Logan McRae 09 - The Missing and the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  On the other end of the phone, Louise from Sunny Glen Care Home made a little humming noise. ‘It’ll take a couple of days, but I think we’ve finally got Sam’s chest infection under control. And I’ve spoken to the consultant at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary – the next free surgical slot is in three months’ time. You could go private, but it’d cost a fortune, and it’ll be the same people doing it, so …?’

  ‘Does it make any difference to whether she gets better or not, if we do it now or later?’

  Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

  The Fraserburgh Sergeants’ Office was a lot more modern than the one back at Banff station. No architraves, panelled doors, or high corniced ceilings here. Instead it was all ceiling tiles, yellow walls, minimalist furniture, creaky computers, and creakier floors. A lot bigger too – at least three times the size, with desks all the way around the outside and a clothes rail hung with high-vis jackets and stabproof vests.

  ‘Hello? You still there?’

  ‘Logan, I know it’s difficult, but we’ve talked about this. The chances of Sam making a full recovery are …’ A sigh. ‘Why don’t we take it one day at a time?’

  His stabproof hung from the rail like all the others, but some days its crushing grip on his chest never went away.

  ‘You think we should go with the later surgical slot.’

  ‘I really do. Anyway, look, I’d better run.’ She paused. ‘Take care of yourself, Logan.’

  ‘OK.’

  He slid his phone back into his pocket. Stared out of the window at the hulking Victorian pile on the other side of the street.

  We’ve talked about this.

  Yeah. Didn’t make it any easier, though.

  A sigh pulled the air out of him, leaving him slumped.

  Better give Helen a call. Let her know she was on her own tonight.

  Her mobile rang twice, then she was on, breathless, voice a quarter octave higher than normal. ‘Hello, yes?’

  ‘Helen, it’s Logan, I’ve—’

  ‘Have they run the DNA? Is it Natasha?’

  ‘They’re still working on it. Look, I’m going to be stuck at work tonight – the Duty Sergeant who usually does backshift broke his leg.’

  ‘Oh … But I got steak for tea.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ He picked at a scar in the desktop, working his nail under the laminate. ‘How did you get on with the living room?’

  ‘We were going to have chips and mushrooms and onion rings.’

  ‘You’re talking to a man who’s lived on lentil soup for the last four weeks. Believe me: I’m really, really sorry.’

  The Sergeants’ Office door opened and a scowling Steel slumped in and pulled a face like a dying fish. Then shuffled over and collapsed into the chair on the other side of the desk in an avalanche of grunts and groans. ‘Knackered.’

  Helen’s voice took on a brittle cheerfulness. ‘Well, not to worry: we’ll have steak tomorrow. I’ll make something else.’

  Steel had a dig at an armpit. ‘Haven’t got any crisps, have you?’

  Logan swivelled his chair around till his back was to her. ‘OK, well, I’ll talk to you later. Bye.’

  ‘Suppose I’ll go back to the painting then …’

  He hung up and slipped the phone back in his pocket.

  A sniff. ‘Come on then, who was that?’

  ‘Just a … witness to a case. Fly-tipping. Nothing serious.’ He swivelled round again. ‘How did it go?’

  The dying fish finally gave up the ghost. ‘Lucky for me, Napier’s already up here, isn’t it? Saved me having to go all the way down to Aberdeen for my bollocking.’ She drooped even further, head back, staring up at the fluorescent lights. ‘If I’d known she was Alex instead of him …’

  Hindsight. Got to love it.

  ‘You might want to get a lift back to Banff with Deano. I’m going to be here for a bit.’ Logan logged on to the computer.

  ‘And because that’s not enough: Susan can’t get here till tomorrow. She’s got her lump of a mum visiting. I swear, soon as I leave the house that woman swoops in like a frumpy vulture. Digging her beak in.’ Steel grimaced at the ceiling tiles. Silence. ‘You know what we should do, Laz? We should hit the town. Get some pints, then a curry, then more pints. And to hell with Napier, and Alex Williams, and Susan’s horrible mum, and everyone else.’

  ‘Can’t: got a division to run.’

  She waved a hand at him. ‘You used to be more fun …’ Then blew a wet raspberry. ‘On second thoughts, you’ve always been a miserable git.’

