A Litter of Bones Read online

Finally, he looked down at the spread of photographs of the smiling three-year-old set out before him. “H-he looks nice,” he mumbled. He ran his fingers across one of the photographs and raised his eyes to meet Logan’s. “Is he yours?”

  Logan couldn’t stop himself. He lunged across the table and caught Petrie by the food-stained t-shirt. Petrie’s vacant, not-quite-there smile remained fixed on his face. He didn’t flinch, not even when the DCI’s other arm drew back, his fingers balling into a fist.

  “Mr Logan!”

  The voice snapped Logan out of it, brought him back to his senses. He released his grip but wasn’t gentle about it. Petrie thudded back into the padding of the chair.

  Turning, Logan saw Dr Ramesh holding the door open. “I think you’ve outstayed your welcome for one day,” Ramesh said. “Mr Petrie needs his rest.”

  The door squeaked as he opened it wider.

  “Don’t make me ask you again.”

  Petrie’s vague smile twitched as he watched Logan gather up his photographs and replace them in the folder.

  “I’ll see you again soon, Owen,” the DCI said. A threat and a promise. “Maybe we’ll jog your memory next time.”

  “I’m sure we can arrange something through the proper channels,” Ramesh said. “But for now, I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”

  Tucking the folder under his arm, Logan made for the door. He stopped when he was level with the doctor, drawing himself up to his full height for maximum looming potential.

  “I’ll be reporting this,” Ramesh said.

  “Good luck with that.”

  He was about to leave when Petrie called to him. “Sir? Excuse me, s-sir?”

  Logan stopped, turned.

  The smile crept higher on Petrie’s face. His voice was a whisper, the words tumbling freely from his mouth. “Say hello to that little boy for me.”

  Chapter Four

  Logan was halfway across the carpark when his phone rang. He cursed out loud when he saw the name flash up.

  Gordon Mackenzie.

  Detective Superintendent Gordon Mackenzie.

  The Gozer.

  As nicknames went, it went around the houses a bit. From what Logan understood of it, ‘Gordon the Gopher’ had been an early draft, but it had been widely agreed by everyone at the time that it was far too obvious, and that should he overhear anyone referring to ‘The Gopher’ in conversation, the then-going-places DS wouldn’t need to draw on much of his polis training to put two and two together.

  And so, an alternative had been sought. Something that summed up his personality, maybe gave a wee nod to the Gopher thing, but wasn’t as blatantly on-the-nose. One of the DCs in the department at the time had been a big fan of Ghostbusters. And, what with Mackenzie being a boggle-eyed bastard with a flat-top, he’d been named after the film’s villain, an equally boggle-eyed bastard with a flat-top.

  If you wanted to get technical about it, the handle didn’t actually stand up to scrutiny. The boggle-eyed, flat-topped bastard in Ghostbusters was Zuul. Gozer was the unseen evil entity who eventually manifested as the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, but any attempt by anyone to raise this as an objection was quickly shouted down. Gordon the Gozer just worked, and the Strathclyde polis never let semantics get in the way of a solid nickname.

  Logan’s thumb hovered over the green phone icon on the screen, shifted to the red, then back again. That wee rat bastard of a doctor must’ve got straight onto the Gozer before Logan was even out of the building. It was barely after eleven on a Sunday morning. The DSup wouldn’t be happy.

  He decided to answer. Better to face his wrath now, than give it a chance to snowball into something worse.

  “Sir?” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Where are you?” the Gozer asked. His voice was clipped, efficient. Either Logan was in more trouble than he thought, or something else was going down.

  “Just about at my car. Why?”

  “We need you in at the office, ay-sap.”

  Logan grimaced. Ay-sap. The first time he’d heard the Gozer say that, he’d assumed it was a wind-up. Surely no-one actually spoke like that? But, aye. Some folk did, it turned out, and the DSup was one of them.

  What was wrong with ‘now’? Or even just the standard one-letter-at-a-time pronunciation of ASAP?

