Close to the Bone by Stuart MacBride Page A

room a dozen times, there’s nothing here. Agnes has no secrets from me. You need to be out there, hunting down that bloody Chung!’
    Chalmers smiled, showing off those pointy little teeth. ‘I know, but you want us to be thorough, don’t you? We’ll be down soon as we’re done.’
    A sniff. A thinning of the lips. Then she jabbed a finger at Logan. ‘If he’d done his job when he came here, instead of drinking tea and eating my biscuits, she’d be home by now.’ A nod. Agnes’s mum backed out of the room and slammed the door.
    ‘Pffffff. . .’ Logan sank down on the single bed. The wooden frame creaked, the mattress sagging beneath him. ‘Before you say anything, it was DI McPherson. Sent me out here, told me to poke about a bit, reassure them, then get back to solving actual crimes. Course, then he gets seconded to the Scottish Parliament on the Force Integration Project – as if they didn’t have enough bloody numpties screwing things up already – and hey presto, suddenly it’s my problem.’
    He glanced up. . . The roof was covered in pale-yellowy-green and white stars. Had to be hundreds of them up there, filling the ceiling from edge to edge. Oh to be young and daft again.
    Chalmers poked her way through the bookshelves. ‘Whenever my mother hated any of my boyfriends, it just made them more appealing. Even Hamish Campbell with his big teeth and stickie-out ears. Dad hated him too, and after that I’d have run away with him in a heartbeat. . .’
    The bedside cabinet contained a mix of hankies, granny-pants, and a tiny collection of cheap jewellery – each piece individually wrapped in tissue paper. Logan slid the last drawer back into place, then pushed aside the little troupe of fluffy toy animals to peer into the gap between the mattress and the wall. Nothing.
    ‘What you looking for? ’
    ‘A diary. Address book. Something like that.’
    Thump. A black leather journal landed on the duvet. It was held shut with a black ribbon.
    Logan picked it up, weighed it in his hand. ‘Where was it? ’
    Chalmers pointed at the bookcase. ‘Top shelf, next to the collected Roald Dahl.’
    Left in full view, where anyone could find it? Bizarre.
    He undid the ribbon and flicked through the pages to the last entry. It was dated three weeks ago, the day before she disappeared. He held it out. ‘Read.’
    ‘OK. . . Er. . .’ Chalmers dug out her glasses and slipped them on. ‘“Today was a good day, I didn’t cry once, and Mum made tuna casserole for tea. Jemma and Penny want to go see a band on Saturday night, but I’ve got a history test to revise for, so I don’t think I can go”. . .’ A sniff. She looked up from the pages. ‘Nothing very dramatic. Nothing that says, “I’m running away to set up house with my boyfriend.”’ Chalmers flipped back a few pages. ‘Here she’s talking about watching TV. . .’ Back another two. ‘They went to the shops and bought some new socks and she got a book. . .’ Further back. ‘She wants to have a couple of friends over for dinner, but her mum won’t let her, says they’re a bad influence. And Agnes is actually OK with that.’ Chalmers curled her top lip. ‘Kid’s got no spine.’
    ‘Does she mention Anthony Chung at all? ’
    ‘Not so far. Mind you. . .’ Chalmers nodded at the neatly ordered bookcase, then the tidy desk, then the chest of drawers with a single porcelain figurine of a dragon on top of it – perfectly centred in a lace doily. ‘Doesn’t exactly come off as a wild child, does she? Even her books are alphabetically arranged by author. When I was her age I was getting blootered every weekend with Duncan Peters in his parents’ summerhouse, while they were out getting the weekly shop from Asda.’
    Logan stood. ‘So she was keeping secrets from the diary? ’
    ‘With a nosy mum like that? ’ Chalmers closed the book and tied the ribbon. ‘Or maybe Agnes is just really, really boring. . .’ Frown. ‘You notice there’s