Logan McRae 09 - The Missing and the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  Steel stared at him. Then the burning garage. Then back again. ‘You what?’ Then she hit him.

  ‘Ow! Cut it out.’

  ‘We’ve been after a lead on the Livestock Mart for years, and you let it go up in flames? What’s wrong with you?’ Another thump.

  ‘Get off!’ He backed away. ‘I got bashed over the head. What was I supposed to do, wake up and wade back into the fire?’

  Steel stormed off a half-dozen paces, then back again. ‘What was on the board. Who? How did it all link up?’

  ‘I can’t remember. It—’

  ‘Why didn’t you take a picture? You’ve got a camera on your sodding phone, use it!’

  He jabbed a finger at the smouldering house. ‘I’m not psychic. How was I supposed to know they were going to set fire to the place? I could’ve died!’

  Steel turned her face to the dark, oily clouds. ‘Give me strength …’ A sigh. She screwed her eyes shut. ‘Can you remember any of it at all?’

  ‘The wee dead girl from Tarlair – she was on there, connected to Dr Gilcomston.’

  ‘Wee Willy Gilcomston? Dr Kidfiddler?’ A raised eyebrow. ‘Why?’

  Logan headed across to the Big Car. ‘No idea. Let’s find out.’

  ‘No, I don’t. I told you this before, and I resent having to repeat myself.’ William Gilcomston’s eyebrows dipped over those eerie blue eyes. Tonight’s cardigan was bottle green, with a small heart-shaped pin in the collar. The kind they gave to blood donors. ‘Now, if there’s nothing else?’

  The house sat in silent isolation, surrounded by gardens on all four sides. His standing in the community might have taken a tumble after the court case, but the family home stood firm. Three storeys of grime-streaked granite with mature trees out front, a sweeping gravel driveway, a separate garage, and a low wall separating it from the street.

  An old-fashioned Jaguar was parked out front, hubcaps gleaming in the house’s security lights.

  Steel kept her foot wedged in the doorway – keeping it open. ‘Can we come in, Billyboy?’

  He stiffened his back, pulling himself up to his full height, and glared down at Steel. ‘Do you have a warrant?’

  ‘I can get one.’

  ‘Then the answer is no. Now remove your foot from my property, I’m under no obligation to entertain your nonsense any further.’

  The sound of a television, turned up a little bit too loud, came from somewhere inside. A serious man’s voice doing the news: ‘… confirm that an arrest has been made in the Scottish town of Banff, connected to the fatal shooting of undercover police officer, Mary Ann Nasrallah …’

  Logan stepped up. ‘Dr Gilcomston, do you know a man called Charles Anderson? Also goes by the nickname, “Craggie”?’

  ‘… go live to Aberdeenshire. Kim, have Police Scotland released any details about the individual involved?’

  Gilcomston pursed his lips. ‘I believe he’s some sort of dead fisherman. There was an article in the paper about him setting fire to his boat.’

  ‘Yes, but did you know him before that? Before he went missing?’

  ‘No. Now please go.’

  ‘… as Martyn Baker, a twenty-one-year-old man from Birmingham.’

  Steel pulled her foot back. ‘OK, play hard-to-get if you like, Billyboy, but we’ll no’ be far away.’ She winked at him. ‘Stay out of trouble, eh?’ Then turned and marched down the path toward her little sports car.

  ‘… plead guilty or not guilty, when Mr Baker comes up before the Sheriff Court at nine a.m. tomorrow morning.’

  The tendons in Gilcomston’s neck tightened for a beat, then he turned his blue eyes on Logan. ‘I’ll be making a complaint about your superior. This is harassment.’

  Logan stared back in silence.

  ‘Thank you, Kim. And we’ll have more on that later, when the Police Scotland press conference starts.’

  A herring gull cawed and shrieked somewhere in the darkness.

  ‘This, of course, ends a week-long manhunt for the person or people who shot and killed Mary Ann Nasrallah …’

  A car rumbled past.

  ‘… to Liverpool now, where Constable Nasrallah’s family have been holding a prayer vigil …’

  Gilcomston cleared his throat. Looked away. ‘I have nothing further to say to you.’

  ‘Charles Anderson thought you were involved in the death of the little girl we found at Tarlair. What would give him that idea?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I have to go.’ Gilcomston closed the door. Then the sound of bolts and locks shooting home clicked and clacked out through the wood.