  ‘Feel free to sod off any time you like.’ He pulled up the shift roster for Saturday’s lateshift and wrote everyone’s name and shoulder number down in the A4 hardback notepad he’d lifted from the stationery cupboard, listing each of them by operational area. It was nearly half four now, so they’d start drifting into their various stations in fifteen minutes, ready to start another fun Saturday evening arresting drunks, breaking up fights, and stopping people from peeing in doorways.

  Yeah, divisional policing was where all the cool kids were.

  Steel pulled out her fake cigarette and poked it in her mouth. ‘You hear about DS “Squirty” Dawson?’

  Logan cleared his throat, kept his eyes on the notepad. ‘Still in hospital.’

  They had four PCs in Banff and another two in Mintlaw. Should be six in Peterhead, and four in Fraserburgh, but that included the two officers needed to watch each cellblock, so really only four and two. For a Saturday night.

  If anyone had any idea how few police officers they had to look after huge tracts of Scotland, there’d be panic in the streets.

  Steel dug a hand into her armpit and had a rummage. ‘Picture him up there, getting sponge-baths from all those lovely nurses. Lucky sod.’

  ‘Believe it or not, a stay in hospital isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’

  So, two officers from Banff to Fraserburgh? Or one to Fraserburgh and one to Peterhead?

  ‘The doctors did that palpitating thing to his stomach when he wouldn’t stop exploding. Found a lump.’

  Maybe one from Mintlaw to Peterhead, and one from Banff to Fraserburgh instead? Bit more fair. Everyone would be one body down, and it wasn’t as if Mintlaw was a hotbed of … Wait a minute. ‘They found a lump?’

  ‘Cancer. Caught it just in time to do something about it.’ She nodded, took a long draw on her e-cigarette. ‘Tell you, Laz, never mock a dodgy kebab, it could save your life.’

  Silence.

  Steel squinted at him. ‘You feeling OK? Only you look like someone’s stuffed a Kinder Surprise up your bum.’

  He closed his mouth with a click. Blinked. Smiled. ‘Yes. Good. Well, that’s great news, isn’t it? Dose of the squits saved his life. Excellent.’

  At least now Nicholson could stop feeling guilty.

  Steel laced her hands behind her head. ‘OK, so if you knew you could get away with it, how would you kill Napier the Ginger Whinger?’

  Logan went back to his notepad. ‘Thought you had a little girl’s murder to solve?’

  ‘I think I’d go for a claw-hammer. I know, I know: it’s a trope of the genre, but would you no’ get a load more satisfaction battering his brains out than stabbing him?’

  ‘You’ve got no idea what you’re doing on that case, do you?’

  ‘Stabbing’s for wee boys and tossers. Claw-hammer, that’s a real woman’s weapon.’ She raised her arm above her head and mimed raining hammer blows down on an imaginary Napier. ‘Bang, thunk, thud, crack, splinter, squish, squelch—’

  ‘You know Helen … Mrs Edwards is probably sitting somewhere, eating her nails down to the elbow, while you’re here playing silly buggers?’

  Steel sighed, then placed her invisible hammer on the desk. ‘What are we supposed to do?’ She counted each thing off on her fingers. ‘There’s no trace, there’s no DNA, there’s no witnesses, and we don’t know who she is. If we can find the murder w
eapon they can probably match flakes of metal to the wound in her scalp, but that’s sod all use if we’ve no idea where it is.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘The only suspect we’ve got is Neil Wood, and he’s vanished. You’re right, other than tramping round the stots and nonces again and rattling their teeth till someone talks, I’ve no’ a sodding clue.’ She folded her arms and hoicked up her bosom. ‘Come on then, Angela Lansbury, tell us what you’d do.’

  Silence.

  Logan bit his bottom lip. Stared down at the point of his pen. ‘Well …’

  ‘Aye, no’ so easy, is it?’

  ‘National appeal for—’

  ‘Done it. Got the nutters out in force, that one.’ She jerked her chin up. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘How about tidal patterns? You could predict where the body—’

  ‘Already got a team of marine biologists from Aberdeen University doing it. Next?’

  Logan tapped his pen against his pad. Looked out of the window. Then down at the carpet. ‘Someone has to know where Neil Wood is.’

