A Litter of Bones Read online

  “You can go,” Logan told him.

  The legs of the young journalist’s chair scraped on the floor as he rushed to his feet. He was at the door when Logan stopped him.

  “One thing, just quickly,” the DCI said. “Could you tell me where you were on Friday around one-thirty in the afternoon?”

  The boy looked flustered. For a moment, Logan thought he might burst into tears again right there in the doorway.

  “It’s just for our records, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.”

  Fisher’s brow furrowed. His eyes flitted left to right, desperately searching. “I don’t… Friday? I’m not…”

  Something slotted into place and he let out something that was part-sob, part-cheer. “Friday. Lunchtime? Yes, I was doing an interview!” he said, sounding like he’d never been more happy about anything in his life. “Mary Grigor. Her cats keep going missing.”

  It was Logan’s turn to frown. “What?”

  “Her cats. They keep going missing. She’s had four disappear in the last three months.”

  Fisher squirmed a hand down into the pocket of his too-tight jeans. “Hang on, I’ve got a picture.”

  Producing his phone, he tapped the screen a couple of times, then swiped with his thumb. “No, no, no, not that… There.”

  He turned the phone so Logan could see the photograph displayed on screen. A woman in her eighties, or thereabouts, sat in a worn old armchair, keeping a firm grip on an unhappy-looking cat.

  “She had five,” Fisher explained. “Well, no, she had three, then she lost two, so she got another—”

  “It’s fine. I don’t need her life story,” Logan said, gesturing for him to put the phone away. “And there’s been no sign of them? The cats.”

  Fisher shook his head and slipped his phone back into his pocket.

  “Has she reported it?”

  “I think so, yes. She said she had, but she’s a bit… dottled.”

  “Aye, I can imagine. Someone at the paper can verify you were at her house around lunchtime?”

  “No, probably not,” Fisher admitted. “They know I covered the story, but… Wait. No. They can! I sent the photos across right after. Probably about… ten to two? I’m sure if you check with Mary, she’ll be able to tell you I was there, too.”

  Logan flashed him the thinnest of smiles. “That won’t be necessary, Mr Fisher. Like I say, just for our records. Thank you again for your time, and sorry for the inconvenience.”

  He held the door open and motioned for the journalist to go through. “I’ll have someone see you out.”

  DS Khaled was lurking out in the corridor when Logan and Fisher emerged from the room. He immediately offered the DCI an unmarked cardboard folder. “Those printouts you wanted, sir.”

  “Grand. Swap,” said Logan, taking the folder. “Can you see Mr Fisher out. Get someone to give him a run home.”

  “It’s OK. I’ve got my bike,” Fisher said. “I only live around the corner.”

  Logan looked past him to the window. The rain was no longer sideways, but was still coming down. “You sure? You’ll get soaked.”

  For the first time since arriving, Fisher smiled. “It’s the Highlands. We’re used to it.”

  “Ha. Aye. Fair enough,” Logan said. “Thanks again for your time.”

  He gestured for Hamza to lead the journalist out to reception, then turned and flipped open the folder. Two faces gazed up at him, both smiling.

  “Right then,” he muttered, when the door through to reception clunked closed behind him. “Let’s see what this is all about.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  How long had it been quiet, out there beyond the door? An hour? A day? He couldn’t tell. All he knew was it was dark, and he was cold, and he was scared, and that he wanted, more than anything, to go home.

  His wrists hurt where they were tied. His legs were numb. His throat was raw from keeping his sobs inside. He risked letting one out now. It was muffled by the gag across his mouth, but the sound was enough to startle him, to send electric shocks of panic coursing through his veins.

  What if they heard? What if they got angry? What if they hurt him?

  Tears came at the thought of them hurting him. He didn’t want them to hurt him.

  Not again.

  He’d seen what they had done to the cat. What was left of it. It had looked like roadkill when the boy had brought it to him on the tray, all bright red flesh and exposed white bone. The smell had been horrible. It had forced its way up his nostrils, turning his stomach and making him feel sick.