  Logan gave it a count of ten, then turned and joined Steel on the pavement.

  She was leaning back against her MX-5, arms folded, e-cigarette sticking out the corner of her mouth. ‘He’s a slimy git.’

  ‘Anderson must’ve seen her. The picture on the board: it wasn’t from a newspaper or off the internet, it was a photograph. He took it. So he must have seen her when she was alive.’

  ‘And he probably saw her with Dr Kidfiddler.’ Steel blew a stream of steam at the heavy clouds. ‘Laz, could you no’ have saved the evidence, instead of swooning like a Victorian heroine?’

  ‘Thanks. Yes, it was all my fault someone tried to bash my brains in, how very careless of me.’ He dug his hands deep into his pockets. ‘Could’ve died. Bit of sympathy might not go amiss.’

  ‘Wah, wah, wah. Don’t be so melodramatic. If they wanted you dead, they would’ve left you in the house when they set fire to it.’

  45

  Logan drove the Big Car up the kerb, over the pavement, and onto the half-moon of blockwork opposite the Threadneedle Street Car Park. Well, it was easier than messing about with the automatic gate that secured the loading area at the back of Peterhead police station.

  Nearly half-past eleven, and the place was dead. The occasional car drifted past – with horrible music bmmmtshhh, bmmmtshhh, bmmmtshhhing out through the windows – but other than that, the Blue Toon was as quiet as it ever got.

  Logan locked up and stepped out.

  The surrounding wall of terraced houses cut the wind down to a dull roar, leaving the drizzle to sway down from the burnt-orange sky in clammy waves. He tucked his notepad under his arm, rammed his hat on his head—

  ‘Ow …’ Knives and needles jabbed through the skin and into his skull, radiating out from the brand-new lump. ‘Sodding hell.’

  He tucked his hat under his arm instead and hurried up the street. From the front, Peterhead station looked like a bank – all granite and tall windows, an imposing frontage with pillars and a portico – but the other three sides were knobbly red sandstone, stitched together with thick lines of grey mortar.

  ‘All units, be on the lookout for a brown Ford Ranger, number plate unknown, but the back end’s all dented. Just ram-raided the Co-op in Strichen. Last seen battering away down the New Deer road.’

  He dug out his key and let himself into the blue side door.

  It opened on a manky magnolia hall, with temporary lockers and building works on one side. Singing came through the bars separating the cellblock from the rest of the building. It sounded as if all the talented members of the wedding party had ended up in Fraserburgh’s cells, leaving only the tone deaf behind.

  Logan nipped up the wee flight of stairs, past the three banks of Airwave lockers, and into the stairwell. Stood at the bottom and stared up into the darkness. ‘SHOP!’

  The only answer was the echo. Shop … Shop … Shop …

  OK. Up three flights to the first floor.

  ‘Anyone in the vicinity of New Aberdour? Mrs Tobias has gone walkabout again.’

  Where the hell was everyone?

  The canteen had the same collection of chipped Formica, cheap kitchen units, and unwashed mugs as every other station in the northeast. It was separated into two bits with a wee archway in the middle. One half held the vending machine and a handful of tables and c
hairs. Posters on the walls about integrity, fairness, and respect. One about dialling 101 if it wasn’t an emergency, and another about being on the lookout for suicidal colleagues. The other half had the kitchen: worktops; fridge – covered with notices and dire warnings about not stealing other people’s food; toaster; cooker; and not one but two microwaves. Fancy.

  He helped himself to a mug and a teabag, then filled it from the special boiling-water tap mounted on the wall. Must’ve been someone’s birthday, because the last two slices of a chocolate cake sat on the kitchen table. He helped himself to one of those too.

  Then picked up the wall phone and pressed the button for the cellblock. Listened to it ring.

  ‘Aye, aye?’

  ‘Stubby? It’s Logan. Whose birthday was it?’

  ‘Well, as I live and breathe – our very own B Division Duty Sergeant! To what do we lowly peasants owe the honour?’

  ‘Don’t be like that, I was here last night, wasn’t I?’

  ‘No.’

  Fair enough. ‘Anything going on I should know about?’

  ‘Aye, Glen’s forty the day. Doesn’t look out of nappies yet, does he?’

