A Litter of Bones Page 5

  A footprint. That was it. A footprint, and maybe the sound of a motorbike. Not a lot to go on. Hopefully, the teddy bear and photograph would give them something useful. Otherwise, they were in trouble.

  Two days. That was how long Lewis Briggs and Matthew Dennison had been kept alive after their parents had received similar packages. Forty-eight hours. That was it.

  And the clock was already ticking.

  BAAAAAAA.

  Logan blinked and looked around. A long black face with bulging, mournful-looking eyes glared back at him from twenty feet away.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” he muttered.

  Clicking his fingers, Logan beckoned to one of the uniformed officers standing nearby.

  “You. What the hell is this?”

  The PC pushed back his cap a little. “It’s a sheep, sir.”

  “No, I know it’s a fu—” Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can see it’s a sheep. I know what a sheep is. What’s it doing on my crime scene?”

  The constable regarded the sheep. “Just standing there, sir.”

  “Jesus Christ. How did you get into the polis, son? Was there a raffle?” Logan snapped. He gestured angrily with a thumb. “Get rid of it.”

  For a moment, the uniformed officer just stood staring, his head tick-tocking between the DCI and the offending animal. Then, with a determined nod, he squatted down beside the sheep and tried to wrap his arms around it. It shrugged him off, baaa’d in protest, then scuttled a few feet along the path.

  “Go on. Shoo. Piss off,” ordered a female uniformed officer, clapping her hands and stamping her feet. The sheep shot her a dirty look, then obligingly pissed off, picking its way through the scrub and tree stumps, headed for the rest of the flock standing gathered in the distance.

  “Thank you,” Logan said. “Good to see someone’s got some sense around here.” He glared at the male constable. “I mean, picking it up. Jesus.”

  “Happy to help, sir,” said the female officer.

  She was young—early twenties, barely out of the cellophane—but carried herself like someone with ten years more experience. Aye, she was bluffing it, Logan could tell, but then weren’t they all on some level?

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sinead.” She shook her head, admonishing herself. “PC Bell, sir.”

  “You down from Inverness?”

  “No, sir. Local.”

  Logan drained the final dregs of his coffee. “Know the family?”

  Sinead nodded. “My brother’s in school with Connor. Year above, but it’s not a big school so they all hang out.”

  “You’ve met his mum and dad?”

  “A few times, aye. Don’t know them well, but know them to see.”

  “Good. I’m heading over to speak to them. You can come with me.”

  “I can’t, sir.”

  Logan’s brow furrowed. “What? How not?”

  “I’m finishing in twenty minutes.”

  Logan felt himself bristle. His face must’ve shown it.

  “I’d stay on if I could, but it’s my brother, sir. He’s at the babysitter, and I need to pick him up.”

  “Well, can’t one of your parents do it?”

  Something flashed across Sinead’s face—there one minute, gone the next.

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re not available, sir,” the PC explained. “But… I could maybe ask the babysitter to hang onto him for a couple of hours.”

  “Right. Good. Do that, then. I’d appreciate it.”

  Sinead fished her phone from inside a vest pocket and turned away to make the call.

  Logan clicked his fingers and pointed to the male officer again. “You. Captain Obvious. Think you can manage to keep the wildlife off the scene?”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “Good man,” said Logan. He started to head for the car, then stopped a couple of paces in. “Oh, and try to resist molesting anything next time, if you can. It doesn’t reflect well on any of us.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Reids lived in a mid-terrace house with a front garden that was roughly the size of a postage stamp, but immaculately cared for. A multi-coloured monoblock path led up to a rustic-looking front door that was completely out of character with the house, and different to the other three doors in the block.

  The number eighteen was embossed on the frame above the door, but an ornate wooden sign announced the house name as ‘The Willows’. It was, from what Logan could see, the only house with a name on the block, and probably in the whole of the estate.