  He had almost been sick when the cat had moved. Its head had twitched. A wet, mournful sort of sound had emerged from its mouth, and the boy had erupted into delighted laughter before skipping off with the tray held high like some sort of trophy.

  The man had appeared a moment later. The man had stared in around the edge of the door as he inched it shut, sealing him back inside the cupboard.

  That had been a while ago. He hoped, for the cat’s sake, that it was dead by now.

  Alone in the darkness, he prayed that he wouldn’t be next.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Have any changes of heart while I was away, Eddie?” Logan asked, settling back into his seat. “You ready to tell us where Connor is yet?”

  “I already told you. I don’t—”

  “You don’t know, aye. You did mention that,” Logan said.

  “For the benefit of the recording, DCI Logan has now re-entered the room,” Caitlyn announced.

  “Sorry, aye. Always forget that bit,” Logan said.

  He placed the folder on the desk in front of him, one hand on top of it to keep it closed.

  “How do you know the Reids, Eddie?”

  Walker’s eyes went to the folder, then back to the DCI. “How do you think? I live next door to them.”

  “And that’s it, is it? That’s the extent of it.”

  “What do you mean?” Walker asked.

  “It’s not a hard question, Eddie. I think it’s pretty clear. Before you illegally moved in next door to them, had you ever met either Mr or Mrs Reid?”

  The eyes flicked to the folder again. This time, they lingered for a moment before Walker dragged them back up.

  “No.”

  “No? You’ve never met them?”

  The solicitor, Lawrence, cleared his throat. “Detective Chief Inspector, I think—”

  “Shh,” Logan told him. He tapped a finger on top of the folder, beating out a slow, steady rhythm. “I’m going to ask you again, Eddie. And I want you to really think about the answer this time, alright? Really try for me. OK?”

  He leaned forward in his chair. “Did you know either Mr or Mrs Reid prior to the day you moved into the house next door to theirs?”

  Walker opened his mouth to respond. Logan raised a hand to stop him.

  “At-at-at. Think before you answer, Eddie. Take your time to consider your response before you say anything.”

  Logan tapped his finger against the folder again. Slow. Steady.

  Tik. Tik. Tik.

  “No,” said Walker, although he sounded even less convincing now than he had been. “I didn’t know either of them.”

  “Uh-huh,” Logan mused.

  Then, without a word, he opened the folder and slid one of the photographs across the table so it was directly in front of Walker. He handed the other copy to Caitlyn, who looked significantly more surprised by it than Walker did.

  “That’s you in that picture, Eddie. Right?”

  Walker’s gaze was fixed on the image. He nodded once, but said nothing.

  “And can you tell us, for the benefit of the tape, who that is you’re pictured with?”

  Walker’s eyes met Logan’s across the table, wide and defiant. “Fuck you.”

  “Language, Eddie!” Logan scolded. He shrugged. “Fair enough, I’ll say it.”

  Reaching across the table, Logan tapped the smiling face of the woman next to Walker in the pho
tograph. His arm was around her shoulder, pulling her in close. “That’s Catriona Reid.”

  Walker’s brief, Lawrence, leaned over and peered down at the photo. His eyes flitted to Walker, then back again. He hadn’t come into the interview room particularly confident, but now he looked positively crestfallen.

  “So, what happened there then, Eddie? Slip your mind, did it?” Logan pressed. “Because you look pretty close in that photo.”

  He turned the picture around so it was facing him on the desk. “You look better without the beard, if you don’t mind me saying. How long ago was this taken? Ten years?”

  Walker ground his teeth together, as if chewing over his answer. “Eight.”

  “Eight? Right, so…”

  Logan groaned.

  “Jesus.”

  “Boss?” asked Caitlyn.

  “Eight years. That was eight years ago,” Logan said. He glowered at Walker, speaking more quickly as things slotted into place. “DNA. You were looking up DNA.”

  “So?” Walker grunted, shifting in his chair.