  ‘And we’re back to rattling sex offenders again.’ Steel huffed out a breath. ‘Face it, we’re going round in circles till we get a break. God knows where it’s going to come from, though.’

  ‘All units, be on the lookout for a stolen poodle taken from outside the Lidl in Peterhead. Answers to the name of “Knitted Doug”.’

  She checked her watch. ‘All this achieving sod all is making me hungry. When’s dinner?’

  ‘There has to be something we can do.’

  ‘Soon as you think what it is, let me know and I’ll take the credit.’

  — Saturday Lateshift —

  Young Love.

  32

  Someone walked past outside, setting the floorboards singing. Logan put ticks against each member of the Banff lateshift in his new notepad. Pressed the talk button again. ‘OK, thanks, Joe. I’m going to be out and about for most of the night, but give me a shout if you need anything.’

  ‘Will do, Sarge.’ And that was it – they were good to go till three in the morning.

  Nothing like running a team that didn’t actually need supervision.

  Logan stuck his body-worn video unit into the charger next to the steam-powered computer and set everything the BWV had recorded downloading onto the system. Then picked up the phone and called Peterhead.

  ‘Stubby, it’s Logan. What are you and your hired thugs up to the night, then?’

  Sergeant Jane Stubbs blew a raspberry down the line. ‘That’s what. You really Duty Sergeant tonight? You not learn after last time?’

  ‘Glutton for punishment. Listen, I’m slinging someone up from Mintlaw to help you. Don’t break them.’

  ‘No promises. We’ve got the usual checks on licensed premises to do, probably be a barney at some point – usually is on a Saturday – then there’s couple of housebreakings to follow up on, some bail violations, and there’s a wee sod selling pills in the clubs. Says they’re Viagra, but they’re really GHB.’

  Logan jotted it all in the notepad. ‘Someone’s in for a shock come bedtime.’

  ‘I want to catch the wee sod before he kills someone.’

  ‘Good. Do me a favour and keep an eye out for Neil Wood, would you? Oh, and speaking of housebreakings, if anyone spots Tony Wishart knocking about, bang him up and give me a call.’

  ‘Will do. Have a Q-one.’ Then Stubby was gone.

  Next up: call the Mintlaw station to break the good news about them having to lend Peterhead a body tonight. Then head downstairs to prioritize jobs with the Fraserburgh Sergeant – currently playing babysitter to the Cellblock Singers, as per regulations. At least that meant Logan wouldn’t have to sod about with the official Twitter account for the rest of the shift – if Sergeant McCulloch was going to be sitting on his bum all night, he could deal with it.

  And after that …

  Logan performed a little drum solo on his pad with the end of his biro.

  There had to be something out there that was solvable without a team of three thousand and access to a HOLMES suite. Something he could bring in on his own and get a bit of credit for. Something to get Napier off his back.

  Something that wouldn’t blow up in his face.

  Logan took a big bite out of his burger, chewing through lettuce and meat, onions and cheese, bun and thousand island dressing. Proper food. Food you didn’t eat with a spoon.

  Sitting in the Big Car’s passenger seat, Steel had a napkin tucked into the collar of her shirt and pink smeared either side of her mouth. ‘Didn’t know Wimpy still existed.’

  From their little patch of gravel, just off the Fraserburgh to Sandhaven road, the sea was a wall of blue, fringed with white where it nudged against the shore. A towering cliff of cumulonimbus reared up from the horizon, caught in the spotlight of the evening sun.

  With the car’s windows down, the iodine scent of seaweed and the skirling craw of herring gulls filled the warm air.

  A couple of chips, then a scoof of Fanta. ‘I’ve been thinking about what Jack Simpson said about the guy who supplied Klingon and Gerbil’s drugs.’

  Steel licked a dribble of sauce off her wrist. ‘Who?’

  ‘Jack Simpson: the guy we found half-dead in Klingon’s attic.’

  ‘Don’t care.’ She sooked a fingertip clean. ‘I mean, what kind of place still has a Wimpy? What is this, the 1980s? Welcome to Fraserburgh, look at our cool digital watches, mullets, and shoulder pads.’ Another bite, chewing with her mouth open. ‘No’ that I’m complaining, mind. Haven’t had one of these in years.’

