from the pile, then scooped up his crisps and drink. ‘Be like that, then.’
She waited till he’d left the little room. ‘We gave Mr Baldy a hard time because Acting DI MacDonald was in charge of that bit of the investigation. And I don’t trust him. OK?’ She held up a hand. ‘It’s no’ that he’s dodgy, it’s just that he’s completely fucking hopelessly out of his depth. And I know Finnie thinks the same, or he’d no’ have been there holding his hand at the church.’
‘I see …’
‘Laz, I know you lot in the Wee Hoose are thick as thieves, but there’s a wee girl’s life at stake. I’m no sodding about with this one.’
Fair point. ‘So what about McPherson?’
Steel pulled a face, then took a swig of whisky. ‘You leave Disaster to me, we’ll—’
The rest was drowned out by cheering coming through from the main bar. ‘GO ON MY SON!’, ‘RUN YOU WEE BUGGER!’, ‘GO ON, GO ON!’
The volume on the telly was cranked up – the roar of the crowd booming out of the speakers. ‘And it’s Hansson to Paton. Up the outside … and he crosses to Gibson … Gibson shoots and—’
Sudden silence.
‘AWWW! FUCK’S SAKE! NO’ NOW!’, ‘PETE! FIX THE FUCKING TELLY!’, ‘DID HE SCORE?’
Logan’s phone rang – he dragged it out and checked the caller display: Colin Miller.
‘Colin?’
The TV blared into life again: ‘Interrupt your programming to bring you a news bulletin …’
DI Steel’s phone was ringing too. ‘Can a girl no’ have a wee drinkie in peace?’
‘… believe that?’ Colin’s voice was almost inaudible over all the racket.
Logan stuck his finger in his other ear. ‘Hello? Colin?’
‘I said, they’ve sent another package, aye: to the BBC! Mate of mine works there, he’s just called.’
Crap.
‘What is it? What did they send?’
‘I mean, why didn’t they send it here? They always send stuff here first.’
‘Colin: what – did – they – send?’
Steel was on her feet. ‘Shite …’ She stuck her phone against her chest. ‘They’ve sent more toes to the BBC.’
Rennie crashed back into the snug. ‘You got to come see what’s on the telly!’
‘Have I no’ done everythin’ they’ve asked for? How’s that fair?’
Everyone in Dodgy Pete’s stared up at the big TV, where a straight-backed reporter was doing a bit to camera. ‘… just five minutes ago.’ There was a perfectly framed shot of two tiny toes in high-definition. Pale pink digits with swollen ends, the edges of the cut dark and discoloured. Unlike the big toe sitting on ice in the mortuary, these had definitely been cut from a living person.
Colin: ‘Laz? Laz, you still there?’
‘Shut up a minute.’
‘The toes were delivered to BBC Scotland offices in Aberdeen, along with a DVD and instructions to play it on air. The following footage contains graphic scenes and may distress some viewers …’
Steel had her phone to her ear again. ‘Aye, we’re watching it.’
The screen went black, then faded up on a graffiti-covered room, bare floorboards, sunlight streaming in through the chinks in a pair of boarded up windows. The whole image swung around, the autofocus taking a moment to catch up. A pair of tiny feet, stained orange-brown around the sides. Chipped pink nail varnish.
The two little toes were missing, the stumps where they should have been puffy and red, the skin stitched together over the holes with black thread. The knots looked like spiders, bursting out of the angry flesh.
‘Holy fuck …’ Someone in the bar dropped their pint. A crash of splintered glass.
The camera swung upwards. There was no mistaking the wee girl lying on her back, on what looked like a swathe of white plastic sheeting. Blonde curls, that long straight nose, the apple cheeks. Eyes half shut, a sheen of drool streaking down from the corner of her open mouth. An IV line was taped to the inside of her left wrist.
She groaned and twitched.
A purple-gloved hand moved into shot, holding a copy of the Edinburgh Evening Post. ‘TOE NOT JENNY’S BUT POLICE STILL DENY HOAX’. The camera zoomed in on the date. It was today’s edition.
The picture faded to black, then the familiar artificial voice burst out into the silent bar.
‘This is not a hoax. You have four days left. If you raise enough money, they will live. If you do not, they will die. Do not let Jenny and Alison down.’
A pause, then the newsreader appeared back on the screen. ‘Harrowing footage there. We go live now to Grampian Police Headquarters and our correspondent Sarah Williamson. Sarah, what can you tell us?’
‘… man’s a complete prick.’ Biohazard Bob wrinkled his nose. The Wee Hoose’s door was closed, muting the noise from the main CID room: phones ringing; constables and support staff running about, trying to cope with the sudden barrage of calls from people who’d seen the broadcast. ‘You’ll never believe what he said to me yesterday: gave me this big monologue about the McGregor case and then—’
‘“One thing’s for certain”,’ Rennie struck a pose, ‘“We’re dealing with no ordinary kidnappers!” Like he thinks he’s on TV.’
Bob raised his big hairy eyebrow. ‘You too?’
Logan nodded. ‘And me.’
DS Doreen Taylor sighed. ‘And there I was, thinking I was special.’
The sound of phones and borderline panic got louder as the door swung open. DI Steel slouched into the room. ‘Right, listen up, ’cos I can’t be arsed saying this twice.’ She nudged the door shut with her heel, then stared at Rennie. ‘Well? Move it!’
The constable stood, and perched himself on the edge of Bob’s desk instead.
Steel groaned her way into the vacated chair. ‘In light of recent developments we’re having a wee reorganization. McPherson’s trying to track down the dead kid the first toe came from; Acting DI MacDonald’s taking over the hospital enquiries; Evans has the vets, and I’m sticking with the sex offenders.’
Rennie held up his hand. ‘Does this mean—’
‘I’m no’ telling you again.’
