Logan McRae 09 - The Missing and the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Tough.’

  She stared at him. ‘Laz, in the old days, we’d dig through a dead tramp’s used knickers if we thought it’d catch a killer. What happened to you?’

  ‘What happened? Seriously? You can’t be—’

  Three knocks on the door and Nicholson stuck her head in. ‘Sarge, do you … Oh, sorry, didn’t know you had company.’ Her puffy eyes were back to normal. Couldn’t even tell she’d had a wee cry in the kitchen of an elderly couple who’d lost their son and grandchild in a stupid car accident. ‘Can I get—’

  ‘Do us a favour, Constable?’ Steel held up her mug. ‘Coffee: two and a coo. Laz here’ll have a milky tea.’

  That got her a frown. ‘Sarge?’

  Steel waggled the mug. ‘Give us a minute, eh? Got some motivating to do.’

  Logan closed his eyes and swore.

  Nicholson blinked a couple of times, then pulled on an uncomfortable-looking smile. Accepted the proffered mug. Backed away a couple of paces. ‘Yes, fine. No problem.’ Then turned and disappeared back through the door. Closed it behind her.

  Steel had a dig at an armpit. ‘Alone at last.’

  Here we go … ‘Look, if you’re trying to bully me into staying late, you can—’

  ‘We need to talk about Stephen Bisset.’

  Oh.

  Steel fiddled with the buttons on her suit jacket. Looked at her reflection in the dark office window. ‘Media’s going to have a field day: “Pervert victim killed in hospital!” Demanding to know why we didn’t have a guard on his bed. Why we wasted all that money on a half-arsed excuse of a trial, only to let Graham Stirling walk away scot-free.’

  She gave up on the buttons and had a fiddle with her bra strap instead. ‘Jump in any time you like.’

  ‘Have they arrested Stirling for the murder yet?’

  A small sharp laugh barked out. ‘Of course they haven’t. He was with his scumbag lawyer when it happened. Probably trying to figure out how much he can screw us for wrongful prosecution.’

  ‘God’s sake …’ Logan slumped in his seat. Scrubbed a hand across his forehead. ‘OK, so it’s someone else. Stirling’s got an accomplice, or a relative, or someone with a vested interest in making sure Stephen Bisset never woke up and identified him.’

  ‘That’s—’

  ‘We get the CCTV from the hospital and we comb through it, looking for anyone with a connection to Stirling.’

  ‘Aye, believe it or no’ we did actually think of that. Nada.’ She shook her head. ‘This time tomorrow there won’t be a front page, news bulletin, or chat show that doesn’t have Bisset’s family all over it. Telling everyone how incompetent we are.’

  Maybe they’d be right.

  Logan let his head fall back against the shelves. ‘Top brass are looking for a scapegoat, aren’t they?’ And no prizes for guessing who that would be.

  Silence.

  Steel cleared her throat. ‘Listen, why don’t you come back to work for me? Told you, my minions are pants. Rennie’s useless and Becky’s got a face only a baboon’s backside could love. Don’t know what’s crawled up her today, but it’s laid eggs.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Course you can. I could protect you.’

  ‘How?’ Logan threw his arms out. ‘How the hell are you going to protect me from Napier? He’s a one-man jihad and I’m sodding America.’

  ‘Don’t know yet, but I’ll figure something out. We get you seconded to my MIT and I make you invaluable. We set stuff up so it looks like you’re Sherlock Holmes and Robocop all rolled into one. They won’t dare sack you.’

  Good luck with that.

  ‘You can’t magically—’

  ‘All we need to do is find Neil Wood, batter a confession out of him, and tell everyone you saved the day.’

  ‘That’s your plan? You and me solve the case when a whole MIT can’t? Just like that? And I suppose we’re going to do it before Napier does his suicide-bomber thing?’

  She scowled at him. ‘Well, I’m no’ hearing any brilliant plans coming from your side of the desk!’

  ‘There is no plan. I’m screwed, OK? That’s it. Me. Screwed.’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘I was acting DI for four years. Four years, and they wouldn’t promote me. You think they’re ever going to make me an inspector if I wimp out on Banff after three months? I’ll be a sergeant for the rest of my career.’ He let his arms fall to dangle at his sides. ‘Gah …’

  ‘So you’re giving up? Wimping out.’

