Close to the Bone

Lucky I don’t report you.’

‘Ah. . Well, it wasn’t really a-’ Rennie’s phone rang somewhere deep in his pocket. ‘Saved by the bell.’ He dragged it out, pressed a button, then stuck it to his ear. ‘Yeah. . Uh-huh. . Right. . OK, I’ll tell him.’ Then he hung up and polished off the last of his Kit Kat.

‘Tell me what? ’

Rennie grinned, smears of chocolate sticking to his teeth. ‘They’ve found a hole. .’

Logan peered over the edge of the hole at the dark, damp earth down below. ‘And they didn’t see anyone? ’

Rennie settled his backside against a lichen-covered tombstone and yawned. ‘Groundskeeper says it could’ve happened anytime in the last four weeks. Since the cutbacks, he only comes in once a month.’

The graveyard mouldered away behind a six-foot-high stone wall, circling a crumbling granite church — its walls streaked green with moss beneath the rusting gutters. Brambles ran rampant around the outskirts, tumbling barbed-wire tendrils reaching out to engulf the nearest graves. Silver-haired dandelions nodded their heads, going bald in the breeze. A butterfly bobbing above the long damp grass.

One and a half walls were all that was left of the church, a corner of thick granite blocks, the mortar crumbling away. Give it another hundred years and there’d be nothing left but a pile of rubble overgrown with weeds.

The hole was about three feet long, and four deep, surrounded by docken spears and violent-fuchsia rosebay willowherb. Soil made a sprawling heap along one side.

‘And there was definitely a body in here? ’

‘Difficult to tell, apparently. When the church burned down in fifty-two it took most of the local records with it. Half the headstones in this section are knackered or missing.’

Logan crouched down; a cascade of dirt spiralled down into the earth. The smell of mouldy bread greeted him. ‘Looks like we’ve got spade-marks on the hole. Should be able to match them if we can find the shovel.’

Another yawn. ‘You think it’s really her? Agnes Garfield? ’

‘Mentally unstable woman stops taking her medication, kills abusive boyfriend.’

‘Yeah, but digs up bodies in a cemetery? ’ Rennie ran a hand through his spiky blond hair. ‘I mean, I’ve had some mental girlfriends in my time, but not grave robbing mental.’

‘Might not even be her.’ Logan stood, brushed the dirt from his hands. ‘Get the SEB down here: I want to know when this was dug. Is this the skeleton we’ve already got, or something new? ’

‘If it is, she’s a total nutcase.’ Rennie wrapped his arms around himself, yawning and shuddering. ‘Anyone capable of doing that to poor old Fusty Forman needs locking up. And I’m talking: straitjacket, padded wallpaper, and throw away the key. Not like he was cheating on her, was it? ’

Just a random act of violence? Not likely. ‘He must’ve done something.’

‘Anyway,’ Rennie nodded at the hole, ‘who’s to say she was digging someone up? Maybe she was burying something and someone disturbed her? ’

Idiot.

Logan pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts till he came to the number for the council historian.

‘No, think about it, witches are always burying things in graveyards by the light of the full moon, aren’t they? ’

‘She’s not a witch, she’s a teenager.’ He hit the button. Dialling.

‘Yeah, but maybe she thinks she’s a witch? That’s why she did that big magic circle on the kitchen floor when she killed Anthony Chung: witchcraft.’

‘She drew it because it was in the book. She necklaced Roy Forman because it was in the book.’ Logan headed back towards the car, damp grass tugging at his legs. ‘That’s what she does.’

Rennie slouched along after him, kicking through the weeds. ‘Anyway, it can’t be the skeleton from your caravan roof, can it? Don’t think there’s a single headstone in here more recent than eighteen ninety. Your body only died, what: thirty years ago? ’

Sodding hell. The idiot was right.

‘In that case it’s-’

The line clicked. ‘Hello? ’

‘Mr Hay? It’s DI McRae.’

‘Ah. .’ A breath. ‘It’s not another dead body, is it? Only after last time-’

‘Someone’s been digging up graves.’

‘. .OK. That’s not really my area of-’

‘From about the eighteen hundreds. I need you to find out who was buried where in. .’ He stuck a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Where are we? ’

‘Sign out front says Kingleath Parish Church.’

‘Kingleath Parish Church, about five miles east of Inverurie. Place is a ruin.’

‘Hold on. .’ There was the sound of fingers hammering away at a keyboard. ‘We’ve had students from RGU in computerizing a load of the parish records. . Ah, you’re in luck — they’ve done Kingleath. Right, where was your grave? ’

Logan peered back towards the hole. ‘About fifteen feet from the west wall of the cemetery and a dozen from the north.’

‘OK. . Any nearby graves you can give me names from? ’

‘Hold on.’ Logan slapped his hand over the mouthpiece and told Rennie to go look.

Two minutes later he was back, shaking one hand, clenching it into a fist then out again, blowing on the angry pink rash dotted with little pale spots. ‘Sodding nettles.’

‘Graves? ’

‘Nearest one I could read is a Mrs Katie Cook, snuffed it in 1892. About two plots to the left.’

Logan passed the info on and there were more clattering keystrokes.

‘Well, in that case we can narrow it down to one of two people: Miss Polly McGrath, spinster of the parish, born 1862, died 1885; or a Mr Nicholas Alexander Balfour, born 1835 died 1890. .’ Pause. ‘Nicholas Balfour. Nicholas Balfour. Why does that. .? Give me a second.’

More typing. Then a little swearing. Then some rustling. And finally Hay came back on the line. ‘I knew it sounded familiar: Nicholas Alexander Balfour was a Victorian spiritualist and medium. He performed seances all over the UK, even did one for Victor Hugo on Jersey in 1853. Balfour was strangled in Inverurie by a widower called Sandy Hugh. Hugh thought his dead wife was going to appear to Balfour and reveal that he’d poisoned her.’

And then, over a hundred and twenty years later, Agnes Garfield came along and dug up Balfour’s bones. Which made sense — after all, she’d arranged nearly all of her last skeleton on Logan’s roof, she’d need to get another one from somewhere.

‘Thanks.’ Logan hung up, and almost got his phone back in his pocket before it started ringing again. ‘Oh. . bugger off.’ He answered it anyway. ‘Hello? ’

A wet gravelly voice, half Aberdonian, half public school. Wee Hamish Mowat. ‘Ah, Logan, I have a favour to ask.’

Crap. .

He held the phone against his chest. ‘Rennie: call Control and see if they’ve got anything out of Dr Marks yet.’

‘Yes, Guv.’ Rennie wandered off towards the car, poking away at his mobile phone, spiky blond hair glowing in a sliver of sunlight.

Logan waited until he was out of earshot. ‘Hamish.’

‘You see, it’s a rather delicate matter involving a group of foreign businessmen and a team of local entrepreneurs.’

‘The cannabis farms? ’

‘Have you ever read Darwin’s On the Origin of Species? ’