Logan McRae 09 - The Missing and the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘My thoughts exactly. But we got the call, so we diverted from Pennan to drive round and round in circles looking for early-riser druggies who don’t exist.’

  The door at the end of the corridor opened and a young woman in pale blue scrubs stepped out. Stack of folders pinned under one arm. Short brown hair, twin scars reaching from beneath her nose and through her top lip.

  ‘OK: give it another couple of laps then call it. With Klingon and Gerbil out of the way, someone’s got to be picking up the slack. Might as well be Frankie Ferris.’ Logan stuck his Airwave back on his shoulder and walked over. ‘Doctor?’

  She flashed him a smile that looked as if it needed another eight hours’ sleep. ‘Can I help you?’

  Logan pointed at the door she’d come out of. ‘Jack Simpson.’

  ‘Ah, right.’ One of the folders came out and she rummaged inside it. Produced a sheet of paper and squinted at it. ‘Concussion, ruptured spleen, fractured skull, broken ribs, left femur, right tibula and fibula, left humerus and—’

  ‘That’s the one. He awake yet?’

  She pursed her lips for a moment. Sniffed. Probably not used to being cut off mid-flow. ‘Mr Simpson regained consciousness this morning. The swelling’s gone down, so we’re confident he’ll make a complete recovery. Though, obviously, he’s going to need a lot of physiotherapy.’

  ‘Can I talk to him?’

  ‘I’ve got to warn you, he’s a bit … fractious.’

  No surprise there – Jack Simpson probably hadn’t had a day off the heroin in years. Still, at least he’d have been sedated through the worst of the withdrawal symptoms.

  Logan slipped into the room.

  The blinds were half open, throwing bars of light across the floor and bed. A TV set was mounted to the wall, the picture flickering in time with some far-off machinery. A reporter in a suit was doing a piece to camera, microphone held like a knuckleduster in one hand. ‘… Prime Minister announced today that Detective Constable Mary Ann Nasrallah of Merseyside Police would be posthumously awarded the Queen’s Police Medal for Gallantry. We’re over live to Westminster …’

  Jack Simpson lay spread out on top of the sheets: both arms and both legs in plaster, a neck brace squeezing his chin up, bandages around his head. Face a dark swathe of purple and yellow. Lips swollen and lined with scabs.

  ‘… dedicated undercover officer whose tragic shooting last Sunday only goes to demonstrate—’

  Logan killed the TV with the remote. Gave Jack Simpson a smile. ‘Klingon and Gerbil really did a number on you, didn’t they, Jack?’

  Two bloodshot eyes blinked back at him. ‘Gntt sttfffd.’

  ‘Now, now, is that any way to talk to the guy who saved your life?’ He carried the plastic chair from the corner to the bedside. Settled into it. ‘Sorry, didn’t bring you any grapes.’

  ‘Mm nntt saynn nthnn.’

  ‘OK, how about you listen for a bit instead? When I found you in Klingon’s attic, you were half dead. Between the internal bleeding, toxic shock, and dehydration, the doctors say you’d have lasted maybe another day. Maybe two. Max.’

  Simpson lay there, scowling at the ceiling.

  ‘They tried to kill you, Jack. They nearly battered you to death, then they stuck you in the attic. If I hadn’t looked up there, that would’ve been it. No more Jack Simpson.’

  Not that anyone would really have mourned that loss. There wasn’t a single ‘GET WELL SOON’ card in the room; no teddy bears, Mylar balloons, or bunches of flowers. The only things decorating the unit by the bed were a sippy cup and a box of tissues.

  But then who was going to wish a drug dealer a speedy recovery? By now his customers would have found someone else to sell their favourite poison. Not even his mum and dad cared about poor old Jack Simpson.

  Logan leaned forward and knocked on the cast encasing Simpson’s right arm. ‘Do you want Klingon and Gerbil to get away with it? Let bygones be bygones?’

  A breath hissed out between the cracked lips. ‘Klll thmmm.’

  ‘How you going to do that, Jack?’ He pointed at the bag hanging on a stand beneath the level of the bed, connected to a tube that disappeared under Simpson’s hospital gown. ‘You can’t even pee on your own.’

  Logan sat forward. Lowered his voice. ‘Right now, they’ll be cutting a deal. Ratting out whoever sold them the drugs in exchange for a reduced sentence. Who knows, if the intel’s good enough, they might even walk. That what you want?’