  ‘I got hit on the head, so I’m stealing a slice of his cake.’

  ‘Other than that, we’ve still got a full set after Friday night’s wedding. Can’t wait for the courts to open tomorrow, it’s smelling a bit ripe down here.’

  He took a bite of cake, chewing around the words. ‘Anything new?’

  ‘Domestic earlier: bloke’s off to Fraserburgh for the night. She’s off to the hospital. Picked up a guy for getting hot and heavy with, and I kid you not, a Shetland pony. Silly sod filmed it on his own phone. And there’s a couple of unlawful removals we’re looking into. Found one up at the Flaggie earlier. Other than that, it’s been pretty Q-word.’

  ‘Wish I could say the same.’ He washed the cake down with a mouthful of tea. ‘Stubby, did you ever deal with Neil Wood?’

  ‘Our missing paedo? Yeah, couple of times when I was in the Offender Management Unit. He wasn’t mine, but I had to fill in now and then. Sniffly, runny, sticky kind of bloke. You know the type people always think of when someone says “child molester”? That.’

  ‘You been to his B-and-B since he went missing?’ The last of the cake disappeared.

  ‘Got enough on my plate as it is. Why?’

  ‘Looking for a link with one Charles “Craggie” Anderson. Tell Glen happy birthday from me, OK?’

  ‘You sticking around for a bit?’

  ‘Depends what comes up.’ Logan put the phone down, grabbed the remaining slice of cake, and headed for the Sergeants’ Office.

  It wasn’t that much different to the one back at Banff – high ceilings, cornices and moulded architraves being slowly buried under layers of white gloss. Two desks, back to back, and computers almost powerful enough to pull the skin off a cold cup of coffee.

  He settled into the seat, slurped, munched, and logged on to the system.

  Didn’t take long to catch up with the day’s actions. Everyone was up to date, even Tufty.

  A dull ache seeped around Logan’s skull, starting at the back of his head and ending up right behind his eyes. The paramedic’s paracetamol was wearing off.

  Paracetamol for a cracked skull – how was that supposed to help? Whatever happened to cocodamol, voltarol, naproxen, or oxycodone? Ah, the good old days.

  He went rummaging through the desk till he turned up a battered packet of aspirin. Better than nothing, but not much. Two got washed down with a swig of cold tea.

  Of course, Steel was right – if they’d wanted him dead, they’d have left him to burn with the house. Still …

  He checked the clock on the computer. Gone half eleven. Far too late to be calling civilians. But … He pulled out his phone and dialled.

  Ringing. Ringing. Then an Aberdonian accent trying very hard to sound posh came on the line. ‘Aberdeen Examiner, news desk, how can I help you?’

  ‘Is Colin Miller there? Tell him it’s an old friend.’

  ‘One moment, I’ll put you through …’ Click.

  Ravel’s ‘Bolero’ droned out of the handset, sounding as if it was being played in an elevator by drunken monkeys.

  Logan finished off his tea.

  More ‘Bolero’.

  He pulled over a sheet of paper and drew a rectangular box in the middle. Wrote ‘LIVESTOCK MART’ in it. Next came the names: Gilcomston, Brussels, Wood, Barden, and what was the woman called? The one living in the big Victorian house with twinset, pearls, and death threats. Ah, right: Mrs Bartholomew. What else? Who else was on the board?

  He tapped his pen against the desk. Steel was right: should’ve taken a photograph. Be easier than trying to piece it together from memory, after a thump to the head.

  Who else was—

  Click. And on came an unabashed Glaswegian accent. ‘Logie? That you? Long time no hear, man. How’s life in the sticks? You hear anything about this Martyn Baker joker?’

  ‘You’re still in the office, Colin? Don’t you have a wife and three kids to get home to?’

  ‘Alfie’s teething, so I’ve come down with a nasty dose of “stuff what needs written for Monday’s edition”. Longer I stay out of the house, the better. What you after?’

  ‘Did you write that piece on Charles Anderson in the Examiner today?’

  ‘You kidding? The day I use that many adverbs in one story, you’ve got my permission to shoot us. It was that neep, Finnegan.’

  ‘I need to speak to Anderson’s ex-wife. Any chance you can dig out her details for me?’

  A small hungry pause. ‘Something juicy on the go?’

