22 Dead Little Bodies and Other Stories. Stuart MacBride

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      The spare room was kitted out as a study. Shelves covered one wall, stuffed with programming manuals and reference books. Fancy desk, big full-colour laser printer, ergonomic chair. Framed qualification certificates above a beige filing cabinet.

      Two big speakers rested against the adjoining wall, with their backs to the room and their fronts against the plasterboard. Both were wired into an amplifier with an iPod plugged into the top. The perfect setup for blasting rap music through the bricks at your neighbours in the dead of night.

      So Justin Robson wasn’t exactly the put-upon innocent he pretended to be.

      A quick check of the linen cupboard – just to be thorough – then through to the bathroom for a rummage in the medicine cabinet. Nothing out of the ordinary. Well, except for two packs of antidepressants, but they had chemist’s stickers on the outside with dosage instructions, Robson’s name, and the prescribing doctor’s details. All aboveboard.

      Might as well play out the charade properly.

      Logan flushed the toilet, unused, and washed his hands. Headed back downstairs.

      ‘Well, thank you for your time, Mr Robson. In case you’re wondering: we’ll be keeping an eye on Mrs Black’s tree from now on. I’d appreciate it if you’d help us make sure there are no more decorations on there.’

      Next door, Wheezy Doug leaned on the doorbell. ‘What do you think? Is Robson our Phantom Pooper Scooper? The Defecation Decorator. The …’ A frown. ‘Christmas Tree Crapper?’

      ‘Hmmm …’ Logan turned towards the thick barrier of leylandii hedge – tall enough and thick enough to completely blot out all view of Justin Robson’s house. ‘He’s a neat freak – the whole place is like a show home. Is someone that anal going to collect other people’s dog shit to spite their neighbour? Don’t know.’ Stranger things had happened. And then there were those two heavy-duty speakers up against the wall in the study … ‘Possibly.’

      Mrs Black’s garden wasn’t nearly as tidy as her neighbour’s. Dandelions and clover encroached on the lawn. More weeds in the borders. The cherry tree with its droopy blue plastic decorations.

      Even if you removed every single one of them, would you really want to eat the fruit that had grown between those dangling bags?

      Wheezy Doug sniffed, then stifled a cough. ‘Can’t really blame him though, can you? Living next to the Wicked Twit of the West would drive anyone barmy.’ Another go on the bell. ‘Maybe she’s not in?’

      ‘One more try, and we’re off.’ Superintendent Young could moan all he liked, they’d done their bit. Wasn’t their fault Mrs Black was out.

      The drrrrrrrringgggg sounded again as Wheezy ground his thumb against the button.

      Then, finally, a silhouette appeared in the rippled glass panels that took up the top half of the door. A thin wobbly voice: ‘Who is it?’

      Logan poked Wheezy. ‘You filming this?’

      A quick fiddle with the BWV. ‘Am now.’

      ‘Good.’ Logan leaned in close to the glass. ‘Mrs Black? It’s the police. Can you open up, please?’

      She didn’t move.

      ‘Mrs Black?’

      ‘It’s not convenient.’

      ‘We need to talk to you about a complaint.’

      A breeze stirred the blue plastic poo bags, making them swing like filthy pendulums.

      ‘Mrs Black?’

      There was a click and the door pulled open a couple of inches.

      She peered out at them, her short grey hair flat on one side, crusts of yellow clinging to the corners of her baggy eyes. A flash of tartan pyjamas. ‘Have you arrested him yet?’

      ‘Mrs Black, have you been putting these up around town?’ Logan reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded flyer. Held it up so she could see it.

      She stiffened. Her nose came up, and all trace of tremor in her voice was gone. ‘The people here have a right to know.’

      ‘If you have proof that Mr Robson is dealing drugs, why didn’t you call us?’

      ‘He’s a vile, revolting individual. He should be … should be castrated and locked up where he can’t hurt anyone any more.’

      Logan put the flyer back in his pocket. Closed his eyes and counted to three. ‘Mrs Black, you can’t go making accusations like that without proof: it’s libellous. And Mr Robson’s made a formal complaint.’

      Her face hardened. ‘I should have known …’

      ‘Mrs Black, can we come in please?’

      ‘I’ve been complaining about him for years and did you do anything about it?’ She bared her teeth. ‘But as soon as he says anything, you’re over here with your jackboots and your threats!’

      Don’t sigh.

      ‘No one’s threatening you, Mrs Black. Do you have any proof that Mr Robson is dealing drugs?’

      Her finger jabbed over Logan’s shoulder. ‘HE PUT DOG MESS IN MY TREE!’

      ‘Do you have any proof? If you have proof we’ll look at it and—’

      ‘HE DESERVES TO DIE FOR WHAT HE’S PUT ME THROUGH!’

      Wheezy Doug stepped forward, palms out. ‘Mrs Black, I need you to calm down, OK?’

      ‘HE’S SCUM!’ Her voice dropped to a hissing whisper. ‘Sitting in there with his drugs and his pornography and his filthy rap music. I demand you arrest him.’

      The sound of whirring lawn mowers. A child somewhere singing about popping caps in some gangbanger’s ass. A motorbike purring past on the road. All as Mrs Black stood there, trembling in her pyjamas, lips flecked with spittle.

      Logan kept his voice low and neutral. ‘I need you to stop putting up these posters. And if you have any evidence that Mr Robson is dealing drugs, I want you to call me.’ He pulled out a Police Scotland business card with the station number on it. Held it out.

      She stared at the card in his hand. Curled her lip. Spat at her feet. ‘You’re all as corrupt as each other.’

      Then stepped back and slammed the door.

      Not the result they’d hoped for, but no one could say they hadn’t tried.

      ‘So …’ Wheezy Doug dragged the toe of his shoe along the path. ‘Pub?’

      Logan popped the business card through the letterbox. ‘Pub.’

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