  A cough. Then another one. Spittle flying from his lips. Eyes squeezed shut, chipped teeth bared with every convulsion. Till it was over and he slumped back into his pillow. Dragging in rattly breaths. Face nearly scarlet between the bruises. ‘Watrr …’

  Logan took the sippy cup from the beside unit and held it to Simpson’s lips. ‘Slow and steady. That’s it. Don’t choke yourself.’

  The breathing slowed, his face returning to its normal unhealthy pallor.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Am I under arrest?’ The words came out with a slight lisp.

  ‘Nope. You’re the victim here, Jack. All we want is to make sure the guys who did this to you don’t get away with it.’

  He frowned at the ceiling for a bit.

  A trolley clattered by in the corridor outside.

  Voices faded in the distance.

  Then Simpson nodded – not much, just a small bob of the chin, restrained by the neck brace. ‘A scummer from down south supplied the stuff.’

  ‘Hold on.’ Logan slipped the elastic band off his body-worn video and set it recording. ‘Sergeant Logan McRae, eight thirty-two a.m., twenty-fourth of May, Chalmers Hospital. Interview with Jack Simpson.’ Pulled out his notebook. ‘OK, back to the beginning. Who supplied the heroin in Colin Spinney’s mum’s house?’

  That got him a look. ‘His mum’s house? You mental? She’s been gone for, like, years.’

  ‘Years? I know she’s in Australia, but—’

  ‘Guy who supplied the drugs was a Geordie, or a Scouser. Somewhere like that with the accent, you know?’

  Logan scribbled it down. ‘What’s his name?’ Probably a waste of time: Klingon and Gerbil would have spilled their guts to whoever was running the investigation in five minutes flat. By now, their supplier would be under arrest, or on the run. Either way, he wouldn’t be hanging around Banff. But still …

  ‘Nah.’ Simpson looked as if he was trying to frown, but his battered face wasn’t cooperating. ‘Called him some stupid nickname, like … Candleman? Or Candlestick Man? Something like that. Only met him once: short, and broad, you know? Like a wee rugby player, or a boxer. Hard man.’

  ‘Age? Hair colour? Distinguishing features?’

  ‘Vicious bastard stood there, egging Gerbil and Klingon on while they took turns with the baseball bat …’ Tears glistened Simpson’s eyes. Spilled over onto his bruised cheeks. ‘Told them they had to … had to keep …’ He pulled his head back an inch, fighting against the neck brace, pushing himself into the pillows. Blinking it back. ‘I’m lying there on the garage floor, screaming and trying to cover my head, and they’re hammering away at me, and everything’s … God it hurt so bad.’ The tears were flowing freely now, a line of silver bubbling out of one nostril as he shook. ‘And they laughed! They laughed as they battered the crap out of me.’ A shudder ran up his body, setting the casts twitching. Deep breaths, wheezing on the way in, hissing on the way out.

  Logan put his pen down. ‘You want a break?’

  ‘Want a sodding hit. The morphine here’s pish …’

  It took a couple of minutes, but the shudders passed, and Simpson’s breathing returned to normal.

  Logan pulled two tissues from the unit by the bed. Stood and dabbed at Simpson’s face with them. Cleared up the tears and the worst of the snot. ‘What did you do, Jack? Why did the …’ He sat down again and checked his notes. ‘Why did this Candlestick Man want Kevin McEwan and Colin Spinney to kill you?’ />
  ‘Kill us? Naw, that was just day one.’ What was probably meant to be a laugh crowbarred its way out of Jack Simpson’s ruined mouth. ‘Scummers hauled me out the attic next day and did it again. And the day after. I begged them to kill me.’

  ‘But they wouldn’t.’

  ‘Candleboy told them this was how they built a rep. A week of … of breaking every bone in my body, then turf me out on the street. And when word got round no one would ever screw with them again.’ He bared the jagged stumps of his teeth. ‘Wasn’t personal, it was business.’

  ‘So why’d they pick you?’

  A tiny little smile curled one side of Simpson’s mouth. ‘Turns out they don’t like it when you help yourself to free samples …’

  25

  Logan stood on the pavement outside the hospital, flicking back through his notebook to last Monday. Found Kirstin Rattray’s number and keyed it into his mobile. Listened to it ring. And ring. And ring. And—

  ‘Pmmmmph …’ A thick, muggy yawn came from the other end. The words sticky and malformed. ‘Whtmisit?’

