Close to the Bone

the desk, where it would be out of reach for next time.

He scanned down the page, looking for where he’d left off. Mrs Shepherd was just about to pull out someone’s fingernails. .

A knock on the door and PC Sim stuck her head in. ‘Guv? Alpha-One-Three’s just been on the blower: no sign of DS Chalmers at her flat.’

He put the book down again. Stared out of the window for a bit.

Sim cleared her throat. ‘Guv? ’

Wasn’t like someone like Chalmers to just fall off the map, was it? An ambitious career-obsessed go-getter like her? No: she was the brown-nosing and hard-work type. The type who wouldn’t take a sick day if her leg fell off.

Not unless she’d done something really stupid. .

‘Guv, do you need me, or can I-’

‘Get your coat. We’re going round.’

The trees on Jasmine Terrace trembled in the wind, dusty dark-green leaves hissing against each other. Sim stood in a lonely blade of sunlight, one hand holding onto her black bowler as she stared up at Chalmers’s flat.

The other side of the road was a long terrace of traditional granite buildings, but Chalmers’s place was part of a slightly more modern block, set back from the cobbles behind a rectangle of parched grass. Three storeys with a flat roof and Dutch-barn-style upper floor. Four units, with six flats in each. Only a five-minute walk from FHQ.

Logan stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Anything? ’

‘Nope.’ Sim tried the intercom again. Waited for a bit. Then stepped back to watch the top-floor flat. ‘Maybe she’s not in? ’

Maybe. .

Logan pressed the ‘SERVICES’ button, holding it down until someone got fed up of the noise and buzzed them in.

It was nice inside. Clean. He followed Sim up to the top floor.

The door to flat number five had a sticky label underneath the doorbell: ‘LORNA CHALMERS’.

Sim thumbed it and a grating drrrrrrrrrrrrrrring! sounded on the other side of the door followed by a long high-pitched yowl. She hunkered down, levered the letterbox open, and peered inside. ‘Mail on the doormat. . Oh, hello, puss. Who’s a pretty boy or girl then? ’

The yowling got louder.

‘Guv? ’

Logan squatted down beside her, sniffing at the letterbox. Something floral and plasticky, a hint of pine that could’ve been disinfectant? At least it didn’t smell as if anything — or anyone — was rotting away in there. ‘Try the neighbours, see if anyone’s got a key.’

As soon as Sim was off knocking on doors, Logan pulled out his phone and called Control. ‘Does DS Chalmers own a car? ’

‘Hud oan. .’ The nasal Aberdonian accent faded away, replaced by the sound of a rattling keyboard. ‘Aye: it’s a Mini, you want the number plate? ’

Logan jotted it down in his notebook. ‘I want a lookout request on her and her vehicle. And get me a GSM trace on her mobile.’

More keyboard noises. ‘Fit’s she done? ’

‘Hopefully, nothing stupid. Now put me on to DS Rennie.’

‘He’s no’ in the office, but give us a mintie. .’

A bleep, a pause, another bleep, then Rennie was on the line. ‘Hello? Guv? ’

‘Did Chalmers say anything to you last night? ’

A sigh. ‘How come it’s always “Chalmers, this”, “Chalmers, that” with-’

‘Anything about where she was going? Any ideas she had about where Agnes Garfield was? ’

‘You really think she’d tell me? God forbid she’d have to share the glory. Tell you, she’s- ’

‘Did she talk about the case at all? ’

Sim bounded back up the stairs, holding a Yale key aloft like the Olympic torch. ‘Old lady in flat three had one. Says she hasn’t seen Chalmers since yesterday morning.’

‘All she ever did was ask questions. All take, take, take, and no-’

Logan took the phone from his ear and slapped a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Open it.’

‘But we don’t have a warrant, and. .’ Sim scrunched up one side of her face. ‘Ah, got you: yes, I think I can smell gas. Someone inside might be in difficulty!’ She stuck the key in the lock, twisted, then stepped inside.

Back on the phone, Logan followed her. ‘What did she ask about? ’

‘Usual. Kept going on about the Anthony Chung murder. Said we must’ve missed something. As if! Wouldn’t stop nagging me till I gave her the interview transcripts from when we spoke to the house buyers.’

The ones Logan had just read.

‘And it’s not like there’s anything in there — none of them knew Anthony Chung or Agnes Garfield, and they’ve all got alibis. Complete waste of time.’

Logan bent down and picked up the mail from the mat. Mostly fliers from charities, a leaflet from the local Tory candidate — nothing like blinkered optimism — what looked like a council tax bill, and two copies of the Aberdeen Examiner. Yesterday’s and today’s. ‘Maybe the estate agent’s left someone off the list? ’

‘Nah, got the guy who works there to show me the files. Everyone who’s seen that place was on there.’ A sniff. ‘You want me to do anything? ’

‘Yes: find your missing tramp.’ Logan hung up on him and slid the phone back in his pocket.

Sim appeared from the flat’s kitchen, carrying a ginger tabby in her arms. Its stripy tail lashed back and forth as it glowered at him. ‘Poor thing must’ve been starved.’

‘Any sign of a disturbance? ’

She shook her head. ‘Wish my place was this tidy.’ The cat wriggled, legs sticking out at random angles. She let it down and it charged away into another room. ‘Plates washed in the kitchen, bed’s made, all the magazines are lined up on the coffee table.’

Logan followed the cat through to a small double bedroom. It disappeared under the bed. Sim was right: everything was tidy and ordered. Which was quite an achievement, given that Chalmers had only transferred down from Northern Constabulary a couple of weeks ago. Any normal person would still be living out of boxes.

Sim picked up a book from the bedside cabinet — a hardback copy of Witchfire with a red tasselled bookmark about halfway through. She flipped it open. ‘Signed and everything.’ Then she put it down again. ‘Tell you, I had nightmares for weeks after reading that bit in the tower block.’ A shudder. ‘Baby oil. .’

‘Something’s wrong.’

‘Apparently he based the three old witches on real people. Think they tried to sue Hunter for putting them in the book, but it all got settled out of court.’

Logan turned slowly on the spot. There was nothing here. Chalmers had just headed off to work like any other day, and never come back. And the only thing she’d definitely done was ask about the people who’d been to see the home where Anthony Chung died. God forbid she’d have to share the glory. .

Sim tucked her hands into the armholes on her stab-proof vest. ‘So. .? ’

‘Time to go see a man about a house.’

‘I really don’t understand how we can be of any more assistance.’ Mr Willox fiddled with the buttons on his desk phone, shoogling them from side to side. His grey hair was piled up into a combination comb-over and quiff on top of his wide head, a dark-blue suit and a thick purple tie making him look as if he’d just fallen through a portal from the early eighties.

Logan tapped a finger on the glass desk, leaving a smudge. ‘Agnes Garfield and Anthony Chung got the keys to that property from somewhere.’

‘Do you have any idea how much it’s going to cost to clean the kitchen in the Abernethy house? And even if