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

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      ‘It—’

      ‘We just got the DNA results back on the toe you brought in.’

      There was a long pause.

      ‘Doc?’

      ‘BBC One.’

      Logan stuck the phone against his chest. ‘Who’s got the remote?’

      Shrugs. Then Rennie stuck up a hand. ‘Found it.’

      ‘BBC One.’

      The flatscreen TV mounted on the far war bloomed into life. Some sort of kids’ programme. A click. And the picture switched to the media briefing room – DCI Finnie, DCS Bain, that prick Green from SOCA, and the Media Liaison Officer – all sitting behind a desk topped with microphones.

      The news ticker along the bottom of the screen read, ‘BREAKING NEWS: TESTS SHOW SEVERED TOE DOES NOT BELONG To JENNY MCGREGOR.’

      Steel scrambled up from her seat, interview reports going everywhere. ‘Shite …’

      ‘Why did I let you talk me into it?’ Doc Fraser made rummaging noises. ‘Must’ve been mad.’

      On the screen DCS Bain gritted his teeth. ‘I’m not saying that, I’m saying DNA evidence has confirmed the toe belongs to an unknown individual.’

      ‘What the hell happened?’

      ‘I told Sheila to run the usual tests -she sent samples off to the lab for toxicology, and DNA. It’s standard practice.’

      A weedy-looking reporter with frizzy brown hair stuck up her hand. ‘Chief Superintendent? Why did Grampian Police claim the toe was Jenny’s yesterday?’

      Doc Fraser: ‘We didn’t get the sodding DNA back till today. Whoever sent the blood on the note off for testing didn’t bother sending a tissue sample to go with it.’ A long sigh sounded in Logan’s ear. ‘The blood was Jenny’s, but the toe isn’t.’

      ‘Oh, buggering hell.’

      Rennie waved the remote at the screen. ‘But this is good, isn’t it? Means Jenny’s not dead – she’s still alive.’

      ‘Chief Superintendent, will the memorial service for Jenny still go ahead?’

      ‘I really can’t comment on that.’

      Doc Fraser sniffed. ‘Logan: your boss is storming about like a shortarsed Godzilla, and if he calls me an idiot once more, I’m not going to be responsible for my actions, understand?’

      ‘I know Finnie can be a bit—’

      ‘I retired to get away from crap like this!’ The pathologist hung up.

      ‘Now I really can’t answer any further questions—’

      ‘Michael Larson: Edinburgh Evening Post. Are you now prepared to admit that this has all been a hoax perpetrated by the production company behind Britain’s Next Big Star?’

      ‘—briefing to an end.’

      ‘Answer the question, Chief Superintendent!’

      The three people on the stage got up and marched off, led by a trembling Finnie.

      ‘Chief Superintendent!’

      ‘Wow …’ Rennie rubbed at the back of his neck, a faint bloom of skin-flakes glowing in the sunshine. ‘Finnie looks really pissed.’

      Logan watched the door at the back of the briefing room swing shut, then the journalists and TV cameras jostled into position to do their pieces to camera. A doughy-faced man with a comb-over appeared on screen, clutching a microphone. ‘So there you have it. Grampian Police admit that the severed toe, found earlier this week, doesn’t belong—’

      The screen went black.

      DI Steel dropped the remote control onto the table. ‘Right, you bunch of jessies. Back to work. This changes sod all -we’ve still got a little girl’s killer to find.’

      The two-person teams bustled out of the meeting room, all of them talking about Jenny McGregor’s return from the dead.

      ‘No’ you, Laz.’

      Logan froze on the threshold.

      ‘Rennie!’

      The constable stuck his head back into the room. ‘You rang?’

      ‘Get Laz’s share of paedos and rapists divvied up between the other teams, we’re going to pay our respects.’

18

      ‘No, it’s definitely getting colder.’ Rennie shifted from foot to foot, tilted his head back and let out a long, huffing breath. A faint plume of white drifted up from his mouth. ‘See! Told you.’

      ‘Aye, very clever.’ Steel screwed up her face, peering into the line of dignitaries in through the front doors of the Kirk of St Nicholas, mobile phone clamped to her ear. ‘No’ you, sir … Aye … I think so too …’

      A sea of faces filled the graveyard – everyone, packed in shoulder-to-shoulder all the way from the church to the ornate columned frontage that separated the grounds from Union Street. A row of orange traffic cones and ‘POLICE’ tape kept the crowd off the wide path to the church. There had to be at least a thousand people in here, probably more. Camera crews and photographers clumped together into little islands, training their lenses on the shuffling masses.

      Rennie popped up onto his tiptoes. ‘See anyone famous yet?’

      Logan ignored him. Almost everyone was wearing black, some clutching garish teddy bears, others floral tributes with the price stickers still on from Asda, Tesco, or the nearest petrol station.

      Think they didn’t have time to go home and change?’ Rennie nodded, agreeing with himself. ‘Bet half of them are really disappointed Jenny’s not dead any more. Can’t mourn a wee girl if she’s still alive.’

      ‘Cynical bugger.’ Steel held her phone against her chest. ‘Ooh, is that no’ thingie off the telly? What is it, Eastenders?’

      ‘Where?’ Rennie bounced up and down. ‘God, it is! Wow. How cool is that? Look, he’s got Melanie from Corrie with him! MELANIE! MELANIE, YOU’RE BRILLIANT!’

      ‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Logan slapped him on the arm. ‘Will you grow up? Supposed to be a police officer.’

      Rennie grinned. ‘Think we’ll get to meet them after the service?’

      Steel stuck a finger in her ear, back on the phone again. ‘Aye, sorry sir, bit noisy here – got the telly on for the memorial СКАЧАТЬ