  ‘No! That’s exactly what I’m not doing. I’m staying here and I’m sticking it out.’

  A knock on the door.

  ‘Hallelujah. Come in, Janet.’

  Nicholson pushed her way in, carrying two mugs. A packet of Ginger Nuts tucked under one arm. ‘Sorry, Sarge, didn’t want it getting cold.’

  Steel sniffed. ‘Constable, your Sergeant here wants to call it a night.’

  ‘Oh. OK …’ She placed a mug on the desk. ‘Well, if you’re needing help with something, I could—’

  ‘No.’ Logan held up his hand. ‘Shift ends in …’ He checked his watch. ‘Twenty minutes. Home on time for a change.’

  ‘But, Saaa-aaarge.’

  ‘He’s no’ bothered that there’s crime afoot. That the good people of Banff can’t sleep safe in their beds at night, for fear of blah, blah, blah.’ Steel had a slurp of coffee. ‘What happened to that can-do CID spirit, Sergeant McRae?’

  ‘It disappeared soon as you got me transferred out to uniform.’

  Nicholson scuffed forward. Held out the mug of tea. ‘But it’d be great experience for me, wouldn’t it? Working on an MIT?’

  ‘You want to do it? You do it. With my blessing.’ He pointed at Steel. ‘You’re covering the overtime though.’

  Steel peered out at him from the passenger seat. ‘I’m serious, Laz – we can beat this.’

  ‘No we can’t. And stick to your hotel room this time, I’m not running a B-and-B.’

  She stuck her nose in the air. ‘You’re such a whiny princess.’ Then Steel reached across and thumped Nicholson on the shoulder. ‘Onward to justice!’

  Logan stood on the pavement as the Big Car’s tail lights dwindled to tiny red dots, then disappeared around the corner.

  Pair of idiots.

  Light blazed from the station windows. Normally, they’d only leave a single bulb on in the main office, so it looked as if someone was in. Well, it wouldn’t do to have some scrote break into the place and make off with seized narcotics, electronics, and firearms, would it? But tonight, the whole top floor, half the middle, and the ground floor glowed like it was Christmas.

  The MIT burning the quarter-to-two-in-the-morning oil.

  As if he and Steel could catch a wee girl’s killer when all this lot couldn’t.

  Even if half of them couldn’t investigate their own pants for genitals.

  A long slow breath hissed out of him.

  It wasn’t possible.

  If he was going to look indispensable, it would have to be something closer to home. Something achievable.

  He keyed in Deano’s shoulder number. ‘Shire Uniform Seven. Deano, you safe to talk?’

  A pause, then: ‘Fire on, Sarge.’

  ‘How’d you get on at that domestic?’

  ‘Storm in a teapot. Big fight about going to EuroDisney or Lossiemouth with the grandkids this summer. Only thing that got battered was a tea set.’

  ‘Tufty?’

  ‘Good as gold. Might even buy him a lolly.’

  Wonders would never cease.

  ‘Glad to hear it. You still dealing with your drink driver, or are you Foxtrot Oscar?’

  ‘Up the hospital again. Silly sod’s so blootered he can barely stand, but he thinks he’s safe to drive. No one at home to take care of him, so he’s the NHS’s problem till he sobers up. Remember the good old days when we could chuck them in a cell for the night?’

>   ‘OK, well, I’m finishing up soon. Make sure Tufty updates his actions before he goes back to his tree, or he’s in for a swift kick in the acorns.’

  ‘Sarge.’

  Logan let himself back into the station.

  Something closer to home …

  He pressed the button again. ‘Deano, do me a favour while you’re up the hospital? Pop in and see if Jack Simpson’s got over his time in Klingon and Gerbil’s attic. If you can’t get me on the Airwave, I’ll be on my mobile.’

  Worth a try anyway.

  Back to the Sergeants’ Office.

  Logan finished updating the actions on STORM. Logged off. Shut down the computer. Stuck his dirty mug in the canteen sink. Unlocked the little blue door to his Airwave locker. More of a sealed pigeonhole than anything, set amongst twenty-eight identical little blue sealed pigeonholes. He pulled out the charging cable.

  The Airwave bleeped at him and Deano’s shoulder number appeared on the screen. ‘Sarge, you safe to talk?’