  Fucking ay-sap.

  “Logan?”

  “Sorry. Aye. Here, sir,” Logan replied. “What’s the score?”

  “Best if I explain in person.”

  In person? So, the Gozer was in the office on a Sunday morning? Jesus, it must be serious.

  “I can be there in an hour.”

  “An hour? What are you going to do, the Moonwalk?” the Gozer asked. “Wait. Sunday. End of the month. You’ve been in seeing him again, haven’t you?”

  Logan made a non-committal hmm noise. At least Ramesh hadn’t phoned his old golfing buddy to report him yet. That was something.

  “We’ll talk about this at a later date, Detective Chief Inspector,” said the Gozer, his tone suggesting it would not be an enjoyable chat for at least one of them. “For now, just get yourself in here.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  “Oh, and if you’re passing your house, you might want to grab some clothes and a toothbrush. Quickly, though.”

  “How come?”

  “You’re being seconded. Up north. They’ve asked for you personally.”

  Logan stopped walking in the middle of the car park. “What? Why?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” said the Gozer. “Just get in here. And don’t spare the horses.”

  Chapter Five

  Under normal circumstances, Logan would’ve appreciated the view.

  He wasn’t that sort of guy, generally—a view sort of guy—but there was something about the landscape of the route between Glasgow and Fort William that could grab even the most ardent non-view guys by the collar and force them to sit up straight.

  Most people thought it started at Rannoch Moor, and continued to improve during the twenty-mile build-up to Glencoe. To Logan, though, it started before that. The meandering road up Loch Lomond-side held its own charms, he’d always thought.

  Granted, you didn’t want to get caught behind a campervan. And the old stone bridges were so narrow they regularly brought traffic to a standstill as two buses jostled for position, their wing mirrors kissing as they inched past. But despite all that, there were few places on Earth quite like it.

  It had been a while since Logan had been up this way, and the Crianlarich bypass was new to him. It shaved, by his reckoning, about nine seconds off the previous route, and he failed to see the point. Considering everything else that needed doing on the A82, it seemed like an odd choice.

  From the new roundabout, it was a few minutes to Tyndrum, a quick stop at the Green Welly for a slash, then on up the hill into the great beyond.

  It was round about that stage of the journey that he’d normally be forced to admit that actually, on reflection, Loch Lomond-side couldn’t hold a candle to this. A couple of turns up the hill presented you with a view that almost went on forever, only interrupted by the conical snow-covered peak of Beinn Dorain, and its neighbour, Beinn an Dothaidh.

  That was how his thought process usually went. Not today, though. Today, was different.

  The Gozer had been even more ashen-faced than usual when Logan had turned up at the office. The flat-top that had once helped crown him in both a literal and metaphorical sense was now a distant memory, along with eighty-percent of his hair in general. The boggly eyes were still a thing, though. Thyroid-related, apparently. Logan didn’t like to ask.

  The DSup had sat him down and offered him coffee. That was when the alarm bells had really started to ring. Logan had turned down the offer, keen by this point to crack on and find out what the hell was going on.

  “A boy’s gone missing up north, near Fort William. Connor Reid. Aged seven,” the Gozer had said, rattling off the detail
s as if reading from a list. “Last seen two days ago ten miles north of the town at...”

  He consulted a notebook. “Leanachan Forest.”

  “So?” Logan had asked, then he’d immediately winced at how it sounded. “I mean, aye, I saw something about it in the papers. Out with his old man, wasn’t he?”

  The DSup nodded the affirmative.

  “That’s CID though, surely?” Logan had asked. “What’s it got to do with MIT? Or with me, for that matter?”

  Behind the wheel of his Ford Focus, Logan flexed his fingers, exhaled slowly, then tightened his grip as he replayed what had happened next. He didn’t want to be replaying it. Not again. But it had been on loop inside his head for the past hour and a half, and it didn’t look like he was getting a lot of choice in the matter.

