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

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СКАЧАТЬ Logan stared at the wall of people surrounding Michael Larson. They stared at the ground, or the big display screens. Shuffled their feet. Not one of them looking at him or the battered reporter.

      A clatter of heavy boots on paving stones and a uniformed officer appeared at Logan’s shoulder. ‘Jesus, he all right?’

      ‘Don’t just stand there – call a bloody ambulance.’

      ‘Oh my GOD!’ An oversized woman in a black miniskirt, clutched her chest. ‘Is that Ewan McGregor? EWAN! WE LOVE YOU!’ Jumping up and down like an ecstatic Labrador, while a man lay bleeding at her Doc-Martined feet.

      By the time Larson was wheeled away on a stretcher the service was well underway.

      The organizers had set up four huge screens in the St Nicholas Kirkyard, each one showing the action inside: a nondescript man in full Church of Scotland regalia, going on about peace and understanding, when all anyone outside seemed interested in was ogling the celebrity guests.

      Logan elbowed his way through the crowds, back to the monument where he’d left DI Steel. She was leaning against the lichened granite, smoking her fake cigarette.

      ‘Aye, aye, save the day did you?’

      Logan looked back over his shoulder. ‘Paramedics say he’ll probably be OK: concussion, fractured jaw, broken ribs. Maybe a dislocated shoulder.’

      ‘Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.’ She blew a little puff of vapour towards the heavens where grey clouds were spreading across the sky, like ink dropped on wet paper.

      ‘Where’s Rennie?’

      She waved a hand in the general direction of the church. ‘Off worshipping at the altar of whatsherface from Girls Aloud.’

      ‘Skiving little—’

      ‘Oh, lighten up.’ She turned to face the nearest screen, where the minister was giving up the stage. ‘How often you get this in Aberdeen, eh?’

      ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Robbie Williams, and Ms Katie Melua are going to sing for us …’

      The speakers crackled and the church organ rang out through the speakers: the opening bars to Wind Beneath My Wings.

      ‘Oh Christ, not again!’

      Close-up on Mr Williams and Ms Melua, microphones in hand.

      Everyone in the graveyard was silent. The crowd seemed to be holding its breath for the first two verses, but as soon as the chorus started, they joined in.

      Logan watched the woman who’d bellowed her love to Ewan McGregor, hands clutched over her massive bosom in full opera singer pose, warbling along with tears streaming down her cheeks. She wasn’t the only one. Half the crowd seemed to be wetting itself with emotion.

      Then someone started in on the alternative lyrics and it spread like a cancer through the throng.

      ‘Can you believe …’ Logan turned to Steel, but she was singing along too.

      What the hell was wrong with everyone?

      When the service was over, Steel shoved her way to the front, warrant card out. ‘Come on, shift it: police business.’

      As soon as Gordon Maguire appeared from the church, she dug Logan in the ribs. ‘Heads up.’

      The producer was swaggering down the path, arms up over his head, giving everyone the victory Vs. Like a bald Richard Nixon. ‘YEAH! COME ON ABERDEEN!’

      Cheers.

      Logan pulled up the ‘POLICE’ tape and Steel ducked under, right in front of Maguire. He raised his hands. ‘Sorry, love, I can’t—’

      ‘We’d like a word.’ She stuck her warrant card under his nose.

      ‘Ah, right …’ He backed off a couple of paces. ‘Can it wait? I’m kinda in the middle of—’

      ‘Now, Mr Maguire.’

      ‘But I’ve got a plane to catch, it—’

      ‘Shall we?’ Logan took hold of Maguire’s elbow and steered him back inside, commandeering a small room just off the main entrance, lined with dark wood. It smelled of old wax and older cigarettes, light coming from a bare strip-light in the ceiling. Cardboard boxes were stacked in one corner, a display cabinet full of spider webs and dusty silver things opposite the door.

      ‘Look, is this going to take long? Only, like I said, I’ve got a plane—’

      ‘You’re no’ going anywhere till I say you are.’ Steel smiled at him. ‘You must be raking it in: all this publicity?’

      Maguire shrugged. ‘I do OK.’

      ‘Aye, I’ll bet you do. What’s the fund up to now?’

      He pulled out a packet of Silk Cut. ‘I don’t see how—’

      ‘No smoking.’ Logan took the cigarettes from him. ‘Answer the question.’

      Maguire scowled. ‘Two-and-a-bit. Million. But it’s not like I get to see any of that, OK? It’s all downloads. Every penny goes into a marked account, and it’s for the ransom. I don’t even have access to it.’

      Steel pursed her lips. ‘So what happens if we turn up Jenny and her mum, all safe and sound? What happens to your two-and-a-bit million then?’

      Maguire cleared his throat, ran a hand across the back of his neck. ‘I suppose it’d go to charity … or something … After administrative deductions.’

      ‘Aye, I’ll bet it will.’

      ‘You can’t just—’

      ‘Is this all just a big PR stunt?’ Logan tossed the packet of Silk Cut from one hand to the other. ‘Did you set the whole thing up?’

      Maguire took off his trendy glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Listen, OK? Yeah, the pre-orders for the album are huge, but if I don’t have Alison and Jenny, I can’t finish recording the bloody thing. We’ve got about half the tracks in the can and I’ve only got three weeks to get it done.’

      ‘Don’t—’

      ‘Three weeks – after that the bank call in my overdraft. We’ve sunk everything we’ve got into making Britain’s Next Big Star. Orchestras, backing choirs, classical scores, performance rights payments, cameras, crew, sets … The costs are suffocating. But we can’t cut corners because we’re up against the X-Factor and Britain’s Got Talent, and the Search for Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Next Whatever the fuck. If we pull it off, we make a sodding mint, but right now the whole production company’s sliding down a razorblade into liquidation using its ball-sack as a brake.’

      Maguire ran a hand across his bald head. ‘And you’d think my investors would be rubbing their hands at all the publicity, wouldn’t you? But no, the thieving wankers are waiting for us to СКАЧАТЬ