Logan McRae 09 - The Missing and the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  Logan crossed the road as Nicholson headed off. Staying on the same side of the street as Frankie Ferris’s house. He ducked behind a Transit with ‘BIG JEEMIE’S BUG CONTROL ~ WHO YOU GONNA CALL?’ stencilled down the side, complete with rip-off Ghostbusters logo.

  ‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

  ‘Bang away, Maggie.’

  ‘Bill says the rent on thirty-six Fairholme Place got paid every four weeks by direct debit from a Mrs Lesley Spinney’s TSB account until ten months ago. Then there was a couple of months paying cash.’

  Overhead the herring gulls soared. An ice-cream van chimed in the distance.

  Logan pressed the talk button. ‘Are you trying to build up dramatic tension here, Maggie? Only I’m dying of old age.’

  ‘Sorry, someone’s at the front desk. The rent now gets direct-debited from a Mr Colin Spinney’s account – Bank of Scotland.’

  So Klingon’s mum stopped paying rent nearly a year ago and trusted her wee boy to look after it instead. Really? Why would anyone put a drug-dealing wee scruff like Klingon in charge of the rent? Pretty much guaranteed to wake up one morning to an eviction notice.

  What if she didn’t stop? What if her direct debit stopped because her account was emptied?

  ‘Sergeant McRae, are you still there, only the front desk—’

  ‘Yes, thanks, Maggie. Tell Bill he’s a star from me.’

  What if she never went to Australia after all?

  Logan settled his bum down on the kerb and peered around the van.

  It’d probably take Nicholson five minutes to get around to the other end of the street. Then all they had to do was wait till Martyn-with-a-‘Y’ finished his business with Frankie, find out what happened to Klingon’s mum, catch whoever killed the little girl out at Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool, arrest the Cashline Ram-Raiders, solve all the burglaries in Pennan, find Neil Wood before he molested any more children, and all would be right with the world.

  How hard could it be?

  A wheeze sounded at Logan’s shoulder. ‘I’m bored.’

  He closed his eyes, rested his forehead against the bug van’s painted side. ‘So go back to the station and do your job instead of moaning about mine.’ He turned and pointed back along the road. ‘Go. That way. Down to the bottom of the hill, cross the road, and follow the signs for the harbour. It’ll take you ten, fifteen minutes, tops.’

  Steel pursed her lips around the e-cigarette that poked from her lips. ‘Give us a lift.’

  ‘We’re trying to catch a drug dealer. That OK with you?’

  ‘You lowly Sergeant, me Detective Chief Inspector. Me want lift, you give lift.’

  ‘No.’ He turned back to the house. ‘You’re meant to be catching whoever killed that little girl. Go do it.’

  ‘Tell you what: why don’t I wave my magic wand and summon up the killer? Of course! Why’d I no’ think of that before? Hang on …’ Steel swooped her fake cigarette through the air. Then frowned. ‘Nope. That’s strange, it was working this morning.’

  Still no sign of movement inside.

  ‘Well, what about your stable isotope analysis?’

  Steel popped her magic wand back in her gob and gave it a sook. ‘Good job I outsourced it. Nothing like a bottle of eighteen-year-old Macallan to well-oil the wheels. My Dundee guru ran hair samples from the body last night – according to him, our wee girl spent the last four months dotting round the northeast, year before that in Glasgow, and the rest of the time’s split between the south coast of Wales and north London.’

  Logan scribbled it down in his notebook. ‘What about further back?’

  ‘Can’t say without a bone sample, or one of her teeth. Got a request in with the Procurator Fiscal.’

  ‘So why are you sodding about here instead of chasing him up? You know what the Fiscal’s like!’ Logan turned and stared at her. ‘This is what happens when there’s no one running around after you, isn’t it? Everything goes to crap.’

  A scowl. Then a smile greased its way across her face and her voice went all sing-song. ‘Give us a lift, or I won’t tell you what DI Porter said.’

  Not so much as a hint of remorse or guilt. Typical.

  Deep breath. Sigh. Back to watching the house.

  Maybe Frankie and Martyn-with-a-‘Y’ had settled down in front of the football? Couple of beers and some crisps. Jammy sod.

  Steel poked Logan. ‘Aren’t you going to ask?’

  ‘Fine: who the hell is DI Porter?’

