Syd looked over his shoulder. ‘I’m saving the bathroom till last.’
Yes, because that was going to be such a treat.
They gave Enzo a couple of minutes, then held the wardrobe doors open for him.
Nothing.
The second, smaller bedroom was the same, only messier. A single mattress lay on the floor, a large brown stain covering one side, complete with its own collection of spiralling bluebottles. A windowsill laden with dead flies and wasps.
Other than a bong and a little drift of burnt tinfoil on the windowsill, Enzo didn’t find anything there either.
A stepladder leaned up against the wall, in the corner of the room. Free of dirty socks, pants, T-shirts, or trousers.
Logan nodded at it. ‘Does that look a bit suspicious to you?’
Back onto the landing. Staring up at the ceiling.
A hatch led up into the attic, right outside the single bedroom. The hatch’s edges were filthy with layers and layers of dirty fingerprints.
He pointed. ‘You think we can get Enzo up there?’
‘Not without giving us both a hernia.’
Logan grabbed the stepladder and carried it through. Popped it open beneath the hatch. Climbed up the first couple of steps. Looked down over the side of the banister to the bottom of the stairs. Long way down. ‘Do me a favour and hold the ladder for a minute?’
Better safe than sorry.
He climbed, pushed the hatch up and slid it to the side. Blackness. Logan’s torch sent a beam of white LED light scorching across the roof beams. Another couple of steps and his head popped over the threshold into the loft space. Warm up here. Stuffy too. Partially floored.
He played the torch beam around him: boxes and boxes and shadows and boxes, and …
‘Oh, ho. What have we here?’
It was a baseball bat, duct tape wrapped around the handle, the wooden end scraped and scarred. Smeared with what looked like dark-red jam but had the coppery smell of raw meat. It wasn’t the only smell up here. There was something rank and sewage-like too.
Another couple of steps up, till his whole torso was in the attic.
Boxes and boxes. He popped one open. Grinned.
Syd’s voice came up from below. ‘Anything?’
‘Either Klingon and Gerbil are stockpiling bags of cornflower up here, or we’ve hit the jackpot. It’s …’
What was that?
A hand tugged at his trouser leg. ‘You OK up there?’
‘Shhh …’
He moved his foot to the top rung of the stepladder. Wobbled for a moment. Then a bit of a struggle and he was in the attic, kneeling on the edge of the hatch. One hand on the nearest roof beam, the torch clutched in the other. Swinging the beam slowly left and right, causing the shadows to dance. Catching motes of dust in the stuffy space and making them glow.
There it was again. A sort of scratching snuffling sound.
Rats?
They’d have to be bloody huge if it was.
‘Police. Is somebody there?’
He shuffled forwards. Let go of the roof beam. Reached out and pushed one of the boxes to the side. It fell over with a crash, spilling dusty crockery shrapnel over the chipboard flooring.
A man lay on his side, arms behind his back, ankles held together with a thick binding of duct tape. Gag over his mouth. Dried blood streaked the side of his face nearest the ground. One eye stuck closed with dried gore, the other slitted, only the white showing. Prominent cheekbones, pierced ears and nose. Jagged tribal tattoos on his neck.
In real life he was missing the Hitler moustache, glasses, and bolts out the side of his neck, but there was no mistaking everyone’s favourite drug-dealing scumbag. Only reported missing because he owed his granny money.
Jack Simpson.
So that’s where he’d been all this time …
17
Logan hunched over the disposable tester, rubbing the tips of his gloved fingers together. ‘Come on, you can do it …’
Silence filled the Sergeants’ Office, only broken by the occasional creak and murmured cough from the gathered hordes. They packed the room – Syd, Sergeant Mitchell and two of his team. Nicholson, Tufty, and Deano were off doing things, but most of the dayshift were squeezed in around the edges, killing the last ten minutes before they could clock off.
Maggie appeared in the doorway. ‘Well?’
Dirty pink spread along the thin display strip that took up one side of the flat, black, pen-sized bit of plastic. ‘Red line, red line, red line …’
And there it was. Right where it was supposed to be, alongside the notch in the tester.
