Logan McRae 09 - The Missing and the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  Three months after he snatched his daughter – exactly the time he sent that postcard from Ourense, telling Helen she was a useless ugly cow and no one would ever love her. Did he post it before, or after the wedding ceremony?

  Yeah, Brian Edwards just got lovelier and lovelier.

  A nod. ‘Thanks Tufty.’

  That got a beaming smile. ‘I did good?’

  ‘You did good. Now have a dig around for Brian Menendez Guerra – did he ever come to the UK? Where is he now, are there photos of him on Facebook, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Will do, Sarge.’ Tufty put his snogging gnomes in their box again and humped the lot off to the Constables’ Office.

  Logan checked his watch. Napier would be waiting. Sharpening his knives.

  Need to do something first, though.

  Steel was still wandering back and forth in the courtyard behind the station, so Logan went through the door by the reception hatch, into the hall, past the stairwell, left at the interview rooms, and finally out of the old cellblock door.

  The building acted as a windbreak on three sides, with its plain stone walls and barred windows. Cracks broke the concrete courtyard into a chessboard patchwork, and the only thing winning was the moss. All of it bathed in a spotlight of sunshine.

  Steel got to the far end, then turned and marched back towards him. ‘… I’ve no idea, Susan, I really don’t. … I know. I’ve tried, but he says he really can’t stand your mother. Says if she comes to the dinner, he won’t. … I know, he’s a complete …’ Her head came up. She blinked at Logan a couple of times. ‘I’ll call you back.’ The phone went in an inside pocket. ‘Well, well, if it’s no’ Mr Grumpy.’

  ‘Did you get my message?’

  She crossed the last couple of feet between them and plucked the mug of tea from his fingers. ‘Ta.’ Took a slurp. ‘What happened to the sugar?’

  ‘It’s not your sodding tea.’

  ‘Is now.’ The fake cigarette came out, and got plugged into the side of her mouth. ‘Got any biscuits?’

  ‘Napier’s upstairs waiting for me.’

  ‘Again? He must fancy you something rotten.’

  ‘Wants to shout at me for interfering with Operation Troposphere.’

  ‘Serves you right.’ She had a couple of puffs, then dribbled steam out of her nose. ‘You know where I spent most of the morning? Peterhead, rummaging through Neil Wood’s bed and breakfast. There’s three hours I’m never getting back. And his taste in soft furnishings is abysmal. Worse than your mum’s.’

  ‘Hard to believe.’ Logan stared at the cracked concrete around his feet. ‘Look, if you wanted to interrupt my interview and drag me away again, I’d be OK with that. I don’t know, we could traipse round all the sex offenders again, if you like?’

  Another slurp of tea, then she turned and pointed at an old granite stone, mounted above the Constables’ Office window. All the stone bricks were the colour of slate, but this one was an ancient grey, sitting next to a coat of arms above the lintel. The words carved into it were still chisel sharp:

  ‘That no’ a strange thing to put on a police station?’

  ‘Wasn’t always a police station. Used to be a bank at one point. And they cannibalized something else to make that. Probably a merchant’s house. It basically says, “Don’t bear false witness”.’

  ‘No it doesn’t, it says, “Nobody likes a clype”.’

  ‘Speaking of which: Napier.’

  ‘Can’t. I’ve got a conference call with Finnie in two. You’ll have to take your medicine like a big boy …’ She narrowed her eyes. Tilted her head to one side. ‘You’ve been up to something, haven’t you? You’re all rosy and glowing.’

  ‘Not you as well.’ Logan folded his arms. ‘I haven’t been up to anything. Now, if you’ll—’

  ‘You have. What is it? What did you do?’

  Don’t flinch. Don’t let her know about Helen. ‘I caught the Cashline Ram-Raiders. They had a whole MIT on that for a fortnight, and who solved it? Me.’

  ‘Aye, well done, Inspector Morse.’ She took the e-cigarette from her mouth. ‘Don’t suppose your little grey cells have come up with anything about our wee dead girl, have they?’

