Free Close to the Bone by Stuart MacBride

massive lawyer stood. ‘We have co-operated fully with your investigation, now it’s time for you to release my client.’
    Sammy grinned. ‘Going to sue your arse off for breaking my wrist. Police brutality, that is. I’m going to own your house , man.’
    Logan shook his head. ‘Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. One: you don’t want my house. Even I don’t want my house. Two. . .’ He sat forward, lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘We’ve got a witness. When you broke into the jewellers, someone outside recognized you.’ Another lie, but worth a try anyway.
    Sammy curled his top lip. ‘That’s bollocks!’ He thumped his cast on the tabletop. ‘No one could’ve recognized us, ’cos we was wearing masks the whole time.’ He sat back, folded his arms, nodded. Smiled. Look how clever I am.
    The lawyer sank into the chair and buried his face in his hands.
    The Procurator Fiscal wandered over to the window and stared out at the view. A hint of grey was creeping in at the temples of her dark-brown hair. Blue tweed Jackie Onassis suit, cherry-blossom nail varnish. Distinguished, in a cougary kind of way. ‘Could you not have found a less . . . complicated solution? ’
    Sitting at the boardroom table, Logan shrugged. ‘It wasn’t really up to me, ma’am.’
    From here, most of central Aberdeen was laid out in a patchwork of slate and flat roofs, bristling with satellite dishes and obsolete aerials. Big fat seagulls spiralled in the pale-blue sky, like bleached vultures, hunting for scraps and any dogs or children small enough to carry off.
    ‘There’s no way we’ll get a conviction for murder, not in the circumstances. . . Manslaughter, at a stretch, but it won’t be popular.’ She rested her hands on the windowsill. ‘We’ll have to prosecute him for the jewellery robbery, of course. That’s going to play well in the press.’ A sigh. ‘Inspector McRae—’
    ‘I didn’t do it on purpose.’
    ‘No, I suppose not. But still. . .’ She turned, took off her glasses and polished them on a little yellow cloth. ‘Do we have any good news about the necklacing case? ’
    ‘We’re—’
    ‘If you’re about to say, “pursuing several lines of enquiry”, I’m going to stab you in the eye with a pencil. And don’t think I won’t get away with it.’
    Ah. . . ‘The fact he was necklaced out at the Joyriders’ Graveyard has to be significant. Up a rutted track on a dead-end road past Thainstone Mart – it’s not exactly somewhere you just stumble across on your way to the shops, is it? ’
    ‘So whoever it is has local knowledge.’
    ‘They’ve probably got form for unlawful removal as well, or know someone who does. We’re still waiting on a full DNA work-up; you know what it’s like these days. Until we’ve ID’d the victim it’s going to be hard to get anywhere.’
    She slipped her glasses back on. ‘I don’t like this, DI McRae. I don’t like this at all.’
    ‘We could get a forensic anthropologist in? Do a facial reconstruction? ’ He cleared his throat. ‘You know, if we had the budget. . .? ’
    Her eyes narrowed. ‘ Find the budget. I’m authorizing it. This case is now Grampian Police’s number one priority.’
    Steel would love that.
    ‘. . .no, that’s not what I’m saying at all.’ The Assistant Chief Constable waved a finger and twenty flashguns went off, reflecting off his high forehead, catching him in all his chunky glory. He must have shaved right before the briefing, because the lower of his two chins was an angry shade of puce flecked with tiny spots of scarlet. ‘What I’m saying is we have to treat these two cases separately. That’s how the law works.’
    The briefing room was packed with row after row of journalists and TV crews, all sticking their hands up and asking questions at the same time:
    ‘Was the surgery a success? ’
    ‘Would you say Guy Ferguson is a hero? ’
    ‘Why did your officers tell his parents he was dead? ’
    ‘Why is Grampian Police