A Litter of Bones Read online

He stopped when a muddy Golden Retriever padded out of the trees, tail wagging, tongue lolling happily.

  Something deep in Duncan’s gut twisted into a knot. He spiralled around, searching for his son. “Connor!” he bellowed. “Con, where are you?”

  No answer came. Meg crept to Duncan’s side, her head low, sensing his distress.

  “This is your fault! Stupid bloody dog!” Duncan snapped.

  Meg lowered her head, her eyes gazing uncomprehendingly up at him.

  Duncan’s voice softened. It took on a pleading edge. “Go find him. Go find Connor,” he said. His fingers fumbled for the phone in his pocket as he stared at the dog, willing her to listen, willing her to understand.

  He thumbed the phone awake. No signal. No fucking signal.

  Duncan shot the dog a desperate, hopeless look. His voice cracked.

  “Go find our boy.”

  Chapter Two

  Detective Chief Inspector Jack Logan waited for the door to buzz open, then continued through it and along another of the stark, unwelcoming corridors of Carstairs State Hospital.

  He turned left at the bottom, through another set of doors, then up the wide staircase to the next floor. He could’ve taken the lift, but the stairs were usually quicker. Besides, you never knew who you might end up sharing the lift with, and what they might try to get up to in the confined space.

  His feet led him through the hospital on auto-pilot, having made this journey too many times to count. There were plenty of places Logan wished he knew like the back of his hand. Venice. The South of France. The Bahamas, maybe.

  But no. Instead, the place on Earth he was probably most familiar with was a maximum-security psychiatric hospital in South Lanarkshire hoaching with rapists, murderers, and all manner of worse.

  Once-upon-a-time, he would have struggled to believe the ‘and worse’ part, but twenty years on the job had soon leathered any such doubts out of him.

  The beat days had been bad enough, giving him a wee taster menu of the sort of horrors he’d eventually be forced to gorge himself on.

  It had gone from bad to worse when he’d moved up to CID, and since transferring to the Major Investigations Team he’d seen things that would make the average murdering rapist shake their heads in disgust.

  Another door blocked his path, its two double-glazed square windows each encasing a mesh of thick wire. He stopped and fixed the camera mounted above it with an impatient look.

  Logan caught sight of himself in the camera’s wide lens and made a half-hearted attempt at smoothing down his hair. He ran a hand across his chin, as if he could would wipe away the stubble that had been shading-in his jawline for the past few days.

  He had the look of someone who had been destined to find himself involved with the law, although not necessarily on the side he’d ended up on. He was tall and broad, but generally held himself a little stooped as if trying to keep his size a secret.

  The door buzzed. Logan pulled it open, gave a nod to the camera, then continued through, grateful the delay had been a minor one.

  They knew his face well here. Hardly surprising. He was more regular a fixture than some of the doctors.

  There was a reception-style desk along the corridor behind the next door, a plexiglass shield protecting the staff member behind it. Logan stopped at the counter, set down the dog-eared folder he carried under his arm, then signed himself in.

  “You’re later today,” said the woman behind the shield. She was relatively new. He’d first seen her four, maybe five visits ago, so she was only a couple of months into the job. She was plump and soft-looking, and Logan doubted she’d last much longer. A quick glance at the newspaper open at the job section on the desk beside her confirmed his suspicions.

  He didn’t blame her.

  “Crazy morning,” he replied, then briefly winced at his choice of words. “Busy, I mean.”

  His eyes flicked to the clock mounted on the wall behind reception. There was a little round cage over it, securing it in place. Logan knew it was there to stop any of the residents hauling the thing off the wall and quite literally clocking some poor bastard with it, but he liked to imagine that it was an inmate here, locked away like the rest of them.

  He signed his name with a blip and a squiggle, then picked up his folder. “Is he ready?”

  The receptionist nodded. “He’s ready. Well, as he ever is. I wouldn’t expect much.”

  Logan grunted in response, then stepped away from the counter.

  “Oh, but Chief Inspector?”

  “Yes?”

