Logan McRae 09 - The Missing and the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  The PCSO led the way down to the far end, where sobbing oozed through the thick cell door. ‘You know, I had a probationer like your Nicholson, back when I was a PC in Mintlaw. Same fire in her. Couldn’t wait to climb the slippery ladder to CID. Never would take a telling.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  A shrug. ‘Only thing I could do. Married her.’ He grabbed the big metal slider on the safety hatch and pulled it down, lining the rectangular glass partition up with the rectangular hole in the door. Exposing the warning about the hatch now being unsafe, and the little patch of plastic where the occupant’s details were scribbled up. Whether they were a biter, or a spitter. A self-harmer, or prone to outbursts of violence. This one had ‘REALLY NEEDS A WASH!!!’ printed on it in wobbly black marker.

  The PSCO peered through the window, then unlocked the door. Stepped inside as the wails and sobs went on. ‘Come on, it’s not that bad, is it?’

  Logan stayed where he was as a wave of mouldy body odour crashed out into the hall. Rancid, cloying bitter onions, and the ammonia nip of clothes left too long in the washing machine. ‘Dear God …’

  A cough. Blinking as the stench tried to sandpaper his irises off.

  Kevin ‘the Gerbil’ McEwan sat on the thin concrete ledge that ran along one wall. He was hunched over with his forehead on his knees and his hands wrapped around his head. Ginger hair poked through the gaps in his fingers. Shoulders quivering in time with the sobs.

  The PCSO put the polystyrene cup on the ledge, an inch or two out of reach. ‘Look, if you tell the truth, it’ll be OK.’ He looked back at Logan. ‘Won’t it?’

  ‘I’m not allowed to talk to him. Don’t want to contravene his human rights.’

  Gerbil raised his head. Cheeks pink and shiny, clean bits showing through the dirt where he’d been crying. Snot did a Magnum PI on his top lip. Eyes like bullet holes. Barely able to get the words out. ‘They’re … they’re going to … going to … kill me!’ All traces of the hard-man Weegie accent was gone. Now it was pure, terrified, Teuchter.

  The PCSO tutted. ‘No one’s going to kill you, son.’

  ‘They’re … going to find … find out we lost … lost their stash.’

  ‘Well, it’s not the end of the world, is it?’

  ‘I’ll … I’ll go to … prison and they’ll kill me. They’ll get someone to kill me!’

  Logan didn’t move.

  Don’t get involved. Follow procedure like a good little robot.

  Wasn’t even his case any more.

  Remember what Napier said.

  Logan cleared his throat. Turned his back. And walked away.

  20

  ‘Don’t understand why you didn’t eat it for tenses.’ Logan took the Big Car out through the Fraserburgh limits, heading back to base. The sky was a patchwork of indigo and black, covered in stars.

  Nicholson took another big bite of her custard slice, getting pastry flakes all down the front of her stabproof vest. Little Tesco carrier bag tucked around her neck like a bib. ‘Delayed gratification – you should try it sometime.’

  Her Airwave crackled away to itself: ‘Anyone in the vicinity of Dales Industrial Estate, Peterhead – reports of a break-in to the container yard round the back of the Marathon building …’

  ‘And don’t get icing and stuff all over the passenger seat. Bad enough with manky sods planking mouldy egg sandwiches—’

  ‘Not the half-eaten sarnie rant, again.’ She grinned, talking with her mouth full. ‘Think they should make it compulsory for Police Scotland to buy you cakes if you’ve got to do a full-on body-cavity search?’

  ‘I’ll vote for that.’

  ‘It was like Aladdin’s cave in there. She’d banked three tubs of Temazepam, one of Diclofenac, and one of Oxycodone. To be fair, that last lot are actually suppositories, but you’re meant to take them out of the packaging first.’

  He clicked on the radio. Yet more bland boy-band rubbish. ‘Is this national horrible music day?’

  The road twisted and turned, the hills and dips accompanied by the hiss of tyres and beige singing.

  ‘Sarge?’

  Here we go. ‘Deano suggested “Killer” or “Snuggles”. I quite like “Crippen”.’

  A frown. ‘No … I wanted to know if there were any, you know, opportunities going on the Tarlair murder MIT. When we went to see all those sex offenders, I did a good job with the sneaking and searching, didn’t I? I mean, I know I didn’t find anything, but that’s not my fault if there’s nothing to find.’

