Logan McRae 09 - The Missing and the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘How do you know Colin “Klingon” Spinney and Kevin “Gerbil” McEwan?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘How do you know Francis “Frankie” Ferris?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘So was this wee bag a sample or something? Are you drumming up business?’

  ‘No comment.’ His fingers wouldn’t sit still, they skittered back and forth along the edge of the scarred tabletop.

  ‘All right.’ Logan dug into the folder and came out with a little cardboard box. The form printed on it was filled out in blue biro – where the phone had been seized, by whom, where, and when. Maggie had managed to spell his last name wrong again. He opened the box, took out the big Samsung. ‘This is your phone. Remember it? We confiscated it because you were using it while driving.’

  Baker licked his lips. Kept his eyes on his twitchy fingers. ‘No comment.’

  ‘When we send it down to get analysed, what do you think we’re going to find? Lots of little secrets and deals, I’m betting. Lots of …’

  Baker’s head drooped, then his shoulders quivered. Once. Twice. Three times. Then a sob burst free. Followed by a moan. Little drops of water exploded between his trembling fingers.

  Bit extreme.

  Then again, maybe he’d finally realized that he was going down for attempted murder.

  Logan tapped on the table. ‘Something you want to tell us, Martyn? We know it all anyway, might as well put your side of the story.’

  Martyn Baker seemed to get three sizes smaller, his back hunched, shoulders up around his scarlet ears, hands curled against his chest. ‘Wasn’t meant to happen. Was only meant to be a warning …’

  ‘Kind of heavy-handed for a warning, wasn’t it?’ Battering someone with a baseball bat didn’t exactly reek of subtlety.

  ‘Meant to be a warning. Stay the hell off our turf. I didn’t want it to … It was an accident.’

  An accident. With a baseball bat?

  ‘Are you kidding? How do you accidentally—’

  ‘Bullet must’ve, I don’t know, bounced off something. I wasn’t aiming for her, I swear.’ He looked up with bloodshot eyes. ‘On my little girl’s life, it was an accident.’

  Bullet? OK, not exactly what was expected.

  Tufty opened his mouth to say something, so Logan kicked him under the table.

  ‘Ow!’

  A warning finger.

  Tufty shut his mouth again.

  Baker’s head fell. ‘I didn’t mean to shoot her. Had to go lie low for a bit, far, far away from civilization and that.’ His shoulders rose and fell. ‘Told Elsie to chuck some stuff in a bag while I fetched Mandy from her nan’s. We piled in the car and just drove. Got the hell out of it.’ A sniff. ‘Then the telly said she was an undercover cop.’

  Logan let out a long, slow breath. ‘You shot the undercover officer in Liverpool, and you ran away to Banff to hide.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to. I didn’t. It was an accident.’

  Holy mother of fish. ‘Where’s the gun?’

  ‘Was meant to be a couple of shots in the air, you know, to scare them.’

  ‘Martyn, what did you do with the gun? We—’

  A knock on the interview-room door.

  Oh for …

  Logan’s head dipped. Whoever was out there, they couldn’t have timed it worse if they’d tried. He curled his hand into a fist and pressed it against his leg. Kept his voice calm. ‘Constable Quirrel: go see who it is.’

  Tufty scraped his chair back and scurried off to the door. A clunk. Some murmuring. Then he was back, lips an inch from Logan’s ear, voice low. ‘Sarge, it’s a DCI McInnes and he looks like someone’s taped his bits to an angry Rottweiler.’

  Logan kept his eyes on Martyn Baker. ‘Tell him I’m busy.’

  ‘Yeah … He’s kinda insistent. And really, really angry.’

  ‘Fine. Interview is suspended at eighteen-hundred. Sergeant McRae leaving the room.’ He stood. Pushed a blank notepad across the table. ‘Maybe you’d like to write it down, Martyn. Get it all on paper. Might make you feel better.’ Logan stepped out into the corridor, closed the interview-room door behind him.

  McInnes took up as much space as possible, arms raised, hands curled into claws. The creases either side of his mouth looked as if they’d been carved with a chainsaw, his features dark and flushed, teeth bared in a vicious smile. But his voice was remarkably calm. ‘What, exactly, do you think you’re doing, Sergeant?’

