Close to the Bone

lock. Swung the door open. ‘And don’t think you’re-’

Something exploded in his face, hard, driving pepper and bees through his nose, making the edges of the world scream with yellow fog as he crashed back onto the carpet. Thunk — his head bounced off the plasterboard. One knee caught the edge of the doorframe. ‘Nnnghn. .’

Everything tasted of hot copper wire.

Something wet on his face.

Blink.

‘Gagh. .’ Tiny scarlet drops burst out of his mouth, then pattered down onto his cheeks and forehead.

Get up. GET UP NOW.

Ow. . Fire burned through his head, radiating out from his nose. Screaming at him. Making his ears ring.

A huge bulk blotted out the sunshine streaming in through the door: Reuben. Not in the suit and tie any more. He was wearing a pair of blue overalls, the cuffs frayed and stained dark with oil and dirt, the knees too. A pair of heavy boots on his feet, the leather scuffed away in patches, metal toecaps glistening within.

Oh. Shit.

Logan scrabbled back against the wall.

But Reuben didn’t step inside and kick the living hell out of him. Didn’t stomp on his head and ribs. Didn’t pummel his face to mince. Instead the big man wobbled a bit, clutching the door frame, mouth hanging slightly open, eyes bleary and blinking.

The sharp, smokey stench of stale whisky and sweat came off him in a greasy fug. Chest heaving as he hauled in a breath through his flattened nose. The words came out slurred, riding a little mist of spittle. ‘I know. . I. . I know what you. . you’re doing.’

He rocked back and forward a couple of times, the knuckles on his right hand sticking out like rivets on a steel sheet. ‘You. . you’re not gonnae. . get. . Fuckin’ kill. . kill you. .’

Then Reuben’s legs gave up and he slid down the side of the caravan until he was slumped on the top step, shoulders juddering, tears running through the webs of scar tissue, snot glittering through his patchy moustache.

And dangling from the door handle, another knot of little bones.

Bastard. .

Logan wiped at the drop of scarlet staining the report, leaving a dirty smear through the words. He leaned back in his chair, head tilted to the ceiling, clutching a wodge of paper napkins to his nose.

Detective Sergeant Rennie tutted. ‘Took me ages to type that up, and you’re getting blood all over it.’

Logan’s office was just big enough to fit a couple of filing cabinets, a chipped Formica desk, two whiteboards, a creaky swivel chair, and a visitor’s seat that looked as if it belonged in a skip.

Rennie shifted in it, making the vinyl squeak. He’d gelled his hair up into a blond tuft at the front, his cheeks glowing with sunburn, a curl of skin peeling off the end of his shiny nose. ‘And you didn’t eat your buttie.’ It still sat in the middle of the desk, half unwrapped from its tinfoil shroud. Congealing.

Logan glowered at him. The words came out all bunged up and flat. ‘Do you want to be partnered with Biohazard for the next month? Stuck in small confined spaces with him? Because I can arrange that.’

‘Had to go down the baker’s: canteen’s still closed for the refurb.’ He sniffed. ‘Be cold by now.’

‘Just. . bugger off.’

The door banged open, rattling the memos pinned to the wall. DCI Steel posed in the doorway. Grinning.

Logan gave her a glower as well. ‘It’s not funny!’

‘Is it no’? ’ Her suit was as unfashionably baggy as her neck; crow’s feet and wrinkles turning her face into a jumble of planes and lines. But it was the hair that really stood out. And up. And in every other direction too. As if she’d brushed it with an angry cat. ‘Looks funny to me.’ She wafted in, bringing a fug of stale-cigarette-stink with her.

Steel gave Rennie a wee slap on the back of the head. ‘Shift it, Tintin.’

He grumbled, then hauled himself out of the visitor’s seat. He pointed at the tinfoil package on Logan’s desk. ‘Booby-trapped buttie going spare, if you want it? ’

Steel settled into the seat. ‘Looks like you might make a decent DS after all.’ She reached out and plucked the thing from the desktop. ‘Now be a good boy and sod off. You’ve got tramps to find, and the grown-ups need to talk.’

She unwrapped the foil and took a big bite. Then froze, face creasing up around a soured mouth — red lipstick spidering out into the skin. ‘Urgh, this is cold!’

Rennie disappeared, giggling, closing the door behind him.

Logan pulled the napkins from his nose and peered at the paper, stained a deep poppy red. He dumped them in the bin and grabbed a fresh handful from the pile. It was as if someone had lodged a burning coal in the middle of his face, filling his head with smoke and fire. ‘If you want to give me a hard time about the jewellery heist: don’t. We’re doing everything we can.’

‘Doc Ramsey tells me you’re lucky it’s only broken. Could’ve been a lot worse.’

‘And yes, there was another racial attack last night, but the victim refuses to talk. Won’t even admit to speaking English.’

‘Says you’re in for a full-on panda set of shiners when the swelling goes down. Like a grumpy raccoon. We should get you a stripy jumper and a big sack with “Swag” written on it.’

He stared up at the ceiling tiles. Big brown stains made continents on the pockmarked grey squares. ‘If it’s not the jewellery heist, and it’s not the racial attacks, what is it? ’

‘Do you know you can die of a nosebleed? Seriously: fifteen minutes and you’re a corpse.’ She checked her watch. ‘How long’s it been? ’

‘Feel free to sod off at any point.’

She took another bite of buttie, chewing around the words. ‘It’s no’ that bad if you pretend it’s just an egg sandwich. You got any salad cream? ’

‘Top drawer.’

‘Any porn? ’

‘Just salad cream.’

A shrug. She dug through the desk, coming out with two blue sachets he’d liberated from the canteen. ‘So how come you let Reuben get away? ’

‘I didn’t.’ Logan dabbed at his nostrils. The napkins came away with scarlet blooming across the white. ‘He lumbered off before the patrol car got there. Useless sods couldn’t arrest books in a library.’

‘We’ll get him picked up, do him for assaulting a police officer — or what passes for one these days — and get him off the streets for a year or two. Can’t be bad, can it? ’ She tore open the sachets and squeezed them into the roll. ‘Should’ve let him punch you in the face ages ago.’

‘Have you not got flying monkeys to train or something? ’

Another bite left her with a smear of white on her cheek. ‘Where are we with the necklace guy? ’

‘No witnesses. The Joyriders’ Graveyard isn’t exactly on the beaten track, which was probably the point. We ran a check on all the burned-out cars. .’ He waved a hand at his in-tray, then tipped his head back again. ‘Report’s on the top.’

‘Very good. Want to give me the quick version? ’

Sigh. ‘Forgot your glasses, did you? ’

‘Don’t need sodding glasses. Nothing wrong with my eyes, I’m just busy: so summarize.’

‘DVLA gave us plates to match the chassis numbers. Got DS Chalmers to check out the registered keepers on the police national computer.’

A yawn. ‘God, the suspense is killing me.’

‘A couple with form for drunk and disorderly. One guy’s done four years for assault. There’s nothing more than a handful of parking tickets between the rest of them.’

‘ID on the victim? ’

‘Face is gone, and his hands were chained behind him so the tyre dripped burning rubber all over them. They’re scorched; apparently we might get a partial off what’s left of the right thumb, but