Shatter the Bones

‘You bunch of bastards. You think she’s just a junkie hoor, she’s not worth anything. SHE’S MY LITTLE GIRL!’ Helen Brown swung her fibre-glass cast at Logan’s head. ‘I’LL FUCKIN’ KILL YOU!’

He jerked back out of the way, the plastic visitor’s chair tipping over, clattering to the floor, as he stood.

‘Right, that’s enough.’ The nurse lunged, pinning Helen to the bed.

‘GET OFF ME YOU FAT BITCH! AAAAAAGH!’

‘I said that’s enough!’ The nurse scowled up at Logan, teeth gritted. ‘I think you’d better go, don’t you?’

‘You’re looking well. No really…’ Logan squeezed Samantha’s hand. ‘Very goth.’

She didn’t look ill, there was barely a scratch on her. At least, not on the bits he could see. They’d taped her eyelids shut. A breathing tube snaked in through the side of her mouth, a pulse monitor clipped to her right index finger, an IV line plugged into a shunt on her right wrist.

‘I moved back into the caravan. Place smells worse than your dad. All mouldy…’

Wee Hamish’s flowers were sitting in a large vase on the windowsill. A vast arrangement of roses and carnations and fuzzy-white-spray-stuff and leaves and twirls of bamboo. Extravagant, but tasteful.

‘Elaine picked up all your clothes, by the way. The pants and boots and things.’ He sank forward until his head was resting against her chest, rising and falling on the swell of her mechanically-assisted breathing. ‘Fuck… I don’t know if you can hear me or not. But it’s going to be OK. I promise.’

Lying bastard.

‘Starting to think you’re stalking me.’

Logan scrubbed a hand across his eyes, kept his head facing the corner. ‘Sorry…’ It took him a couple of beats to realize where he was — a subterranean corridor, deep within the bowels of the hospital. The thrum of the ventilation system, the smell of over-boiled cauliflower and industrial floor polish.

He sniffed. Wiped his eyes again. ‘I used to wander the corridors … you know, after the stabbing. Must’ve worn out three pairs of trainers by the time they let me go home. Always ended up down here.’ Staring at four watercolours framed on the scuffed cream walls. A single landscape split over the seasons, the colours so vibrant they were surreal.

The APT moved around, peering at him, her fiery-orange hair swinging like a pendulum. ‘You OK?’

He almost laughed. ‘Been a rough couple of days.’

Silence.

‘You want a cup of tea, or something?’

‘Milk, two sugars.’ She placed a steaming mug on the desk in front of him.

Coffee. He could smell it over the bleach and formaldehyde. Over the smell of institutionalized death. ‘Thanks.’

The Anatomical Pathology Technician glanced over her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about Mrs Sawyer, it was very peaceful.’ An old lady — laid out on the cutting table, just her head and bare feet sticking out from beneath the white plastic sheet. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘No.’

A nod. ‘Well, tell you what, I’ve got something that might cheer you up…’ She was back a minute later, carrying the laptop from the other room. It went on the desk, next to Logan’s coffee, then she fiddled with the touch-pad. ‘Remember you were looking for dead girls who’d been given morphine and thiopental sodium?’

The screen was fuzzy, out of focus. He blinked. It was a little girl, her eyes half shut, face covered with scrapes and bruises, blood crusting around her nose. Bowl haircut and a razor-sharp fringe.

The APT poked the screen. ‘Olivia Brook. Five and a half. Car accident. Riding her bike and got broadsided by a teenager in a VW Polo. I was going to email you after we’d seen to Mrs Sawyer.’

Logan stared at the photo. Poor little sod… ‘I thought you searched-’

‘Oh, she didn’t die. They had to take her left leg off just above the knee. Was hanging by a thread anyway; blood supply was completely compromised; the bones were all crushed; nothing they could do.’

‘Where’s the leg?’

‘We incinerate hospital waste.’ She raised her hands to the ceiling tiles. Giving her head a little shake, one eyebrow raised. ‘So…?’

‘So no one would notice a missing toe.’ Bastards. ‘But we do have blood samples on file. I can send one over, if you want to try for a DNA match?’

‘Yeah, could you make it-’

Logan’s mobile rang, deep in his pocket — the generic tune marking the call as one from an unknown number. If it was Shuggie Bloody Webster calling to talk about consequences he was in for a fucking nasty shock. Logan dragged the phone out. ‘What?’

A small, rustling pause, then, ‘Logan?’ A man’s voice, the accent a whispery, gravelly mix of Aberdonian and public school. Wee Hamish Mowat.

Logan licked his lips. Sat up straight. ‘Hello?’

‘I hope you don’t mind me calling, but I thought you might like to know that we’ve managed to locate your missing … friend.’

Chapter 40

A small warehouse in Dyce — not much bigger than a double garage, oil stains on the concrete floor, metal shelving around the bare breezeblock walls loaded down with dusty boxes.

A layer of thick, clear plastic sheeting was spread out on the floor, the corners held down with chunks of rusty machinery.

One of the roller doors was open, letting in the bang and clank of the industrial estate, the whumping roar of helicopters on their way to and from the rigs. A dented Transit van had been backed part way into the warehouse, its rear wheels sitting on the plastic sheet, its front end sticking out into the sunny afternoon. Engine idling.

The young man with the green hair sniffed, then picked up a metal attache case, popped open the catches, and held the thing out to Logan, as if he was starring in a spy film. Jonny Urquhart — From Mastrick With Malice. He smiled, showing off a set of perfect teeth, his cheeks a moonscape of old acne pock- marks. ‘Don’t worry, totally clean, like.’

Logan looked into the case. It was a big semi-automatic pistol, wrapped in a clear plastic zip-lock food bag. Another bag had the clip. One more, a handful of snub-nosed 9mm bullets.

‘Hollow point.’ Urquhart winked. ‘They’ll fuck you up good.’

Logan’s palms were suddenly damp. He wiped them on his jeans. ‘No. Thanks, but no.’

‘Ah, going hands-on, eh? Old school: like it.’ He slammed the case shut again, twiddled with the combination lock. ‘You got gloves? No? Don’t worry, I’ll sort you out.’

He hauled open the Transit’s back doors and clambered inside, then backed out again, hauling a fully-grown man by the armpits.

Shuggie Webster: hands fastened behind his back, legs kicking out in random directions. THUMP, he hit the concrete floor … or rather, the plastic sheeting. A muffled grunt from behind a duct tape gag. He was still wearing the same filthy hoodie as before, but his shoes were gone, exposing a pair of socks with a hole in one toe. Urquhart dragged him into the middle of the sheeting, then let go.

Shuggie lay there, eyes wide, breath hissing out of his nose. Logan swallowed. ‘There we go, one tosspot, delivered as promised. Like FedEx for fuck-heads.’ Urquhart dug another zip-lock bag from his pocket and tossed it across to Logan. ‘Compliments of the house.’

Three pairs of gloves: one leather, two latex — the skin-tone ones you never saw on crime scenes any more.

‘Now, you sure you don’t want that gun?’

On the ground, Shuggie tried to shout something, bucking and writhing.

‘No one fucking asked you.’ Urquhart took two steps and slammed his boot into Shuggie’s side.