Free Shatter the Bones by Stuart MacBride Page B

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 fi nd Stinky Tam the Holburn Street tramp .”’
    ‘Twenty-four?’
    ‘Shut up. Poor old Tam’s been gone two weeks now and no bugger’s got any idea if he’s sodded off for a fortnight in glamorous Stonehaven, or lying dead behind the bins somewhere. Guess where my money’s at?’ Bob curled his top lip. ‘And Stinky Tam wasn’t exactly a bowl of lilies at the best of times.’ He creaked his chair from side to side a couple of times, then pointed at Logan’s screen: the figure in the SOC suit and Alison McGregor. ‘Don’t know how you can watch that over and over. Creeps me out.’
    ‘What else can I do? We’ve got sod-all forensics. According to the lab there’s not a single fingerprint in the whole house that doesn’t belong to Alison, Jenny, the babysitter, or Alison’s dead husband. No hair, no fibres, no DNA, footprints… Nothing.’
    ‘Pfff… What do you expect? Look at them.’ He pointed at the screen again. ‘Course there’s sod-all forensics: they’re not thick, are they? No, they’re wearing the same stuff we do: oversuits, gloves, booties, facemasks. That’s what you get for having all this crime drama on the telly, every bugger out there’s getting a weekly masterclass in how to get away with murder.’
    The only forensic evidence the kidnappers had left behind was a faint dusting of tiny brass filings, caused by whatever they’d used to pick the lock on the back door.
    Bob sniffed. ‘You chase up YouTube?’
    ‘Nothing. They can trace the upload back through to a couple of servers in Bangladesh, but after that…? Could’ve come from anywhere.’ Logan picked the forensic report out of his in-tray. ‘Everything: every note, every envelope, every video – it’s like they’ve been put together in a vacuum by bloody ghosts.’
    A gravelly voice came from the CID room outside, ruining a Fifties song, ‘Oh yes, I’m the great pudenda; pudendin’ I’m doing well…’
    DI Steel pushed through the door to the Wee Hoose, huge mug of coffee in one hand, chocolate biscuit in the other. ‘Morning, ladies.’ She stuffed the biscuit in her gob and bumped the door closed with her hip.
    Logan scowled at her. ‘Seven AM sharp , you said. Where have you been?’
    ‘It’s your lucky day, Laz. Susan says she’s probably up for a wild ride on the orgasm express this weekend, so I shall forgive your rudeness if you tell me you’ve sent that letter off.’
    ‘You said you’d get Rennie to do it.’
    ‘No I didn’t.’
    ‘You bloody well did! Bob, tell her.’
    ‘Now, now, Laz.’ Bob grinned and turned back to his computer. ‘It’s not nice to contradict a lady.’
    ‘You rotten—’
    A knock on the door, then PC Guthrie stuck his pasty head into the Wee Hoose. ‘Guv?’ He nodded at DI Steel. ‘This just came in…’
    Guthrie held up a clear plastic evidence pouch. There was a sheet of A4 in it, creased as if it had been folded into thirds, covered in jagged blue biro.
    Steel grabbed it off him, squinted at the note for a bit, then held it out to Logan. ‘Read.’
    It was all in block capitals, the letters lopsided and sloppy, traced over and over again. Probably disguising their handwriting. ‘Sodding hell…’
    The inspector wrinkled her nose. ‘Well? What does it say?’
    ‘It’s a tip-off. Says Alison and Jenny were snatched by a paedophile ring.’
    Bob squeaked around in his chair and peered over Logan’s shoulder. ‘They’ve spelled “paedophile” wrong. And “snatched”…’
    ‘Says they’re going to auction Jenny off – after they’ve all… Shite. After they’ve all