Close to the Bone

The face in the mirror peered back at him with two beautiful black eyes.

Then frowned: there was something he was meant to do. .?

Nope, no idea.

Time for a pee and a wash.

Samantha didn’t move as he pulled his shoes back on, just lay there like a corpse, all wires and tubes and lank brown hair.

He cleared his throat. Forced a smile. ‘Probably going to be a long day today. Do you fancy pizza or something for. .’

What was the point?

Something heavy settled on his shoulders, trying to crush him down into the grey terrazzo floor.

And then his phone went — ‘If I Only Had a Brain’.

Logan hauled it out. ‘Do you have any idea what time it is? ’

‘Nearly half seven, Guv.’

It was? He checked his watch. Sodding hell. ‘Why didn’t anyone say? ’

‘They’ve turned up another body at the farm. Looks like the poor sod was stabbed all over, throttled, then buried in the ruined chapel. Dr Graham says the bones in that cook pot in the kitchen are definitely human too: scapula, skull, five ribs, and an ulna. Apparently they’re a bit on the ancient side. PM’s at ten if you fancy it? ’

So Agnes Garfield was planting corpses in her very own garden of bones.

‘Not really.’ He hauled his tie back with one hand and tightened it. ‘But I think I know who your bones in the pot belong to: one Nicholas Alexander Balfour.’

‘Ah, right: the spiritualist bloke from the graveyard. Cool. Wondered where he’d got to. Anyway, I spoke to Guthrie — he’s heard back from SOCA’s American Justice Department goons. Anthony Chung’s got form for dealing and a couple of DUIs, but you want to know what’s really interesting? ’

Logan held the phone against his chest, then leaned over and kissed Samantha on the forehead. Her skin was cool and clammy against his lips. ‘Got to go. I’ll see you later, OK? ’

Back to the phone.

‘Guv? You there? ’

‘Go on then: what’s really interesting? ’

‘Turns out his dad’s linked to about two dozen hydroponic cannabis farms in San Francisco. They couldn’t prove anything, but everyone knew it was him.’

Like father, like son. ‘Thanks. Tell Steel I’ll be there in twenty.’

Rain pattered against the window of Steel’s office, making shining ribbons that glittered their way down the glass. She sat back with her feet up on her desk, fake cigarette dangling out the side of her mouth. ‘So she’s a nutbag then? ’

Dr Goulding shrugged, then crossed his legs the other way. ‘Let’s just say she’s a deeply disturbed young woman.’

Steel looked up at Logan. ‘That’s Liverpudlian for “nutbag”.’

‘She’s as much a victim of Anthony Chung’s drug baron fantasy as anyone she hurt for him. He cast himself in the role of Moderator, the man in charge of the Fingermen in Witchfire. Kept her off her medication and on high-concentration THC cannabis. She believed everything he told her.’ Goulding held his hands out — nothing up my sleeves. ‘I’ve started her on Risperidone, so we should see an improvement in her mental state before too long. In the meantime, I’ve arranged for a Mental Health Officer to see her later this morning. Agnes needs to be transferred to a secure psychiatric facility where she can be taken care of, not locked in a prison cell.’

Steel puffed on her fake cigarette. ‘Tell that to the four poor sods she tortured to death.’

‘Yes, well. .’

She hauled open a bottom drawer, and pulled out a box the size of a thermos flask. ‘Laz: you caught her, and Anthony Chung; rescued Chalmers; and didn’t get anyone killed. Here.’ She chucked it to him. ‘You can have your present after all.’

Logan caught the box. Whatever it was, it was wrapped in brown paper. ‘Do I want to know? ’

Steel grinned at him. ‘Open it.’

OK. .

He peeled back the paper, exposing a plain cardboard box. Lifted the lid and stared. It looked like a plastic vagina, stuck on top of a thermal travel mug. ‘What the sodding hell is this? ’

‘It’s a Fleshlight: you stick your Wee Willie Winkie in it and jiggle it about. You’ve been a right miserable tosser since your girlfriend ended up in the hospital, do you good to relieve a bit of tension now and then.’

Oh dear God.

‘For the tape, I’m showing Mr Chung exhibit six, a semi-automatic handgun of Eastern European origin.’ Logan held up the ugly black weapon in its clear plastic evidence pouch. ‘Mr Chung, would you like to tell us where you got this? ’

Anthony Chung grinned. ‘Dude, it’s-’

His lawyer put a hand on his arm. ‘My client has no comment to make.’

Again.

‘Mr Blake, your client’s prints are all over it, and we have three police officers as witnesses, do you really think a jury will-’

‘My client has no comment to make.’

A knock on the door, then PC Guthrie stuck his head into the room. ‘Guv? ’

Logan sat back in his seat, closed his eyes. Gritted his teeth. ‘Interview suspended at. . nine forty AM. DI McRae leaving the room.’

Outside, Guthrie shifted from foot to foot, glancing up and down the corridor as Logan closed the interview- room door.

‘This better be important.’

Guthrie dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘It’s Insch. He’s downstairs going ballistic. Something about an early court date for his Hollywood starlet? Says he’s been calling you all morning.’

Oh. . crap. Logan sagged against the wall. He was supposed to get Morgan Mitchell up in front of the Sheriff first thing. Knew he’d forgotten something. ‘OK, OK, I’ll sort it.’ He pointed back, over his shoulder at the interview- room. ‘Go tell them we’re taking a fifteen-minute break. Give them a bit more time to work on their lies.’

The cell block was a lot quieter than yesterday. Today the only sound came from the PCSO office radio, oozing out hits of the nineties. Which probably counted as cruel and unusual punishment under the European Convention on Human Rights, but what the hell.

No sign of Kathy in the lower cell block, so he tried the one upstairs instead.

She was bootfaced, dragging a mop back and forth across the concrete floor. A bucket of dirty water sat beside an open cell, filling the air with the pine-fresh stench of disinfectant. ‘. .but no, it’s Muggins here who has to clean it up. .’

Logan stayed well out of mop-range. ‘Having fun? ’

She glowered at him. ‘Why is it that as soon as anyone pukes their guts all over the place, everyone disappears? ’

Maybe not then. ‘I need to get Morgan Mitchell bumped up the court schedule.’

‘What am I, their mother? Lazy bunch of-’

‘Kathy: court schedule.’

She jabbed the mop into the grey water, sending a little wave slopping out and onto the concrete. ‘I’m busy.’

‘OK. .’ He put his hands up. ‘I’ll wait.’

He backed off a couple of paces, stuck his hands in his pockets, rocked on his heels. Then pulled out his phone and switched it back on. There was a pause then it bleeped at him: eight new voicemails and a dozen text messages. All from Insch. He deleted the lot.

Kathy scrubbed the mop across a stubborn spot. ‘Not even my sodding job!’