  ‘I’m interviewing my suspect, so—’

  ‘Did I, or did I not, tell you to stay away from Operation Troposphere? Because I’m pretty certain I did.’

  Logan pulled his shoulders back. ‘I carried out a routine stop-and-search and found Class B drugs. I was doing my job.’

  ‘No, you were trying to screw with me and my operation.’ He stepped closer. ‘You arrested that man, dragged him over here from Banff, and told everyone to keep it a secret from me. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?’ The smile got even less pleasant. ‘You’ve got no idea what you’re doing, have you?’

  ‘What, because I got the Candleman before you? Sounds like I know exactly what I’m doing.’

  One eyebrow went up. ‘Candleman? What the hell is a “Candleman”?’

  ‘The guy who supplied Kevin McEwan and Colin Spinney?’

  McInnes laughed. A proper full-on belly laugh that left him panting and wiping his eyes. ‘Not Candleman, you idiot, Candy Man. The supplier’s called the Candy Man. And that isn’t him.’

  Oh … Logan stared at the ceiling. ‘The Candy Man.’ So he’d spent the last day and a half chasing a ghost that didn’t even exist. Thank you, Jack Simpson.

  Idiot.

  ‘You thought you were screwing with Operation Troposphere. I told you to stay the hell away from everyone and everything to do with it, and you went ahead and arrested Martyn Baker anyway.’

  Logan shook his head. ‘You just said he didn’t have anything to do with Klingon or Gerbil, so—’

  ‘Yeah, but you thought he did.’ McInnes took another step. Now he was close enough that his breath was warm against Logan’s cheek. It stank of cigarettes and extra-strong mints. ‘You thought he did and you picked him up anyway, even though you knew I’d told you not to. You did your best to screw me and my operation over.’ The creases either side of McInnes’s mouth deepened. ‘You really think I’m going to let that go, Sergeant?’

  Of course he sodding wasn’t.

  ‘It had nothing to do with your case.’

  ‘You screwed up.’ The Detective Chief Inspector poked him in the chest. ‘And you know what? I wouldn’t have found out if you hadn’t tried to cover it up.’ McInnes turned on his heel, and sauntered away down the corridor. ‘I told you, you were on your last warning, McRae. What happens now: you’ve only got yourself to blame.’

  Great.

  — Sunday Backshift —

  Burn.

  42

  Logan sank back in his chair and put a hand over his eyes. For some reason, the temporary viewing suite had developed a distinctly cheesy smell. Like a big block of Stilton, abandoned in a small car on a hot day. ‘Well, how was I supposed to know Jack Simpson got it wrong?’

  On the other end of the phone, the backshift Duty Inspector puffed out a sigh. Still sounding as if he had a bag of marbles stuffed up each nostril. ‘He was off his face on heroin and getting battered to death at the time. How accurate would you be?’

  Yeah, that wasn’t helping.

  ‘But, on the bright side, we’ve solved the murder of an undercover police officer. Be some brownie points for you there, Logan. Not sure if it’ll be enough to stop McInnes from shafting you, though.’

  Still not helping. ‘We’ve got a signed confession and he’s rolling on two of his gang mates, so—’

  A knock on the door.

  ‘Sarge?’ When Logan uncovered his eyes, there was Tufty, with two steamin
g mugs and a copy of the Sunday Post. He popped a tea down in front of Logan and mouthed the words, ‘I’m hunting biscuits.’

  He was retreating when Logan waved him over and muffled the mouthpiece with a hand. ‘Watch: and see if you can spot anything weird.’ Logan scooted his chair back out of the way and pointed at the screen. The view from camera number three flickered on pause – looking out across the street at the removal van and the zombie children. Logan uncovered the mouthpiece. ‘Sorry about that, Inspector, someone came in.’

  ‘I’ll get onto Merseyside Police. They’ll probably want to send a car up to get him, but I’m pretty certain the Chief Constable’s not letting Martyn Baker go anywhere till we’ve done a joint press conference. We’re not having a bunch of Scousers taking all the credit.’ The grin was audible in his voice. ‘That’s my job.’

  Tufty squatted down in front of the viewer and fiddled with the controls, sending the picture streaking into fast-forward.

