Logan McRae 09 - The Missing and the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Oh.’ Helen’s head drooped.

  ‘DCI Steel will be kicking up a fuss, try to get it prioritized, but there’s only so much she can do.’

  The last pot got added to the clean pile. ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘See what?’

  She took the first plate from the stack and slipped it into the foamy deep. Kept her face turned away from him. ‘The swimming pool. Where they found her.’

  Logan pulled up at the brow of the hill. From here the North Sea was a polished slab of blue slate, edged with white where it hushed against the pebble beach below.

  The coastline stretched away ahead – the reaching cliffs paling and turning blue as they faded into the distance. Stone fingers reaching for the horizon.

  Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool’s nest of white cubist buildings nestled in the depths of the rocky bowl, walls shimmering in the morning sun.

  His rusty Clio’s engine sounded like a screwdriver scraping along a breezeblock.

  ‘You sure you want to do this?’

  Helen nodded.

  ‘OK.’ He put the car into gear and slid them down the hill, around the dog-leg bend, and onto the patchwork stretch of potholes and rutted tarmac.

  A Police Pod sat in the car park, in front of the burned-out remains of the bin, but the door was shut. No sign of life.

  He parked next to it. ‘If you feel uncomfortable, or sick, or anything like that, let me know and we’ll get you out of here. It’s not a problem.’

  ‘Right. Yes.’ She unclipped her seatbelt. Blew out a breath. Brushed the curls from her face. ‘You can do this …’ Then opened the door and stepped out into the sun.

  Logan joined her. Locked the car – as if anyone would be desperate enough to steal a rattly heap like that.

  A line of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape stretched across the gap in the rock that acted as a gateway to the site. He pulled it up and ushered her through.

  She glanced back at the pod. ‘This is all right, isn’t it? We’re not going to get into trouble?’

  ‘I called DCI Steel – they’ve finished the search. The barrier tape’s there to stop weirdoes and grief-tourists snooping.’

  She picked her way along the path, past the pebble beach with its stone archway and kelp bones. Stopped in front of the Aberdeenshire Council sign:

  She stared at it for a while. Then took a deep breath and walked past, making for the boxy art deco buildings.

  ‘You’re sure you’re OK?’

  A nod. ‘It’s fine. I’m fine.’ She wrapped her arms around herself. Holding it in. Stopped at the top of the apron.

  Three wide tiers of dark concrete, edged in white, led down to the inner pool. Little more than a rock-strewn swathe of cracked grey.

  Helen puffed out her cheeks. There was no inflection in her voice at all. ‘Where did you find her?’

  He pointed at the corner of the outer pool. The water level had gone down since Monday evening – evaporated in the sun, or drained out through cracks in the sea wall.

  She followed him, past the main building with its grime-streaked walls, around the edge of the amphitheatre space, and out onto the side apron.

  ‘Watch your footing.’

  The walkway got worse the closer they got to the outer pool, crumbling away to expose massive holes strewn with rock and pebbles. Bits of broken glass and sun-bleached crisp packets nestled amongst the weeds.

  Logan came to a halt at the corner of the outer pool. ‘This is it.’

  The whole place obviously got battered with huge storm surges, going by the size and the number of rocks that made a drift against this side of the pool. The force needed to shift them must’ve been massive.

  Helen sank down on the edge of the pool, feet dangling over the stones. Stared down into the water. Closed her eyes. Bit her bottom lip. Her shoulders quivered. A sniff. Then the tears came.

  Logan swallowed. Looked away.

  Stood there in silence and listened to her grief.

  ‘Look, all I’m saying is light a fire under them, OK?’ Logan leaned on the roof of the car. ‘She needs to know if it’s her daughter or not.’

  On the other end of the phone, Steel sounded as if she was crumpling tinfoil. ‘Oh aye, and how come you’re so interested all of a sudden? Yesterday it wasn’t your case. You had beddy-byes to go to.’

  ‘How would you feel if it was Jasmine?’

  ‘Don’t you sodding dare.’

  ‘Well, give the lab a kick then. It’s a dead wee girl we’re talking about.’