  ‘Kirstin? It’s Sergeant McRae.’

  A small whimper. Then a man’s voice in the background. ‘Who the hell’s that?’

  ‘It’s … my mum. Something’s up with Amy. Dunno … school stuff.’ Back to the phone. ‘Mum, hold on, I’ll go make a cuppa and we can chat.’

  ‘And close the bloody door.’

  Clunk. Then she was back, voice a low whisper. ‘Are you mental? You can’t call me at home!’

  ‘Better put the kettle on. Don’t want whoever it is to wonder why they can’t hear it boiling.’

  ‘If Klingon and Gerbil find out I talked to the cops they’ll kill me!’

  ‘After what we found in their house? No chance. The pair of them are going away for at least sixteen years.’

  ‘And what about the guy supplied them? You think he’ll be happy all his gear’s been thieved by the plod?’

  ‘Well, we’ll just have to do something about him, won’t we? My boss wants you registered as a Covert Human Intelligence Source, so we can—’

  ‘You told your boss? God’s sake …’ Some rattling and thumping, then the click-rumble-rattle of a kettle. ‘You want me dead, that what you want? You want my wee Amy to end up an orphan?’

  ‘That’s why it’s better to go on the books.’

  ‘Don’t understand why you can’t leave us alone. Never did nothing to you.’

  ‘It all gets handled through Aberdeen, you never even have to speak to me again.’

  ‘You got any idea what they do to grasses? Like all my fingers where they are, thank you very much!’

  ‘It’s not grassing, it’s helping keep your community safe. You want little Amy to grow up somewhere safe, don’t you?’ He shifted the phone to his other ear as a manky old Land Rover rattled past, haunted by the cloud of blue-grey smoke billowing out of its exhaust pipe. ‘Have you ever heard of someone called the Candleman? Maybe Candlestick Man?’

  ‘Are you off your head?’

  ‘He’d be from Newcastle or Liverpool. Wee guy, but fancies himself a bit dangerous?’

  ‘No.’

  A little old lady stepped off the kerb, shoulders hunched, pulling an ancient Westie behind her. It walked on stiff limbs, its once-white coat stained like a smoker’s teeth.

  The Land Rover’s driver leaned on his horn, forcing out an asthmatic honk.

  The old lady scurried back to the kerb and glowered as it passed. Stepped out onto the road again and stuck two fingers up at the departing smokescreen. The manky Westie managed a bark.

  Auld wifies, got to love them.

  ‘… are you even listening to me?’

  Ah, right. Back to the phone. ‘Sure you don’t know him?’

  ‘Can I go back to bed now?’

  Ah well, it’d been worth a try. ‘Give whoever it is my best when you get there.’

  The old woman doddered across the road towards him, grumbling and swearing away to herself. Westie lumbering behind her like a broken wind-up toy.

  Hmm …

  ‘… can go bugger yourself with a—’

  ‘Listen, while I’ve got you: Klingon’s mum.’

  Pause. ‘What about her?’

  ‘You said she’d gone to Australia. When?’

  ‘Dunno. Couple of months? Does it matter?’

  ‘What was she like: scruffy? Drunk? Bit of a druggie?’

  ‘You’re kidding, aren’t you? Like she was born starched, holding a can of Mr Sheen in one hand and a vacuum in the other. Had to take your shoes off at the door.’

  She was in for a shock when she came home and saw the state of the place, then.

  ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a contact number for her, do you?’

  ‘Yeah, cause my middle name’s “Yellow Sodding Pages”. God’s sake …’ And Kirstin was gone. Back to bed with whoever was financing her habit today.

  A couple of months in Australia. Long enough for Kevin and Gerbil to turn the house into the sub-slum pit they’d raided?

  Maybe. Maybe not.

  The old lady was getting closer, brows down, mouth chewing through a buffet of profanity.

  Logan keyed Maggie’s number into his Airwave handset. ‘Aye, Maggie: does your Bill still work for the Council?’

  ‘Depends on your definition of “working.”’

  ‘Do me a favour – see if he’s got any friends in Housing. I need them to find out who’s paying rent on Klingon and Gerbil’s place.’

  ‘On a Saturday?’