  ‘Thump away.’

  ‘Jack Simpson. Docs say he’s going to be under for at least a couple more days. Klingon and Gerbil really did a number on his head with that baseball bat. They’re keeping him sedated till the swelling goes down a bit.’

  Because that worked so well for Samantha.

  ‘Thanks, Deano.’

  Logan switched the handset off. Plugged in the charging cable. Stuck the lot back in its sealable pigeonhole and locked the door.

  Just have to look somewhere else for salvation.

  Logan slouched out of the station’s side door. Made sure it was closed. Then stood there on the pavement and let a huge yawn shudder its way up from his knees. Sagged.

  So much for finding a case he could crack quickly to get Napier off his back. Nothing was anywhere near big enough to make up for what happened at the Graham Stirling trial. A spate of shoplifting wasn’t even going to put a dent in that.

  He dumped his peaked cap on his head and cut across the car park … Then stopped.

  A figure was huddled against the wall that separated the road from the beach. Bum on the pavement, knees up against its chest, arms wrapped around itself. Face hidden in the depths of a parka’s periscope hood.

  Logan walked over. ‘Are you OK? Hello?’

  The figure jerked, then looked up at him. Peeled back the hood to reveal an explosion-in-a-spring-factory haircut. Helen Edwards – the woman with the missing daughter. She blinked a couple of times, then pulled her shoulders in. ‘Cold.’

  ‘Have you been out here all this time?’ He helped her to her feet.

  It took a while, her knees didn’t seem to be working properly. ‘Sorry …’

  ‘Honestly, you can go back to your hotel, we’ll call you as soon as we know anything.’

  She stumbled a little. Grabbed the wall. Stretched out her left leg. ‘Foot’s gone to sleep.’

  ‘I can give you a lift, if you like?’

  ‘Don’t have a hotel. I didn’t want to …’ A shrug. ‘What if something happened and I wasn’t here?’

  ‘So you were going to sit out here, in the dark, all night? And all tomorrow as well? You do know it’s going to take a few days for the DNA results to come in?’

  ‘What else can I do?’

  Logan dug out his keys. ‘Have you eaten anything today?’

  ‘I know, I’m an idiot.’ Her head dipped. ‘Argh … pins and needles.’

  Helen Edwards limped around the kitchen as the microwave burrrrrrred away to itself, and the kettle grumbled to a boil. She stopped in front of the row of framed photos next to the calendar. May’s picture was a cat and a pony playing in a field, executed in crayon and glitter. ‘You’ve got kids?’

  Logan dumped teabags in two mugs. ‘Not really. Sort of. It’s complicated.’ The kettle clicked to a stop. ‘You take sugar?’

  ‘One, please.’

  He filled the mugs with hot water. ‘My boss and her wife wanted a kid, so I donated. Jasmine’s six now. Made me the calendar for Christmas. You want to get the milk and spready butter from the fridge?’

  ‘She’s very talented.’

  ‘Doesn’t get it from my side of the family.’ He dug the loaf of cheapo white from the breadbin and placed it on the kitchen table.

  ‘Your girlfriend?’ Helen Edwards pointed at one of the photos that hung squint on the wall. Logan and Samantha eating ice cream outside the Inversnecky Café down at Aberdeen beach. Samantha’s hair was post-box scarlet, a dribble of vanilla snaked down her hand, chocolate flake posed at a jaunty angle. Big smile. Logan grinning. As if the world wasn’t a cruel, dark, hollow, pit of a place.

  Helen straightened the frame. ‘She’s pretty.’

  Ah … ‘That’s complicated too.’ He fished out the teabags and put the mugs next to the loaf.

  ‘It always is.’ She got the milk and the butter. ‘I remember when it was like that for Brian and me. The smiles and the chips and the lazy Sunday mornings … Before the shouting and the swearing and the constant criticism eating away at you like acid.’

  The microwave gave its triumphant bleeps of completion. The bowl was almost too hot to touch, but Logan got it onto the kitchen table with only second-degree burns to the fingers. ‘Sorry, it’s only lentil.’

  ‘I like lentil.’

  ‘Gets a bit samey after a couple of weeks.’ He handed her a plate and a spoon. Then slopped some milk in his mug and took it over to the sink. Rinsed out the soup tin.