  ‘Anyone touches Jasmine, I’ll make the Spanish inquisition look like a WRI meeting. Doesn’t matter how fast or far they run, I’ll find them and skin them alive.’

  ‘And how could you not find Helen anywhere to stay?’

  ‘Make them wear their arse for a face.’

  ‘She slept on my couch last night. It was that or stick her in the cells.’

  Helen stood on the pebble beach, at the water’s edge, staring out to sea.

  ‘Oh, I see. You’ve taken her in and now finding the wee kid’s killer’s a top priority, is it? What, did she polish your truncheon for you last night?’

  ‘She thinks her daughter’s dead. And you find it funny?’

  A sigh. ‘No.’ Steel took a deep breath. ‘Look, I told McKenzie to sort it out – accommodation, contact details, next of kin, the lot. I’ll get it done. And I’ll tell the lab to get a shift on. OK?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Going to be a right pain in the backside though. His Royal Finnieness has decreed there’s no point having all these bodies on the ground up here. Operational priorities.’

  ‘Doesn’t want to pay the overtime?’

  ‘Half the team’s back to Aberdeen tomorrow. They won’t even let me keep Rennie, you believe that? Rennie! He’s about as much use as a cardboard dildo, but he’s better than DS Sulkypants McKenzie.’

  ‘Don’t be such a moan. And make sure you give the lab a kicking, OK? I’ve got to go.’ He hung up. Put the phone back in his pocket.

  The pebbles scrunched beneath his feet.

  Helen’s eyes were bloodshot and swollen, the tip of her nose flushed and pink.

  Logan shuffled to a halt beside her. ‘You all right?’

  She nodded, then wiped her eyes with the heel of one hand. ‘Sorry. Being stupid.’

  ‘They’re going to chase up the DNA match. See if they can’t get the lab to bump it up the list.’ Way out to sea, a scarlet fishing boat carved a line of white across the blue. ‘They’re sorry about the mix-up with the hotel. DCI Steel says she’s going to make sure they get somewhere organized for you, so you don’t have to crash on my couch.’

  ‘Oh.’ Helen picked at the corner of a fingernail. ‘That’s very kind.’ Her shoulders curled in.

  ‘You sure you’re OK?’

  She looked away. ‘I don’t want to be a burden. It’s just … I don’t want to be on my own. I’m always on my own, in B-and-B’s and hotels and buses and trains and it’s really nice to have someone to talk to. Someone who understands what it’s like.’

  Logan stared at her.

  Pink bloomed on the back of her neck. Spread to her cheeks. ‘And I could help out – my father was a painter and decorator with Glasgow City Council …?’ She cleared her throat. Looked down at her feet. ‘Sorry. Being stupid again.’

  He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’ve got to go see Samantha. You any good at stripping wallpaper?’

  A massive supply vessel dragged a wake of white behind it, making for the horizon. The sky made a perfect blue dome, wrapping around the jagged coastline, punctuated with the wheeling slashes of herring gulls. Faint screeches and craws drifting down to the balcony.

  All the wheelchairs faced out to sea, their occupants slumped and slouching against their chest restraints. Propped up in the sunshine.

  Logan swapped his phone to his other hand, then dabbed a tissue at the corner of
Samantha’s mouth. ‘Yeah, sorry.’

  On the other end, Deano sighed. ‘And you’re sure?’

  ‘Can’t. Something’s come up and I’m stuck.’

  ‘You do remember I’ve got ribeye steaks the size of your head?’

  ‘I know. I’d love to, Deano, but I can’t.’

  Samantha’s forehead was getting a bit red. Have to get her a big hat or something.

  ‘We’ve got a heap of beer too.’

  A groan escaped Logan’s lips. ‘You’re not making this any easier.’

  Well, it wasn’t as if he could abandon Helen to do the DIY while he went out and got stuffed and hammered, could he? And there was no way in hell he could take her with him. Turn up to a barbecue with what might be the dead little girl’s mother in tow? It wouldn’t be fair on her. Or the team.

  How were they supposed to relax and enjoy themselves if they had to be on their best behaviour the whole time?

  He’d never hear the end of it.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure you’re sure.’