  ‘They don’t call you the miracle worker for nothing.’

  The old lady came to a halt in a waft of Ralgex and peppermint. She jabbed a twisted finger in the direction of the dissipating exhaust fumes. Flashed her dentures like she was about to bite him. ‘Did you see that?’ Up close, she barely came up to his breast pocket.

  ‘Well, I’ll see what I can do. But no promises.’

  ‘Thanks, Maggie. And put the kettle on, I’ll be back at the ranch in five.’ He put his Airwave handset back on its mount ‘Now, how can I help?’

  ‘People like that should be taken out and shot! Beeping his horn, like it’s my fault. Little sod. I’m eighty-two!’

  ‘Well, at least you’re OK, that’s the important—’

  ‘They’ve got no manners at all. None. It’s like living in the Lord of the Flies.’ She sniffed. Chewed for a bit. ‘Got a good mind to get myself a shotgun and teach them all a lesson.’

  ‘Yeah. Probably not such a good idea.’

  ‘I blame the parents. This is what happens when you tell people they can’t smack their children. I’m eighty-two and my father would leather the living hell out of me and my brothers for leaving the toilet lid up! Never mind cheeking my elders.’

  Behind her, the Westie sank its backside onto the pavement and sat there puffing and panting with its mouth hanging open, tongue lolling over a row of stumpy brown teeth.

  She gave a little yank on the lead, hauling the dog back to its feet again. ‘And have you seen what they’ve done to the billboard by the bridge? A great big purple willy, painted right across the nice man from the SNP. It’s a disgrace.’

  Wonderful – Geoffrey Lovejoy, their resident political analyst, strikes again.

  Logan nodded. Backed away a step. ‘Right. Yes. A disgrace.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past the Tories to do something like this. It’s their level. It’s not a by-election, it’s a war zone.’ Getting closer with every word, forcing him back against the wall.

  Logan put his cap on his head. Slipped sideways out of the gap between her and the hospital’s granite blocks. ‘Right, well …’ He pointed over his shoulder back towards the bay and the bridge and the big purple willy. ‘I’d better go see what we can do about that billboard.’

  Her parting call growled out behind him. ‘I’m eighty-sodding-two!’

  ‘Roger that, we are two minu
tes away …’ Logan clutched at the grab handle above the passenger door as Nicholson roared past a joiner’s van. The Big Car’s blue lights strobed through the morning air, accompanying the siren’s throbbing wail.

  They flashed through the town limits. ‘WELCOME TO PORTSOY PLEASE DRIVE CAREFULLY’. So much for that – the needle on the speedo ticked up past seventy.

  ‘Be advised, perpetrators are still at the scene.’

  Bungalows on one side of the road, fields of lustrous green on the other.

  Logan clicked the button again, talking into the Airwave pinned to his stabproof. ‘Copy that.’

  Nicholson turned and flashed him a grin. ‘We’re going to catch them red-handed!’

  ‘Just watch the road.’

  The bungalows gave way to old-style Scottish granite, then trees – whipping past the Big Car’s windows. Then into Portsoy proper, with its ancient, flat-fronted granite. A hard right onto Seafield Street, the engine howling as Nicholson battered down the gears and hit the brakes, then on with the power again. Accelerating past shops and little old ladies. A minibus with ‘C’MON THE SOY !!!!’ lettered down the side, little kids dressed in black-and-white-striped football tops staring as the car wheeched by.

  Logan jabbed a finger. ‘There.’

  Nicholson hammered on the brakes, slithering them to a halt outside the bus stop.

  Little cubes of glass, tins, packets, and jars spread across the road in front of the Co-op. The signage above the windows was buckled out on the side closest to them, the support beneath the word ‘Co-operative’ missing – the glass it held in place reduced to a sagging web around the edges. A hole ripped through the knee-high blockwork beneath it.

  No sign of whoever did it.

  Logan jumped out, grabbed his peaked cap. ‘You!’ pointing at a young woman with a pushchair. ‘Which way did they go? What are they driving?’

  There was a pause, then her arm came up. ‘One of them big four-by-fours. Erm … blue? I think?’

  He got back in. Thumped the dashboard. ‘Go!’

  Nicholson put her foot down again and the Big Car roared forward.

  ‘Shire Uniform Seven to Control, perpetrators have fled the scene. Witness says they took the Cullen road. We’re in pursuit.’