Excellent. The big man steepled his fingers. So if youll just take off your shirt and climb in the chair, well get started. Wont hurt a bit.
Chapter 11
03:07, SEVEN DAYS AGO
Darkness. Black, like the cat that sleeps on the wall at the bottom of the garden. The one that hisses and scratches.
She blinks.
Teddy Gordons eyes sparkle like a crows. Hes sitting on the end of the bed grinning at her. She hates Teddy Gordon. Hates his nasty blue fur. Hates his horrid stitched-on smile. Hates the way he smells of smoking.
Teddy Gordon knows she hates him. Thats why hes friends with the monster.
If she had her way, Teddy Gordon would live at the bottom of the wheelie-bin, all dirty and stinky with the green-brown water that leaks out of the bin-bags. But Mummy says she has to be nice to Teddy Gordon, because Teddy Gordon was a present from a man Mummy likes. A man who gives her nice things. Much nicer things than Daddy ever did.
Daddy wouldnt let Teddy Gordon sleep on the end of her bed.
Her room smells of bananas and ice cream, but the little plastic thing plugged into the wall by the nightlight still cant cover the old-man smell of the blue teddy bear. The window glows a pale orange, making thick shadows between the chair and the wall, behind the toy cupboard, down the side of the wardrobe. Creeping out from under the bed
She tries to lie really still and quiet, like a dead person.
Shes not awake. Shes asleep, like a Good Little Girl.
Only Bad Little Girls wake up in the middle of the night. Thats when the monster comes out.
She shivers, even though she knows she mustnt move at all. Not even a tiny bit.
She shivers, even though she knows she mustnt move at all. Not even a tiny bit.
The monster doesnt like Bad Little Girls.
The monster with its sharp white teeth and bright-red claws. Lie still. Dont move an inch.
She can hear it, out in the hallway, creeping on its soft hairy paws, making the floorboards creak. Creak. Creak.
She holds her breath.
Go away. No ones awake in here. Only Good Little Girls, fast asleep and dreaming of ponies.
Please go away
But the monster knows.
A rattle. A clunk. And then the door groans like an old man.
A pause.
She holds her breath.
Go away. Go away. GO AWAY!
Good Little Girl. Sleeping.
The monster rustles, right beside her bed. Breathing.
Whooomph Hisssssssss. Whooomph Hisssssssss.
Standing right over her. In the dark.
Dont move
But her chest aches, like a big purple bruise. And then her body tells on her, gasping in a great whoosh of air. And now its too late: it knows shes awake. Her eyes snap open
Light spills in through the open door. Teddy Gordon grins from the bottom of the bed.
But the monsters different. Its face is waxy-shiny, and its naked its skin all crinkly white, rustling as it breathes.
Whooomph Hisssssssss. Whooomph Hisssssssss. One eye glows red in the darkness.
Daddy
No
Dont leave us
The monster reaches for her with sticky purple fingers. She screams.
Chapter 12
Logan took another sip of coffee and clicked his mouse on the little red REPLAY icon. A moment of darkness. Then the video started playing again. Fourth time in a row. The counter beneath it showed 6,376,451 views since the ransom demand was uploaded eight days ago.
The quality wasnt great. Better than a lot of things posted on YouTube, but still jerky and grainy. A low-light image, all the colour leached away by whatever setting theyd used on the camcorder to make it record in the middle of the night and there it was: the most famous house in the country. Or the back of it, anyway.
A plain, two-storey, brick box, just like all the other plain, two-storey, brick boxes in the street, with a six-foot tall wooden fence running all the way along the back gardens.
He shifted the headphones again and turned the volume up full, but there was nothing there. Not even a hiss. Complete silence. At least for this bit
03:05:26 blinked in the bottom left hand corner of the screen.
The camera swung left then right checking the little alleyway was empty and then a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters appeared on the screen. They crunched through the shackle of a massive padlock, then a pale-grey hand reached into shot and pushed the gate open.
The image shook as the cameraman hurried up the path to the back door.
Someone stepped in front of the camera filling the screen with an expanse of grey-white and then they were inside.
According to the time-stamp at the bottom of the screen less than two minutes had passed.
Kitchen: old fashioned units and a fridge freezer covered with newspaper clippings and childish drawings.
Hallway: floral wallpaper, a couple of generic pictures in cheap-looking frames.
Stairs: a photo halfway up. Logan couldnt see what of. Landing: three doors leading off.
He clicked the mouse again, maximizing the window so the video filled the whole screen.
The camera went straight for the door on the right. It had a little wooden sign on it: JENNYS ROOM. Through into a childs bedroom: stuffed toys piled on a little chest; books on a shelf; a nightlight glowing by the wardrobe. A single bed against the wall.