  ‘It’s lovely, thank you.’ The slurp and crunch of soup and toast sounded behind him as she tucked in. ‘Very good.’

  ‘It’s complicated, because Samantha was in a coma for four years.’

  Silence.

  He stuck the tin on the draining board. ‘She’s what they call “minimally conscious” now.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  A long slow breath made his shoulders sink. ‘She can’t speak. Can’t move on her own. And there’s a big hole in her skull so her brain doesn’t swell up and kill her.’

  ‘Must be hard.’

  ‘Don’t even know if she’s in there any more. I mean, I talk to her, but …’ Yes, well. No point going down that road. A small laugh forced its way out, leaving a bitter taste behind. ‘Sorry. Must be my turn to play Captain Gloom and Doom.’ He gave himself a small shake. ‘Anyway, would you like some hot sauce? Perks a bowl of lentil up no end.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s OK?’

  Logan handed her the pillow. ‘It’s fine, seriously. You look reasonably honest, and I’ve got sod all worth stealing anyway.’

  She lay back on the couch and pulled the duvet up under her chin. ‘Thank you.’

  Click, and the room was plunged into darkness. He stepped out into the hall. ‘I’m not on duty tomorrow, so it won’t be an early start.’

  Her voice came from the dark. ‘Logan?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You remember what I said? About knowing what it’s like to love someone who’s completely lost? And if they were dead you could start moving on?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I am too.’

  He closed the door, and headed upstairs to bed.

  — Thursday: Rest Day —

  22

  A yawn. A stretch. A scratch. Then Logan slumped back into his pillow.

  Sunlight glared around the border of the curtains, revealing the peeling wallpaper around the window in all its hideous glory. Have to get that stripped off today. Well, it was that or paint the living room. Or the stairs. Or do one of the other hundred jobs that—

  What was that?

  He sat up, ears straining to catch the noise again.

  A clunk came from somewhere downstairs.

  There was someone in the house.

  Need a weapon. Extendable baton. Not as good as a shotgun, but it’d do.

  His hand fumbled down the side of the mattress, fingertips search
ing for the equipment belt and …

  Idiot.

  Of course there was someone in the house: Helen Edwards. She was going to the toilet, wasn’t she. There wasn’t one on the ground floor, so she’d climbed the stairs.

  Who was it going to be, Freddy Krueger?

  He lay back. Slow calm breaths, until the thudding beat in his chest faded a bit.

  Idiot.

  Five more minutes: then up.

  Logan hauled the T-shirt over his head and scuffed his way downstairs. A handful of fliers for the local takeaways lay scattered beneath the letterbox, along with a collection of canvassing leaflets for the upcoming by-election. Vote for me, I’m not a scumbag!

  Yeah, right.

  He scooped the lot up and carried them through to the kitchen.

  Helen Edwards stood at the sink, elbow-deep in suds. Pots and pans were piled up on the draining board, while what looked like every plate in the place was stacked on the other side.

  Logan stopped at the doorway. ‘Is everything really that filthy?’

  She turned. Pink spread across her cheeks. ‘It … No. I just …’ She pushed a dirty-blonde curl out of her eyes with a soapy finger. ‘I was sitting about and I thought, I know, I’ll do something useful – I’ll clean the kitchen.’

  He clicked the kettle on. ‘You want tea?’

  ‘Please.’

  For a minute, the only sound was the clicking rattle of the water boiling.

  Logan cleared his throat.

  Cthulhu padded into the room and hopped up onto the windowsill in one fluid motion. Arched her back, then sat down, tail in the air, front paws at ten to two, like a small fuzzy ballet dancer. Logan reached out and scratched her behind the ears, getting a deep rumbling purr for his troubles.

  Behind her, sunlight washed the face of Banff police station. Gave its sandstone cheeks a rosy glow.

  An old man went by on a bicycle.

  Helen cleared her throat.

  Yeah, this wasn’t awkward at all.

  Click.

  Logan made the tea. ‘I’m heading off to see Samantha later.’

  ‘Do you … Do you think they’ll hear about the DNA today?’

  ‘Probably not. They’re upgrading the equipment in Aberdeen so everything’s going to Dundee instead. And they’ve always got a backlog these days – rapes, murders, severed feet. It’s Thursday now. Lucky if it’s done before the weekend, to be honest.’