The monsters will come back if she does.
A groan behind her.
She turns, the chain cold against her chin. Mummys talking in her sleep again.
No You cant I dont want to Then her mouth twitches, opens and closes with little smacking noises. Mummy turns over onto her side. The chain around her ankle rattles against the metal bed. No Then her breathing goes in and out slow and steady.
Teddy Gordons eyes sparkle in the gloomy room. Hes lying on the bed, on his side like Mummy, staring.
She snaps her head back to the front. Not looking at him. Not looking into those shiny eyes. One time, shed watched a crow eating a squished rabbit in a lay-by, while Daddy was having a wee behind a tree. The crow had eyes like Teddy Gordons: black and shiny and horrible.
Look straight ahead. Dont move. Dont make any noise. Be a Good Little Girl.
Theres a clunk and she flinches, a tiny squeak pops out between her lips.
A thump.
Coming from the shadows where the doors hiding.
A rattle.
Eyes front. No moving. Biting her lip hard enough to make it sting and taste of shiny new pennies.
Clump. Clump. Clump.
A shadow blocks out the little slice of sunlight, killing the sparkly fairies.
The monsters voice is all metal and buzzy, like a robot. Hey sweetcheeks
She closes her eyes.
Chapter 15
-memorial service tomorrow at noon. Sarah Williamson is at the church now. Any change, Sarah?
The TV picture jumped to a woman in a black overcoat. So far, all we know is that the memorial service will be open for the public to come and show their respects for Jenny. I can tell you that Robbie Williams will be attending, along with Katie Melua and a host of other celebrities, before heading back down to London for a special live tribute episode of Britains Next Big Star.
Ooh Samantha sat forward on the couch. Have to set the recorder.
Logan took another mouthful of wine, washing down the last of the pasta theyd had for tea. Why do we have to clog the machine up with that shite?
There was a small pause. Youre such a bloody telly snob.
Im not a snob.
Just because you dont like it, doesnt mean its shite.
-special guests performing the songs that Jenny and her mother-
It is shite. Its just more cheap reality TV bollocks where halfwits humiliate themselves just so they can get on the bloody telly.
Here we go again. She pulled her knees up to her chest, black leather jeans squeaking against the couch. Like what you watch is so damn intellectual.
-charity single tipped to hit number one, we spoke to Gordon Maguire, chairman of Blue-Fish-Two-Fish Productions-
At least I-
The Simpsons isnt bloody Panorama, is it?
A middle-aged man in a T-shirt and suit jacket appeared on the screen. He had trendy sideburns with bits cut out of them, a soul patch, a Dundee accent, and a bald head. -bear in mind that the kidnappers still have Alison and we all have to make sure-
Im just saying its exploitative, OK? Its-
Have you even watched it?
-have to keep raising money while theres still a chance we can bring her home safely.
What? I dont need to watch-
See! She poked the arm of the couch with a black-painted fingernail. You have sod-all idea what youre talking about!
-thank you. And now over to Gail with the weather.
Logan slumped further into the couch. Can we not-
Apart from anything else, this is why Jenny and Alison got kidnapped. If they werent on TV, they wouldnt be famous. And if they werent famous, they wouldnt have been grabbed. Samantha stopped poking the couchs arm, and poked Logans instead. So youve got no business being a snobby cock, this is directly related to your case.
-mass of Arctic air coming in will hit the north east of Scotland, so we can expect some unseasonably cold weather over the next couple of days-
Logan finished his wine in a single gulp. OK, OK: fine. Ill set the machine.
She didnt look around, just stared straight at the TV, where the map of Scotland was a mess of blue and grey. Thank you. Clipped.
He levered himself to his feet. Tried to force a smile into his voice. You want some more wine?
Silence. Sam?
Hows your arm?
Logan looked down at the sleeve of his shirt, all bulked out by the bandages. Its OK. No it wasnt. It throbbed and stung every time he brushed against anything. Bloody Steel punching it hadnt helped.
Sam sneaked a glance at him. Youre a terrible liar. Then back to the telly. And were watching Britains Next Big Star tomorrow, whether you like it or not.
Fffff? Logan sat straight up in bed, blinked a couple of times, then breathed out again. Squinted at the alarm clock. Quarter past two.
He collapsed back into the pillow. Who the hell called at quarter past two?
Lying next to him, Samantha made mumbling noises.
The phone kept ringing.
Logan rolled out of bed, grabbed his mobile, and hit the button. This better be important!
Hullo? Hullo? A broad Doric accent, not one he recognized. That DS McRae?
Whos this? Rubbing his eyes with the heel of one hand. PC Gilbert, doon the station? Anyway, got a wifie in here screamin blue murder. Keeps sayin shes been raped.