  ‘Trouble is, we’ve still got no idea who supplied Klingon and Gerbil with their gear.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m sure DCI McInnes will tell us when he deems fit. And not before. Meantime, what are you and the rest of my sticky minions up to in B Division the night?’

  Logan ran through the duty roster and the open caseload while Tufty wheeched back and forth through time. Logan clunked his notepad shut. ‘Guv, don’t suppose there’s any news about my warrant to dunt Frankie Ferris’s door in, is there?’

  ‘I’ll check. When you going in?’

  ‘Tomorrow, if I can get the bodies. Might try the OSU.’

  ‘OK – do that. But make sure the cellblock know Martyn Baker’s going nowhere and talking to no one until I say so.’

  ‘Yes, Guv.’

  ‘And Logan? Good work.’

  Good grief: praise. For once.

  ‘But please, for the love of God, stay the hell away from DCI McInnes!’

  He hung up the office phone.

  Tufty was still fiddling with the dial.

  ‘Are you having fun?’

  ‘Wonder who’s flitting.’

  Logan stared at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Who’s moving house? The removal van sits there the whole time. Nobody loads anything into it, nobody takes anything out of it. Maybe they’re parked up for the day?’

  Logan blinked at the screen. ‘Try one of the other cassettes.’

  Tufty hit eject, then slotted in the one that came after the one they were watching. Twisted the dial and set everything whooshing forwards. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Then four men in overalls wandered up Mid Street, carrying brown paper bags that looked as if they might have come from the Wimpy on Hanover Street. They climbed into the removal van, and sat there eating. Then finally buckled their seatbelts and drove away.

  ‘Just a bunch of gadgies, parked up for lunch.’

  Tufty ejected the cassette, and replaced it with the one before the one they’d been looking at before this one. ‘A four-hour lunch break? Tell you, we’re in the wrong job.’ He sent the footage spinning backwards, then hunched forward, nose inches from the screen. ‘If you were the Cashline Ram-Raiders, you’d want to stake the place out, right? Find out when it got stocked up by the bank, or whatever. Maybe we need to find when the security car turns up and look round about then?’

  People lurched in reverse across the screen. Cars and bicycles all going backwards too. Everything except that removal van.

  Nothing went into it, nothing came out of it.

  Then the four men backed across the road and climbed into the van, started it up, and reversed out of shot.

  ‘… Sarge? Yoohoo, Sarge?’ Tufty was waving at him. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Get the footage for camera one. Same time-stamp.’

  A shrug. But he did what he was told, slotting the new cartridge into place, then spinning the dial until one of the four men walked backwards into Broch Braw Buys: big, with long brown hair and green overalls.

  All that time, and the only things they did were buy burgers and visit the shop that got ram-raided the very next day.

  Removal van. Removal van.

  No …

  It was. That was what looked familiar, not the people or the cars.

  A slow smile spread across Logan’s face. ‘Tufty, never thought I’d say this, but you’re a genius.’

  ‘I am? Cool.’ He puffed out his chest. Then frowned. ‘What did I do? And do I get a badge, or something?’

  Logan pulled out his notebook and flipped back through to yesterday morning. Found the number for the Portsoy Co-op’s manager, and dialled it.

  The phone rang, and rang, and rang, until finally: click. ‘Hello, you’ve reached the voicemail of—’ Another click. ‘Hello? Can I help you?’

  ‘Hi, Stacey? It’s Sergeant McRae, we met yesterday morning. After the ram-raid?’

  ‘Sorry, I was stocktaking the walk-in freezer. You have no idea how many bags of oven chips we go through.’

  ‘Can you do me a favour? Take a look on your CCTV footage for a removal van. Might have to go back a couple of days.’

  ‘If you think it’ll help.’

  With any luck …

  His Airwave handset crackled away to itself. ‘Anyone in the vicinity of Aberchirder? We’ve got a report of cows loose on the A97 south of Castlebrae …’

  ‘How does half seven, quarter to eight sound?’ Logan pinned the phone between his ear and shoulder and rummaged through the next shelf down. Why did no one put things back where they came from? The Big Car’s CCTV cartridges were supposed to be ordered chronologically, oldest to newest, on the sodding shelf below the monitor. There was even a sodding label on the sodding shelf saying that.