  The receptionist mustered a worried-looking smile. “Dr Ramesh wants to see you before you go in.”

  Logan stopped, turned. “Who?”

  “Mr Logan?”

  A bearded Asian man in his mid-forties leaned out of a door a little way along the corridor and made a beckoning motion that Logan very much did not approve of.

  “My office, please. I’d like a word.”

  Ramesh was new, too. Newer than the receptionist, even. Unlike her, he had an efficient, by-the-book air to him that came across as rude, but ensured he had a better chance of sticking the job than she had. He took a seat behind his desk as Logan closed the office door, then motioned to the chair opposite for the DCI to do the same.

  “I’ll stand, thanks.”

  Ramesh tutted softly, took a moment to conclude that he didn’t like having such a dramatic height disadvantage, and got to his feet.

  The office was small, but fastidiously neat to the point it didn’t look like a functioning workplace at all. Rather, it was like something IKEA might use as a showpiece for its new office range designed for the deeply unimaginative.

  The desk was irritatingly uncluttered, aside from a vertical stack of six hefty-looking medical tomes all angled so their barely decipherable titles could be read by anyone sitting across from the doctor. Each spine was smooth and crease-free, and the carefully presented showpiece told Logan pretty much everything he needed to know about the office’s current occupier.

  “I’m not happy about this,” Ramesh said. He prodded the desktop with his index finger. “I’m not happy about this at all.”

  There was an accent there, but it had been smoothed over and filled in around the edges with Received Pronunciation. No doubt at some private boarding school down south somewhere, Logan guessed. This did not do his opinion of the man any favours.

  “Not happy about what?”

  “You. Him. This whole thing. You shouldn’t be coming in like this. It’s not fair.”

  Logan shifted his weight, eliciting a groan from the carpeted floorboards beneath him.

  “Fair?”

  “Mr Petrie is a patient here,” said Ramesh. He was a few inches shorter than Logan but was doing an admirable job of pretending not to notice. He was also doing a better job of holding the DCI’s gaze than most polis ever managed.

  “Mr Petrie is a convicted killer who murdered three children,” Logan replied. “He’s also a key witness in an ongoing investigation.”

  “Yes, but it isn’t an ongoing investigation, is it, Inspector?” Ramesh asked, his accent bubbling up. “You caught him. He stood trial.”

  “Detective Chief Inspector,” Logan corrected. He raised his head and straightened his shoulders, forcing the doctor to lean back a fraction to maintain eye contact. “And I’m well aware that we caught him, but he has continued to withhold vital information that will allow us to fully mark the case closed. Hence why I’m here.”

  “Again,” said Ramesh. He pushed his high-backed leather chair in below his desk and rested his hands on it. “I’ve looked back at the records. It seems you come here often.”

  “Frequently,” said Logan.

  “Some would call that harassment.”

  “They can call it whatever they like,” Logan responded. “Until he gives us the information we need, it’s an ongoing investigation. After that, I will happily never give the bastard another thought.” He raised an index finger
and leaned in a little closer. “Although, I might spare a few minutes to dance on his grave.”

  He turned his mouth into something that was designed to resemble a smile but wasn’t quite there. “How’s that sound?”

  Ramesh’s fingers kneaded the back of his chair, as if massaging it. He inhaled slowly through his nose, either stalling for time or building up to saying something he thought might escalate the situation further.

  The latter, it turned out.

  “I know your Superintendent,” the doctor said. He left a pregnant pause there, giving that new nugget of information a moment to sink in. “We’re in the same golf club.”

  Logan sniffed, shrugged, gave a shake of his head. “I wouldn’t know. Always struck me as an arsehole’s game. I’m more of a darts man, myself.” He tilted his head forward, giving the doctor the briefest of nods. “No offence.”

  From the look on Ramesh’s face, offence had clearly been taken. Logan wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. God knew, he got little enough already.

  “Well, I’m going to talk to him. To Gordon. About…” Ramesh gestured vaguely in Logan’s direction. “…all this. It’s not fair. It’s not on. My predecessor may have tolerated it, but… It’s not on. I’m not having it.”