  The street leading up to the house was dense with polis and news vans. A couple of uniforms out front were keeping the scrum of journalists from getting too close. One of them shifted a traffic cone as the Focus arrived, making room for the car directly in front of the house.

  The excitement levels of the journo crowd picked up. Microphones were produced. Cameras were trained. Throats were cleared.

  “You ready for this?” Logan asked.

  In the passenger seat, PC Sinead Bell nodded. “Ready.”

  “OK. Keep your mouth shut. Don’t swear. Try not to punch anyone.”

  Sinead gave a thin smile. “Will do.”

  “Hmm? Oh, no. I wasn’t talking to you. That was for me,” Logan said, then he opened the car door and stepped out into the rabble of press. The questions came thick and fast.

  “Any update?”

  “What are you doing to find Connor?”

  “What do you think happened?”

  Logan ignored them, letting the uniforms keep them at bay. He opened the garden gate and indicated for Sinead to go ahead of him. He was about to close it behind him when a familiar voice rang out over the general hubbub.

  “Is it happening again, DCI Logan?”

  Logan stopped momentarily. His eyes met a silver-haired journalist with all the plastic insincerity of a used-car salesman. He held an iPhone in one hand, extended like a microphone. One eyebrow was raised, and there was the beginning of a smirk tugging at one side of the man’s mouth.

  Ken Henderson, freelance journalist and thoroughly horrible bastard. Granted, those two things usually went hand-in-hand, but Henderson seemed to take it to another level. Annoyingly, he was also a good reporter with an eye for a story and a brass neck that could deflect bullets. He’d covered a lot of the ‘Mister Whisper’ stuff back in the day, and had asked a lot of difficult questions about the accident that had left Petrie in his current condition.

  Logan groaned inwardly at the sight of him but did his best not to let it show on the outside.

  Is it happening again? Why the hell was he asking that? What did he know?

  He looked across the faces of the gathered press. There were only nine of them for now, but that would only be the beginning.

  “The only thing happening again is you lot getting on my tits,” Logan told them. “I’ll answer one question, and one question only.”

  The mob erupted, firing questions at him. He ignored them, and pointed to a young, hapless-looking lad who practically screamed local press.

  “You.”

  The young lad’s eyes widened in shock. “What, me?”

  “Aye. And that was your question. Threw that opportunity away, didn’t you?” Logan said. He briefly met Henderson’s eye, then shot the rest of the group a contemptuous glare. “Now, how about you all try pretending to be human beings for once and give the family some peace, eh?”

  With that off his chest, and feeling marginally better about the world, Logan clacked the gate firmly closed, and stalked up to the front door with Sinead hurrying along in his wake.

  After the handshakes and the introductions, Logan sat on a big, solid-looking brute of a couch that immediately tried to swallow him into its cushions. He perched himself near the front, sitting upright, and smiled gratefully as Catriona Reid handed him a cup and saucer.

  Connor’s mother was awkwardly tall, with a sh
ort, feathered haircut that gave her a vaguely elf-like appearance. Her eyes were like dartboard bullseyes—red in the middle, a ring of black running around them. She had tried to disguise her grief with make-up, but it hadn’t held up well.

  Given the circumstances, Logan wasn’t going to hold it against her.

  She was doubtlessly exhausted, but her movements were alive with nervous energy, her face twitching, her fingers knotting together, her gaze darting to the window at every sign of movement.

  “Thank you,” Logan told her.

  Catriona’s eyes blurred with tears, like this simple expression of gratitude was the thing that might finally break her. She sniffed and pulled herself together, though, and turned to PC Bell who stood off to the side of the couch.

  “You sure I can’t get you anything, Sinead? Tea? Coffee?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Sinead replied, smiling kindly.

  “Juice? There’s apple juice.” Catriona’s lips went thin. Her throat tightened, the thought of the unused carton of apple juice in the fridge almost cutting through her defenses again.

  “Honestly, I’m fine. Thanks, Catriona,” Sinead assured her. “You should take a seat.”