  ‘Aye, aye, Control, show Big Paul and the Dreaded Penny attending. On our way.’

  Seven o’clock and he had the whole of Banff station to himself. Made a nice change.

  Or it would do if he could sodding find anything.

  Squeaking rattling noises came from the other end of the phone. God knew what Helen was doing, but it sounded like she was washing a bag of robot mice. ‘Steak, mushroom, onion rings and chips?’

  On top of confiscated Chinese?

  Never look a gift meal in the mouth.

  ‘Sounds great.’

  Finally – there they were, two shelves down, stuffed in willy-nilly behind a stack of evidence bags. Idiots. Supposed to be one for every day of the fortnight, with one spare. If they were all jumbled up, how was anyone meant to find what they were looking for?

  ‘I got the hall done. Ceiling above the stairs was a bit of a sod, but it’s looking a lot better now.’

  He stacked all fourteen cartridges into a big wobbly pile and carried them back to his desk. ‘You got all that done in one day? You should go into business.’

  Now where was the lead to connect them with the computer?

  ‘Alleged dog attack on Williams Crescent, Fraserburgh. Anyone free to attend?’

  It was buried under a slew of triple-A batteries, elastic bands, and paperclips in the bottom drawer.

  Whole place was like living with the bloody Borrowers. And it couldn’t all be Hector’s fault.

  ‘Right, I’ll finish cleaning the roller and brushes, then it’ll be time to get dinner on the go.’

  ‘Looking forward to it.’ Logan hung up, put all the cartridges into order, then plugged the lead into yesterday’s one. The computer groaned, and creaked, a little green light came on in the cartridge. Whirring. A couple of bleeps. Then the loading bar appeared on the screen.

  Might as well go make a cup of tea, this would take a while.

  An Aberdeen Sunday Examiner was folded over the edge of Maggie’s cubicle. ‘TRAGIC END FOR MISSING FISHERMAN’ sat above a photo of Charles Anderson with an inset of his boat. Logan grabbed the paper and took it through to the canteen. Spread it out on the table and stuck the kettle on.

  Had a bit of a sing as the water grumbled and
pinged: ‘Steak for tea, steak for tea, la-la-la-la steak for tea …’

  According to the Examiner, Charles ‘Craggie’ Anderson’s life had been blighted by the loss of his son five years ago. There wasn’t much more info than Big Paul had dug up from the official files, but the reporter had sexed it up as much as possible. Anderson’s campaign to find the paedophile he was sure had abducted his wee boy. The collapse of his marriage. The drinking. And his fiery Viking death.

  They’d even managed to track down Anderson’s wife, now living in Devon under her maiden name. A tearful quote about lost chances, tragedy, and grief.

  The kettle growled to a boil.

  No suggestion that Anderson was anything other than a broken man on his way to the inevitable grave. No hint that he was responsible for his son’s death, or that he was the kind of guy who would abduct a little girl, abuse her, then cave her head in with a metal pipe.

  Logan made a cuppa, checked to make sure no one was looking, and nicked a Jammie Dodger from Inspector McGregor’s stash at the back of the cupboard. She wouldn’t be in again till tomorrow morning, so nightshift could take the blame.

  Maybe it was just a coincidence that Anderson had gone missing at the same time as Neil Wood? And a coincidence that a wee girl’s body washed up at Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool not long after.

  Or, maybe, Wood and Anderson were in it together. Wouldn’t be the first time a pair of scumbags had teamed up to abuse kids.

  ‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

  Logan checked the screen. It was the Duty Inspector’s shoulder number. ‘Batter on, Guv.’

  ‘Got a delay on your warrant for Frankie Ferris’s house. Something about operational pressures. They said to try again tomorrow. Meantime, let me know if you need a hand leaning on the Operational Support Unit for extra bodies.’

  ‘Thanks, Guv.’

  Logan took his tea and pilfered biscuit back through to the Sergeants’ Office, in time to see the progress bar hit 100 percent. Half of the screen filled with a static view of the car park outside Banff police station. The other half was a list of time-stamps – each one representing a block of data when the camera was activated.

  He scrolled through it, and clicked on the one for half-nine yesterday morning.