Logan McRae 09 - The Missing and the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  Logan shifted his footing on the frozen, rutted track. Ran his torch along the treeline.

  Middle of nowhere.

  He wiped a drip from the end of his nose. ‘Well, what was I supposed to do? Let him no-comment till Stephen Bisset dies?’

  The track snaked off further into the darkness, bordered on both sides by tussocks of grass, slowly disappearing under the falling snow, glowing in the torchlight.

  On the other end of the phone, Steel groaned. ‘Could you no’ have let the nasty wee sod fall down the stairs a few times? We’re no’ allowed to—’

  ‘You want to tell Stephen’s family we let him freeze to death, all alone, in a shack in the forest, because we were more concerned with following procedure than saving his life?’

  ‘Laz, it’s no’ that simple, we—’

  ‘Because if that’s what you want, tell me now and we’ll head back to HQ. You can help Dr Simms pick out a body-bag. Probably still got some nice Christmas paper knocking about, you could use that. Wrap his corpse up with a bow on top.’

  ‘Will you shut up and—’

  ‘Maybe something with kittens and teddy bears on it, so Bisset’s kids won’t mind so much?’

  Silence.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘All right, all right. But he better be alive. And another thing—’

  He hung up and marched over to the pool car.

  Biohazard leaned against the bonnet, arms folded, shoulders hunched, one cowboy boot up on the bumper. Nose going bright red, the tips of his taxi-door ears too. He spat. Nodded at the ill-fitting suit behind the steering wheel. ‘The wee loon’s right, this is daft.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’ve cleared it with the boss, so we’re doing it.’

  A sniff. ‘What if Danny the Drag Queen tries it on when you’re out there?’

  Logan peered around Biohazard’s shoulder.

  Stirling was slumped in the rear seat, blood dried to a black mask that hid the lower half of his face. Bruises already darkening the skin beneath both eyes. The blue sundress all mud-stained and tatty after the chase through the gardens. Shivering.

  ‘Think I’ll risk it.’ Logan pulled out the canister of CS gas from his jacket pocket, ran his thumbnail across the join between the safety cap and the body. ‘But just in case, get his hands cuffed behind him. And I want the pair of you ready to charge in.’

  Logan popped open the back door and leaned into the car. It smelled of sweat and fear and rusting meat. ‘Out.’

  Twigs snapped beneath his feet as they picked their way between the grey-brown branches, following the circle of light cast by Logan’s torch. A tiny dot, adrift on an ocean of darkness.

  Something moved out there. Little scampering feet and claws that skittered away into the night.

  Logan flicked the torch in its direction. ‘How much further?’

  He jerked his chin to the left. ‘That way.’ The words plumed out from his mouth in a glowing cloud, caught in the torchlight. Curling away into the night. Dragon’s breath.

  Down a slope, into a depression lined with brambles and the curled remains of long-dead ferns, already sagging under the weight of snow. More falling from the sickly dark sky.

  Stirling’s feet clumped about in Rennie’s shoes, the scuffed black brogues and white socks looking huge beneath the torn sundress and laddered tights.

  Up the other side, through the ferns – brittle foliage wrapping around Logan’s trousers, leaving cold wet fingerprints. ‘Why him? Why Stephen Bisset?’

  ‘Why?’ A shrug. The torchlight glinted off the handcuffs’ metal bars, secured behind his back, fingers laced together as if they were taking a casual stroll along the beach. ‘Why not?’ A small sigh. ‘Because he was there.’

  Logan checked his watch. Fifteen minutes. Another five, and that was it: call this charade off. Call in a dog team. Get the helicopter up from Strathclyde with a thermal-imaging camera. Assuming Steel could pull enough rank to get them to fly this far north on a Friday night in January.

  They stumbled on between the silent trees. Fallen pine needles made ochre drifts between the snaking roots, the branches too thick to let the snow through.

  He stopped, pulled up his sleeve – exposing his watch again. ‘Time’s up. I’m not sodding about here any longer.’ He grabbed the plastic bar in the middle of the handcuffs and dragged Stirling to a halt. ‘This is a waste of time, isn’t it? You’re never going to show me where Stephen Bisset is. You want him dead so he can’t testify against you.’

  Stirling turned. Stared at Logan. Face lit from beneath by the torch, like someone telling a campfire horror story. Tilted his head to the left. ‘You see?’