  “How can I take a seat?” Catriona snapped. The venom in her voice caught her by surprise and her eyes went wide. “I’m sorry.”

  Sinead shook her head. “Don’t be.”

  Catriona bent, brushed some fluff off the arm of a big round armchair, then perched on it next to her husband. If Catriona Reid was a bundle of anxious energy, Duncan was the polar opposite.

  He sat slouched in the armchair, one elbow leaning against the armrest, his hand jammed against the side of his head like his skull was too heavy to stay up without support. There was something haunted about his expression. A step removed from the world, or a step behind it, maybe. Logan had seen similar looks before. Too many times before.

  His clothes looked slept in. Or, more likely, not-slept in. They were a stark contrast to the figure-hugging jeans and neatly-pressed purple shirt his wife wore.

  “That’s a good cup of tea,” the DCI said, setting the cup back in the saucer. He looked around for somewhere to sit it, then settled on the polished wooden floor at his feet. “Now, I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to ask you both a few more questions.”

  Catriona was quick with an, “Of course,” but Duncan gave a vague wave of a hand, as if half-heartedly batting away a fly.

  “We’ve already gone over it. There’s nothing more to say. Why aren’t you out there finding him? Why haven’t you found Connor?”

  “Rest assured, Mr Reid, we’re working on it,” Logan replied. “I promise you, we’re doing everything we can to get Connor home safely, and as quickly as possible.”

  Duncan’s hand dropped into his lap. He exhaled. “Sorry. Aye. I know. I know you are. It’s just…” He sighed again.

  “It’s frustrating having to go over it all again. I understand it’s a difficult thing to have to relive,” Logan told him. “But we all want Connor home, and you can help make that happen.”

  Duncan nodded, and drew himself upright in the chair. His wife’s hand slipped into his and he squeezed it.

  “You’re right. You’re absolutely right, detective…”

  “Jack. Please.”

  “Jack.” Duncan took another steadying breath. “Go for it. What do you want to know?”

  Logan caught Sinead’s eye, then pointed to the couch beside him. She hurried over and sat down, producing her notebook without having to be prompted.

  Promising, Logan thought.

  “The package that arrived last night. The teddy bear,” he began, eyes flitting between husband and wife. “Who found it?”

  “It was the policewoman,” said Catriona. “The… what do you call it?”

  “Liaison?”

  “Yes. Her. Jess, was it?”

  Logan shot Sinead a look. She nodded to confirm. “Jess French.”

  “There were a few things left on the step. Flowers, mostly. Someone left chocolates,” Duncan continued.

  “Roses,” Catriona added.

  Sinead paused, mid-scribble. “Which?”

  The other three occupants of the room looked at her, and she wilted slightly. “You said ‘roses.’ Did you mean the flowers or the chocolates?” She deliberately avoided meeting the DCI’s gaze. “Because it… it can be both.”

  “The chocolates,” said Catriona.

  “Does that matter?” asked Duncan.

  “Well, I mean…” Sinead began, then she finally relented and caught the look from Logan. She quietly cleared her throat. “Sorry, no. Go on.”

  “You sure?” Logan asked.

  Sinead blushed and nodded, fixing her gaze firmly on her pad as she jotted down the now-clarified information. Logan offered a smile by way of apology to the Reids.

  “So, the liaison officer arrived in the morning, picked up everything on the step and then brought it in?”

  “Right,” Duncan confirmed.

  “She’s lovely,” Catriona added. “She’s been very kind.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” said Logan. “And, when did you notice the teddy?”

  Duncan and Catriona exchanged glances. “Must’ve been… what? Just after seven?” Duncan ventured.

  “About quarter past,” Catriona clarified. “The Yoga alarm had just gone off.”

  Sinead looked up from her pad, began to open her mouth, then thought better of it. Luckily, Logan asked the question for her.

  “Yoga alarm?”

  “I do Yoga every morning,” Catriona explained. “Seven-fifteen.”

  “She sets an alarm,” said Duncan.

