Logan McRae 09 - The Missing and the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘In my sodding bed!’

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a girl. I changed the sheets and duvet cover first. Wasn’t going to get into your filthy pit, God knows what I might catch.’ Another yawn. ‘Got any toast?’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault: Graham Stirling. I did what I had to and I’m not apologizing for it any more. They don’t like it, tough.’

  She stuck one hand down the front of her robe and had a scratch. ‘Probably should’ve put on a bra …’

  Oh God. Not again. Once was bad enough.

  He turned his back. Stuck the kettle on to boil again. ‘If you want to shout at me, you can get your stuff and bugger off. My shift starts at three: till then, I don’t care.’

  ‘Course you do.’ She picked the bottle of supermarket whisky from the floor. Gave it a shoogle. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be drinking this pish.’

  ‘And while I’m at it, how the hell did you get in here?’

  Another yawn. ‘You left me a key, remember?’

  Outside the kitchen window, a knot of uniform in high-vis waistcoats clambered into the back of a big police van. Probably off to search the cliffs or the road again. As if that was going to make any difference.

  He took two mugs from the cupboard and spooned instant coffee into them. ‘You got an ID on your victim yet?’

  ‘I wish.’ A little deflating noise came from behind him. ‘She’s no’ in the misper database, so Finnie went on the news last night with a picture and did an appeal for info. No prizes for guessing what happened next.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘Six hundred phone calls, and no’ a decent bit of intel between them.’ More yawning. ‘Don’t know why we bother.’

  The kettle’s clicking grumble built to a rattling boil.

  He stuck two slices of floppy white bread in the toaster. Put on his casual voice. ‘We still on for that raid today? Four OSU and a dog team?’

  ‘You’ve got a cheek. After your performance yesterday?’

  He poured boiling water into the mugs. ‘I can still throw your arse out on the street. In your stolen dressing gown.’

  She shrugged. ‘Try it.’

  …

  Fair enough.

  He poured the water over the coffee granules. Stared out of the window as the police van pulled away. ‘I need a success, OK? Biohazard says Professional Standards are coming after me.’

  ‘Wondered when we’d get to that. Poor Logan, oh pity poor Logan, look at him all sad and unloved, he’s only little, etc.’ Steel went in for another scratch. ‘Mind you, Biohazard’s no’ wrong. The rubber heelers are going to be all over you for yesterday. Right now you’re about one screw-up away from getting booted off the force.’

  — Wednesday Backshift —

  Some People Just Need a Clip Round the Ear …

  15

  Logan pulled his epaulettes from his fleece pockets, huffed a breath over the chrome-plated sergeant’s bars, and polished them on the leg of his trousers. Clipped them into place on the shoulders of his police T-shirt. Stared at his computer screen.

  The STORM system was full of actions from yesterday’s unsupervised backshift. A lot of which still needed updating. Tufty was the worst offender: from the look of things, he hadn’t actually done a single bit of work yesterday. Well today he was going to be busy, even if it was only trying to extract a size-nine boot from his backside.

  The desk phone burst into its annoying electronic trill.

  So much for the peace and quiet.

  Logan had a sip of tea, then answered the phone. ‘Banff station.’

  A woman’s voice, hesitant and slightly hushed. Faint hint of an Ayrshire accent The sound of a grumbling diesel engine in the background. ‘I need to speak to someone about the … the little girl’s body they found.’

  He pulled out his notebook. ‘Do you have some information?’ Pen poised.

  ‘Can I … Can I see her?’

  Great. Another nutter.

  ‘Police Scotland don’t do general viewings for people who want to look at murder victims. It’s considered insensitive. Thank you for calling.’

  ‘Wait! I …’ She cleared her throat. ‘I think she might be my daughter.’

  ‘OK.’ He peered at the phone’s display and jotted down the mobile number she was calling from. ‘Can I get your name please?’

  ‘It’s Helen. Helen Edwards. My daughter’s name is Natasha. Natasha Clara Edwards. She … She’d be six now. I haven’t seen her for three years.’

  ‘Can you hang on a second?’ He pinned the phone between his ear and shoulder, logged into the Missing Person system and hammered ‘NATASHA EDWARDS’ into the search box. Got back a raft of results for the surname Edwards, Edward, and Edwardson. Natasha Clara Edwards was halfway down the screen.

  A click, and the summary appeared.