Logan straightened up. Held out the test, so everyone could see it. ‘It’s a boy!’
Mitchell let out a whistle. Stared down at the cardboard box they’d removed from Klingon’s attic. ‘Got to be, what: eighty, a hundred grand’s worth there?’
Syd grinned. ‘More if it’s not been cut yet.’
Logan popped the tester into an evidence bag. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I hereby declare Operation Schofield a massive sodding success.’
Thank God.
Cue smiles. Laughter. Slapping of backs.
He stripped off his stabproof vest and propped it in the corner. ‘Maggie, I need you to get everything bagged up, labelled, in the system, then into the productions store.’
‘My pleasure.’
Logan headed out to the main office and up the stairs to the first floor, taking them two at a time. Whistling ‘We’re in the Money’ all the way.
The sound of phones and voices filtered down from the top floor. That would be the MIT, going through whatever motions they thought would make it look as if they were actually doing something other than generating paperwork and excuses.
Unlike Logan’s team.
The Duty Inspector’s door was open, so he knocked on the frame and stepped inside.
Inspector McGregor was behind her desk, faint purple bags lurking beneath her eyes. She took her glasses off and waved them at the man sitting opposite. ‘Ah, Sergeant McRae. I believe you know Detective Superintendent Young?’
Crap …
Young wouldn’t have looked out of place on Sergeant Mitchell’s Operational Support Unit. Broad shouldered with huge hands – the knuckles a map of scar tissue. Grey hair shorn close to the scalp. A crisp white shirt and dark-blue tie. Black suit jacket draped over the back of his chair. He nodded. ‘Sergeant.’
‘Sir.’
A smile. ‘It’s all right, I’m not with Professional Standards any more, you don’t have to stand at attention.’
‘Force of habit.’ Warmth spread across Logan’s cheeks. Back to the Inspector. ‘Sorry to bother you, Guv, but thought you’d like to know: we’ve recovered at least eighty grand’s worth of heroin from Klingon’s house. Won’t know for sure till the labs get through with it, but if it’s uncut …’
‘We’d be looking at two, maybe three hundred thousand.’ She nodded. ‘Excellent. Glad to hear you took my advice to heart about getting a big win.’
‘Plus half a brick of cannabis resin hidden in the oven. And best of all, we’ve finally found Jack Simpson: battered, gagged, and tied up in Klingon’s attic.’
‘Still alive?’
‘Just. Constable Scott’s keeping an eye on him in case he regains consciousness and says something coherent.’
‘First time for everything.’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘Excellent result, don’t you think, Superintendent? Shows what divisional policing can achieve with the right people.’
Young stretched his neck to one side, as if working out a line of knots. ‘And who’s interviewing this … Klingon, is it?’
‘Colin “Klingon” Spinney – local dealer.’ Logan pointed at the map of Banff and Macduff on the Inspector’s wall, where a cluster of red thumbtacks measled the streets. ‘He and his mate Kevin “Gerbil” McEwan have been trying to move up to the premier l
eague for a long time. I’ve sent them both straight off to Fraserburgh for processing. Soon as the Broch have booked them in, and the usual lawyer nonsense is out of the way, I’ll head over and—’
‘Actually, I’m afraid that’s not really going to be possible.’
Logan straightened his shoulders. ‘Thanks for your concern, sir, but I think my team are more than capable of—’
‘I know, I know.’ Young held up one of those huge, scarred hands. ‘But if this pair had eighty grand’s worth of gear stashed in the house, they’ve obviously got links to some serious players. Which means we’re going to have to assign a Major Investigation Team. Get the Divisional Intelligence Office involved and see where this fits into the drug web. Liaise with whichever area of the country it all came from. Probably coordinate a cross-border operation …’
Inspector McGregor slipped her glasses back on. Scanned the intel section of the Operation Schofield briefing sheet. Her face soured. ‘All we have at the moment is, the delivery was “from somewhere down south”.’
