Shatter the Bones

in prison?’

Logan just shrugged, watching the crowds outside the front of FHQ. There had to be at least five hundred people out there, all clutching their ‘WE LOVE YOU JENNY!’

‘WE NEVER GAVE UP!’ banners, or just waving their mobile phones about, as if it was some kind of rock concert. The TV people must be loving this.

‘So,’ Goulding patted him on the shoulder, ‘why aren’t you down there, enjoying all the glory and adulation? This is your moment in the sun.’

‘They found Craig Peterson.’

‘Did they now?’

‘Sitting in his Renault; hose from the exhaust in through the driver’s window. Bob said the whole car reeked of whisky. There was a text message in his phone for his mum, telling her he was sorry for letting her down. Never sent it.’

‘Hmm… Did you notice how the deaths are all about being unable to breathe? Bruce Sangster with a plastic bag over his head, Davina Pearce with a belt around her neck, Craig Peterson with the exhaust fumes? I really hope Gordon Maguire survives, it’s going to be fascinating finding out what it means to him.’ A frown. ‘I wonder if it’s a common fantasy for television producers…’

‘He was losing his business, investors waiting for him to go bankrupt so they could buy up the assets.’ Logan rested his head against the window. ‘Maguire said it was all Alison’s idea. That she came up with the whole thing.’

How could anyone be that manipulative? So completely callous and amoral that they’d mutilate their own daughter just to become a little bit more famous?

The psychologist ran the tips of his fingers across the glass. ‘I always thought there was something funny about the toes. Why amputate two little toes, when one big toe would’ve been much easier?’ He smiled. ‘Did you know some women in the US have their pinkie toes removed so they can wear expensive high heels? Looked at a certain way, what happened to Jenny isn’t so much a disfigurement as a cosmetic enhancement.’

‘How am I supposed to prove it? It’s his word against hers, if he lives. Everyone else in the gang’s dead: no witnesses, no forensics. There’s sod all to tie her to…’ He picked up the dusty blue folder he’d got Guthrie to dig out of the archives. A house fire in Kincorth six and a half years ago. Two fatalities — Doddy McGregor’s parents. ‘Maybe that’s why her house was so tidy — she knew she was going to be abducted. Didn’t want us to take crime scene photos of the place looking like a pigsty.’

The crowd on the Front Podium roared and cheered. Must be Alison McGregor making her triumphant exit from the station. Logan scowled. ‘And nine point four million’s peanuts compared to what she’s going to rake in from sponsorship, movie, and publishing deals.’

From his commandeered office, Logan watched her wave and glad-hand her way into the throng. She could’ve sneaked out the back in an unmarked car if she’d wanted to, but no: she wanted to bask in the love of her fans.

Oh — my — God! She’s here, she’s finally here. God she looks great, she’s so brave.

Beatrice Eastbrook gives herself a quick once-over. Hair: going a little frizzy with all the FUCKING drizzle, but other than that, OK. Make-up: good. Outfit: perfect. It’s the one Alison helped her pick out on what was, swear to God, the greatest day of her whole life.

Alison stands in the middle of the crowd, surrounded by microphones and cameras. ‘I just want to thank you all for never stopping believing!’

A cheer.

‘And, if it’s OK with you guys, we’re going to put the Freedom Fund to good use — setting up a charity to support the families of our brave troops. To show them that we’ll never stop believing either!’

Another cheer.

Alison’s got a couple of minders with her, big ugly blokes in black suits. They clear a path in front of her, moving really slowly so she can talk to all her fans. All the people who love her.

But not the way Beatrice loves her. No one loves Alison McGregor like she does.

She’s getting closer. It’s just like in her dreams. Beatrice has prayed every night for two whole weeks that the bastards who took Alison away from her would die horrible deaths. That’s the kind of friend she is. The kind that doesn’t give up on someone.

Here she is — so close, so close…

Beatrice elbows her way to the front. Don’t these bastards know who she is? She’s Alison’s best friend!

Alison looks right at her and smiles.

Beatrice’s heart almost stops. Right then and there. Bang. Dead. Killed with a smile.

She steps forward and wraps her arms around Alison. ‘God, I’m so glad you’re safe!’

Beatrice holds her tight. Never let go. Best friends forever. And then Alison leans forward and whispers something in her ear.

Beatrice blinks. ‘I’ve got a present for you…’

Thump, thump, thump, THUMP, THUMP — the blade’s a living thing, flashing and biting and there’s blood everywhere and people are screaming and the two big thugs in their black suits just stand there with their mouths hanging open and Beatrice keeps on going, stabbing and stabbing.

Then someone grabs her by the throat, someone else by the arm, hauling the blade from her hand. They drag her to the ground, kicking and punching as she laughs and laughs and laughs.

Chapter 53

Eleven o’clock and the hospital sounds were muted. Just that constant humming throb, as if the place was one huge machine designed to chew people up and leave nothing but pale shells behind.

Logan stood beside Helen Brown’s bed, hands behind his back, watching a woman barely older than he was crying quietly because her grandson was going into care and her daughter was going to lose both legs.

‘The doctors say she’s comfortable, and-’

‘Get out. Just…’ Helen Brown ground her fists into her eye sockets. ‘Just leave me alone…’

‘Daren McInnes will die in prison, I promise he’ll-’

‘YOU SHOULD’VE FOUND HER SOONER! YOU SHOULD’VE FUCKING CARED!’ Her voice echoed around the small ward.

‘All right, Helen, calm down. He’s leaving.’ The big nurse squeaked to a halt on the terrazzo floor, face large and pink. She scowled at Logan. ‘Aren’t you?’

The unformed constable shook Logan’s hand. With the pointy nose and go-faster cheekbones, he looked like a shaved whippet. ‘I know it’s all fucked up and that, sir, but I wanted to tell you: you did a great job.’

Then why did he feel like shit? ‘Mr Webster in?’

‘Shuggie? Aye, he’s not going nowhere till they sort out his hand. Hate to think how much these skin grafts are costing, like he ever paid taxes in his life.’ Constable Whippet shifted his feet. ‘Here, sir, if you’re stopping for a bit, any chance I can nip off for a piss?’

‘Sure.’ Logan stepped into the room and closed the door.

Shuggie was sitting in the chair beside his bed. The bruising hadn’t gone down much, if anything it looked worse — the blues and purples evolving into sickening greens and yellows. His right hand was encased in some sort of cage, probably keeping pressure off the raw meat and bare bones inside.

Logan cleared his throat. ‘How are you feeling?’

Shuggie looked up, then squealed, shrinking back into his chair. ‘I didn’t say anything! I didn’t, I swear to God…’ He held the cage against his chest.

So that was the kind of person Logan was now: the kind people were terrified of.