  Abducted on the eve of her third birthday, three years ago, from the family home in Falkirk. Blah, blah, blah … Investigating officers were sure it was her father who snatched her – he disappeared at the same time, two weeks before financial irregularities surfaced at the firm of accountants he worked for. The assumption was that she’d been wheeched off to Spain where her dad had family. Enquiries with the Spanish authorities fizzled out and the case was shelved.

  He opened a web browser and had a bash on Google. Lots of red-top tabloid outrage about wee kids getting snatched by their estranged dads and what were the police going to do about it?

  The photo beneath the headlines was pretty standard across the newspapers and editions: a little girl sitting in a paddling pool. Ash-blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders, eyebrows so pale they almost weren’t there. Big grin. Spade in one hand. Ducks on her swimming costume.

  Add three years and she could easily be the girl found in Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool.

  ‘OK, sorry about that.’ He underlined the name in his notebook. ‘Mrs Edwards, can you remember any distinguishing features your daughter has? Birthmarks? Scars? Did she break any bones when she was small? Moles? Anything like that?’ Dental records might help … assuming she’d had a lot of work done when she was tiny and those teeth hadn’t fallen out yet. But it wasn’t likely.

  ‘Do you need DNA, or something? I’ve got a lock of her hair.’

  There was a knock on the door. ‘Logan?’ Inspector McGregor stepped into the room. ‘Are we all set for the raid on Klingon and Gerbil’s place?’

  He pointed at the phone in his other hand. Mouthed the words, ‘Murdered girl.’

  That got him a raised eyebrow.

  ‘Before we go down the DNA route, we need to see if there’s anything obvious to rule Natasha in or out.’ He scribbled the words ‘TARLAIR BODY – MIGHT BE HER MUM ON PHONE’ on a Post-it and held it out.

  The Inspector took it, raised an eyebrow. Then perched on the edge of the desk.

  ‘Oh, I see …’

  ‘No point wasting your time coming all the way up here if it definitely isn’t her.’

  ‘Too late. I got the train to Aberdeen this afternoon. I’m on the bus to Banff now.’

  ‘Right … Well … When are you going to arrive?’

  ‘Quarter past five?’

  Which gave them about two hours.

  ‘OK, I’ll get someone to meet you at the bus stop and we’ll see what we can do.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She hung up.

  Logan put the phone back on the hook. Frowned at it.

  The Inspector craned her neck to peer at the search results on his monitor. ‘Credible?’

  ‘No idea. Maybe.’ He pointed at the wee girl grinning out from the front page of the Daily Mail on his computer screen. ‘Looks a bit like her. After three years …?’ A shrug.

  ‘Well, make sure you let the MIT know.’ Inspector McGregor folded her arms. ‘Anything I need to worry about today?’

  ‘Should be fine, Guv. We’ve got Syd Fraser coming over with his dogs and a four-person team from
the Operational Support Unit. Plan is to go in soon as everyone’s here.’

  ‘I see. Well, make sure you keep an eye on Constable Quirrel – you know how excitable he gets.’ She dumped an ID sheet on Logan’s desk. Pointed at the lined face glowering out of the photograph. Skin tanned to an oaky brown, a mop of curly blond hair. ‘Divisional Intelligence Unit says Stevie Moran’s back in the country. Chances are he’ll put in an appearance on our patch sooner or later, visiting his mum. Be nice if we could make his stay a bit more permanent this time. Say, six to eight years.’

  Logan added the sheet to his in-tray. ‘I’ll tell the teams to keep an eye out.’

  ‘Good. There’s cakes and-slash-or pastries for whoever arrests him.’ She slipped her glasses off, huffed a breath onto the lenses, and polished them. Kept her voice nonchalant. ‘Now, do you want to tell me about what happened yesterday?’

  Not really.

  Deep breath. ‘Hissing Sid made it look as if I was on a mission to stitch-up Graham Stirling. I’m too arrogant to follow procedure, but too incompetent to make my lies stick. So unless Stephen Bisset wakes up and dobs Stirling in, there’s nothing we can do.’

  A bit more chewing. Then, ‘There are going to be repercussions, you know that, don’t you? The vultures will be circling, looking for a scapegoat, and you’re the most goat-like thing we’ve got right now.’

  He slumped in his seat. Rubbed a hand over his face. ‘What was I supposed to do, let Stephen Bisset die?’