  Logan stepped away. Swung the torch’s beam in an arc across the trees, raking the needle-strewn forest floor with darting shadows …

  A sagging wooden structure lurked between the trunks, in a space that barely counted as a clearing, partially hidden by a wall of skeletal brambles.

  Stirling’s voice dropped to a serrated-edged whisper. ‘He’s in there.’

  Another step. Then stop.

  Logan turned. Shone the torch right in Stirling’s face, making him flinch and shy back, eyes clamped shut. Then took out his handcuff key. ‘On your knees.’

  A thick stainless-steel padlock secured the shack’s door. It had four numerical tumblers built into the base, its hasp connecting a pair of heavy metal plates – one fixed to the door, the other to the surround. Both set up so the screw heads were inaccessible.

  Logan flicked the torch beam towards Stirling. ‘Combination?’

  He was still on his knees, both arms wrapped around the tree trunk, as if he was giving it a hug. Hands cuffed together on the other side. Cheek pressed hard against the bark. ‘One, seven, zero, seven.’

  The dials were stiff, awkward, but they turned after a bit of fiddling. Squeaking against Logan’s blue-nitrile-gloved fingertips. Clicking as they lined up into the right order. The hasp popped open and he slipped the padlock free of the metal plates. Slipped it into an evidence bag.

  Pushed the door.

  Almost as stiff as the padlock wheels, it creaked open and the stench of dirty bodies and blood and piss and shite collapsed over Logan. Making him step back.

  Deep breath.

  He stepped over the threshold. ‘Stephen? Stephen Bisset? It’s OK, you’re safe now; it’s the police.’

  Bloody hell – it was actually colder inside the shack.

  The torch picked out a stack of poles and saws and chains. Then a heap of logs and an old tarpaulin. Then a cast-iron stove missing its door. Then a pile of filthy blankets.

  ‘Stephen? Hello?’

  Logan reached out and picked one of the poles from the stack. Smooth and shiny from countless hands over countless years. A bill hook rattled on the end, the screws all loose and rusted. ‘Stephen? I’ve come to take you home.’

  He slipped the hook under the nearest blanket and lifted.

  Oh Christ …

  Outside. The cold air clawed at the sweat peppering his face. Deep breath.

  Logan rested his forehead against a tree, bark rough against his skin. The smell of pine nowhere near strong enough to wash away the shack’s corrupt stench.

  Don’t be sick.

  Be professional.

  Oh God …

  Deep breath.

  ‘I …’ His throat closed, strangling the words. Pressed his forehead into the bark so hard it stung. Tried again. ‘I should kick the living shit out of you.’

  Stirling’s voice oozed out from the darkness. ‘He’s beautiful, isn’t he?’

  The phone trembled in Logan’s hands as he dug it out and called Steel. ‘I’ve found Stephen Bisset.’

  There was a whoop from the other end. Then, ‘Laz, I could French you. Is he …?’

  ‘No.’ Though if he ever woke up, he’d probably wish he was. ‘I need an ambulance, and an SEB goon-squad, and a Crime Scene Manager, and so
meone to stop me stringing Graham Bloody Stirling up from the nearest tree.’

  3

  Big Tony Campbell slung his jacket over the back of his chair and slumped down. Aberdeen City’s Divisional Commander, the Big Boss, Arse-Kicker In Chief: a large man, with broad shoulders and hands to match. His bald head gleamed in the last rays of a dying sun, seeping across the rooftops of the city and into the office. The only hairs loyal enough to cling on above the neckline were his eyebrows – heavy, black, and bushy.

  He pointed to the seat on the other side of the polished wooden desk. ‘Sit.’ Then swivelled around and hunched down, giving Logan a perfect view of his shirt coming untucked from the waistband of his trousers. Exposing a swathe of thick dark fur.

  Logan settled into the nominated seat and stifled a yawn, covering it with his hand as Big Tony Campbell re-emerged with a bottle of Highland Park in one hand and two crystal tumblers in the other. They went on the desk.

  A healthy portion of whisky glugged into both glasses, then the Divisional Commander handed one over. ‘They tell me Stephen Bisset’s going to live.’