  ‘Trust me: if I could, I would.’

  After all, there would be other barbecues. Other steaks.

  Logan’s stomach growled.

  And it wasn’t as if he didn’t have plenty tins of lentil soup at home.

  Logan pinned his phone between his ear and shoulder while he tied up the third bin-bag. ‘You’re kidding. Not till Monday?’

  On the other end, Steel sniffed. ‘Two high-profile rapes, and another three severed feet in the Clyde today.’

  Logan glanced towards the bedroom door. No sign of Helen, but he dropped his voice anyway. ‘Surely a murdered little girl trumps three severed feet?’

  ‘In a sensible world, yes. Here? No. Even tried getting Big Tony Campbell to weigh in, but no doing. We’re in the queue.’

  ‘Someone needs a stiff kick in the balls.’ Logan unfurled another bin-bag and stuffed a wodge of stripped wallpaper into it.

  The room looked a lot better without the peeling mess of sickly purple paper. Now the walls were stripped back to the pink plaster – speckled with fresh white filler. A going over with sugar soap and a coat of white emulsion had faded the stains on the ceiling a bit, but nowhere near enough. The air tasted sticky and plasticky from the paint fumes.

  ‘Which reminds me: I gave Becky a chewing out for no’ getting a hotel arranged for our victim’s mother. So off she goes, looking like she’s about to burst one, and gets everything sorted.’

  ‘Ah …’

  ‘Only, you know what Ms Helen It-Might-Be-My-Dead-Daughter Edwards says when Becky tells her there’s a room booked for her? “No thanks, I’m staying with a friend.”’

  ‘Well, maybe—’

  ‘Ungrateful cow.’ Something crunched down the line, and Steel’s voice went all muffled, as if her mouth was full. ‘In other news: you want to play the voice of sanity for a change?’

  The last of the stripped-off wallpaper went in the bin-bag. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Only reason those feet are higher up the list is because the media’s got their teeth into them. What if someone leaked it? “Police labs ignore murdered six-year-old’s DNA in half-arsed PR grab?”’ More crunching. ‘Or something snappier: “Scumbag Labs DNA Cock-up.” You know the kind of thing.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you come up with a better headline then.’

  ‘No, I mean: no. Don’t do it. You leak it after rattling everyone’s cages, it’ll get back to you. You really that keen to spend more time with Napier?’ Logan tied the last bag and added it to the pile. ‘You can’t leak it. They’ll nail you to the ceiling.’

  ‘So I get Rennie to do it.’

  ‘Yeah, because there’s no way that could possibly be tied back to you.’ He gathered the bin-bags together and struggled them out onto the landing.

  Tuneless whistling came from the bathroom.

  Logan hefted the debris downstairs. ‘How’d you get on with Nicholson last night?’

  ‘Well, what about Becky then? I could get her to do it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pfff …’ More crunching. ‘Your girl Nicholson’s a bit keen, isn’t she?’

  He dumped the bin-bags at the front door. ‘Let me guess, you didn’t get anything.’

  ‘Two hours of sod all. Well, no’ counting nasty cups of tea and dirty looks. Dr Kidfiddler says he’s putting in a complaint about harassment.’ The grin shone through Steel’s voice, ‘Turns out he doesn’t like being roused at three in the morning and grilled about access to barbiturates. Poor baby. Should’ve thought about that before he started molesting wee kids.’

  Upstairs, the toilet flushed. She’d be down in a minute.

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Oh aye, got a hot date, have we? Rosy palm bringing round her five sisters for a gangbang?’

  ‘I’m hanging up.’

  ‘Hope you’ve got protection. A Marigold glove would probably do if—’

  He poked the button, then slid the phone back in his pocket as Helen appeared at the top of the stairs.

  She tucked a curl behind one ear. Smiled. ‘What’s for dinner?’

  ‘Lentil soup.’

  The smile froze. ‘Again?’

  — Friday: Rest Day —

  23

  ‘… going to be with us for the next hour, but first here’s Carol with all your lunchtime news, travel, and weather. Carol.’

