Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8: Shatter the Bones, Close to the Bone. Stuart MacBride

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      The monster reaches for her with sticky purple fingers.

      She screams.

12

      Logan took another sip of coffee and clicked his mouse on the little red ‘REPLAY’ icon. A moment of darkness. Then the video started playing again. Fourth time in a row. The counter beneath it showed 6,376,451 views since the ransom demand was uploaded eight days ago.

      The quality wasn’t great. Better than a lot of things posted on YouTube, but still jerky and grainy. A low-light image, all the colour leached away by whatever setting they’d used on the camcorder to make it record in the middle of the night – and there it was: the most famous house in the country. Or the back of it, anyway.

      A plain, two-storey, brick box, just like all the other plain, two-storey, brick boxes in the street, with a six-foot tall wooden fence running all the way along the back gardens.

      He shifted the headphones again and turned the volume up full, but there was nothing there. Not even a hiss. Complete silence. At least for this bit …

      ‘03:05:26’ blinked in the bottom left hand corner of the screen.

      The camera swung left then right – checking the little alleyway was empty – and then a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters appeared on the screen. They crunched through the shackle of a massive padlock, then a pale-grey hand reached into shot and pushed the gate open.

      The image shook as the cameraman hurried up the path to the back door.

      Someone stepped in front of the camera – filling the screen with an expanse of grey-white – and then they were inside.

      According to the time-stamp at the bottom of the screen less than two minutes had passed.

      Kitchen: old fashioned units and a fridge freezer covered with newspaper clippings and childish drawings.

      Hallway: floral wallpaper, a couple of generic pictures in cheap-looking frames.

      Stairs: a photo halfway up. Logan couldn’t see what of.

      Landing: three doors leading off.

      He clicked the mouse again, maximizing the window so the video filled the whole screen.

      The camera went straight for the door on the right. It had a little wooden sign on it: ‘JENNY’S ROOM’. Through into a child’s bedroom: stuffed toys piled on a little chest; books on a shelf; a nightlight glowing by the wardrobe. A single bed against the wall.

      A little girl lay beneath the covers. She was flat on her back, eyes closed, face all scrunched up, trembling in the grainy gloom, a teddy bear sitting at her feet.

      The camera moved closer.

      Her eyes snapped open, then bulged. Mouth open, gasping. Staring.

      A grey hand reached into shot. Right hand: the skin completely featureless, just a couple of wrinkles between the thumb and forefinger where the latex glove didn’t quite fit.

      Jenny McGregor screamed, the sound booming in Logan’s earphones. He winced. And then the footage went silent again.

      The gloved hand darted forward, grabbing the duvet and ripping it away.

      She scrambled backwards, her Winnie the Pooh pyjamas all tangled around her torso, little bare feet rucking the sheets as she shoved herself into the corner. Screaming, over and over again. Nothing came through Logan’s headphones, just the faint buzz of silence turned up too loud.

      The hand snatched a handful of pyjama top and—

      Fingers wrapped around Logan’s shoulder.

      He flinched so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. Yanked off his headphones. Turned round and glared at DS Biohazard Bob Marshall. ‘Very bloody funny!’

      Bob danced back a couple of steps, both hands up, a grin on his face. ‘Just asking if you wanted a coffee.’

      ‘How long were you standing there?’

      ‘From about the time they were going up the stairs. Good job you had the old headphones on, or you’d’ve heard me giggling.’ Bob threw himself into his swivel chair, hard enough to make the wheels come off the ground on the rebound. ‘Your face was classic.’

      Logan stared at him. ‘A wee girl’s dead, Bob.’

      Silence. Bob sighed. ‘She was grabbed a week ago: you and I both know she’s been dead for days. Lucky if she lived through the first night … Aye, well, maybe lucky’s not the right word.’ He twirled around, then pulled a newspaper from the pile on his desk and chucked it over. ‘Front page.’

      On Logan’s screen another figure in a white SOC-style over-suit – the kind sold in DLY stores everywhere – was hauling a struggling Alison McGregor down the stairs: duct tape over her mouth, hands bound behind her back, legs bound at the ankle, curly blonde hair whipping from side to side as she tried to head-butt her abductor.

      He hit pause, then picked up the newspaper. It was a copy of the Edinburgh Evening Post, the headline, ‘HOOK LINE AND STINKER – POLICE FALL FOR “JENNY’S DEAD” HOAX’.

      ‘God’s sake …’

      ‘Gets better. Check out the third paragraph.’

      Logan skimmed the first two, swore, then read it out loud. ‘“It’s obvious to anyone with half a brain – brackets – which clearly excludes most of Grampian Police – close brackets – that Blue-Fish-Two-Fish Productions are up to their old tricks again. This is the company that handed out used tampons at T in the Park last year, the company that projected a naked photograph of Benjamin Kerhill on Big Ben, the company that proudly tattooed a live pig in Trafalgar Square” …’

      ‘Keep going.’

      ‘“The police need to understand that all they’re doing here is helping an unscrupulous company whip up interest in the McGregors’ upcoming album. What’s next: the HMS Ark Royal, sponsored by Lamb’s Navy Rum? The fire brigade, brought to you by Gaviscon?” …’ Logan crumpled the paper up and rammed it into the bin beside his desk. Then hauled it out again. ‘Who wrote this?’

      ‘You stopped before you got to the rant about “throwing away tax payers’ money” and “institutional gullibility”.’

      ‘Michael Bloody Larson.’ Logan stuck the thing back in the bin again.

      ‘Ask me, the bastard needs a stiff kicking.’ Bob stretched out his legs, crossed his ankles, then stuck his hands behind his head. ‘Still, at least you’re getting some media interest. I’ve been trying for days to get them to print something about my case. “Sex-god sergeant leads hunt for missing alky.” or, “Handsome Bob Marshall, twenty-four, in race to find Stinky Tarn the Holburn Street tramp.”’

      ‘Twenty-four?’

      ‘Shut up. Poor old Tarn’s been gone two weeks now and no bugger’s got any idea if he’s sodded off for СКАЧАТЬ