  “I set an alarm,” his wife confirmed. “Keeps me from forgetting.”

  Logan set out the timeline in his head. “So, Yoga alarm, liaison turns up, find the teddy. That right?”

  “No. The liaison turned up around seven,” Catriona corrected. “We were looking through everything that had been left—well, I was. Duncan wasn’t really in the mood, but I think if people are going to go out of their way to show support, it’s the least we can do to look at it.”

  She shot her husband a sideways look. Clearly, this had been a bone of contention between them.

  “The cards looked nice up on the mantlepiece,” Catriona continued. Her eyes went to the bare mantle and she deflated a little. “Of course, the other policemen took them away.”

  “We’ll try to get them back to you as soon as we can, Mrs Reid,” Logan told her. “Now, you were saying about the alarm?”

  “Right. Yes. The alarm rang, I turned it off, and it was around then that I spotted the teddy.”

  She gave a little shudder and seemed to shrink into herself. Duncan gave another squeeze of her hand, but if she noticed, she didn’t let on.

  “There was something about it. Something… I don’t know. Do you believe in energy?”

  Logan tried to keep his face relatively impassive. “Energy?”

  “Spiritual energy. Positive, negative. Energy,” Catriona continued. “I just got a bad feeling from it, that was all. A bad vibe. It was dirty. Like it had been in a puddle,” Catriona continued. Her eyes were glassy, as if she could see the soft toy in the air in front of her.

  “Was it one of Connor’s?” Logan asked.

  Catriona and Duncan both looked surprised by the question.

  “I don’t know,” Duncan admitted. “Maybe. He has one similar, I think. I mean, not all manky, but… Maybe.”

  “If you could try to find out for us, that would be useful,” Logan said, then he turned his attention back to Catriona. “So, sorry. You got a bad feeling from the teddy bear. And then…?”

  “And then we saw the envelope.”

  Her voice went higher, her throat tightening. The sentence ended in a breathless sob, and Duncan gave her another hand-squeeze before taking over.

  “We thought it was another card,” he said, his own voice not much better. “And then… And then…”
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  He looked away. His jaw tensed, the effort of holding everything back making him shake. “We opened it.”

  “Who did?” Logan enquired, as gently as possible.

  Duncan gestured wordlessly to his wife. If she’d looked upset when recalling the soft toy, the thought of the image in the envelope was positively haunting her. Her face seemed to grow thinner before Logan’s eyes, the features drawing together as if finding comfort and safety in numbers.

  “I didn’t realise what it was. Not at first,” Catriona said. She was whispering, but not through choice. It was as if her throat had constricted to the point that only the faintest suggestion of words could escape. “It was just… It was just…”

  She pressed the fingers of her right hand against her skull, as if trying to push down something bubbling up inside it. “It was just a shape. That was all. I wouldn’t… I couldn’t…”

  The tears came then, big silent sobs that contorted her face into something ugly and raw. If she was hiding something, she was bloody good. Whatever else might have happened, the grief was real.

  Not that Logan had any reason to suspect her of being involved. Neither of them. Not officially, anyway. And yet, he couldn’t help himself. It was right that the courts worked on the ‘innocent until proven guilty’ principle, but Logan tended to approach investigations from the opposite end.

  Still, if Catriona Reid was involved in the abduction of her son, two decades of polis instincts had let him down.

  He gave the couple a moment to console each other, then offered an apologetic smile. “I know it’s difficult. You’re doing really well. Maybe we can go back to Friday?”

  Catriona nodded hastily, relieved to be able to switch out this recent nightmare for one that was less vivid and fresh.

  “Mr Reid, you were with Connor?”

  “Aye. We went for a walk after school,” Duncan confirmed. “With the dog.”

  Logan glanced around the room.

  “Meg. She’s out back,” Duncan explained. “She goes mental at new people.”

  “She doesn’t bite. She’s not like that,” Catriona quickly added. “Just barks.”