22 Dead Little Bodies (9 page)

The patrol car’s sirens carved a path through the Monday rush hour. It was still excruciatingly slow though, crawling along under thirty miles an hour till they got to the junction with Berry Street, where John Skinner had turned right. Then the traffic thinned out and Rennie put his foot down, gunning the engine, throwing them hard around the corner and— ‘Eeek!’ He locked his arms and stamped on the brakes as the back end of a Citroën Espace burst into view. Its ‘
BABY ON BOARD
’ sticker loomed huge, getting huger…

They slithered sideways in a juddering rumble of antilock brakes, coming to a halt half on the pavement.

Steel leaned over from the passenger seat and skelped him round the ear. ‘What have I told you about no’ getting me killed?’

‘Pfffff… That was close.’

‘Moron.’

The Espace pulled forward up the ramp, apparently unaware that they nearly had an extra three passengers in the back seat, complete with patrol car.

Rennie backed off the pavement and followed them under the curved blue sign and into the concrete gloom. A wee queue of traffic led up to an automatic barrier, issuing tickets slower than tectonic plates move.

Steel slumped in her seat. ‘Gah. Would’ve been quicker sodding walking.’

Logan’s mobile gave its anonymous ringtone. He pulled it out and checked the screen: Marjory from the estate agents again. He stuck the phone back in his pocket, let it go to voicemail.

Finally, Rennie grabbed a ticket from the geological machinery and pulled up onto the first level. Stopped, craning left and right. ‘Which way?’

A forest of concrete pillars reached away into the distance, the space between them packed with cars, all washed in the grimy glow of striplights.

Steel jabbed a finger at the tarmac. ‘Follow the arrows. Nice and slow. Anyone spots a BMW, they shout.’

‘One more time?’ Rennie ran his fingers across the top of the steering wheel as their car emerged from the darkness into the evening sunshine. The ramp curled around to the right, then across a short flyover – suspended three storeys above the street below – and they were back on the roof of John Lewis again.

The last gasp of overflow parking was nearly empty. Half a dozen huge, expensive-looking, shiny, four-by-fours stood sentry on the seagull-speckled tarmac, each one parked as far away from the others as possible, in case someone marred their showroom finish.

Could pretty much guarantee that none of them had seen anything more off-road than the potholes on Anderson Drive.

Steel checked her watch. ‘Sodding hell.’ She sighed. ‘He’s no’ here, is he?’

Logan leaned forward and poked his head between the front seats. ‘What if he looped round the back of the Bon Accord Centre and onto Harriet Street? Parked in there?’

Rennie shook his head. ‘Nah: Harriet’s one way.’

Ah. ‘Still be a lot of wee places you could leave a car round here though. Not legally, but if you’ve just stabbed your wife and her lover to death, you probably aren’t too bothered about that.’

Steel covered her face with her hands and swore for a bit. Then straightened up. ‘One last time round the car park, then we try Crooked Lane. Then Charlotte Street. And anywhere else we can think of.’ She kicked something in the footwell. ‘Buggering hell!’

‘… your news, travel, and weather at seven, with Jackie.’

‘Thanks, Jimmy. The trial of Professor Richard Marks enters its third day today, with one prosecution witness claiming the psychiatrist sexually assaulted him on eighteen separate occasions…’

Rennie swung the car around Mounthoolie roundabout. ‘Where now?’

‘… at Aberdeen University since 2010…’

The massive lump of earth and grass slid by the driver’s side, easily big enough to hold its own housing scheme. Surprised no one had thought of that yet. Could make a fortune.

Steel slumped against the passenger window. ‘Back to the ranch.’

‘… twenty-three counts. Next up: the grandparents of two missing local children issued an appeal today for information. Heidi and Toby Skinner have been missing since their father committed suicide on Saturday…’

Rennie took the next left, up the Gallowgate. Grey three-storey flats on one side, grey four-storey flats on the other. The grey monolithic lump of Seamount Court towered over the surrounding buildings with its eighteen-storeys of concrete, narrow windows glittering in the sunlight.

‘… you, please: we just want our grandchildren back…’

The North East Scotland College building drifted past the driver’s side – in yet more shades of grey.

Logan shifted in his seat. ‘Maybe he had an accomplice? Maybe he got out at the Bon Accord Centre and someone drove the kids away?’