  ‘No lift, no intel.’

  His shoulders dipped. ‘Look, this is what we do, OK? This is us working.’

  Steel tugged at his sleeve. ‘But I’m bored.’

  ‘You know what I haven’t missed? This. Babysitting you, like a small whiny child.’ He pulled his arm out of her grasp. ‘If you want to go: go. I’m staying here, till Martyn Baker comes out.’

  ‘Be like that, then.’

  The sound of her boots scuffed away into the distance.

  Finally.

  He peered around the other side of the van. Nicholson was crouched down behind a Fiat Punto about a hundred yards down the road. She was using her bowler hat as a fan, wafting air over her shiny face. Not surprising. Day like today, with the sun hammering down? Not exactly the best time to be dressed all in black with a stabproof corset on.

  A trickle of sweat made its way down Logan’s spine and into his underwear.

  ‘Come on, Martyn, where the hell are you?’

  Hang around like this much longer and someone was going to get suspicious. Assuming Logan and Nicholson didn’t keel over with heat-exhaustion first.

  A sharp crump of shattering plastic broke the stillness. Then did it again.

  Nicholson stepped out onto the pavement, staring past where Logan was lurking.

  The booming clang of dented metal was swiftly followed by the discordant, outraged wail of a car alarm.

  He turned and there was Steel, standing on the pavement, hands behind her back. She grinned at Logan, e-cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. ‘What?’

  Martyn Baker’s shiny new Ford Fiesta had two broken headlights and a big dent in the passenger door. Its indicators flashed, horn blaring.

  Steel shrugged. Raised her voice over the skirl of the alarm. ‘What, this?’ Nodding at the car. ‘Was like that when I found it.’

  Great – and Logan was the one Professional Standards wanted to shaft.

  ‘Are you insane?’

  A door banged open and there was Martyn-with-a-‘Y’, face flushed, teeth bared. ‘MY CAR!’ His Birmingham accent stretched the last word out, like a small scream. Only it wasn’t Frankie’s drug-dealing hovel he’d come out of, it was the house opposite his blinking wailing Fiesta. The one with the rose bushes, water feature, and plastic Wendy house.

  He lurched down the path and onto the pavement, mouth moving as if trying to chew out the words, eyes bugging. Presumably taking in the fresh dents and shattered plastic. Then he turned on Steel. ‘DID YOU—’

  ‘A big boy did it and ran away.’ She flashed her warrant card. ‘One of my colleagues is in hot pursuit. Mr …?’

  He laid his palms flat on the roof of the Fiesta, as if he could summon the Power of the Lord to heal the afflicted. ‘My car!’

  ‘This your vehicle, Mr Mycar? Any chance you could turn off the alarm, only it’s doing my head in.’

  His lips made a creased snarl. Then he stepped back, pulled out his keys and pressed the fob.

  Silence.

  ‘Much better.’ Steel dug a finger into her ear and wiggled it. ‘You staying in the area, Mr Mycar?’

  Martyn-with-a-‘Y’ narrowed his eyes, jaw muscles knotting the line of spots along his chin. ‘See if I get my hands on the little—’

  ‘Aye probably best no’.’ She took the fake fag from her mouth and waved it up the street towards Frankie Ferris’s house. ‘You been visiting across the road there? Numbe
r fifteen? Manky house with the lime-green door and funky smell?’

  Logan stepped up behind him, blocking any escape. ‘Is there a problem, Mr Baker?’

  ‘Look at what those little bas—’

  ‘Baker? Hang on,’ Steel popped the e-cigarette back in, ‘he told me his name was Mycar. Don’t you know it’s an offence to give a false name to the police, Mr Baker?’ She flashed a smile at Logan. ‘I think that’s just cause for a stop-and-search, don’t you, Sergeant?’

  Logan snapped on a pair of blue nitriles. ‘If you can put your arms out for me, Mr Baker.’

  Steel took a long slow drag as Logan patted Baker down. ‘Didn’t answer my question, by the way. Have you been visiting your friendly neighbourhood drug dealer? Maybe picking something up, or dropping it off?’

  If that jaw clenched any tighter, one of those spotty Vesuviuses was going to blow. ‘You arresting me?’

  ‘Depends what my Sergeant finds, doesn’t it?’

