — I’d literally kill them. Strangle them with my own hands. They cut off Jenny’s toes! What kind of bastard cuts off a little girl’s toes?’ She sank back onto the bed and shuffled back, feet on the duvet, knees against her chest. ‘You know what, when you catch them, you should cut off their toes, like in the Bible. Cut them all off and see how they like it.’

‘Did you see anyone strange hanging around her, before she went missing? Trying to talk to her?’ Other than yourself, of course, you card-carrying nutjob.

‘I don’t remember. Not that I noticed. Well, you know it was always pretty busy, with the photographers hounding her all the time and those bitches pretending to be her friend, just so they could get in the papers. I never did that…’

Logan nodded. ‘What did she think of your new look?’

A frown. ‘Well, she was flattered, obviously. Said I looked lovely. She’s a very generous and giving person.’

‘And she didn’t mind when you followed her home?’ Standing at the door, Rennie opened his mouth, but Logan held up a hand.

‘I…’ Beatrice blushed. ‘I don’t know what you-’

‘The photos around the outside of your mural.’ He pointed at the glossy pics. ‘That’s Alison’s and Jenny’s house in Kincorth. Look, there’s Alison putting the recycling out.’

‘I… It was only once.’

‘And there she is taking Jenny to school. And in that one Jenny’s wearing a tutu. Off to dance classes?’

Beatrice rested her head on her knees, speaking into the little hidden gap between them and her chest. ‘I wasn’t hurting anyone.’

Logan put his notebook down on the desk. ‘Did you see who took Alison and Jenny?’

When she looked up, her eyes glittered with tears. ‘I just wanted to be her friend. A real friend, not like those two-faced bitches.’

‘Did you see who took them, Beatrice?’

‘She’s someone special. She’s famous — she’ll leave a mark on the earth that says she was here. I’m never going to be famous. Don’t matter if I live or die, does it? Don’t matter if I was never even born. I just thought, if she could see we had so much in common, we could be friends. I just wanted her to like me…’

‘It’s OK, Beatrice, I understand.’ Logan picked up his notebook and stood. ‘Now, if it’s all right with you, we’d like to search your room. Is that OK?’

She wiped her eyes, then looked up at the lock of hair in its little glass box. Licked her lips. ‘What do you think they’ll do with Jenny’s toes?’

‘Of course, I spotted those photos the first time,’ Rennie hauled the pool car’s boot open and dumped a handful of evidence bags inside, each one filled, dated, labelled and signed for, ‘just didn’t want to prejudice your first impressions.’ He clunked the boot closed again.

‘Don’t be a dick.’ Logan climbed into the passenger seat. ‘Fair enough.’ Rennie got behind the wheel. ‘Worth a try though.’ Grin. ‘Back to the ranch?’

‘Yeah, then I want you to go through every photo on that camera and laptop. We’re looking for someone watching Alison McGregor’s house.’

‘Other than Beatrice McFruitloop, you mean.’ He started the engine. ‘How the hell did she manage to get into university? Psychology degree? Talk about “physician heal thy-bloody-self”.’

‘Maybe she’s good at exams. Just make sure- buggering hell.’ Logan’s phone was ringing. He pulled it out. ‘McRae.’

‘Told you there’d be consequences.’ Shuggie Webster, sounding stoned out of his box. ‘You happy now? You fucking happy?’

‘Shuggie, you’ve got to turn yourself in. Turn yourself in and we’ll talk about it.’

‘It’s your fault!’

Logan checked the display — not the same number as before. ‘Where are you?’

‘Consequences.’ And then Shuggie hung up.

Rennie was looking at him. ‘Sarge?’

‘Back to the ranch.’ Logan dragged out his Airwave handset, dialled Control and told them to get a GSM trace set up on Shuggie’s new mobile. If Sheriff McNab gave them a warrant, and the phone company didn’t drag its heels, they’d know where Mr Consequences was before clocking off time.

He stuck the handset back in his pocket and watched the halls of residence fade in the rearview mirror. Consequences … Then his mobile started ringing again. It was Colin Miller from the Aberdeen Examiner. ‘Got another note.’

Logan clutched at the grab handle as Rennie juddered the pool car out of the junction and onto King Street. ‘Are you trying to shake the fillings out of my head?’

‘Laz?’

‘Yeah, sorry, Colin. What are they saying? Let me guess: you have two days left or Jenny will die?’

‘No, it’s no’ from them. Look, we’ve been gettin’ in dozens of fake ransom demands every day since this kicked off, right? All fuckin’ mentalists wantin’ us tae drop off a few hundred thou in a bin bag in Torry, that kinda shite. Well today we got one that wasnae all about Jenny and Alison.’