Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8: Shatter the Bones, Close to the Bone. Stuart MacBride
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the glass again.
‘There,’ Rennie poked a finger at a little car park off to the right of the road. Charlie Delta Seven, AKA: Logan’s crappy blue Vauxhall, sat in the far corner, under a drooping branch.
No other car to be seen.
Rennie smiled. ‘This where you left it?’
‘You’re an idiot, you know that, don’t you?’ Logan undid his seatbelt. ‘Block it in, then we’ll go take a look.’
The constable licked his lip. Looked from Logan to the abandoned pool car. ‘You want to tell me what’s going on? Just in case?’
‘Shuggie Webster; dirty big dog. If you see him, arrest the bastard. Try not to get bitten.’
‘OK …’ Rennie eased his car up the dirt track and parked directly across the back of Charlie Delta Seven.
Logan opened the door and climbed out into the rain. It misted on his face, making his breath steam out around his head. Got to love summer in Aberdeen.
He pulled out his pepper spray and inched his way around to Charlie Delta Seven’s driver’s door. Peered in through the window.
Empty.
‘Think he’s done a runner?’ Rennie appeared on the other side. ‘Might have nipped into the woods for a slash?’
‘If he hasn’t taken a dump in the driver’s seat …’ Logan hunkered down and peered up at the space behind the door handle. Then took a pen from his pocket and clacked it about in there.
A faint shadow fell across him. Then Rennie sniffed. ‘No offence, Sarge, but you look like a spaz.’
‘When I joined CID there was a DI: right bastard, always storming about shouting at everyone. Had to deliver a death message to this drug dealer’s family – their son managed to choke on his own vomit in custody.’ Logan stood. ‘So while DI Cole’s inside breaking the bad news, their other kid nips outside and jams a wodge of chewing gum right up under the door handle where you can’t see it.’
The constable shrugged. ‘Could be worse, dog shite would—’
Then he stuck a dirty razorblade in the chewing gum. DI Cole swapped the tips of two fingers for a dose of Hepatitis C.’ Logan clunked the car door open. ‘Never hurts to check.’
Inside, Charlie Delta Seven looked every bit as crappy as it had when Shuggie nicked it. Only now it stank of wet dog.
‘So, you think he’s still about somewhere?’ Rennie clacked open his extendible baton. ‘SHUGGIE! SHUGGIE WEBSTER: COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!’
Logan stood. Laid a hand on the bonnet. It was cold. ‘Car’s been here at least an hour.’ He turned around, looking out at the damp brown earth of the car park. ‘Must have had a back-up vehicle here … Or maybe someone was off having a walk in the woods, and he nicked theirs instead. Or he was meeting someone …’
Rennie collapsed his truncheon again. ‘Want me to call it in?’
‘What, and let everyone know Shuggie Webster stole my pool car? No thanks. What Professional Standards don’t know, won’t hurt them.’ Logan stepped out from under the canopy of green needles. The rain was getting heavier again, pitter-pattering against the undergrowth. ‘Can you smell something?’
‘What if Shuggie’s knocked down some old dear, or something?’
He held a finger to his lips. ‘Shh …’ The car park was surrounded with dense green ferns, their long fractal fronds waving in the thickening rain. Someone had forced a path into them, at thirty degrees to the official trail that led off into the woods.
Logan picked his way around a puddle. Dark stains turned the mud black around the trampled ferns. He stepped to the side, making sure he wasn’t treading on anything that looked important as he crept closer.
‘Sarge?’
He waved Rennie back. ‘Give us a second.’
Standing on his tiptoes, he could just see into a little flattened clearing at the end of the path. It couldn’t have been much more than five-foot across, the undergrowth trampled, ferns and grass stained a shiny black.
Something lay off to one side: a dark mound, torn open, chunks of red, purple and white poking out. A curl of grey tubes, glistening on the darkened grass.
‘What?’ Rennie appeared at his shoulder. ‘What have you … Fuck me. Is that a dog?’
It was. A huge Rottweiler, by the look of what was left of its head.
Someone had hacked Shuggie Webster’s dog to death.
The Wildlife Crime Officer sat back on his haunches and shook his head. ‘What a bastard …’ A slow, steady rain beat a tattoo on the hood of his white SOC suit; a pair of purple gloves on his hands, blue plastic over-booties on his feet. ‘Who’d do this to a wee dog?’
The bright glare of a camera flash froze raindrops in mid-air. An IB technician shifted around for another shot. Logan nodded at the remains. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think someone needs taking out and shot, that’s what I think. Beautiful dog like that.’ The WCO reached out and stroked the dark fur on the back of the massive animal. ‘Lot of people think Rottweilers are these horrible aggressive dogs, but they’re big softies really …’
Yeah.
That’s exactly what Uzi was when he was trying to rip Logan’s throat out. ‘I meant: any idea what killed it?’
A long sigh, making the white paper oversuit rustle. ‘Well, I’m no pathologist, but looking at the size of the cuts … most of them to the dog’s back and shoulders …’ Another sigh. ‘A sword? There’s a lot of wee toerags buying those samurai swords off the internet these days. Or maybe a huge knife? Proper Rambo job. It’d have to be at least, what?’ He looked over at the IB technician he’d brought with him. ‘Eighteen inches long?’
The IB tech lowered his massive digital camera. ‘Give or take.’
About the same size as a machete.
Which explained where Shuggie Webster had gone, and why he’d left the CID pool car behind. Sodding hell. Now Logan had to call it in.
‘What about prints, fibres, that kind of thing?’
The IB tech slung the camera strap over his shoulder. ‘You want the full CSI treatment?’
Logan looked back at the hacked-up Rottweiler. There was no way Shuggie Webster would’ve gone quietly, not after someone did that to his dog. Chances were his mutilated corpse would be turning up soon enough. Any trace evidence they could find would help. As if today needed to get any shittier. ‘As much as you can give me, without Finnie throwing a wobbly about the cost.’
‘You’ll be lucky – all this rain, outdoors, public place … Can’t promise anything.’ He patted the WCO on the shoulder. ‘It’s OK, Dunc, you can take him away if you like. I’m done.’
They left him stuffing chunks of butchered Rottweiler into a white child-sized body-bag.
The IB tech dumped his sample kit next to a couple of Tesco carrier bags, lying flattened on the muddy ground, weighed down with stones. He removed one of the rocks, and peeled back the plastic. There was a perfectly rectangular puddle of plaster-of-Paris underneath. Pure white in the middle, greying at the edges. He poked it with a finger. Sighed. Then wiped the digit on his oversuit. ‘Still not convinced we’re going to get anything …’
‘What about fingerprints?’
‘I mean, the footwear marks weren’t exactly in the best of shape to start with, were they? Doesn’t help it’s pishing with rain.’
‘You could dust the car while you’re waiting for it to set? Maybe they touched the paintwork?’