‘Maybe.’ Steel raised one shoulder. ‘Or maybe he decided the whole family would be better off dead. You know what these scumbags are like – she’s shagging around on him, so
everyone
gets to die.’ She stared out of the window at the sea of grey buildings. ‘You’ve really managed to cock this one up, haven’t you?’

What?

Logan reached forward and poked her on the shoulder. ‘How have
I
cocked it up?’

Rennie kept his eyes on the road, mouth shut.

‘You should’ve had a lookout request going on the kids soon as they scraped Skinner off the cobblestones!’

‘Really? Because I remember you saying it was all his own fault and Guthrie should head round and try to shag the widow.’

A sniff. A pause. Then Steel raised an eyebrow. ‘To be fair, given what she’d been up to with Brian Williams, Sunshine might have been in with a chance, so—’

‘And I don’t see you showering yourself in glory here. If it wasn’t for me, we wouldn’t even
be
searching the car parks!’

Steel’s eyes narrowed. ‘Nobody likes a smart arse.’

Rennie knocked on Logan’s door frame. ‘Thought you’d have gone home by now.’ His hair was back to its usual blond quiffiness, the tie loosened and top button undone. Bags under both eyes.

Logan leaned back in his office chair. ‘Could say the same for you.’

A small smile and a shrug. ‘Got everyone we can out looking for Skinner’s car. Might have to organize a mass search tomorrow. Half of Aberdeen rampaging through the streets, shouting at blue BMWs. Fun. Fun. Fun.’

‘The joy of working for Detective Chief Inspector Steel.’

‘Tell me about it. Our Donna’s less of a hassle, and she’s only six months old. Still, at least we don’t have to change Steel’s nappies.’

‘Yet.’

Rennie curled his top lip. ‘Shudder.’ Then he hooked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the corridor. ‘Bunch of us are heading off to Blackfriars. You wanna?’

Logan shut down his computer. ‘Tempting, but I’ve got to check on a nutjob before I go home.’

Violent pink and orange caught the underside of the grey clouds, as the sun sank towards the horizon. Logan tucked the pool car in behind a Mini on the other side of Pitmedden Court.

Across the road, lights shone from Justin Robson’s windows, but Mrs Black’s house was slipping into darkness. She was probably sitting in there, on her own, mourning her dead parakeets at the bottom of a vodka bottle. Wondering where her life went so badly wrong.

Maybe plotting revenge on her horrible next-door neighbour.

Not that Justin Robson didn’t deserve a good stiff kicking for what he’d done. And got away with.

Still, at least they didn’t seem to be at each other’s throats this evening. That was something. But there was no way it
would last. Sooner or later, one of them was going to open fire again.

Logan pulled away from the kerb, heading back towards Divisional Headquarters.

Should’ve arrested the pair of them when they had the chance.

Logan let himself into the flat. ‘Cthulhu? Daddy’s home.’ He clunked the door shut. Hung up his jacket. Grabbed the last tin of Stella from the fridge. ‘Cthulhu?’

She was through in the lounge, stretching on the windowsill – paws out front, bum in the air, tail making a fluffy question mark. A couple of
proops
, a
meep
, then she thunked down on to the laminate floor and padded over to bump her head against his shins.

The answering machine was giving its familiar baleful wink again.

Well it could sodding wait.

He squatted down and scooped Cthulhu up, turning her the wrong way up and blowing raspberries on her fuzzy tummy as she stretched and purred.

‘Daddy’s had a crappy day.’

More purring.

The answering machine bided its time, glowering.

Might as well get it over with.

He carried Cthulhu over and pressed the button.

‘You have five new messages. Message one:’ Bleeeeeep.

‘Mr McRae? It’s Dr Berrisford from Newtonmyre Specialist Care Centre, we’ve got your application in for a bed for Samantha Mackie in our neurological ward. Normally there’s a waiting list of about six months, but we’ve had a cancellation. Can you call me back please? I’ll be here till about eight. Thanks.’

He hit pause and checked his watch, making Cthulhu wriggle. Seven forty-five. Still time. Cthulhu got placed on the arm of the chair while Logan dug out the paperwork from the coffee table’s drawer. Flipped through to Dr Berrisford’s contact details. And punched the number into the phone.

Listened to it ring.