  ‘Reports of a grey BMW people carrier being driven erratically on the Keith road, north of Huntly …’

  Shadowed fields rippled past the car windows, the lights of distant farms and cottages like glowing amber eyes in the darkness.

  ‘You want to jump ship? OK, I’ve got a nickname for you: Rat. And we’re not even sinking.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Sarge, I want a bit of excitement. Like on the telly. Catching murderers, kicking in doors, high-speed car chases, the full Sweeney.’

  ‘We had a high-speed last week. Harry Valentine: dog fighting and assault. We kicked a door in this morning and got eighty grand’s worth of heroin. And we chased down Stevie Moran: remember that? How much more Sweeney do you want?’

  ‘Anyone in Banff? We’ve got reports of a domestic—’

  ‘You know what I mean. It’s—’

  ‘Shhhhh!’ Logan tilted his head. ‘Where was that domestic? Was that Alex Williams’s address?’

  She clicked the button on her Airwave. ‘Shire Uniform Seven here – can you repeat the address for that domestic, Control?’

  ‘Flat thirty-nine B, Colleonard Heights. Are you attending?’

  Not Alex Williams after all.

  Logan waved a hand at her. ‘Tufty and Deano will get there long before we can.’

  ‘Negative, Control, we’ve just left Fraserburgh. Constables Scott and Quirrel should be closer.’ She settled back in her seat. Let go of her handset. ‘Anyway, I don’t see how it’s disloyal to want to solve a murder.’

  ‘That’s what all the rats say.’

  ‘Couldn’t you put in a word with your old boss?’

  A truck thundered past, going the other way, the ‘FILLITIN’ FINE FISH’ logo glowing in the Big Car’s headlights.

  ‘OK, I’ll see what I can do. Assuming we can get someone in to backfill for you.’

  A huge smile. ‘Thanks, Sarge.’

  ‘You know they’ll lumber you with all the rubbish jobs, don’t you? Piddle Patrol’s a highlight, everything else will be—’

  ‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

  She clicked the button again. ‘Batter on.’

  ‘We’ve had a call from Highlands and Islands – there’s been a fatal RTC on the Kessock Bridge, Inverness side. Ford Fiesta went under an articulated. Wife’s OK, but the husband and four-year-old boy are dead. Next of kin are in Gardenstown.’

  Logan closed his eyes. No prizes for guessing where this was going. ‘H-and-I want someone to deliver the death message, don’t they?’

  Of course they did.

  Pale yellow streetlights lit the way down the steep hill to the North Sea. A string of fireflies, trapped in the darkness below the stretch of grey granite houses where Nicholson parked the Big Car.

  Gardenstown perched on the side of the cliff, its streets winding their way to the small harbour at the bottom.

  She killed the engine. Took a deep breath. ‘We got the names?’

  Logan read them out of his notebook. ‘Joyce Gordon – serious condition in Raigmore Hospital. Ian and Colin Gordon both pronounced dead at the scene.’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Four-years old.’

  Nicholson wiped her palms on her trousers. ‘I hate this bit.’

  ‘Me too.’ He undid his seatbelt and stepped out into the night.

  Stars blazed down from the inky sky, reaching from horizon to horizon, crystal clear.

>   They let themselves through the gate and walked up the path to a semidetached two-storey house. Roses and honeysuckle around the door, turning the cool air sickly sweet.

  ‘Right.’ Nicholson straightened her shoulders. ‘No point putting it off.’ She reached out and rang the bell. ‘Ian, Joyce, Colin. Ian, Joyce, Colin. Ian, Joyce, Colin.’

  No reply. So she leaned on the bell again, keeping her thumb on it till lights flickered on inside the house.

  Logan blew out a breath. ‘It’s OK. I’ll do it.’

  She nodded. ‘Thanks, Sarge.’

  The front door creaked open and a white-haired man scowled out at them, pink dressing gown wrapped tight around his thin body. ‘Have you got any idea what time it is?’

  Logan stepped up. ‘Mr Gordon, can we come in? I’m afraid I have some bad news …’

  The living room was an oven, decked out in seascapes and photographs. A collection of little greenstone carvings on the mantelpiece above the blazing electric fire.