A little girl lay beneath the covers. She was flat on her back, eyes closed, face all scrunched up, trembling in the grainy gloom, a teddy bear sitting at her feet.
The camera moved closer.
Her eyes snapped open, then bulged. Mouth open, gasping. Staring.
A grey hand reached into shot. Right hand: the skin completely featureless, just a couple of wrinkles between the thumb and forefinger where the latex glove didnt quite fit.
Jenny McGregor screamed, the sound booming in Logans earphones. He winced. And then the footage went silent again.
The gloved hand darted forward, grabbing the duvet and ripping it away.
She scrambled backwards, her Winnie the Pooh pyjamas all tangled around her torso, little bare feet rucking the sheets as she shoved herself into the corner. Screaming, over and over again. Nothing came through Logans headphones, just the faint buzz of silence turned up too loud.
The hand snatched a handful of pyjama top and-
Fingers wrapped around Logans shoulder.
He flinched so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. Yanked off his headphones. Turned round and glared at DS Biohazard Bob Marshall. Very bloody funny!
Bob danced back a couple of steps, both hands up, a grin on his face. Just asking if you wanted a coffee.
How long were you standing there?
From about the time they were going up the stairs. Good job you had the old headphones on, or youdve heard me giggling. Bob threw himself into his swivel chair, hard enough to make the wheels come off the ground on the rebound. Your face was classic.
Logan stared at him. A wee girls dead, Bob.
Silence. Bob sighed. She was grabbed a week ago: you and I both know shes been dead for days. Lucky if she lived through the first night Aye, well, maybe luckys not the right word. He twirled around, then pulled a newspaper from the pile on his desk and chucked it over. Front page.
On Logans screen another figure in a white SOC-style over-suit the kind sold in DIY stores everywhere was hauling a struggling Alison McGregor down the stairs: duct tape over her mouth, hands bound behind her back, legs bound at the ankle, curly blonde hair whipping from side to side as she tried to head-butt her abductor.
He hit pause, then picked up the newspaper. It was a copy of the Edinburgh Evening Post, the headline, HOOK LINE AND STINKER POLICE FALL FOR JENNYS DEAD HOAX.
Gods sake
Gets better. Check out the third paragraph.
Logan skimmed the first two, swore, then read it out loud. Its obvious to anyone with half a brain brackets which clearly excludes most of Grampian Police close brackets that Blue-Fish-Two-Fish Productions are up to their old tricks again. This is the company that handed out used tampons at T in the Park last year, the company that projected a naked photograph of Benjamin Kerhill on Big Ben, the company that proudly tattooed a live pig in Trafalgar Square
Keep going.
The police need to understand that all theyre doing here is helping an unscrupulous company whip up interest in the McGregors upcoming album. Whats next: the HMS Ark Royal, sponsored by Lambs Navy Rum? The fire brigade, brought to you by Gaviscon? Logan crumpled the paper up and rammed it into the bin beside his desk. Then hauled it out again. Who wrote this?
You stopped before you got to the rant about throwing away tax payers money and institutional gullibility.
Michael Bloody Larson. Logan stuck the thing back in the bin again.
Ask me, the bastard needs a stiff kicking. Bob stretched out his legs, crossed his ankles, then stuck his hands behind his head. Still, at least youre getting some media interest. Ive been trying for days to get them to print something about my case. Sex-god sergeant leads hunt for missing alky. or, Handsome Bob Marshall, twenty-four, in race to fi nd Stinky Tam the Holburn Street tramp.
Twenty-four?
Shut up. Poor old Tams been gone two weeks now and no buggers got any idea if hes sodded off for a fortnight in glamorous Stonehaven, or lying dead behind the bins somewhere. Guess where my moneys at? Bob curled his top lip. And Stinky Tam wasnt exactly a bowl of lilies at the best of times. He creaked his chair from side to side a couple of times, then pointed at Logans screen: the figure in the SOC suit and Alison McGregor. Dont know how you can watch that over and over. Creeps me out.
What else can I do? Weve got sod-all forensics. According to the lab theres not a single fingerprint in the whole house that doesnt belong to Alison, Jenny, the babysitter, or Alisons dead husband. No hair, no fibres, no DNA, footprints Nothing.
Pfff What do you expect? Look at them. He pointed at the screen again. Course theres sod-all forensics: theyre not thick, are they? No, theyre wearing the same stuff we do: oversuits, gloves, booties, facemasks. Thats what you get for having all this crime drama on the telly, every bugger out theres getting a weekly masterclass in how to get away with murder.
The only forensic evidence the kidnappers had left behind was a faint dusting of tiny brass filings, caused by whatever theyd used to pick the lock on the back door.