Hullo? Hullo? A broad Doric accent, not one he recognized. That DS McRae?
Whos this? Rubbing his eyes with the heel of one hand. PC Gilbert, doon the station? Anyway, got a wifie in here screamin blue murder. Keeps sayin shes been raped.
Another yawn. Hello? Sarge?
Gilbert, Im going to call you a very rude name, then Im going to hang up. Then you can go get someone whos on bloody duty to deal with it! Im on day-shift, you-
Hud oan, DI Bell wants a word
The constables voice disappeared, there was some muffled talk, then DI Bells voice grated in Logans ear. McRae? Get your arse up here.
Its quarter past two in the-
I dont care if its the second coming, Ive got a mental cow up here trying to castrate people, and shes got your name on her.
No offence, sir, but-
I mean literally. Shes literally got your name on her. In black marker pen. And if youre not wanting a visit from Professional Standards fi rst bloody thing, youll do as youre sodding well told!
Half-two on a Saturday morning and the streets were in their usual post-pub haze. By now most of the chucking-out-time violence had settled down. It would only to flare up again when the nightclubs kicked their crop of boozed-up idiots out onto the streets. Men and women, barely dressed, bashing the crap out of each other for a place in the taxi rank, or kebab shop queue, Are you lookin at my bird?
Leave it, Tracy, shes not worth it
Logan paused halfway across Union Street, waiting for a battered Toyota with a taxi sign bolted to the roof to grumble past. There were two blokes just inside the entrance to Lodge Walk: the usual short-cut to the back of FHQ. One was keeping himself upright with a hand against the wall, peeing on his own shoes, the other making retching noises.
He took the scenic route instead, round the council buildings and down Queen Street.
Stopped outside the Sheriff and JP Court.
The crowd gathered on the forecourt outside Force Headquarters was a lot smaller just forty, fifty people? All linking arms and swaying back and forth. They had makeshift lanterns: tea lights in old jam and pickle jars, the captive flames flickering a warm waxy glow that made shadows writhe as they sang.
It took a while for Logan to recognize the tune: Wind Beneath My Wings. Of course it was. Only someone had changed the lyrics so it was all about Jenny and Alison McGregor. Christ that was quick.
And touching? Or creepy. It was hard to decide.
A few uniformed officers hovered on the periphery, some watching the crowd, the rest watching the small knot of drunken idiots lurching about and trying to sing along.
Logan wandered over to the nearest officer a wee man with thick hairy eyebrows and a baggy face. Whats this?
Constable Baggy sniffed, then nodded towards the crowd. Candle-lit vigil, Guv. Dont know what possible bloody good they think itll do. Outside the house, or the church where theyre doing that memorial thing, maybe, but here? He sucked on his teeth for a moment. Whole citys gone fuckin mental.
The Police Custody and Security Officer puffed out her cheeks and scowled at Logan. A red mark covered half of her chin, slowly purpling itself into a bruise. She pointed along the corridor, mouth barely moving, teeth clamped together. Down there.
DI Bell was limping up and down outside the little row of cells reserved for female prisoners. He walked like a bear that hadnt quite got the hang of it yet, thick rounded shoulders rocking from side to side. He stopped, gave Logan his second scowl of the night, then waved him over with a big hairy paw. Where have you been? Voice not much louder than a whisper.
Thought you were meant to be on back shift? Howd you get on with Steels sex offenders, anything-
Want to explain this? Bell pointed at the cell in front of him.
Logan checked the name scrawled on the little board beside the door: name, alleged offence, and last time checked. TRISHA BROWN? O.A.M.H.O.? 02:30 Which meant shed probably been done for taking a swing at some poor PC.
So?
DI Bell hauled open the hatch, and Logan peered into the little cell.
Trisha Brown was lying on the blue plastic mattress, with her knees drawn up against her hollow ribs. She was wearing a skimpy halter-neck top, exposing a swathe of sickly-pale skin that almost glowed in the harsh strip-lighting, a couple of bruises, and a tattoo. Bare feet with long toes, like an extra set of fingers.
Logan shrugged. She working tonight?
The inspector closed the hatch again. Says you raped her.
She? Logan backed off a step. Are you kidding me? I wouldnt touch her with fucking Bobs never mind mine! Shes lying!
Bell grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him away to the stairwell. She better be But soon as she makes the complaint official, you know what happens: Professional Standards explore your colon with a searchlight. Something like this, youre probably looking at gardening leave while they investigate.
But its- It doesnt matter if its a load of old shite or not it goes down on your record.
No. Fuck this. Logan turned and marched back to the cell, slammed the flat of his hand against the metal door. Bang, bang, bang. He hauled the hatch open. Trisha Brown! Wakey Wakey!