  Inspector McGregor stood. ‘I’ll have a word with a few people. See if there’s any wiggle room.’ She marched for the door, then stopped on the threshold. ‘Meantime, it might be a good idea to get yourself a result at Klingon and Gerbil’s. Bigger the better.’

  Logan waited till the door clunked shut behind her before rolling his eyes. ‘Yeah, thanks for that.’ Then he punched the internal number for the MIT’s incident room on the top floor.

  It rang for a while, then a while longer, then finally: ‘DS McKenzie.’

  ‘Took your time.’

  ‘We’re short-staffed today. What do you want?’

  ‘I got a call from someone who thinks they might be your victim’s mother.’ Logan passed on Helen Edwards’s details. ‘She gets into Banff at quarter past five. Bus stop on Low Street.’

  ‘I’ll let the Boss know.’

  Clunk – she hung up on him.

  ‘You’re very sodding welcome.’ He popped the handset back in its cradle, grabbing his briefing notes, and headed out into the main office.

  The usual newspapers were draped over the side of Maggie’s cubicle: an Evening Express and an Aberdeen Examiner, joined by a Scottish Sun. ‘CASE AGAINST GRAHAM STIRLING SET TO COLLAPSE’, ‘POLICE “BUNGLED” INVESTIGATION’, and ‘LEFT-FEET FOUND IN CLYDESIDE SHOCK’.

  Logan grabbed the Evening Express and the Aberdeen Examiner and dumped them in the nearest bin. In for a penny … The Sun joined them.

  Maggie meerkatted her head over the parapet. ‘You want me to make you a nice cup of tea?’

  ‘I appreciate the thought, but I’m OK. Really.’

  Her eyebrows peaked in the middle. ‘Are you sure? You didn’t collect your messages when you came in. And … well …’ She held up a small stack of Post-its. ‘Maybe I should dig out some biscuits?’

  ‘Oh God. Is it that bad?’

  She handed the notes over and he thumbed through them. Two from the Area Commander. Three from Steel. One from Detective Chief Superintendent Finnie. All pretty much the same thing: how had he managed to screw up the Graham Stirling trial? And, right at the bottom, one from Professional Standards. A mobile number was printed across the top in Maggie’s perfect handwriting, followed by ‘CALL CHIEF SUPT. NAPIER. HE SAYS “YOU KNOW WHY.”’

  Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant.

  Well, couldn’t say Biohazard hadn’t warned him.

  Septic-tank hot tub time.

  Logan scrunched the notes up and stuffed them in his pocket. ‘If Napier calls again, I’m out running an operation. You don’t know when I’ll get back.’ The phone rang on the desk facing Maggie’s, but there was no one there to answer it. ‘Where is everyone? Shouldn’t the MIT be doing something?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear?’ Maggie lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘DS Dawson had to be hospitalized.’

  Ah …

  ‘Apparently his insides are all outside now. And—’

  ‘Right, well, I’d better get on with it.’ Logan backed towards the door. ‘Got a … house to raid.’ And escape.

  Through in the Constables’ Office, Deano poked at his keyboard with two fingers. Nicholson hunched over a stack of evidence bags, cross-referencing their labels with the official log. Tufty was slumped in his seat – arms dangling, head back. Swivelling left, then right again.

  Logan thumped the door shut.

  Tufty almost collapsed off his chair. ‘Careful, Sarge, frightened the life out of me.’

  ‘Tell me, Constable Quirrel, are you up to date with all your actions on STORM? Because last time I checked – which was, ooh …’ Logan popped his arm out, flashing his watch, ‘five minutes ago – there were ten you haven’t touched for a week.’

  ‘Ah …’

  Logan loomed over him. ‘Now I don’t normally approve of workplace bullying, but I’m going to start giving you a clip round the ear for every action you’ve done sod all about.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No. No buts.’ He jabbed a finger at Tufty’s monitor. ‘Get your backside in gear before I skelp the ears right off you!’

  ‘Yes, Sarge. Sorry, Sarge.’ Tufty spun the chair around and logged in. Fingers clattering across the keyboard.

  ‘Better.’ Logan pinned the ID sheet for Stevie Moran up on the corkboard by the radiator, adding his ugly face to the collection of druggies, dealers, burglars, and other dodgy sods currently at liberty in Banff and Macduff. ‘Inspector McGregor says Stevie Moran’s back in the area. Keep your eyes peeled: there’s a fancy piece for whoever nabs him.’