  Logan finished running his hands down Martyn-with-a-‘Y’’s legs. ‘Have you got anything in your pockets I should know about? Anything sharp – knives, needles, blades?’

  He bared his teeth. ‘This is harassment.’

  ‘Paul?’ A woman appeared from the same doorway, with a Brummie accent thick as a breezeblock. Cut-off jeans and a ‘BARNEY MUST DIE’ T-shirt. Her bare toes made little feet fists as she stepped out onto the path. ‘Everything OK?’ A toddler wobbled up behind her and stood clinging to her leg, thumb firmly planted in mouth.

  The scowl faded, and Baker turned his head to her, face stretched in a smile. ‘It’s OK, Elsie. You and Mandy go back inside and stick the kettle on, yeah?’

  ‘Paul?’

  The fake smile slipped a bit. ‘I said it’s OK. Someone vandalized the car and these … officers are being a bit jobsworth. Go back inside.’

  A little nod, then she disappeared back into the house. The toddler froze on the top step, looking back at them. Then Martyn-with-a-‘Y’ gave her a little wave and she followed her mum. The door swung shut.

  Martyn Baker assumed the position again. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  30

  ‘So who’s Paul when he’s at home?’ Steel turned to peer through the back window as the Big Car headed off down the road. ‘Well, no’ “at home” so much as “slumming it in Teuchter Town with some leggy blonde tart”.’

  ‘Alias.’ Nicholson took them straight through the roundabout onto Whinhill Terrace, hands slip-sliding around the wheel in proper I’m-trying-to-pass-my-driving-test manner. ‘Martyn Baker also goes by Paul Butcher and Dave Brooks.’

  ‘So the poor cow he’s shagging doesn’t even know his real name? That no’ a wee bit sad?’

  Sitting in the back, Logan stuffed his blue nitrile gloves into an old Tesco carrier bag and stuffed that into one of the pockets on his stabproof. ‘Can’t believe he didn’t have anything on him.’

  Nicholson shrugged. ‘Maybe next time?’

  ‘Would it no’ be really weird for him as well, though? There he is, humping away, and she’s screaming, “Oh, Paul, you magnificent stallion. Harder, Paul, harder!” and he’s thinking, “Who the hell is Paul? … Oh, right, it’s me.” You’d think that would put him off his stroke.’

  Logan’s Airwave bleeped. ‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

  ‘Thump away, Maggie.’

  ‘Are we still looking for a Charles “Craggie” Anderson? ’Cos we’ve got a sighting this morning of him getting off a bus in Inverness.’

  Steel took a sook on her e-cigarette, setting the tip glowing. ‘Do you think the wee kid’s his? Imagine growing up no’ knowing your dad’s real name.’

  ‘We sure it’s Charles Anderson?’

  ‘Not really. You know what it’s like. Someone sees someone that vaguely looks like someone on a missing person poster they can barely remember, so they call us.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Deano and Tufty got themselves an overdose in Keilhill, ambulance is on the scene.’

  ‘Thanks, Maggie.’

  Nicholson took them right, onto Castle Street. It was busy with couples and families. Baby buggies and carrier bags.

  Nicholson slammed on the brakes. Pointed. ‘There! It’s definitely him this time!’

  A chunky middle-aged man, balding at the back, lurched along the pavement, carrying a pair of wooden kitchen chairs with the labels still attached.

  She undid her seatbelt. Hopped out of the car. ‘Liam Barden?’ No response. ‘HOY, LIAM!’ Still nothing. She grabbed her bowler hat, wedged it on, and hurried after him on foot.

  Steel half turned in her seat. ‘Why are you lot obsessed with this Liam bloke?’

  ‘It’s not him.’ Logan shifted forward in his seat. ‘So, come on then, you’re getting a lift back to the station. What did your DI Porter say?’

  A blank look wafted across her face, then it must’ve clicked. ‘Aye, Porter. She’s in charge of the day-to-day on that big drugs bust – what is it, Kevin and Gherkin?’

  ‘Klingon and Gerbil.’

  ‘Takes all sorts.’ Steel had a long drag on her fake cigarette. ‘You wanted to know about Kevin’s mum.’

  ‘Klingon’s mum. She’s supposed to be in Australia for a couple of months, but word is she’s not been at her home address for a long, long time.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I want to know if Klingon or Gerbil said anything about Klingon’s mum.’

  Another puff. ‘Why?’