  ‘Grey cells are Poirot, not Morse.’ He dug into his pocket and produced the sheet of paper with its boxes and lines and paedophiles’ names. Unfolded it and handed it over. ‘That’s all I can remember from Charles Anderson’s garage. The ones with question marks, I’m not sure of.’

  A sniff. ‘Better than nothing, I suppose.’

  He turned and marched back inside. Stopped at the door. ‘You sure you can’t interrupt Napier?’

  ‘You want a bit of advice about dealing with the Ginger Ninja?’

  ‘If it’ll help.’

  Steel grinned. ‘Grope his bum when he’s not looking. Gives him the willies.’

  Rain clattered against the Major Incident Room’s window. At the head of the table, Napier steepled his fingers. Again. ‘And you’re certain of that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The camera’s dead eye stared at Logan, little red light glowing like an ember. Sitting next to it, Inspector Gibb made a note in her pad.

  ‘So, to be clear, you’re categorically certain, on the record, that you haven’t seen Graham Stirling since the trial collapsed.’

  ‘No. I haven’t seen him since Tuesday morning. Before the trial was called off.’

  Napier’s smile widened. ‘We’re still looking for him, by the way. It may take a while, but we’ll find him.’

  The camcorder whirred in the silence.

  Logan narrowed his eyes. ‘I thought this was supposed to be about Operation Troposphere: Klingon, Gerbil, Klingon’s mum.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, we’ll get to that. In the meantime: when we do find Graham Stirling, what would you like to bet he’ll be face-down in a ditch? Or do you favour a shallow grave, Sergeant McRae?’

  ‘I think the more important question would be, “Where are David and Catherine Bisset?”’

  ‘Enquiries are proceeding.’ He sat forward, resting his elbows on the desk and his chin on his fingertips. ‘Do you know where they are, Sergeant?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure? Because a more cynical man than I might come to the conclusion that if you’re unable to exert justice-slash-vengeance on your own, who better to recruit to your cause than the children of the man you couldn’t save?’

  ‘I don’t know where they are.’

  ‘Graham Stirling walked free, because you couldn’t be bothered following procedure. We know you don’t feel bound by the same rules as the rest of us mere mortals. What’s a little conspiracy to commit murder between friends?’

  Logan stared at him.

  Napier smiled back. ‘You see, the DNA results came in this morning: we know that David and Catherine Bisset were in Stirling’s kitchen. Did you send them there? Did you tell them they could kill Graham Stirling and get away with it?’

  Inspector Gibb raised her head, eyes glittering. Pen poised, ready to take notes.

  So he’d been right – they’d put their father out of his misery, then broken into Stirling’s house and killed him. It was just a case of waiting now till the body turned up and David and Catherine Bisset went down for twelve years to life.

  Logan kept his mouth shut. Let the silence stretch.

  ‘Well, Sergeant? Would you care to—’

  Then Logan’s Airwave gave its four point-to-point bleeps. ‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

  He glanced at the screen. No idea whose shoulder number it was, but it was low, so might be a boss.

  Napier held up a finger. ‘I don’t think so.’ He put his hand out. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘And if I do?’

  His shoulder rose, then dipped. ‘Well, for a start, I’m a chief superintendent, and you’re a sergeant, so that makes me, let’s see: four steps further up the ladder? If y
ou can’t have the common courtesy to switch off your Airwave when you’re in a meeting, I shall do it for you. Now: the handset, please.’

  No point fighting – it wasn’t as if he was ever going to win.

  Logan unclipped his handset and passed it across.

  ‘Thank you.’ Napier glanced down at the screen as he reached for the off switch. Then stopped, fingers hovering over the control. ‘Ah …’ He pursed his lips. ‘I think you probably better take this one.’ Then stood, walked around behind Logan, on those silent little feet, and placed the Airwave on the table in front of him. ‘It’s the Chief Constable.’

  The breath wheezed out of Logan, dragging heart and lungs down into his bowels. Great – a tag-team bollocking.

  He pressed the button. ‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk.’

  Napier settled back into his seat, that Night-of-the-Living-Dead smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

  Inspector Gibb’s pen hovered over her notepad.

