Logan McRae 09 - The Missing and the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘And?’

  ‘Says he was on his way to the garage to get it all fixed and didn’t know about the tax. So I gave him an on-the-spot fine and fourteen days to attend a police station with evidence it’s all been fixed, or we’re confiscating the vehicle and doing him.’

  ‘Good.’ Logan pointed through the rain-shimmered glass. ‘Now get a move on, we’ve got some druggies to spin.’

  ‘And you’ve got nothing on your person I should know about?’ Tufty snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. ‘No knives, needles or blades?’

  A sniff caught the drop on the end of Lumpy Patrick’s nose and hauled it back in. ‘Nah, I’m, you know, clean and that …’ His arms were like sticks, knotted around with rope. Thin hands with thick black crusts under the fingernails. Sunken cheeks and bloodshot eyes.

  He stood in the battered glow of a lamppost on Low Street, shielded from the wind and rain by the triangular frontage of a sheltered housing block.

  Lumpy assumed the position and Tufty ran his hands along the outside of his manky sweatshirt. ‘I hear you’re dealing again.’

  ‘Nah, not me, no, not dealing. Don’t deal no more. Nah, someone’s lying.’

  Logan dug his hands deeper into his pockets, out of the cold. ‘You hear about Kirstin Rattray, Lumpy?’

  His head wobbled round to blink with two bloodshot eyes. He’d lost a couple of teeth since last time. ‘She pregnant again?’

  ‘No. Someone battered the living hell out of her. Left her for dead in a lay-by.’

  One eyebrow crawled its way up Lumpy’s forehead. ‘Oh. Right. No.’ He sent a pale tongue slithering across greying gums. ‘No. Didn’t know that. No.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Nah.’ Pause. ‘Yes.’

  Tufty finished the pat down. ‘Right: pockets.’ Then dipped into them.

  Lumpy sniffed back another droplet. ‘I hear stuff from time to time, though. Yeah, everyone thinks I don’t, but I do.’

  ‘Like what?’

  A grin. ‘Like Stinky Sammy Wilson saying you gave him fifty quid to dig out someone called the Candleman. You can’t trust Sammy Wilson, but you can trust me. Totally. For fifty quid I could be, like, your eyes and ears and that. Much better than Sammy Wilson; man’s a moron and a liar.’

  No honour amongst addicts.

  And what the hell was Sammy doing telling everyone he was asking after the Candleman? Silly sod was leaving a trail a mile wide that led right back to Logan. And it wouldn’t take much for McInnes to stumble across it. Then BOOM, followed by nuclear winter.

  ‘Forget the Candleman. There is no Candleman. But if you find out who battered Kirstin Rattray, we’ll talk about it.’ He stuck a business card in Lumpy’s fingers.

  ‘Arms out, Bill, you know the drill.’

  A sigh, then the arms came up, increasing the choking stench of old cheese and socks. Bill’s red hoodie was smeared down the front, hanging like a scarlet shroud over his skeletal torso.

  Wind moaned in the branches of the trees, rustling the leaves outside St Andrew’s Episcopal Church. Rain pattered against the lanced windows and gothic frontage, darkening the granite. Making it glisten in the streetlight.

  Tufty worked his way along Bill’s arms.

  Logan shifted himself into the church doorway, but it wasn’t any drier there. ‘So, Bill, what do you hear about Kirstin Rattray?’

  A shrug. ‘There something in it for me? Sammy Wilson says he’s getting eighty quid for info about who’s supplying Klingon and Gerbil.’

  Eighty quid? At this rate he’d be on more than Logan.

  ‘Said it was top secret. Think he told everyone.’

  Because Sammy Wilson was an idiot.

  ‘Do you know anything, or don’t you?’

  ‘Do you a deal, I’ll undercut Sammy: let’s call it sixty quid?’

  Rain lashed the Big Car as Tufty took it across the bridge and into Macduff. ‘Get the feeling we’re piddling in the wind on this one, Sarge.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Seven druggies, and all we know for sure is that Stinky Sammy Wilson is a useless lying wee sod. Which we kinda knew to begin with.’

  That and the fact someone had a damn good go at battering Kirstin Rattray to death.

  Outside, the North Sea hacked at the bay with curled white claws.