  “You think he’s yours, don’t you? Connor. You think you’re his dad.”

  “What? No! No, nothing like that.”

  “That’s it, isn’t it? You think he’s your son,” Logan said. “Is that why you took him, Eddie? Is that why you grabbed him?”

  “I didn’t! It wasn’t me! You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “Have I? Then explain it to me, Eddie. Because right now, the story I’ve got up here…” He tapped the side of his head. “…it all makes sense. It’s no’ pleasant, but it makes sense. You think he’s your son, so you took him, and tried to throw us off with the teddy bear and the envelope.”

  “What fackin’ teddy bear? I don’t know what you’re on about!” Walker yelled.

  And then, like a switch had been flicked, something changed. His breathing and movements, which had both been growing wilder, became slower, more controlled. He clasped his hands on the table top in front of him, a sort of resigned tranquillity falling over him.

  “I want a lawyer.”

  “You’ve got one,” Logan told him.

  “A proper one. Not this useless prick.”

  Lawrence looked briefly put-out but didn’t voice any objections. If anything, he looked relieved.

  “Stop wasting time, Eddie. Where’s the boy? Where’s Connor?”

  Walker leaned forward. “I don’t know. I mean it. I’ve got no idea,” he said, his voice measured. “Which means that someone’s still got him. He’s out there now somewhere, and you ain’t doing nothing about it. You ain’t even trying.”

  He sat back. “Now, I ain’t saying anything else until I get a proper lawyer.”

  He glanced briefly in Lawrence’s direction. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” said Lawrence. He already had his briefcase on the table, and was shoving his notepad and pen inside.

  Logan stood, his face a storm cloud of contempt. “DS McQuarrie. Put Mr Walker in a cell.”

  He shot her a sideways look. “We do have cells in this place, right?”

  “We do,” Caitlyn confirmed.

  “Good. Right. Pick the worst one and chuck him in it,” Logan instructed. “We’ll continue this after I’ve spoken to Mrs Reid.” He picked up the photo from the table and tucked it back into the folder. “Maybe she’ll have something more to tell us.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Catriona Reid looked drawn and tired, all her previous nervous energy having long-since burned itself out. There was a greyness about her, a flatness to her hair, a lack of flesh-tones to her skin. Logan had seen it before. He’d watched grief and fear sepia-tone too many other parents just like her.

  Catriona looked up as Logan and Caitlyn entered the interview room. Her face was in turmoil, wrestling with itself, part resigned acceptance, part refusal to believe what her head was telling her.

  “You found him, didn’t you?” she blurted, tripping, stumbling, and almost choking on the words. “You found him.”

  Logan closed the door. “Who?”

  Catriona visibly flinched. “What do you mean, ‘who?’ Connor. You found him. He’s dead, isn’t he? You found him and he’s dead.”

  “No. It’s nothing like that,” Logan assured her. “To the best of our knowledge, Mrs Reid, Connor is still alive and unharmed. We have nothing to suggest otherwise, and getting him home safely is still the focus of our investigation.”

  “He’s… He’s alive?”

  “We believe so, yes.”

  Catriona broke. That was the only way to describe it. Whatever last vestiges of resolve had been holding her together collapsed, and she buried her face in her hands, sobbing with what most people would assume was relief.

  And it was relief.

  Partly.

  Logan had never had to go through what Catriona was going through, but he’d seen it often enough, and had been involved in some frank and forthright discussions with other parents at similar moments.

  Relief was a big chunk of it. The majority of it, probably.

  And yet, as much of a relief as it was to be told their son or daughter was still alive, it only fuelled the little nagging voice that told them that their child might well be suffering somewhere right now, and reminded them there was nothing they could do to stop it.

  At this very moment, Catriona was probably picturing unspeakable tortures being inflicted upon her son. She’d be watching him cry, hearing him calling out for her, hopelessly, desperately.

  Sure, he’s alive, the voice would be telling her. But at what cost, Catriona? At what cost?

  “Caitlyn, go get Mrs Reid a cup of tea, would you? I’ll have one, too, if you don’t mind?”