  Logan licked his teeth – rough and unbrushed. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Might’ve been better if you’d arrived too late.’ His fingers hovered over the folder that sat in front of the computer. He didn’t touch the manila surface, as if it might be infectious. ‘Castrated, teeth ripped out, chest slashed open and “implants” forced inside, repeatedly raped … Never mind all the broken bones.’ The corners of his mouth curdled. ‘A non-elective sex change courtesy of Jack the Ripper. Still …’

  He raised his glass and Logan did the same. Clinking the two together, before taking a sip.

  Warmth slid all the way down into Logan’s belly, leaving smoky footprints behind.

  The Divisional Commander spun his seat around till it faced the window. Gazed out over his domain as darkness claimed it. Took another drink. ‘Your boss tells me you’re not really cut out to be an Acting Detective Inspector.’

  ‘Does she now?’ Backstabbing cow …

  Well, unless this was promotion time? Time to stop acting up and make the step for real. With the pay rise that went with it. OK, so he wouldn’t get overtime any more, but swings and roundabouts. Logan sat up straighter in his chair. ‘Actually, sir, I think she’s—’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ the Divisional Commander held up a hand, ‘it’s not that you can’t do the job – the Bisset investigation more than proves that – but she seems to think you don’t like doing it. The man management, the spreadsheets, the meetings, the budget balancing.’ Another sip. ‘Is she right?’

  Don’t fidget.

  ‘Well, sir, it’s … Detective Chief Inspector Steel, sometimes—’

  ‘You see, Logan,’ he turned back, a smile stretching his face, ‘it’s important to me that my officers achieve their full potential. And it’s my privilege and duty to help them do that.’ A little salute with the tumbler. ‘Especially when I can give them the tools they need to shine.’

  Oh no.

  Don’t say it.

  Not the two words no police officer ever wanted to hear.

  The whisky curdled in Logan’s stomach. His smile was lemon-rind and ashes, but he pulled it on anyway. ‘Sir?’

  Please don’t …

  ‘I think I’ve got a development opportunity that would be perfect for you.’

  Too late.

  — Monday Backshift —

  Cromarty: Seven to Eight, Rising. Occasionally Severe.

  4

  ‘… and while we’re on the subject: guess who gets out today?’ Logan let the pause grow as the two officers stared at him. ‘Alex Williams.’

  A groan.

  The Constables’ Office wasn’t a big room. Magnolia, with a big pinboard covered in mugshots on one wall next to a whiteboard; posters, reports, notices, calendars, and more whiteboards on the others. Scuffed blue carpet tiles covered in layers of tea and coffee stains. A workbench on two sides doubling as desks; four office chairs – plastic scratched, foam-rubber poking out of frayed-edged fabric; the same number of steam-powered computers; Logan and two other officers, all kitted up and ready for the off. A throat-tickling smell of stale feet, pickled onion crisps, and shoe polish.

  Logan rubbed a hand across the stubble covering his head. ‘So I’m putting a grade one flag on the house. Anything happens, I want someone there in under five minutes.’

  Deano fiddled with the CS gas canister clipped to the front of his fluorescent yellow high-vis waistcoat, twisting the gunmetal canister round and round in its leather case with big spanner fingers. Winding the spiral bungee cord attached to the base in knots. His broad shoulders stretched the black police-issue T-shirt tight. Even slouched in the swivel chair he was clearly the tallest person in the room. ‘Tenner says they make it till Wednesday.’

  Constable Nicholson pulled the sides of her mouth down and dug her hands into the gap between her stabproof vest and her black uniform top. Hunched her shoulders, setting the no-nonsense black bob wobbling. Scowled. ‘Hospital or mortuary?’

  Deano stuck his head on one side. The overhead light glinted against the thinning patch of hair at the top of his forehead. Grey hair swept back at the sides. ‘I’m going to say … hospital.’

  She pulled out a hand – it had a small tartan wallet in it. ‘I’ll take: mortuary by Saturday.’ Then blinked at Logan. ‘Sarge?’

  ‘Are you and Constable Scott seriously taking bets on when someone’s going to assault or murder their partner?’

  Shrug.

  ‘OK.’ He dug a hand into his pocket. ‘I’ll have a fiver on: nobody dies.’

  Deano accepted the cash and hid it away. ‘Fool to yourself, Sarge. But far be it from me to dampen your faith in—’

  ‘Sorry.’ The door banged open and Constable Quirrel backed into the room, carrying a tray loaded with four mugs and a plate of rowies. Thin-faced, with a number-two haircut of pale ginger and a set of watery blue eyes. A least a head shorter than everyone else in the room. ‘What? What did I miss?’