  Mr Gordon sat on the couch, staring out into nothing, one hand holding onto his wife’s as she sniffled and sobbed.

  Nicholson squatted on the floor beside her, holding her other hand. ‘Shh …’

  The only other sound was the clock ticking away on the wall.

  Then Logan’s phone burst into the ‘Imperial March’ from Star Wars. Loud enough to make everyone flinch.

  Didn’t need to check the screen to know who it was: Steel.

  ‘I’m really sorry about this.’ He hurried out into the corridor and closed the door behind him, before dragging his phone out. ‘What?’

  DCI Steel’s voice growled in his ear. ‘You’re no’ answering your Airwave.’

  He marched down the hall and into the kitchen. ‘I’m busy.’ A small room, bright-red walls, black tile floor, wooden work surfaces. Lots of stainless-steel appliances. Expensive looking.

  ‘Don’t care.’ A sooking noise. ‘Listen—’

  ‘You get anything from the schools?’

  ‘Of course we didn’t. And in case you’re wondering, we looked into that long before you stuck your nose in.’

  Might as well do something useful while he was in here.

  Logan put the kettle on to boil. ‘Well … Did you check on kids who’re meant to be off sick, or on holiday?’

  ‘You about done telling me how to suck eggs? No one knows her, no one recognizes her, no one misses her.’

  Poor little soul.

  He found mugs in the cupboard above the kettle. Tea and sugar was there too.

  ‘Probably not in school then. He dressed her up.’

  The sarcasm positively dripped from the phone’s speaker. ‘Do you think?’ Then another sooking noise – probably Steel’s e-cigarette. ‘Got Becky to go digging. Uniform’s all from Asda’s “Back to School” collection. No way to know which store. Nothing specific about it, so we’ve no’ clue which school he’s pretending she’s from.’

  A frown. ‘She’s wearing red shoes. That can’t be normal.’

  ‘Your head’s no’ normal.’ More sooking. ‘And speaking of no’ normal: how come you’ve no’ asked about your Mrs Edwards, up from Edinburgh, yet? The first flush of ardour fading, is it?’

  Logan pinned the phone between his ear and shoulder, then dumped teabags into mugs. ‘Did she ID the body?’

  ‘No distinguishing features or childhood broken bones. According to the pathologist, that matches what we’ve got. Yeah, there’s signs of breakages, but no’ till she’s four or five. So we’re going to try a DNA match with the mum. Aberdeen labs are still down, so it’s off to sunny Dundee with the samples. Going to be a couple of days before we know for sure.’

  Well, at least that was something.

  ‘I’ve got to go: we’re on a death message. RTC, one of the fatalities was only four—’

  ‘Listen, about your complete and utter cocking disaster yesterday …’

  Logan closed his eyes and dunted his forehead off the wall unit. Here we go. ‘I told you: I’m not apologizing for saving Stephen Bisset’s life.’

  ‘Aye. Very noble of you. Turns out it doesn’t matter anyway.’

  The kettle rattled to a boil. Clicked and fell silent.

  Then Nicholson’s muffled voice came from the hall outside. The clunk of a door closing.

  And still nothing from Steel.

  He poured hot water into each mug. ‘Come on then, I’ll bite. What cutting bit of sarcasm have you got for me?’

  ‘It’s no’ a joke, Laz. Graham Stirling got set free at half four. And fifteen minutes ago, some nurse found Stephen Bisset. Dead. All alone in his hospital bed. Someone suffocated him.’

  Oh that was just … perfect.

  Brilliant end to a brilliant sodding day.

  Logan thumped his head against the unit again. Stayed there. ‘Please tell me someone’s arrested Stirling.’

  Nicholson slipped into the kitchen, face pink, scrubbing at her eyes with the heel of her hand. She saw Logan and froze. Blinked. Straightened her stabproof vest. ‘Sarge.’

  He pointed at the phone in his other hand. ‘Have they arrested Stirling, or haven’t they?’

  ‘So all that grief and running about was for nothing, wasn’t it? So much for bending the rules to save the poor bugger’s life. Stephen Bisset still wound up dead, only he got to suffer for four months first.’

  So, he’d been wrong. Today could get worse.