  DS McQuarrie glanced sympathetically at Catriona Reid, then nodded. “Of course. Will do.”

  Logan’s stomach growled like a hungry animal. This did not go unnoticed.

  “And I’ll bring the biscuits, sir.”

  Once Caitlyn had left, Logan sat across the table from Catriona Reid. He’d had the forethought to bring a box of tissues in with him, and she gratefully plucked a few from the opening on top to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. He set the box and the folder containing the photographs down on the table, the tissues much closer to her than to him.

  “Thank you,” Catriona said, her voice taking on a flat, expressionless tone.

  Logan had seen this before, too—the battening down of the hatches, hammering any and all emotion into submission before it could bubble over and become unmanageable.

  “You’re welcome. How are you holding up?” Logan asked. It was a stupid question, and one he already knew the answer to. It was written all over her face.

  Catriona sniffed. “About what you’d think.”

  “And how’s your husband doing?”

  “He still thinks it’s his fault,” Catriona said. She looked away. “I’m trying not to.”

  “It isn’t. You can’t watch your kids twenty-four-seven, much as we’d all like to,” Logan told her. “The only person to blame for this is the person who took Connor. Your husband shouldn’t hold himself responsible. And neither should you.”

  Catriona nodded, but it was disinterested, like she was humouring him. “I’ll try,” she said, then her head twitched a little, like something had just flicked her. “Oh. I almost forgot to say. The teddy. The one that was delivered?”

  “What about it?”

  “We checked. It isn’t Connor’s.”

  Logan’s chair creaked beneath him as he shifted his weight. “It isn’t?”

  “He has one a bit like it, but we found that in his…” Her chest tightened as it all hit home again. “It was in his bed.”

  Catriona cleared her throat a few times, trying to free it up. “But the one that was delivered, it’s not his.”

  “Right. OK,” Logan muttered, his mind racing as it tried to figure out what, if anything, this new piece of information meant. He filed it away to come back to later. “Thanks for
that. Really useful.”

  The door opened behind him, and Caitlyn entered carrying a tray of mugs, a scattering of sugar sachets, and a little carton with a dribble of milk in the bottom.

  “Here we go,” she said, setting the tray down. Logan nudged the folder aside to make room, and Caitlyn began distributing the mugs. They were all colourful and mismatched. Logan’s had the Maltesers logo emblazoned across the side and had originally probably come with an Easter Egg inside.

  Catriona Reid wrapped both hands around her mug as if warming them. She stared into the dark depths and breathed in the steam.

  “Thank you.”

  “No bother at all,” Catriona said, relocating the milk, sugar, and a plate of biscuits from the tray to the table.

  She placed the tray on the floor, propped up against the table leg, then moved to take a seat beside Logan. He motioned with his eyes for her to sit next to Catriona, instead. It was an interview of sorts, yes, but the last thing the poor woman needed was to feel like they were ganging up on her.

  Logan’s stomach grumbled. There were three biscuits on the plate—a digestive, a hobnob, and a Tunnocks Caramel Wafer. He knew which one he had his sights on, but a nagging sense of decency made him wait.

  “Biscuit?” DS McQuarrie asked Catriona, indicating the plate.

  Catriona peered at the plate, blinking slowly, as if seeing some sort of weird alien specimen for the first time.

  “Oh. No. Thank you.”

  Logan had the Caramel Wafer in his hands before Catriona had finished talking. “Sorry,” he said, taking a chomp out of the end. “Starving.”

  “DCI Logan has been working around the clock to bring Connor home,” said Caitlyn, filling in while Logan munched his way through the chocolate biscuit. “We all have.”

  “But you haven’t found him,” Catriona said, just a touch accusingly.

  “Not yet, no. But we think we’re close. We have some really strong leads.”

  Logan swallowed, spent a few seconds, running his tongue across his teeth, then took a glug of tea. There was no sugar in it, but the lingering sweetness of the Tunnocks did the job.