  And then the Chief Constable’s voice thumped out into the room. ‘Sergeant McRae – Logan – it’s John.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Here we go …

  ‘I wanted to call you anyway; say congratulations on catching the man who shot Constable Mary Ann Nasrallah. Excellent result, especially given the case was a national priority. First-rate job there. Really showed the power of good old-fashioned divisional policing.’

  Logan blinked at the handset a couple of times. OK … ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Time for the other shoe, not so much to drop as get rammed home into his groin.

  ‘And now I hear you’ve been instrumental in arresting the Cashline Ram-Raiders.’

  Warmth bloomed in his cheeks. ‘Thank you, sir, but it was a team effort.’

  ‘That’s what I like to hear, Logan: shoulder the blame when things go wrong, share the credit when they don’t. That’s the kind of leadership I want in Police Scotland.’

  Logan raised an eyebrow at Napier. ‘Glad to hear it, sir.’

  ‘The media lot are putting out a statement, and believe me when I say you’re going to get a glowing write-up. Well done again. We could do with a lot more Logan McRaes out there, Sergeant.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ But the Chief Constable was already gone. Logan placed his Airwave handset back on the tabletop. Gave Napier his widest smile. ‘Now, I think you were busy implying that I colluded with David and Catherine Bisset to kill Graham Stirling?’

  Napier pulled his chin in. Bit his top lip. Closed his eyes. Let out a small sigh. ‘Inspector Gibb, switch off the camera: this meeting is concluded. I’m sure Sergeant McRae has lots more vital work to be getting on with.’

  And, escape.

  51

  ‘Interview suspended at sixteen hundred hours.’ Logan gathered his papers together and stood.

  The guy on the other side of the table squinted back at him. The green overalls were gone, replaced by a white paper oversuit with bootee feet. The skin across his left cheek had darkened to a thundercloud of blue and purple, marbled with yellow. That’s what he got for doing a runner on Nicholson’s watch. He sniffed, rubbed at his nose with cuffed-together hands. ‘You’ll make sure McNee goes down for it, aye? Rest of us was only doing what we was told.’

  The solicitor from the Scottish Legal Aid Board polished a pair of little round specs. ‘Albert, there’s no need for you to continue talking. The interview’s over.’

  He pulled one shoulder up till it almost touched his ear. ‘Just want to make sure, like.’

  Logan looked down at the dirty fingernails, the thick hands, the cuffs. ‘Why Broch Braw Buys?’

  ‘Eh?’

  A sigh from Mr Solicitor. ‘Sergeant McRae, this interview has been terminated.’

  ‘I’m curious.’

  ‘Was McNee’s idea.’ Albert picked at the wart on the back of one thumb. ‘We was hungry, so we parked up to get a burger. McNee went into the shop for a paper. Said there was this wee blonde girl comes skipping in and the gadgie running the place is shouting and swearing and kicks her out. Tiny wee girl, all dressed in pink with a skateboard. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  Another sigh. ‘Albert, I really have to advise against this.’

  ‘So McNee comes back and he says, “We’re doing that miserable old git next.” Said it was payback for being cruel to kids and that.’

  At least that was one mystery solved.

  Logan shifted his Airwave to the other hand and had a slurp of tea. ‘I thought Billy was doing it.’

  ‘Can’t, he’s been summoned to Tulliallan to explain that firearms thing from two weeks ago.’ Inspector McGregor sounded as if she was in a wind tunnel. ‘Sorry.’

  Creaks and groans came from outside the Sergeants’ Office door as someone stalked Fraserburgh station’s wonky corridors.

  ‘Gah …’ Logan folded forward and rested his forehead against the keyboard. ‘We’re supposed to be going out tonight to celebrate.’ And then home to celebrate some more with Helen. Hopefully twice.

  ‘It’s just for tonight. Billy will be back tomorrow evening, we’ll do it then.’

  ‘Chips and beer.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask, but we need a duty sergeant.’

  Logan groaned. Swore. Then hit the button. ‘OK, put me down for a green shift.’

  ‘And we need someone to fill in for Big Paul as well. He’s stood down tonight because he’s got court first thing tomorrow – that attempted murder in Peterhead three months ago.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with the team.’

  ‘Good. Now, where are we at?’