  OK, so she’d clyped on Klingon and Gerbil, but that didn’t mean whoever attacked her had something to do with Operation Troposphere. Half the shopkeepers in Banff and Macduff would probably queue up to have a go. But maybe not with a crowbar.

  Still, it wasn’t as if they were making much headway here, was it? And given the way things had been going lately, it might not be such a bad idea to cover his own arse for a change.

  Logan twisted his Airwave free of its holder. Rubbed his thumb across the face of the buttons. He poked a shoulder number into the keypad. Pressed the talk button. ‘Shire Uniform Seven for DI Porter, safe to talk?’

  Tufty pulled a face. ‘Who’s Porter?’

  ‘Runs the investigation into Klingon and Gerbil for that nasty wee—’

  ‘Hello?’ Her voice crackled out of the handset. ‘Who is this?’

  Here we go. ‘It’s Sergeant McRae in Banff.’

  ‘This better be important, Sergeant, I’m right in the middle of something here.’

  A couple of drunks weaved their way along the pavement, arms wrapped around each other’s sodden shoulders, ignoring the howling wind and battering rain.

  ‘I know I’m supposed to stay away from Operation Troposphere, but before you set your boss on me, there’s something you need to know.’

  ‘Sergeant McRae, I think Detective Chief Inspector McInnes was very clear about this.’

  ‘I’m not interfering, I’m passing on information. Kirstin Rattray – she gave us the nod about Colin Spinney and Kevin McEwan in the first place. She’s turned up at Elgin A-and-E. Someone’s had a go at beating her to death.’

  ‘And you think our Candy Man found out this Rattray woman was clyping on him and decided to shut her up.’

  ‘Might be. Or it might be unrelated. Either way, I thought you should know.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant. I’ll be in touch if I need anything else.’

  Logan peered at the Airwave’s screen. She’d disconnected. ‘My sodding pleasure.’

  Tufty sucked at his teeth. ‘So … This means we’re done spinning druggies?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  53

  ‘Come on, I didn’t do nothing.’ The words clambered their way out of a mouth that looked as if it hadn’t seen a toothbrush since puberty. ‘This is harassment.’ She’d dragged her hair back from her face with a couple of elastic bands, hard enough to pull her eyes out of shape. A hand reached down and scratched the underside of one buttock, poking out below the hem of an unbelievably short black skirt. No tights, just ice-cream skin, flecked with little red spots. A blue streak of varicose veins. Low-cut top showing off a stretch of ribby cleavage.

  At least it was relatively sheltered here, in a little alleyway down the side of the post office, opposite the public car park where they’d found her.

  Logan leaned against the rough stone wall. ‘It’s OK, Abby, want to ask you a couple of questions, that’s all.’

  She eyed Tufty like a dying snake. ‘You’re no’ searching us?’

  ‘Would you like us to?’

  She shrugged one shoulder. ‘What questions?’

  ‘What have you heard about Kirstin Rattray?’

  ‘That slag? Wouldn’t pee on her if she was on fire.’

  ‘Yeah, but would you try to beat the flames out with a crowbar?’

  Abby’s mouth clicked shut. She looked away. ‘Didn’t mean nothing. Was only …’ She picked at her fingernails. ‘Not saying she wouldn’t deserve it, like. Doing what she did.’

  Logan gave her a quick loom. ‘And what was that?’

 
‘Oh, come on, everyone knows she’s shagging Judy Webster’s husband.’ Abby folded her arms across her bony chest. ‘You don’t shag someone else’s man. You just don’t. It’s against the sisterhood, you know?’

  Logan stared at her.

  Colour bloomed across her pale cheeks. ‘It’s not the same. This is business.’

  ‘Go home. No one’s going to be kerb-crawling in this anyway.’

  Abby stuck her nose in the air and clacked away on her too-high heels, staggering and lurching as she walked out of the alley and into the wind.

  Tufty blew out a breath. ‘Points for self-awareness?’

  Logan shook his head. ‘Might as well call it for tonight. Either no one’s got a clue who attacked Kirstin, or they’re all too scared to talk. Probably have to sit on our thumbs till she wakes up to find out.’ Assuming she ever did.

  They marched back to the Big Car, where the wind tried to haul the door out of Logan’s hand. He climbed inside and slammed it shut again.

  It wasn’t his fault. It really wasn’t. Kirstin Rattray had been involved with dodgy people for years, sooner or later one of them was going to do something horrible. That’s the way drug culture worked. Nothing to do with Logan.