  ‘Jack said he was called the Candleman, or Candlestick Man. What if he got it wrong? I mean, they’re battering the living hell out of him, and he’s probably off his face on heroin at the time.’

  ‘You’re obsessed with this Candlebloke.’

  ‘What if it’s the Candlestick Maker. “Maker”, not “Man”.’ He raised his eyebrows at her. ‘Well?’

  His Airwave bleeped. ‘All units from Control. Be on the lookout for a green Audi estate, failure to stop following an RTC on the A95 north of Cornhill …’

  ‘Can you no’ turn that down?’

  ‘Duty Sergeant, remember?’

  Munch, munch, munch. Chew, chew, chew. ‘Fine. But if I finish my chips before you do, I get to steal yours. It’s the rules.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since I had to buy your dinner.’

  Fair enough. He popped a couple of them before that happened. ‘Come on: who do we know who’d use “Candlestick Maker” as an alias?’

  She ripped another bit out of her burger. ‘Mmmnnghmmmph.’

  ‘Martyn Baker, that’s who. AKA: Paul Butcher. The Butcher, the Baker, and the Candlestick Maker—’

  ‘Went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat.’

  ‘That’s the Owl and the Pussycat.’ He pulled another chip from the pile and waved it at the view outside the windscreen. ‘We got thrown off the scent because Jack Simpson said Klingon’s supplier had a Newcastle or Liverpool accent. But the Candlestick Maker’s not a Geordie or a Scouser, he’s a Brummie – Simpson was too doped up and concussed to tell the difference. Martyn Baker’s our guy.’

  Steel polished off the last of her chips. ‘Aye, well done, Miss Marple. Shame there’s sod all you can do with it. Porter and her crew will have got there on day one. He’ll be under surveillance till he gets his next shipment, then boom, they come down on him like the Fist of God.’ A sniff. ‘You really want to get in the way of that? ’Cos they’ll squish you into mush if you do.’

  True.

  ‘Anyone in the vicinity of King Edward? We’ve got reports of a break-in …’

  Logan took another bite, but the burger didn’t taste as good as it had a minute ago. Could’ve been at home eating steak instead … Still, it was miles better than the tin of lentil soup waiting for him back at the station. ‘The fact that they’re watch
ing Martyn Baker doesn’t stop him being an accessory to Jack Simpson’s beatings.’

  ‘Aye, good luck with that.’ She reached over and helped herself to a couple of Logan’s chips. ‘Laz, you and me are on a sinking ship, adrift on the Sea of Jobbies. If we’re getting a lifeboat big enough for two, it’ll have to be a different case. What else you got on?’

  ‘Not counting your murdered wee girl at Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool? Only other big thing’s the Cashline Ram-Raiders.’

  ‘Hmm …’ Steel narrowed her eyes at the horizon and chewed the rest of the way through her burger in silence, with the odd pause to swig down a mouthful of Diet Coke.

  ‘What if we got Jack Simpson to ID the three of them from a VIPER line-up? I know we’ve got video of Klingon and Gerbil. And there has to be one on file for Martyn Baker.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. Told you: they won’t let you anywhere near Baker.’ She dipped into Logan’s chips again, so he handed the whole container over. She wolfed down a couple. ‘Tell me about these Ram-Raiders.’

  ‘Going by past experience, it’s probably a gang up from down south.’ He stuck the last wedge of burger in his mouth. ‘They get themselves a van, or a minibus, and they go on a wee tour of wee towns, boosting cash machines from wee shops. Take the lot back down south and break them up away from …’ He wiped his face with the napkin. Frowned out at the rolling surf. ‘Hold on, if they’ve got Martyn Baker under surveillance, why did they let you vandalize his car this morning?’

  ‘Told you: it was like that when I found it.’

  ‘But we searched him. What if he was carrying product? We would’ve arrested—’

  ‘And you’d have got your bum handed to you on a stick, soon as you got back to the station.’

  The traffic was beginning to pick up. Not that rush hour was much to write home about in Sandhaven. Two cars going one way, a tractor going the other.

  ‘All units, cancel that lookout request on the green Audi estate. Been found wrapped around a signpost on the B9025.’

  Steel polished off the last of the chips, then dabbed up the remaining dribbles of special sauce with a fingertip. ‘What kind of wee shops are they hitting?’