Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8: Shatter the Bones, Close to the Bone. Stuart MacBrideЧитать онлайн книгу.
Superintendent!’
The three people on the stage got up and marched off, led by a trembling Finnie.
‘Chief Superintendent!’
‘Wow …’ Rennie rubbed at the back of his neck, a faint bloom of skin-flakes glowing in the sunshine. ‘Finnie looks really pissed.’
Logan watched the door at the back of the briefing room swing shut, then the journalists and TV cameras jostled into position to do their pieces to camera. A doughy-faced man with a comb-over appeared on screen, clutching a microphone. ‘So there you have it. Grampian Police admit that the severed toe, found earlier this week, doesn’t belong—’
The screen went black.
DI Steel dropped the remote control onto the table. ‘Right, you bunch of jessies. Back to work. This changes sod all -we’ve still got a little girl’s killer to find.’
The two-person teams bustled out of the meeting room, all of them talking about Jenny McGregor’s return from the dead.
‘No’ you, Laz.’
Logan froze on the threshold.
‘Rennie!’
The constable stuck his head back into the room. ‘You rang?’
‘Get Laz’s share of paedos and rapists divvied up between the other teams, we’re going to pay our respects.’
‘No, it’s definitely getting colder.’ Rennie shifted from foot to foot, tilted his head back and let out a long, huffing breath. A faint plume of white drifted up from his mouth. ‘See! Told you.’
‘Aye, very clever.’ Steel screwed up her face, peering into the line of dignitaries in through the front doors of the Kirk of St Nicholas, mobile phone clamped to her ear. ‘No’ you, sir … Aye … I think so too …’
A sea of faces filled the graveyard – everyone, packed in shoulder-to-shoulder all the way from the church to the ornate columned frontage that separated the grounds from Union Street. A row of orange traffic cones and ‘POLICE’ tape kept the crowd off the wide path to the church. There had to be at least a thousand people in here, probably more. Camera crews and photographers clumped together into little islands, training their lenses on the shuffling masses.
Rennie popped up onto his tiptoes. ‘See anyone famous yet?’
Logan ignored him. Almost everyone was wearing black, some clutching garish teddy bears, others floral tributes with the price stickers still on from Asda, Tesco, or the nearest petrol station.
Think they didn’t have time to go home and change?’ Rennie nodded, agreeing with himself. ‘Bet half of them are really disappointed Jenny’s not dead any more. Can’t mourn a wee girl if she’s still alive.’
‘Cynical bugger.’ Steel held her phone against her chest. ‘Ooh, is that no’ thingie off the telly? What is it, Eastenders?’
‘Where?’ Rennie bounced up and down. ‘God, it is! Wow. How cool is that? Look, he’s got Melanie from Corrie with him! MELANIE! MELANIE, YOU’RE BRILLIANT!’
‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Logan slapped him on the arm. ‘Will you grow up? Supposed to be a police officer.’
Rennie grinned. ‘Think we’ll get to meet them after the service?’
Steel stuck a finger in her ear, back on the phone again. ‘Aye, sorry sir, bit noisy here – got the telly on for the memorial service … Who’s looking into where the toe came from? … Oh.’ She drooped slightly. ‘No, no, I’m sure you know what you’re doing …’ She snapped her phone shut.
‘Surprised they’re still going through with it.’ Logan leant back against a lichen-covered headstone, the name barely legible on the weather-beaten granite. ‘What’s the point of having a memorial service when she’s not even dead?’
‘Too late to back out now. Look at it …’ Steel waved a hand, indicated the milling throng packing the graveyard, the TV crews, the huge screens and speakers. ‘Celebration of a wee girl’s life and all these famous buggers actually setting foot in Aberdeen for a change. They’re here anyway, what else they going to do, go down Codonas and play on the dodgems?’
‘Ooh, ooh! Look, it’s Robbie Williams!’ The only thing Rennie didn’t do was clap his hands as he jumped up and down. ‘ROBBIE!’
‘Next time, I’m not going to thump you, I’m going to knee you in the balls.’
Rennie’s face fell. ‘Inspector …?’
‘Don’t be such a jobbie, Laz. Rennie, you scurry off and wet your wee star-struck panties if you like.’
‘Thanks, Guv!’ Rennie pushed his way through the crowd, making for the progression of VIPs. ‘God, there’s the bloke off Cash In The Attic!’
Logan watched him go. ‘Next time we’re at the vet, I’m getting him fixed.’
‘Let the wee loon have some fun.’ She pulled out her fake cigarette, switched it on, and took a puff. ‘Finnie’s got a team going through all the missing kid reports, see if we can get a match on the toe. Bastards must’ve got it from somewhere.’
Logan shifted, the tombstone’s cold leaching through his suit jacket. ‘If it is a paedophile ring they might’ve had her for years …’ There was a comforting thought. ‘Might not even be local – they could’ve bought her off the Eastern Europeans.’ In which case they’d probably never know who she was. ‘Who’s SIO?’
Steel pulled her mouth down at the edges and took a long hard sook on the plastic cigarette. ‘McPherson.’
‘You’re kidding – they made McPherson Senior Investigating Officer? DI Disaster?’
‘All he’s got to do is go through the misper reports and get DNA samples. No’ even McPherson can screw that up.’ Another sook. ‘I hope …’
Rennie had shoved his way to the front of the crowd lining the path, waving his hands at someone Logan vaguely recognized from the TV.
‘I can’t believe they put McPherson in charge of a murder inquiry.’
‘Give it a rest, eh?’ DI Steel went for a dig in her armpit. ‘With any luck we’ll catch the bugger long before McPherson ruins …’ She pursed her lips. ‘There he is.’
Who?’
She pointed at a bald bloke with ridiculous sideburns and a pedestal-matt-style soul patch. Gordon Maguire – MD of Blue-Fish-Two-Fish Productions. Fancy black suit and expensive-looking T-shirt with a skull and crossbones on it. Sunglasses. Big cheesy grin.
He was waving to people as he strolled towards the church. Signing the occasional autograph.
‘You want to question him?’
‘Alternative line of enquiry Laz. Watch and learn.’
‘You think he …’ Logan stared. Someone had ducked under the blue-and-white tape and out onto the path: a rumpled, chinless sack of skin with a big hooked nose. Michael Larson. The git from the Edinburgh Evening Post.
A photographer stumbled onto the path behind him. Click, flash, whirr, click …
‘Mr Maguire, is it true you obtained a dead girl’s toe in order to con people into buying your so-called “charity record”, when—’
‘Complete rubbish, we’re here to celebrate the fact that Jenny’s still alive.’ Maguire turned and pumped his fists in the air. ‘JENNY’S STILL ALIVE!’
A huge cheer.
‘Mr Maguire,