Introduction
in which the writer drones on about the stories in this collection
Believe it or not, 22 Dead Little Bodies started life as a subplot in The Missing and the Dead. Well, half of it did, anyway. We trimmed seven subplots in total from The Missing and the Dead in order to slim it down to the chunky 160,000-word book that came out in January 2015 – so you can imagine how huge it was before. Loathe to throw this one away, I reworked it into what was meant to be a 10,000-word short story … and it ended up being 42,000 words long instead. Officially that makes it a novel. A short one, but a novel nonetheless. But while it made a nifty, and pretty sexy, little hardback, it was just a bit too small to turn into a full-length paperback. So we decided to bundle it in with two short stories and a novella, all set in Logan’s happy-go-lucky world.
‘Stramash’ was originally published as part of the Isle of Jura Distillery’s Writers’ Retreat project. ‘DI Steel’s Bad Heir Day’ appeared as a Christmas story in the Evening Express for charity, and later got bundled into an ebook with ‘Stramash’ under the title Partners in Crime. The 45% Hangover was a very rude ebook, then a lovely mini paperback in its own right. And now all of these stories live together, here, in one Steel-infested lump.
If you’re the kind of crazy mixed-up kid who likes to know how the tales in this book fit in with the rest of Logan’s timeline, it goes like this:
‘DI Steel’s Bad Heir Day’
Shatter the Bones
‘Stramash’
Close to the Bone
The 45% Hangover
22 Dead Little Bodies
The Missing and the Dead
And that’s it, except to say that I hope you enjoy these. Some are a bit dark, some are a bit violent, and one contains scenes of gratuitous nudity that any right-minded reader will find highly offensive. And if you’re not highly offended, there’s probably something wrong with you. Seek help.
All the best,
Stuart MacBride
For Brucie
As always I relied on a lot of clever people while I was writing this book, so I’d like to take this opportunity to thank: Sergeant Bruce Crawford and everyone in B Division; Sarah, Jane, Julia, Louise, Oli, Laura, Roger, Kate (E), Oliver, Lucy, Damon, Charlie, Tom, Kate (S), Eleanor, Dom, Marie, the DC Bishopbriggs Pure-Dead-Brilliant Brigade, and everyone at HarperCollins, for doing such a great job; Lee, Graham, Angie, Pete, Lizzy, Chuck, Toby, Wayne, Liza, Kevin, Lorraine, Sarah, Charlie, Joe, Steph, David, Ann, Ross, James, Maggie, Susan, Chris, Joe and all the excellent booksellers and librarians out there – every one of you, most certainly, rock; Phil Patterson and the team at Marjacq Scripts, for keeping my cat in shoes all these years.
More thanks go to Allan, Lola, and Rudi for the feedback and input; Twinkle, Jean, Brenda, and Dolly Bellfield for the eggs; and Gherkin for the mice.
And saving the best for last – as always – Fiona and Grendel.
Oh dear God … it was a long way down.
Logan shuffled along the damp concrete ledge.
His left shoe skidded on something, wheeching out over the gaping drop. ‘Aaagh …’
He grabbed at the handrail, heart thumping as the carrier bag from Markies spiralled away, down … down … down … fluttering like a green plastic bat on a suicide run.
All the saliva disappeared from his mouth, leaving the taste of old batteries behind.
Thump.
The bag battered into the cobbled street: prawn-and-mayonnaise sandwich exploding, the bottle of Coke spraying foam out at the circle of onlookers. The ones nearest danced back a couple of paces, out of reach of the sticky brown foam. Then stared up at him again: a circle of pale faces and open mouths. Waiting.
One or two of them had their mobile phones out, filming. Probably hoping for something horrible to happen so they could post it on YouTube.
Had to be at least sixty feet down.
Why couldn’t jumpers leap off bungalows? Why did the selfish sods always threaten to throw themselves off bloody huge buildings?
Logan inched closer to the man standing at the far edge of the roof. ‘You …’ He cleared his throat, but it didn’t shift the taste. ‘You don’t have to do this.’
The man didn’t look around. One hand gripped the railing beside him, the skin stained dark red. Blood. It spread up his sleeve – turning the grey suit jacket almost black.
His other hand was just as bad. The sticky scarlet fingers were curled around a carving knife, the blade glinting against the pale grey sky. Black handle, eight-inch blade, the metal streaked with more red.
Great.
Because what was the point of slitting your wrists in the privacy of your own home when you could do it on top of a dirty big building in the east end of Aberdeen instead? With a nice big audience to watch you jump.
And it was a long way down.
Logan dragged his eyes away from the slick cobblestones. ‘It isn’t worth it.’
Another shrug. Mr Suicide’s voice trembled, not much more than a broken whisper. ‘How could she do that?’
‘Why don’t you put down the knife and come back inside?’
The distant wail of a siren cut through the drab afternoon.
‘Knife …?’ He turned his head and frowned. Little pointy nose, receding hairline, thin face, watery eyes lurking above bruise-coloured bags. A streak of dried blood across his forehead. The front of his shirt was soaked through with it, sticking to his pigeon chest. The sour stink of hot copper and rotting onions radiated out of him like tendrils.
Logan inched closer. ‘Put it down, and we can go inside and talk about it, OK?’
He looked down at