  ‘You didn’t see the state of the place. No way they caused that much mess in a couple of weeks. That house has been a slum for months. She’s a neat freak. And according to the Council, even though the place is still in her name, Klingon’s been paying the rent for nearly a year. So what happened to her?’

  ‘That’s what you’ve got? The place is dirty?’ Steel pointed a chipped red fingernail at her cheek. ‘Does this look like a face that gives a toss about two junkies’ housekeeping skills? By the time the pair of them get out of prison, she’ll have tidied it all up anyway.’

  A family of five shambled past the patrol car, the father and mother looking as if they’d never seen a happy day in their lives.

  Logan lowered his voice. ‘What if she never went to Australia in the first place?’

  ‘Still not caring.’

  ‘What if she’s dead?’

  Steel clicked her cigarette off and slipped it back into her pocket. ‘You think this Kevin’s the kind of bloke to kill off his dear old mum?’

  ‘For God’s sake, it’s Klingon. Kevin is Gerbil’s real name.’ Logan sat back in his seat. ‘Maybe they killed her, or maybe she had an accident, but something’s not right.’ He drummed his fingers on the driver’s headrest. ‘Wonder if she’s still drawing money from her bank account? Think we can find out?’

  Steel produced her phone and poked away at the screen for a bit.

  Logan poked her. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  God’s sake. ‘What did DI Porter say? About Klingon’s mum?’

  ‘Nothing. Never came up.’ She held out her phone. A photo of Susan and Jasmine glowed on the screen. The two of them were in a school hall, Susan in a floral dress that could’ve walked straight off the set of a Doris Day film, Jasmine in a black leotard with a green tutu – grinning away, clutching a tiny golden trophy. That would be at the dance competition. ‘She came third. Think I should ask them to come up to Banff for a couple of days?’

  ‘They didn’t mention his mum at all?’

  ‘Course they couldn’t stay at Craphole House with you, but it’d be nice, wouldn’t it? Trip up here, in the sun.’

  ‘How could she not ask?’

  ‘They could jump in the car today, spend the night, and go back on the Sunday. Be nice to have them for longer, but these idiot teachers throw a wobbly if you take kids out of school in term time.’ Steel stared at the picture. ‘We could have a bar
becue. Go for a walk along the beach. Swim in the sea.’

  ‘Are you even listening to me?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Fine. If she wasn’t going to help …

  He took out his own phone and scrolled through the contacts list. Selected one, then listened to it ring. And ring. And ring.

  And then a man’s voice came on the line, very well spoken with a faint Essex twang. ‘Department of Administrative Support.’

  ‘Derek? It’s Logan McRae. We met at the big security briefing weekend for the Commonwealth Games? You and your boss were getting chucked out of that strip—’

  ‘Ah yes, Logan. Of course. Yes. How are you?’ He cleared his throat. ‘I thought we weren’t going to talk about that again.’

  ‘You still with the Secret Squirrel Squad?’

  Steel changed the photo on her phone to Susan and Jasmine in bathing suits on a white sandy beach, with palm trees and tins of Irn-Bru.

  Derek was silent for a moment. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes then. Listen, I need to find out if someone’s left the country. She’s supposed to be on holiday in Australia. Any chance you can find out when, and if, she went?’

  Steel turned and held the phone out to him. ‘Tiree. Got sunburnt every morning, eaten alive by midges every evening, and loved every minute.’

  ‘Logan, the Department of Administrative Support doesn’t do counter-terrorism, it does requisitions for staplers and Bic pens. Photocopier maintenance contracts. All very mundane.’

  ‘Sure it does. And you still owe me one, remember? The strip—’

  ‘It wasn’t …’ Deep breath. ‘Yes, well, perhaps I can make some discreet enquiries on your behalf. Name?’

  Logan dug it out of his notebook. ‘Lesley Spinney, born in Fraserburgh, eighth of April, 1971.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He hung up.

  Steel held out her mobile again. The three of them sitting around a camp fire with fish on sticks. ‘That’s us in Lossiemouth. Went out fishing in a wee boat.’ A grin. ‘Susan caught this mackerel; got it off the hook and it starts wriggling like a mad thing. Slaps her in the face with its tail, and sods off back into the water. Fish: one, Susan: nil.’ A sigh. ‘I’m going to call them.’