  “Aye, well, tell Gordie I said hello,” Logan replied. He held up the battered cardboard folder as if in salute. “And I’ll be out of your hair just as soon as Mr Petrie answers my questions. Alright?”

  The doctor’s fingers tightened their grip on the chair as Logan turned and opened the door.

  “And how is he supposed to do that, exactly?” Ramesh demanded. “Hmm? How is he supposed to do that?”

  Logan paused in the doorway, filling it. He narrowed his eyes, considering this, then clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

  “I’m sure we’ll figure something out,” he said, then he slipped out into the corridor and closed the door behind him.

  Chapter Three

  Logan sat in a moulded plastic chair and gazed upon the face of evil. For its part, the face of evil smiled vaguely back at him, its eyes shimmering in confusion, never quite focusing all the way on the visitor.

  Logan wasn’t buying it. He had never bought it. No matter what the doctors said.

  Owen Petrie. Mister Whisper, the papers had called him back in the day. Back when he’d abducted and murdered three wee boys and done his damnedest to snatch away two more.

  It was statements from the two close-calls that had led to the nickname. They’d both mentioned his voice as he’d tried to talk them into his van—a soft, whispering rasp—and the tabloids had lapped it up.

  He sat in an old-fashioned high-backed armchair now, cowed and shrunken by the size of it. Back when he’d been on the outside, he’d been a right Dapper Dan, suiting and booting it whenever he was out and about. Shirt. Tie. The works.

  Now, he sat slouched in an old pair of grey joggies and an off-white t-shirt that was threatening to drown him. Food stains dotted the front of it, varying shades of orange blemishes suggesting curry was a regular staple on the hospital menu.

  He hadn’t shaved in days. Or been shaved, Logan supposed. His stubble was a salt and pepper lavvy brush, heavy on the salt. His hair had been trimmed on the left side of his head. The right side was mostly bald, the hair there never having grown back around the site of the injury that had put him in his current condition.

  Supposedly put him in his current condition.

  The room was a private one, and as drab as any of the others in the hospital. Aside from the chairs, there was a narrow bed, a narrower wardrobe, and a desk that never got used. The edges of all the furniture had been smoothed off, the corners chunky and rounded.

  There was a good-sized window, divided into much smaller chunks by a crisscross of sturdy spars. The bleakness of the view—the window looked directly onto another even grimmer section of the hospital—pleased Logan immensely. Good enough for the bastard.

  Too good.

  The little rolling hospital table that was usually positioned by the bed had been set up like a barrier between both men. A plastic jug of room temperature water sat on it, untouched. Logan lifted the jug and placed it on the desk which, like everything else in the room, was within easy arm’s reach.

  “Owen,” Logan began, opening his folder. “I’m told you’ve been bright these last few weeks. I’m hoping that means you’re ready to help me.”

  Petrie’s brow knotted. Speaking was a struggle, like he was wrestling the words from his mouth one at a time, and they were putting up a bloody good fight. The voice still had the low throaty hiss that had earned him his nickname, and the sound of it made Logan’s skin crawl.

  “Help you? H-how?”

  Logan held his gaze. “You know how, Owen. We’ve been through this.”

  He produced an A4 photograph from his folder and sat it on the table between them. It was a blown-up image, full colour but grainy, showing a smiling boy dressed as the Red Ranger from Power Rangers. The outfit was too big for him, the sleeves folded back to make it fit, but he didn’t care. He looked proud as punch, his face upturned to the camera, his hands raised in a mock-karate pose.

  Logan didn’t need to see the picture to know any of this. It was long-since burned in.

  “Dylan Muir. Aged three.”

  Petrie didn’t look at the photograph. Not at first. It was only when Logan rapped his knuckles on the plastic table top that Petrie’s eyes went to it. He smiled, not unkindly, and made a little, ‘Aw,’ noise that forced Logan to grip his chair to stop himself lunging for the bastard.