‘Guv, I think we—’
‘Logan. Please.’ Young pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘It’s not a case of someone else taking credit for your work. You and your team will still get the mention in dispatches and all the pats on the back you deserve, but this much heroin?’ A half-shrug. ‘It’s too big to be handled at a divisional level. I’m sorry, but that’s the way things work these days.’
‘I see.’
Inspector McGregor sighed. Pulled a thick manila folder from her in-tray. ‘And while we’ve got the Detective Superintendent in the house, I thought we should consult him on this.’ She opened the folder and pulled out a wodge of A4 stapled in one corner. ‘We got a call from Aberdeen City Division: the case against Graham Stirling collapsed half an hour ago. It’s over.’
Logan closed his eyes and swore. Curled his hands into fists. ‘But he did it. They can’t let him walk!’
‘The Judge ruled most of the evidence inadmissible. The Fiscal’s office is spitting blood. And Professional Standards have requested copies of every complaint, reprimand, and comment made about you in the last five months.’
The paperwork thumped onto her desk.
‘He tortured Stephen Bisset. He broke every one of his fingers, he ripped out his teeth, he castrated—’
‘We know what he did.’ The Inspector opened the folder. ‘That’s why we need to go over this.’
Logan stuck his chin out. ‘You always get complaints when you’re in uniform. You’re in contact with the public the whole time: people don’t like being arrested or searched. And not a single one of those was upheld!’
‘That’s not—’
‘The only way you don’t get any complaints against you, is by sitting behind a desk all day.’
She stared at him. ‘Meaning?’
Ah. Too far.
He cleared his throat. ‘Meaning Professional Standards have no idea what it’s like to break up a fight outside a Peterhead nightclub at two in the morning. People whinge. It’s what they do.’
‘Logan, we’ve received a formal complaint that you’ve been taking bribes from drug dealers.’
‘First I’ve heard of it.’
She checked the top sheet of her pile of paper. ‘Complaint was made this morning, by a Mr Brown.’
‘Buster Brown? Are you kidding me?’
Young folded his arms. ‘We take allegations of corruption very seriously.’
‘I arrested him last week for possession with intent. This is his idea of revenge.’
‘Sergeant,’ Young leaned back in his seat, ‘if you’ll take a bit of advice: given the allegations made against you yesterday, my former colleagues are going to be all over you like flies on a turd. You need to minimize your exposure to anything that smells of shite.’ He poked the paperwork. ‘This, smells.’
‘I didn’t have any choice! Graham Stirling—’
‘It doesn’t matter if you had a choice or not. It’s how the thing looks in hindsight that matters to Professional Standards. Now, is there anything to this complaint about you taking money from dealers?’
‘Of course there isn’t. Two months ago, Buster Brown claimed I’d knocked him off his bicycle and broken both his legs. I did him for shoplifting and possession the week before, so he was getting his own back. Didn’t seem to occur to Buster that being in a wheelchair for the last fifteen years kind of undermined his story.’
Inspector McGregor peered at the sheet again. ‘That was him? Thought it was Ricky Welsh.’
‘No, Ricky was the fake assault in custody.’
‘Ah. So he was.’ She spread her hands on the desk. ‘Well, you’ll have my full support when the rubber heelers get here. I consider you an asset to B Division, Logan – this morning’s warrant proves that – but the Superintendent’s right, you need to be squeakier than clean.’
As if Buster Brown’s fictional complaints were anywhere near as serious as the Graham Stirling fiasco. As if they’d make any difference. As if Chief Superintendent Napier hadn’t already made up his mind to rain down a monsoon of crap on Logan’s head.
Still, when you’re drowning …
Logan nodded. ‘Yes, Guv.’
‘In the meantime,’ Young stood, ‘as the press seems to have decided Neil Wood was responsible for our dead wee girl, I think it’s about time we posted an officer outside his bed-and-breakfast full time. His father gets out of hospital later today and I don’t want him winding up on a mortuary slab for the sins of his son. Can you sort that, Wendy?’
Inspector McGregor’s face didn’t move for a moment. As if she’d pulled on a mask. ‘I’ll put in a request and see what the Big Boss says. Staffing levels are tight across the division as it is.’ She stuffed the stack of complaints back into their folder. ‘But we’ll do what we can.’