  ‘Nah, standard follow-up stuff.’

  ‘Cause if something juicy comes up, you’re no’ gonnae forget your old pal Colin, are you?’

  ‘When have I ever?’

  ‘Aye, right.’

  Somewhere in the distance church bells gave twelve sonorous cries of doom, while the canteen microwave droned.

  The sound of scuffing feet. Then someone cleared their throat. ‘Sarge.’

  Bleeep.

  Logan glanced over his shoulder. ‘Hi.’

  The wee loon couldn’t have been much over twenty. Spots clung to the sides of his forehead, disappearing into the felt-style haircut. A full-moon face with chubby child cheeks. Quick peek at the shoulder numbers on his epaulettes showed he was one of this year’s gaggle of newbies. He produced something between a smile and a wince. ‘PC Matthews. Ted.’

  ‘Right. Ted.’ Logan made a half-arsed set of oven gloves out of a tea towel and liberated his bowl of lentil soup from the microwave. ‘How’s it hanging, Ted?’

  The smile got more wincey. ‘Yeah. Great. Thanks.’

  ‘Good.’ He carried his soup through to the sit-down part of the canteen, then went back for his toast.

  ‘Anyone free to attend? Got complaints about a man urinating in the Iceland shop doorway, Fraserburgh.’

  ‘Sarge?’

  ‘What can I do for you, Ted?’

  Constable Matthews sank into the chair opposite. ‘How do you … If … I mean …’ Pink bloomed on his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

  Surely he wasn’t asking for a talk on the birds and the bees.

  He cleared his throat. ‘I found a body today. Old man, hadn’t been seen for a week and his neighbours were worried.’

  Logan put down his spoon. ‘It happens a lot more often than people think.’

  ‘He’d hung himself, on the stairs. Wrapped a belt round the bannister and his neck.’ Matthews puffed out his cheeks. ‘Place was a tip. I mean, really, really horrible. Everything sticky and filthy and the smell was unbelievable.’

  A bite of toast. ‘I know it sounds daft, but you get used to it. Never gets any better, but you do get used to it.’

  ‘He had the heating up full pelt, and he’d been hanging there for seven days … Face all black and crawling wit
h flies …’ A shudder.

  ‘Update on the piddler: turns out there’s a woman with him and she’s having a wee there too. Can someone attend, please?’

  Should really have had a squint through the cupboard first – found out if anyone had any hot sauce. Couldn’t do it with Matthews here. Not with all those signs about not nicking other people’s food glaring down from the fridge door.

  ‘You know what I spent the morning doing, Sarge? Getting spat at. Sworn at. Shouted at. Someone threw up on my shoes.’ He slumped inside his stabproof vest, making it look as if he’d shrunk. ‘Don’t know if I can do this any more.’

  Have to buy something different next time. No more lentil soup. Maybe cream of tomato? Pff … Who was he kidding. The decent stuff cost more than the budget would allow. Tattie and leek?

  ‘And it’s the same people, day after day, shift after shift. All the time, the same manky minks, with their filthy houses and smelly clothes and drug habits. Or drink. Or both. Never mind the nutters …’

  Of course, the ideal thing would be to go buy a bunch of vegetables and make soup. But then he’d have to trust it to the canteen fridge, and everyone knew what a bunch of thieving sods police officers were when it came to food. Oh, you could leave cash and jewellery and electronics lying about for weeks and no one would touch it. But see if you put a custard cream down and turned your back for five seconds? Gone.

  ‘Joined the police to help people, and all I’m doing is babysitting scumbags who hate me.’

  That was the thing about tins, you could hide them. Didn’t need refrigerating.

  ‘And the pension’s a joke now, isn’t it? Get to work till I’m sixty, for a pittance. Can you see us as a bunch of sixty-year-olds, dunting in some druggie’s door and fighting off his Rottweiler?’ He shrank a little more. ‘Got a friend who works on the rigs.’

  ‘I know.’ Logan dipped a chunk of toast in his soup. ‘The pay here’s rubbish, the shifts are rubbish, and the pension’s rubbish. Job’s well and truly screwed.’ He popped the soggy morsel in his mouth and chewed. ‘But we get to change people’s lives. We get to keep them safe. And when something horrible happens, and they end up dead or damaged, we get them justice. Try doing that on an oilrig.’