  ‘Alex Williams got released.’

  ‘Is it six months already?’ Quirrel handed out the mugs – starting with Logan – then worked his way around the room with the plate. He took the last rowie and slotted his narrow bum into the only vacant chair. ‘Bags I don’t have to—’

  ‘Tufty,’ Logan pointed at him, ‘I hereby deputize you to go tell Alex’s partner, “It’s that time again.”’

  ‘But, Sa-arge …’ His eyebrows bunched for a moment, scrunching up his eyes. Then a smile. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if someone from Domestic Abuse did it? You know, laid out all the options? They’re the experts, and we wouldn’t want to—’

  ‘Do what you’re told.’ Logan took a bite of rowie, chomping through the waxy crust and into the butter, lard, and salty goodness inside. ‘And try not to be a dick while you’re there. Last thing you need is more complaints.’ A nod. ‘Next.’

  Deano clicked the mouse and the image on the computer screen changed to a photo of a small-ish fishing boat – rust-streaked along one side of the blue hull, the name ‘COPPER-TUN WANDERER’ picked out in fading white paint. The picture sat beside one of a middle-aged man in a bright orange jacket, hair hanging damp around his leathery face, bottle of beer in one hand, what looked like a dirty big haddock in the other.

  It was all written across the bottom of the PowerPoint slide, but Logan read it out anyway. ‘Charles “Craggie” Anderson, fifty-two, missing for a week and a bit now. Tufty?’

  ‘Yeah …’ Constable Quirrel pulled out his notebook and flicked through to near the end. ‘Spoke to his friends and neighbours again: he’s not been in touch. Got on to the Coastguard and there’s no sign of the Copper-Tun washing up anywhere. Waiting to hear back from ports in Orkney, Shetland, and Norway in case he’s done a runner.’

  ‘Right. When you’ve been round Alex Williams’s, you and Deano hit Whitehills, Ma
cduff, Portsoy, and Gardenstown. Do a door-to-door of all the boats. Did anyone see Charles Anderson the night he went missing? Anyone hear where he was going? Did he have any money problems? You know the drill.’

  Deano nodded. ‘Sarge.’

  ‘And keep Tufty on a tighter leash this time, OK? Never known a probationer to get in so much trouble.’

  Quirrel blushed. ‘How was I supposed to know she wasn’t wearing any pants?’

  ‘I repeat: tighter leash. That’s five missing persons we’ve got on the books now. Be nice if we could actually find this one.’ Pause. ‘Last, and by all means least, we have a new edict from on high. We are Moray and Aberdeenshire Division. From this point on anyone caught calling it the “Mire” gets a spanking. Any questions?’

  Deano gave the canister of CS one last fiddle. ‘Aye, is that the good kind of spanking, or the bad kind?’

  ‘You’re disturbed, you know that, don’t you?’ Logan finished his rowie and sooked the grease from his finger. Stood. ‘Deano and Tufty, you’re in the Postman Pat van. Janet and me are away to spin some druggies.’

  ‘Sarge?’ Nicholson took the patrol car round the hairpin bend, changing down for the hill. Off to the left, the North Sea shone like a polished stone. Yachts and tiny fishing boats bobbed lazily in the harbour.

  Made a nice change after the horrible weekend.

  On the other side of the bay, Macduff shone in the afternoon sunshine.

  Then the view was swallowed by the pale harling walls of the Railway Inn. Old-fashioned Scottish houses lined the road, all towered over by the intimidating grey Victorian bulk of the Health Centre. Nicholson shifted her hands along the steering wheel, voice light and carefree. ‘Sarge, has anyone spoken to you about the pool? You know, how it’s going?’

  Logan unzipped one of the pockets on his stabproof and pulled out a packet of Polos. Liberated one from its foil prison. Popped the mint in his mouth and crunched. ‘Take it from me: CID’s a mug’s game.’ The stabproof vest was like a fist, squeezing his chest with every breath. Handcuffs clicking against the seatbelt clasp. Extendable baton poking into his thigh. Limb restraints digging into the small of his back. Bet Batman’s utility belt never gave him this much gyp. ‘Still don’t see why you want to join.’ Crunch, crunch, crunch. ‘Polo?’ Wiggling the pack at her.