‘Thank you.’ A nod. ‘Good to see you again, Logan. Remember what I said. Keep your head down and your nose clean. Don’t give Napier any more rope than he already has.’ Young paused on the threshold. ‘And phone him back. If there’s one thing Napier hates, it’s being ignored.’
The Inspector waited till the door swung shut behind Detective Superintendent Young before sagging in her seat. ‘How, exactly, am I supposed to magic up an extra body to go stand in front of someone’s house? Do we not have enough to deal with as it is?’
Logan curled forward and thumped his forehead against her desk. ‘They’re letting him go …’
A sigh. ‘Had two people hand in their notice this month already. The Mire’s a plague ship and we’re dropping like flies.’
‘How can they let Graham Stirling go? Did you see what he did to Stephen Bisset?’
‘Logan, we—’
‘And he’s not going to stop at one, is he? Not now he knows he can get away with it!’ Another thump. ‘Gah …’ Logan sat back, rubbed at the line above his eyebrows. ‘How could they let him go?’
She grimaced. Swivelled her chair around and stared out of the window.
Blue sky, blue sea, herring gulls making lazy swirls in the sunlight.
Should’ve been raining.
Logan slouched further into the seat. Stared at the ceiling tiles. ‘I’m completely screwed, aren’t I?’
No answer.
Eventually, the Inspector cleared her throat. ‘They got the post-mortem report in, late yesterday. Most of our little girl’s recent injuries appear to have happened after she died. Probably caused by rocks as she got chucked about by the waves.’
‘Completely and utterly screwed …’
‘Logan!’
A sigh. ‘Thought it wasn’t our case any more.’
‘Humour me.’ McGregor didn’t look around, kept her face to the window where he couldn’t see it. ‘A dead six-year-old girl washes up on our doorstep and no one reports her missing. Why?’
‘OK … Cause of death?’
‘Someone stove her head in with a length of m
etal pipe. Then dumped her in the water. Young says there’s evidence of abuse too. Probably long term.’
Poor little soul.
Logan puffed out his cheeks. Let the breath escape slowly. ‘Which brings us back to Neil Wood.’
‘How do we prove it? The sea’s not that forgiving with DNA and trace. We don’t even know where she went into the water. Official line from the pathologist is a child of our victim’s size and weight would have neutral buoyancy – she could have been dumped where she was found and the tide washed her out and back in again. Or she could have come down the coast on the current. Impossible to tell.’
‘That’s a big bag of no sodding help.’
The Inspector stuck one foot up on the windowsill, laced her fingers behind the back of her head. Stared out at the expanse of rolling blue. ‘I know you’re hacked off about what happened with Graham Stirling, but grumping about it isn’t helping. You want me to give you some time off?’
‘Yeah, because that’s going to look good when Professional Standards get here. Suspended without pay, pending investigation.’ He covered his face with his hands. Groaned. ‘Brilliant. I should have let Stephen Bisset die in the woods. I should’ve been a good little boy, stuck to procedure, and left him to die.’
‘No one’s saying that.’
‘No?’ Logan sat up. ‘That’s exactly what they’re saying. Do what you’re told, be a parochial plod, don’t think for yourself. We’re nothing but robots in peaked caps and itchy bloody trousers. No wonder they won’t trust us to run our own drugs investigation.’
She didn’t turn around. ‘Are you finished?’
‘Sorry, Guv.’
‘OK: it’s frustrating that we don’t get to pursue the drugs bust, but that’s the world we live in now. Deal with it.’
‘Not just the drugs, though, is it? There’s no point talking about the dead little girl, because they took that off us too. Every time we turn up something big, someone comes in and takes it off us.’ He knocked on the desk with his knuckles. ‘And at least I got a result! More than Young’s MIT can say.’
Outside the gulls drifted and screamed.
Waves made thin white lines against the shore.
A car drove by on the road below, music bellowing its distorted ‘Bmmmmtshhh-bmmmmtshhh-bmmmmtshhh’ as it passed. Fading into silence.
Logan McRae 09 - The Missing and the Dead Page 16