  Time had wound itself into slow motion as the Gozer had produced an A5 print. The thick photo paper had made a definitive click when the DSup placed it on the desk in front of Logan.

  The image was new, yet familiar.

  Achingly, gut-wrenchingly familiar.

  A boy. A chair. A rope.

  Tears carving trenches down filthy cheeks.

  “It arrived this morning.”

  “Jesus. Where? Here?”

  “At the house. That’s a copy the local boys emailed down. We printed it off.”

  “Delivered on a Sunday? Courier?”

  “Couriers don’t run weekends up there,” the Gozer had said.

  “Hand-delivered, then,” Logan reasoned, still studying the picture. “Anyone see anything?”

  “Not that we know of.”

  “How was it delivered? Through the letterbox?”

  “Left on the step.”

  The way the DSup said it had made Logan look up.

  “On its own?”

  The Gozer had shaken his head, just once. “In an envelope. Attached to a soft toy.” He gave that a moment to sink in. “Like before.”

  Recalling the conversation again now made Logan’s pulse quicken and his breath go short. He swung the car out into the right-hand lane and hammered the accelerator, sweeping past an old Clio that had been crawling along at under forty, the driver probably admiring the scenery.

  It flashed its lights at him as he pulled back in. For a second, he considered hitting the blues and pulling the slow bastard over, but while he most definitely had the inclination, he was tight for time. He settled for raising a middle finger to the back windscreen, then continued on down the straight, widening the gap between them.

  Even as he raced ahead, though, his mind went wandering back to Glasgow.

  “A copycat,” he’d said. It hadn’t been a question. Not really. A question implied doubt, of which he’d had none. Not then.

  He’d been surprised when the Gozer had given another shake of his head. “We don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, we don’t know? We do know. Petrie’s in Carstairs. I spoke to him myself this morning, so I reckon we can safely score him off the list of suspects. No’ unless he’s got a jetpack and a time machine.”

  The Gozer hadn’t looked amused.

  “The envelope had the same message on the front. ‘Surprise Inside. Open me.’ Same typewritten text. Same spacing. Same three exclamation marks after both statements.” The DSup puffed out his cheeks. “Same everything.”

  Logan had fallen silent at that. The details of the other envelopes had been kept secret. They’d never been given to the press, or even shared outside those closest to the original investigation.

  “Then it leaked,” he’d said. “Someone leaked it.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  “Probably. I mean, aye. That must be it,” the Gozer had said. He’d sucked in his bottom lip, making his mouth go thin. “The only alternative—”

  “The only alternative is that we got the wrong man. That Petrie didn’t do it. And we know he did.”

  The Gozer had perched on the edge of the desk then. “Do we?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Logan had demanded, momentarily forgetting who he was speaking to. “Aye. We know he did it. We got a solid conviction.”

  The Detective Superintendent sighed wearily, but nodded. “Aye. I suppose so.”

  “It’s a copycat, boss. That’s all. The envelope stuff leaked, and some sick bastard is out there playing at being Petrie.”

  Gozer said nothing at first. He picked up a stapler from the desk and fiddled with it, not making eye contact.

  “And if it isn’t?”

  Logan stood. The face of the boy gazed imploringly up at him from the photograph.

  “Then it’ll be down to God to judge us, Sir.”

  Chapter Six

  Logan found the station after two false starts. It was situated across from a very loud, very active building site, and it was only as Logan pulled up that he spotted the BBC van tucked in behind a digger.

  He muttered something uncomplimentary as he pulled the Focus into one of the many empty parking spaces. Then, he got out, blanked the five-strong pack of journalists who turned to study him as he approached, and pushed on through the station doors.

  The building had been constructed recently, and still had that new smell to it. Logan had been to the old station a few times over the years, and while it had been in need of a lick of paint and a bit of tarting up, he’d have taken it over this one any day.

  It was the remoteness he didn’t like. The old station had been right in the middle of the town. Right in the heart of the action. The new one was out on an industrial estate three miles from Fort William town centre. How were you supposed to keep on top of things way out here?