  ‘Thanks, Justin. Greater Glasgow Police are refusing to confirm or deny rumours that three severed feet found in the Clyde yesterday are part of a sectarian feud …’

  Logan pulled his rattly Clio into the kerb, opposite the Sergeant’s Hoose. Dug out his phone and checked his messages.

  Voicemail from his mother. That got deleted.

  A text from Rennie about a dead tramp he’d had to peel out of a wheelie bin back in Aberdeen. Delete.

  ‘… confirmed that sex-attack-victim Stephen Bisset’s death in Aberdeen Royal Infirmary on Wednesday night is being treated as suspicious. After the collapse of the trial against—’

  Logan killed the engine.

  Sat in the silence.

  Went back to his phone.

  A text from Steel was next – moaning about him not going to Jasmine’s dance competition tomorrow. Delete. And another from her about chasing up on Neil Wood’s connections in the sex-offender underground.

  And one from Biohazard Bob.

  Napier was round here 2day asking loads of questions about U.

  Kept asking if U gone mental on this case. Obsessed & that.

  Watch Ur back: knives R out!

  ‘Great.’ He thumbed out a response and sent it off. Sat there, staring at the glittering expanse of the North Sea.

  Could do a Reginald Perrin. Strip off at the water’s edge and walk out into the waves. Sod off somewhere else …

  Then what would Samantha do? Who’d pay her bills?

  Yeah. Exactly.

  Logan put his phone away and climbed out into the sunshine.

  A knot of scruffy blokes and well-dressed women were gathered outside the front of Banff station. Some doing pieces to camera, others smoking and drinking from Styrofoam cups.

  What the hell was wrong with Steel? She’d blabbed to the press, even though he’d told her not to.

  Idiot.

  Out with the phone again.

  She picked up on the fourth ring. ‘I’m no’ telling you again: I’m no’ giving you any more money!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What?’ She cleared her throat. ‘Oh … Thought you were someone else. Why are—’

  ‘What did I tell you last night?’ He stomped across the road to the Sergeant’s Hoose. ‘You leak it, they’re going to trace it right back to you! How could you be so stupid?’

  ‘Who are you calling stupid? I should—’

  ‘Telling the media – you really think that’s not going to blow up in your�
�’

  ‘Hold your sodding horses right there, Tonto. I didn’t tip anyone off about anything.’

  He stuck his head around the corner. The pack of journalists were still there. ‘Then why am I looking at a bunch of idiots from the national press and TV hanging about outside Banff station?’

  Silence.

  Yeah, she didn’t have an answer to that, did she.

  He let himself into the house. ‘What were you thinking?’

  Still nothing.

  Inside, the sound of tuneless whistling came from the open kitchen door, floating on an air of rich meaty scents.

  ‘Hello? You still there?’

  Helen’s mess of explosive curls poked out of the kitchen. ‘Logan. Hi. Thought I heard something. You’re right on time.’ Her face glowed, the skin pink and shiny.

  He closed the front door. ‘Hi. Sorry.’ He pointed at the phone in his other hand.

  ‘Ah, right. Sorry.’ She backed into the kitchen.

  Back to the phone. ‘OK, I’m hanging up. You have—’

  ‘I didn’t leak sod all to anyone. For your information, Chuckles, the press mosh-pit outside the front door isn’t there for the Tarlair case. It’s no’ there because of me, it’s there because of you.’

  Sand and gravel filled Logan’s mouth. ‘Me?’

  ‘Aye, you. Who’s the idiot now?’

  He cleared his throat. Peered through the open kitchen door and out through the window. There had to be at least a dozen of them out there, with their cameras and their microphones and their notepads. ‘Why are they after me?’

  ‘Why do you think? You screwed up the Graham Stirling case and now Stephen Bisset’s dead.’

  Oh God …

  Logan stepped away from the door. ‘I’m off duty. Tell them to go away.’

  ‘Free country. They can hang about if they like, long as they don’t cause a disturbance.’

  He rested his head back against the wall. Closed his eyes. ‘It’s not my fault.’

  ‘Aye, well remember that next time you try calling me an idiot.’

  The line went dead.

  Perfect. As if Napier’s witch-hunt wasn’t bad enough, without the press banging the drum for a full-on crusade.