Shatter the Bones

He threw off the duvet and lurched to his feet. ‘I’ll be right up.’

There was a pause. ‘Actually, that might not be such a good idea. We’ve had to put her in a medically-induced coma-’

‘Coma…’

‘Just until the swelling in her brain comes down.’

Logan let his head rest against the cool wall of the caravan. ‘I see.’

There was more — the list of broken bones, the internal injuries, the surgery.

‘Basically, the next twenty-four hours are going to be critical, but she’s getting the best care possible.’

Logan closed his eyes. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’ He hung up, then sank back onto the bed. Lay there staring at the ceiling.

Shuggie Williams and his fucking “consequences”. Samantha slamming though the flat roof three floors below. Flames screaming through the smoke above his head. That moment when she looked up and said, ‘Logan…?’ The smell of everything they had, burning. Samantha, lying in the ambulance, pale and broken. Shuggie Fucking Williams…

Logan thumped back into the musty pillow, eyes screwed shut. Then pounded his fists into his forehead. Stupid. Fucking. Useless. Moron.

Then lay there, breathing heavily.

He checked his phone again. Eleven o’clock. No way he could get back to sleep now. His head was stuffed with burning cotton wool. Everything stank of mould and smoke.

A huge spider scuttled at the sides of the bath, slipping down to the bottom, then trying to escape again. Logan turned on the shower. Watched it scrabble away from the water. Why shouldn’t the little bugger drown? Everything died. Maybe it was Mr Spider’s turn.

Sigh.

He pulled a couple of sheets of toilet paper from the roll, scooped the thing out of the bath and chucked it out into the hall.

By the time he got back to the bedroom there were three messages waiting for him on his phone. One from his mother, one from his brother, and one from Rennie. He listened to them all, then deleted the lot.

Logan dragged his clothes out of the washing machine and hauled them on. Still slightly damp. Everything he now owned was sitting on the dusty worktop: a handful of change, a packet of chewing gum that stank of smoke, his wallet, and his phone.

Shuggie Webster wanted consequences, did he? Well he was going to bloody well get them.

He stared at his mobile for a moment. Then picked it up and made a call.

‘You sure you’re OK?’ Rennie’s voice sounded as if he was trying to comfort the dying. ‘I mean, you know, is there anything I can do?’

Logan squinted out into the bright morning. ‘Yeah, you can get another GSM trace authorized.’ He read out the number Shuggie Webster had called from yesterday. ‘Let me know soon as you get anything.’ Keeping his voice flat, calm, and dead.

‘Er… Actually, Sarge, Finnie’s kinda laying down the law on that one.’

He locked the hire car’s door and walked up to the big wrought iron gates. Leaves and sunshine made a writhing freckled pattern on the gravel driveway.

‘Everyone’s been told not to bother you with police stuff. You’re meant to be on compassionate leave.’

That was news to him. ‘Then pretend Steel told you to do it.’

‘Yeah, that’s cool. It’s all her fault.’

There was one of those buzzer entry security things mounted on the high stone wall. Logan pressed the button.

‘Listen, I was onto the fi re brigade this morning — they’re saying the fl at’s not safe for the IB to go into yet. But there’s defi nitely signs of an accelerant.’

‘No shit.’

‘…Yeah. OK, so we’re getting together a collection, for Sam. There anything you think we should buy? You know, something she’ll like when she wakes up?’

If she wakes up. ‘Hold on.’ He jabbed the mute button. The security thing was buzzing at him.

Then a broad Aberdonian accent crackled out of the speaker. ‘Fa is it?’

‘Logan McRae to see Mr Mowat.’

‘Hud oan.’ Silence.

Back to Rennie. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Erm, I was thinking — have you sorted out your insurance yet? You know, home and contents?’

Logan ground the heel of one hand into his eye. One more thing to add to the list. ‘All the paperwork was in the flat…’

‘You want me to do it for you? I can phone round, get stuff sorted? You know, if it helps?’

The gates gave a clunk, then swung open. Walk into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.

‘Sarge? You still there? I mean, it’s not much, but-’

‘No, it’s great… Thanks.’ The gravel crunched under his smoke-blackened shoes. ‘Really, I appreciate it.’

‘Hey, no probs — what are mates for, right?’ A cough. ‘And … I’m really sorry about Sam.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry too.’

The gates swung shut behind him. Logan hung up.

‘Will you take a wee dram, Logan?’ Hamish Mowat, AKA Wee Hamish, waved a liver-spotted claw at a display cabinet. A set of crystal decanters and tumblers, were lined up behind the glass. Midday and Wee Hamish was dressed for bed — tartan jammies, grey slippers, a fleecy robe.

‘Not for me, thanks.’

‘Ah, got to keep a clear head. I understand. You’re a man on a mission: have to keep your wits sharp.’ His voice was a raspy mix of Aberdonian and public school, not much louder than a whisper. ‘I’ll have one, if you don’t mind?’ He shuffled over to the window, wheeling a drip stand along for the ride. A clear bag swung on a hook at the top, the IV line disappearing into the plastic shunt taped to the back of his left hand.

Logan opened the cabinet. ‘Glenmorangie, Dalwhinnie, Macallan, or Royal Lochnagar?’

‘Surprise me.’

Logan picked a decanter at random, poured a decent measure, and added a splash of water. Carried it across to where Wee Hamish was surveying his domain.

‘Thank you.’ The old man took it in a trembling hand. ‘Slainte mhar.’

The house was huge, a rambling mansion on the south side of the River Dee, perched high enough on a hill to give a panoramic view over Aberdeen. Who said crime didn’t pay? The large garden stretched away to a border of trees, and one of those black-and-yellow ride-on mowers hummed its way across the lawn, like a low-flying bee — a huge scowling man perched on the little seat. He was massive: not just fat, but tall and broad too, his face a web of scar tissue and patchy beard.

Wee Hamish sighed. ‘It pains me to think of you two at each other’s throats. I do wish the pair of you would bury the hatchet.’

Yes, well, there’d be no prizes for guessing where Reuben would want to bury it.

‘I don’t think he’s the forgive and forget type.’

When the old man nodded, it set the saggy droop of skin beneath his chin wobbling. ‘I suppose you’re probably right.

But I’m not going to be around forever, Logan, and if you two can’t sort out your differences, it’s only going to end one way…’ He rested the tips of his fingers against the window. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about that kind of thing lately. What my legacy’s going to be.’

Wee Hamish licked his pale purple lips. ‘So I fund community projects, I set up bursaries so underprivileged