  ‘Finished the last interview half an hour ago. Soon as the other three heard the van driver had rolled over on them, they all changed their plea. According to them, he’s the mastermind behind the Cashline Ram-Raiders. It’s like a competition to see who can shaft him the hardest. I’m writing it up now.’

  ‘So they’re all pleading guilty?’

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  ‘Excellent. What else?’

  There was a knock on the door and Nicholson stuck her head into the room. ‘You want a tea before we head off, Sarge? Nearly home time.’

  ‘Got one, thanks.’ He flipped over a couple of pages in his notepad. Keyed the talk button again. ‘Right, we’ve got two drink drivers and one driving while disqualified, a break-in at Peterhead Cinema, an aggravated assault in Gardenstown, and a mum of three’s gone missing from Aberchirder. Friends say she’s never done it before, but rumour has it she’s got a fancy man in Cullen. I’ve asked the Moray lot to keep an eye out for her.’

  ‘All pretty calm for a Monday.’

  ‘Don’t knock it.’

  ‘And we’ll do chips and beer tomorrow. Promise.’

  Assuming nothing went wrong between now and then. And knowing his luck …

  Logan finished off writing up the interview notes, then headed through to the canteen.

  Nicholson sat in one of the purple couches in front of the TV, Syd Fraser in the other one. The pair of them froze, hands dipped into a box of Maltesers.

  Then Nicholson grinned. ‘Sarge, frightened the life out of us.’ She nabbed a Malteser and popped it in her mouth and went straight back for another one. Munching. ‘Thought you were the owner.’

  Syd scooped up a clicking palmful of little chocolate balls. ‘They were planked in the back of the cupboard. Dig in before whoever bought them finds out.’

  Logan helped himself. All malty and chocolaty and melty and crunchy. ‘Did you hear Klingon’s mum’s not dead?’

  A shrug. More Maltesers. ‘To be fair, I did say Lusso’s not been a cadaver dog for years. They lose the nose for it if they don’t practise.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Crunch. Munch. Sook. ‘Would’ve been nice though.’

  Syd rubbed a hand across his shiny bald head. Frowned. ‘OK, so it’s not Klingon’s mum buried in the back garden. So what? That doesn’t mean someone else isn’t. You got
any missing druggies on the books?’

  Nicholson grabbed another couple. ‘Always. And no one ever tells us if they turn up again.’

  Syd took one more palmful, leaving the box virtually empty.

  ‘Pair of you are like vultures.’ Logan grabbed the last Malteser before anyone else could. ‘Still, it’s sod all to do with us now. DCI McInnes won’t let us anywhere near Klingon’s place.’

  Syd squished the empty box flat. Folded it in half. Then dumped it in the bin and covered it with yesterday’s colour supplement. Burying the evidence. ‘Shame. Otherwise we could nip round there with a couple of shovels and do a bit of grave-robbing. Don’t think they’ll be letting Klingon’s mum move back in any time soon.’

  True.

  Logan hooked a finger at Nicholson. ‘Come on, Calamity, time to get you back to the station.’

  Syd raised a chocolaty hand in salute. ‘Give us a call if you fancy playing Burke and Hare.’

  Nicholson followed Logan out into the hallway. ‘Calamity?’

  ‘Calamity Janet rides again. You’re the one who wanted a nickname.’

  They clumped down the stairs.

  ‘Yeah, but—’

  ‘No buts. You said people weren’t allowed to pick for themselves. So as of now, you’re Calamity.’

  ‘All units, we’ve got a fatal RTC on the A90 between Boddam and the Cruden Bay turn-off. Anyone free to attend?’

  Out into the car park at the back of the station.

  Drizzle greyed the breezeblock and tarmac, misted the windscreens.

  A couple of CID types leaned against a pool car, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. They looked up as Nicholson plipped the locks on the Big Car.

  One seemed to think a Kevin Keegan perm was a good idea, the other looked as if the Ugly Fairy had paid him a visit and never left. Keegan jerked his chin up. ‘You McRae?’

  ‘Yes. You?’

  ‘Brogan, MIT. You got the Ram-Raiders?’