  21

  Nicholson pulled into the only free parking space anywhere near Banff station. The MIT’s collection of ragged pool cars and the search team’s Transit vans clogged everything else. Wouldn’t be long before the people living either side started complaining.

  ‘All units, be on the lookout for an IC-One male wearing a dark hoodie and baseball cap. Mid-twenties with a moustache and soul patch. Chipped front tooth. Attempted sexual assault in Stuartfield …’

  Logan climbed out. ‘Right. Cup of tea, then get your actions up to date. We’re going to be out of here bang on time for a change. Two o’clock on the dot.’

  She nodded – eyes all puffy and red in the light spilling out from the station windows. ‘Sarge.’

  The main office had its familiar contingent of two uniforms battering away at a computer, while Steel’s right-hand woman scowled away at the other. She looked up and let Logan enjoy that scowl for a bit, before going back to whatever was blighting her life on the screen.

  Nice to see you too.

  The Sergeants’ Office was empty for once. Logan fought his way out of his protective gear and settled into his chair with a sigh. Spread his hands out on the desktop. No DS Dawson. How lovely …

  And then a small barb of guilt hooked itself into his throat; and why was DS Dawson not there? Yes, well.

  Still, it wasn’t as if anyone ever died from an overdose of laxatives. Was it?

  Hope not.

  Logan logged into STORM and wrote up their visit to Gardenstown. Then started in on the team’s actions.

  The office door thumped open and Steel marched into the room. Scowled at him. Put her mug down on top of his notebook. ‘Where the hell you been?’

  ‘I told you: death message.’ He moved the mug. Went back to his keyboard. ‘If you want something, it’ll have to wait. Got everyone’s actions to review. Then I’m going home.’

  ‘Pffff …’ She thumped down into the chair opposite and heaved her feet up onto the desk. ‘Don’t be such a wheenge – night’s barely getting started. Got a kid killer to catch.’ Then stuck two fingers in her mouth and let out a piercing whistle. ‘BECKY, BUMHOLE FRONT AND CENTRE!’

  There was some muttered swearing from the main office, then Detective Sergeant McKenzie stomped to a halt on the threshold. Her bun was coming loose on one side, a handful of frizzy brown hair breaking free to puff around her ear. ‘Don’t have to bellow like that. You could pick up the phone.’

  ‘Blah, blah, blah.’ Steel dug into an in
side pocket and came out with a small evidence bag. Then scribbled something down on one of Logan’s Post-its. ‘Get that sent off to this address. And don’t stick it in the post. I want it hand-delivered by someone in a shiny uniform. Tell them, if it’s no’ in Dundee by lunchtime I’m going to take my fist and turn them into a glove puppet.’

  DS McKenzie’s cheeks flushed. ‘Yes, Boss.’ Then she snatched the evidence bag and Post-it off the desk and stormed out. Slamming the door behind her.

  Logan waited for the echoes to fade. ‘Did you have to?’

  ‘Ah, she loves it really.’ Steel delved into her cleavage for a scratch. ‘Probably die of old age before those lazy sods get back with the DNA, but my new bestest friend – Professor Whatshisname, at that institute in Dundee – says if I get him some samples from our wee dead girl, he’ll run stable isotope analysis on them. On the sly. No charge, just the warm fuzzy feeling of helping catch whichever dirty sod killed her. And a bottle of malt whisky.’

  ‘Seriously, if you don’t lighten up on DS McKenzie she’ll either go off on the stress, or come after you with a meat cleaver.’

  ‘Could only get my hands on some hair, but it’s better than nothing. With any luck, the Prof gets back to us with where our victim’s from, and where she’s been. Postcode would be nice, but probably asking a bit much.’ A sniff. ‘Aye, assuming Becky doesn’t cock it up and send the sample to Glasgow, or Timbuctoo.’

  ‘There’s no point talking to you, is there?’

  ‘Nope.’ Steel clicked her fake cigarette on and stuck it in her gob. ‘How about you and me head out to rattle a few more sex offenders?’

  ‘Shift’s over in fifteen minutes. And then I’m going home and having two rest days. So if you want someone to run around after you, you better get one of your minions to do it.’

  ‘I don’t like my minions. My minions are no fun.’ She waved her fake cigarette about, like a conductor’s baton. ‘My old minions were much better.’