  Nicholson stared at the photograph for a bit. Then held up a biscuit tin. ‘We doing presumptive testing, or just sending it off?’

  A frown. Biscuit tin …? Ah, OK: the one hidden under a sofa seat cushion in Kirstin Rattray’s fleapit flat. ‘Do me a favour and mark it as “pending” till we’re done with Klingon and Gerbil. Might want to put her on the books if the dunt goes well.’

  Janet put the tin to one side. ‘Sarge, about yesterday,’ she glanced at Deano and Tufty, ‘we want you to know that we’re behind you. If there’s anything you need us to do? You know, like—’

  The door opened and she clicked her mouth shut.

  But it wasn’t Steel, or one of DS Dawson’s team of tossers, it was PC Syd Fraser. Leather dog leads draped around his neck and fastened behind his back. Fleece all tatty and worn. Checked ‘POLICE’ baseball cap on his head. ‘Afternoon, strange people. We knocking on someone’s door today, then?’

  ‘Waiting for the OSU.’

  ‘They’re outside, in the van, having a singsong.’ Syd clapped his hands together. ‘Time for a cup of tea?’

  Nicholson jumped to her feet. ‘I’ll get it, Syd. Sarge? Deano? Tufty?’

  OK … No way that was suspicious.

  Logan shook his head. ‘I’m good, thanks. And Constable Quirrel is far too busy to drink tea. Aren’t you, Constable Quirrel?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘Right.’ She squeezed past Syd and out of the room.

  Deano’s Airwave bleeped. ‘All units be on the lookout for a blue BMW – driving erratically on the A97 near Aberchirder. Possible drink driver …’ He turned it down. Pointed at his screen. ‘Sarge, got another misper. Linda Andrews, eighty-two, dementia sufferer. Gardenstown. Husband says he got back from the shops half an hour ago and she was gone.’

  Logan drummed his fingers on the worktop. Couldn’t cancel the drugs bust twice. No way they’d let him have the extra bo
dies again. Not after yesterday. And he needed this.

  So what was he supposed to do, ignore a vulnerable adult wandering lost somewhere on his patch? No thanks.

  He stood, thumped a hand down on Tufty’s shoulder, making the little sod flinch. ‘Constable Quirrel. You are hereby granted a temporary reprieve. Get out there and find Mrs Andrews before something happens to her.’

  Tufty scrambled out of his seat. ‘But, Sarge, I want to go on the dunt, can’t someone else …’ He must have finally recognized the look on Logan’s face, because he swallowed. Cleared his throat. ‘I mean, “Yes, Sarge.”’

  ‘Damn right you do. And soon as you’ve found her, I want those actions completed.’

  ‘Right, Sarge.’ He grabbed his peaked cap and his equipment belt and legged it, nearly colliding with Nicholson on her way back in.

  ‘Hoy, watch it!’ She jerked to a halt, Syd’s tea swinging in one hand, the milky contents tidal-waving from one side of the mug to the other as he scrambled past. ‘Idiot.’ She handed it to Syd as a barrage of ‘excuse me’s came from the corridor behind her.

  The Operational Support Unit lumbered into the room. Four of them, all dressed in black, all looking as if they’d been carved from granite. One even had to stoop to get through the door.

  He peered at Logan for a beat then stuck his paw out. ‘You’ll be McRae, then?’

  It was like shaking a bench vice – the thick fingers dwarfed Logan’s hand, crushing it. ‘Sergeant Mitchell?’

  ‘Rob.’ He nodded at his fellow mountains. ‘Baz, Davy, and Carole.’ They waved. ‘Sorry we’re late – “Bohemian Rhapsody” came on as we were pulling up. Can’t pass up something like that, can you?’

  Logan pulled the briefing sheets from the folder and handed them out. Front page: a photo of Gerbil and one of Klingon, along with a potted bio of each. Gerbil’s red hair was cut in some weird 1920s throwback style – a number one at the sides, bowl haircut with extra fringe on top. Wide face. Little eyes. Klingon’s dirty blond mop of curly hair hung in spaniel curls around thin, suspicious features. A wet, pouty mouth. Thick-rimmed glasses. ‘We have a warrant to enter and search the residence of one Colin Spinney. He and his associate, Kevin McEwan, have a lot of form for dealing. You’ll find the list of recent intel on page two.’