  It wasn’t just that, though. The old station had felt like a proper nick. It had character and history baked into every one of its unappealing concrete blocks. This place was all plexiglass and curves, better suited to a call centre than a cop shop.

  “You alright there?” asked a woman behind the screened-off front desk. She wasn’t in uniform, but was instead dressed in a navy trouser-suit and frumpy hairstyle that made her look ten years older than she probably was.

  “DCI Jack Logan. Major Investigations Team,” said Logan, producing his ID.

  The woman opened a little hatch in the bottom of the plexiglass screen and motioned for him to slide the warrant card through. Fishing a pair of reading glasses from her pocket, she scrutinized the identification document.

  “What did you say your name was?” she asked for a moment, as if to catch him out.

  “Logan. I’ve been sent up from the Central Belt.”

  “No one told me,” the woman said, still holding onto the card.

  Logan gave her due consideration, then shrugged. “I don’t care.” He pointed to a heavy door off to the right of the desk. “Can you buzz me in?”

  “No one said anything about you coming,” the woman reiterated.

  Logan sighed, ran his hand down his face, then tried to readjust his features into something more friendly.

  “Look… sorry, what’s your name?”

  She peered at him over the top of her angular glasses. Like the rest of her get-up, they looked designed for someone in their sixties. “Moira.”

  “Moira? Moira what?”

  “Corson.”

  “Right. Nice to meet you,” Logan said. He leaned on the edge of the desk, his face close enough to the screen that his breath fogged the plexiglass. “Listen, I’m sorry you weren’t forewarned, but I’ve had a long day, Moira. And I suspect it’s just getting started. So, how about you do us both a favour and buzz me through, eh? Can you do that for me?”

  Moira held his gaze for a few seconds, then very slowly and deliberately placed his warrant card face down on the photocopier. She held his gaze as the machine whirred into life, scanning the document.

  “You’ll have to sign in,” she said, indicating two ledgers on the desk on Logan’s right.

  Wearily, Logan picked up a pen and began to write.

  �
��Not that one.”

  Logan drew her a fierce look, then tutted and signed himself in on the other book.

  By the time he’d finished writing, Moira had slid his ID back through the hatch.

  “Thank you,” he said, slipping it back into the inside pocket of his coat. He pointed to the door. “Now, can—”

  The door buzzed, and Logan hurried to push it open. The buzzing continued a while longer until Moira eventually removed her finger from the button and silence returned.

  “Where did you say you’d come from, again?” she asked him.

  “Glasgow.”

  Moira looked him up and down, taking him all in and not approving of what she saw.

  “Aye,” she said, smiling thinly. “I should’ve guessed.”

  “You found it alright, then?” asked DI Ben Forde, handing Logan half a cup of tea.

  Technically, it was a full cup, but there wasn’t a lot of cup to fill. Logan wasted a couple of seconds trying to fit a finger through the handle, then gave up and wrapped his hand around the cup, instead.

  “Eventually,” he said, taking a sip. He’d given up milk a few weeks back, and the tea tasted thin and disappointing. “The sign at the roundabout said ‘superstore.’”

  “Oh, aye. That’s the sign for the new Tesco,” said Forde.

  He was older than Logan, although Logan had never figured out by how much. He’d been, “No’ a kick in the arse off retirement,” for at least a decade now, but showed no signs of making the leap.

  For the most part, DI Forde was genial and soft-spoken. ‘Gentle Ben’ they called him, although Logan had once had the pleasure of seeing him take down a wee ned who’d been waggling a broken bottle around, and there had been hee-haw gentle about it.

  He was a good few inches shorter than Logan, and lacked the girth that helped make the DCI so imposing. Still, he was a vicious wee bastard when he had to be, and while the arm of this particular lawman might not be all that long, you were in trouble if it got a hold of you.

  Logan took another sip of tea. “New Tesco? Is that what they’re building across the road?”