  “He l-looks like a nice boy.” The words were slow, laborious.

  Logan counted to five in his head, before continuing.

  “Aye. He was nice, Owen. He was a good lad. Much loved by everyone. His pals. His sister. His parents. A great wee lad,” Logan said. “And then, he died.”

  A flicker of a frown crossed Petrie’s face. He tapped the edge of the photograph with the tip of a finger, prodding at it as if to check if it were real.

  “Oh,” he said, dragging his gaze up to meet Logan’s. He continued to tap the bottom of the photograph as he battled with the next few words. “What hap-p-pened to him?”

  Logan leaned in, closing the gap between them. His voice became lower, his tone more menacing. “That’s why I’m here, Owen. I was hoping that maybe you could tell me.”

  Petrie didn’t flinch or make any attempt to draw back. Nothing flickered behind his eyes. He was good, Logan would give him that.

  “I d-don’t know.”

  “See, I think you do,” Logan told him. He shook his head. “No. I know you do, Owen.”

  He placed another three photographs down. Dylan Muir on the swings. Dylan Muir in at his mum’s make-up, a line of lipstick smeared across his forehead. Dylan Muir with his hand buried up to the wrist in a bag of Monster Munch. Petrie watched them being set out with the concentration of a punter at a magic show, trying to figure out the trick and second-guess how it was done.

  Logan gave him a few moments to take those images in before setting down the final photograph. This one was smaller than the rest, and the only one that wasn’t in colour. It went on top of the others, slap bang in the middle.

  Dylan Muir, tied to a chair, tears cutting tracks down his dirty cheeks. Logan could see the boy’s expression without looking. Every line. Every crease. Every moment of suffering etched across his features. He knew it all.

  Petrie lowered his head and peered at the final image, as if looking over the top of a pair of glasses. He studied it like this for a few seconds, then drew back suddenly, like he’d finally figured out what he was looking at.

  “I d-don’t like that one,” he said, his voice a slurred staccato.

  “No, I don’t like that one either,” Logan agreed. He fished in the folder and produced two more images. He set them down, one at a time. “And I don’t like that one of Lewis Briggs. Or this one of Matthew Dennison.”

  Petri
e’s gaze was aimed squarely over Logan’s shoulder now, out through the window at the grey building beyond. The DCI leaned to the right, interrupting the view.

  “Look at them, Owen.”

  Petrie shook his head.

  “Look at the photos.”

  “I d-don’t w-want to.”

  Logan snatched the photographs up, one in each hand, holding them in front of Petrie. “We found Lewis. We found Matthew. Too late, aye. Far too late, but we found them. At least we could give their families that.”

  He set the pictures down and picked up the black and white image of Dylan Muir, holding it with almost reverential care as he gazed into the boy’s wide, trusting eyes.

  For a while, Logan had imagined that they might find the boy alive. Somewhere. Somehow. Someday.

  But then, in a rare moment of lucidity, Petrie had finally confessed to his murder, and shattered that dream.

  Just like he’d shattered so many others.

  “But we never found Dylan. You never let us give him back so we could give his family some sort of peace.”

  Petrie’s mouth flapped open and closed. His eyes were glazed, and he had a look of a goldfish about him, staring out at the world from behind a wall of glass.

  “Cut that shite out,” Logan hissed. He clicked his fingers up close in the other man’s face. Petrie’s eyelids fluttered, but he was looking through Logan now, staring at empty space.

  “Where is he, Petrie?” Logan demanded. “Tell me what you did with him. Tell me where you left him. Tell me where to find him.”

  Across the table, Petrie’s frown deepened, the wrinkles on his forehead furrowing into shadowy grooves. He remained like that for a good ten seconds, then he blinked. Once. Twice. A hypnotist’s patient coming out of a trance.

  His face relaxed. He looked at Logan and smiled vaguely, as if seeing him for the first time but finding something familiar about him. Petrie’s hand came up and idly traced the dent that had forever altered the shape of his skull, his fingertips following the line of his scar.