‘
Newtonmyre Specialist Care Centre. How can I help you this evening?’

‘Can I speak to Dr Berrisford, please? It’s Logan McRae.’

‘One moment…’

He sank into the couch. Then stood again. Paced to the window and back.

A deep, posh voice purred down the line.
‘Ah, Mr McRae, how are you?’

‘You’ve got an opening for Samantha?’

‘That’s right. We were holding a bed for someone, but unfortunately they’ve passed away.’

‘That’s great…’ Logan cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, obviously it’s not great for them. I just meant—’

‘It’s OK. I understand. Now, there are a few things we’ll need to sort out, to make sure Miss Mackie can get the best care possible. You are aware of our fee structure?’

Right to the chase.

Logan glanced down at the letter, with its columns of eye-watering figures. ‘Yes.’

‘Excellent. Well, if you can organize the phase-one payment we’ll get the ball rolling.’

Phase one cost more than he made in a year.

He forced his voice to stay level. ‘When do you need it?’

‘Well, normally we’d say straight away – there is a waiting list – but if you need time to sort things out I can probably extend that to two weeks? Any more than that and I’ll have to release the bed again.’

Two weeks. Could probably get a second mortgage organized on the flat by then, couldn’t he?

Or he could take Wee Hamish Mowat up on his offer. Borrow enough money to pay the care centre’s fees till the mortgage came through.

Sweat prickled the back of Logan’s neck. Cross that line and there was no going back. No ‘plausible deniability’. He’d be in Wee Hamish’s pocket, and that would be that.

Logan’s eyes widened. Oh crap…

Wee Hamish.

He’d taken an interest in Samantha’s care. Said he’d put in a word. What if he’d done more than that? What if he’d
made
the opportunity.

‘Mr McRae? Hello?’

‘Sorry.’ Logan licked his lips. ‘Dr Berrisford, the person who died, how did … Was it…?’

‘Pneumonia. She was due to come up from Ninewells Hospital three weeks ago, but there were complications.’
A sigh.
‘It’s often the case with people in long-term unresponsive states. Chest infections are very difficult for them to deal with and, sadly, she was simply too weak to fight this one off.’

The breath whoomphed out of Logan, leaving him with eyes closed, one hand clasped to his forehead. Thank God for that. At least Wee Hamish didn’t have her killed.

‘I see. Right. Two weeks.’

‘Let me know if that’s not going to be possible, though, OK?’

‘No, yes. Right. Thanks.’

He listened till the line went dead, then clicked the phone back in its charger.

Two weeks.

Another deep breath. First thing tomorrow – get an appointment with the bank. See what they could do.

Two weeks.

It was as if something huge and heavy was sitting on his chest.

Logan pressed play on the answering machine again.

‘Message two:’ Bleeeeeep.

‘Logan? What
exactly
is wrong with you? I’m your mother and I deserve—’

‘You can sod off too.’ Poke.

‘Message deleted. Message three:’ Bleeeeeep.

‘Guv? It’s Rennie. We’re in Archie’s, where are you?’
The sound of singing and cheering drowned him out for a moment.
‘… buck naked. Anyway, we’re having another couple here, then maybe grabbing a curry. Give us a call, OK?’

‘Message deleted. Message four:’ Bleeeeeep.

‘Aye, DI McRae? It’s Alfie here from Control. Yon horrible wifie Mrs Black’s bin on the phone aboot a dozen times, moaning aboot her neighbour. Are you—’

‘Message deleted. Message five:’ Bleeeeeep.

‘Mr McRae, it’s Marjory from Willkie and Oxford, Solicitors again. Hello. I’ve been trying to get in touch about the young man who came round to view the property this afternoon. He loves the flat and he’s made an offer…’
She left a dramatic pause.

That was the trouble with people these days – too much time spent watching
Who Wants To Be A Millionaire
, and
Celebrity MasterChef
, and
Strictly Come Sodding Dancing
. They couldn’t just come out and say something, they had to build it into a big production number.

‘Mr Urquhart wants to know if you’ll take the property off the market for twenty thousand pounds over the valuation.’

Logan stared at the machine. ‘
How
much?’

‘Anyway, it’s nearly five o’clock, so if you want to give me a call back tomorrow morning, we can see how you’d like to proceed. OK. Thanks. Bye.’