  So why did it feel as if something sharp and cold was grinding away deep inside him, filling his stomach with gravel and broken glass?

  Maybe DI Porter would have more luck coming up with something. Hope so, anyway.

  Tufty got in behind the wheel. Checked his watch. ‘Quarter past ten. Back to the station for an early elevenses?’

  ‘First we do a drift-by of Rundle Avenue. Keep Frankie Ferris’s customers too scared to buy his wares. Then elevenses.’

  Wind shook the Big Car as Tufty took them down the hill, past a couple of boarded-up houses, and out onto the harbour front. A couple of fishing boats bobbed in their berths, lights glimmering. More lights off in the distance – probably offshore supply boats, riding out the storm.

  ‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

  ‘Bash away.’

  ‘Got a report of someone breaking into one of the warehouses down at Macduff harbour. You’re not far, right?’

  So much for elevenses. ‘OK, we’re on our way.’

  ‘Anything?’

  Tufty slowed the Big Car down to a crawl as they made another circuit of the harbour.

  It wasn’t exactly home to a huge fleet. Ten large fishing boats were tied up to the docks, most streaked with rust along the side where the nets were hauled in. Some nearly new, others that looked as if they could’ve fought in the Cod War. All bathed in the waxy glow of the harbour’s lights.

  Logan poked the ‘LEFT ALLEY’ button, and the side spotlight lanced out into the gap between two warehouses, illuminating a stack of yellow fish boxes.

  ‘We’re wasting our time, aren’t we, Sarge?’

  ‘Looks like it. Five more minutes, and back to the station.’

  Another warehouse – breezeblocks on the bottom floor, with corrugated metal above painted a dusty orange. The spotlight shone back from the lower windows, glittered in the upper ones.

  Tufty took a right, into the yard next door with its offshore containers, stacks of pallets, piles of thick metal pipes, and big chunks of machinery in wire cages. He poked ‘RIGHT ALLEY’ and the other spotlight came on, firing through the pallets and making skeletal shadows up the side of the warehouse. ‘You know, if we put the blues, rear reds, and headlight flashers on, it’ll be like driving about in a Christmas tree. Or we could have a disco.’

  ‘Do you want me to take that badge back?’

  The Big Car slowed to a halt in front of a short office-block attached to the side of the orange warehouse. The door was open. ‘Oh-ho. Maybe not such a waste after all.’ Tufty hauled on the handbrake. ‘What do you think?’

  They climbed out into the night.

  Wind was picking up again, rattling the corrugated metal on the warehouse roof. Moaning through the chain-link fence.

  Could’ve been eating chips, drinking beer, and celebrating instead of this …

  Logan twisted his LED torch out of its holder and clicked it on. Swept it across the front of the office block. ‘Might still be in there.’

  ‘Right.’ Tufty unclipped his extendable baton and clacked it out to its full length. Held it up and back, so it rested on his shoulder, torch in his other hand. ‘You want me to go first?’

  ‘No point keeping a dog and barking yourself.’ Logan pulled out his own baton. Flicked his wrist and the end shot out, snapping into place. ‘Remember – no hitting anyone unless I tell you it’s OK.’

  ‘It was only that one time, and I didn’t do it hard.’ He eased the door open and slipped inside.

  The beam of Tufty’s torch bobbed on the other side of the window.

  Logan followed him in.

  A cluttered open-plan office, with whiteboards and noticeboards covered in scrawled notes. Half a dozen desks with antique beige computers. A bank of filing cabinets. A coffee machine. And a bookshelf full of ring binders.

  Tufty picked his way around the room, peering under desks. Then straightened up and shook his head. Pointed at the door in the opposite wall, by the filing cabinets.

  ‘Go for it.’

  A wince. Then a whisper. ‘Are we not supposed to be sneaking about in secret?’

  ‘We turned up in a dirty big patrol car with “Police” down the side and spotlights blazing. Not exactly subtle, is it?’

  ‘Oh. OK.’ He turned and opened the door through to the warehouse. Stepped through, with Logan right behind him.

  Their footsteps echoed back from the high ceiling and metal walls. Racks of things and piles of stuff loomed in the darkness. Tufty played his torch across the nearest rack. Metal things, and plastic things, and things that were a combination of both. The place was huge. Bigger than it looked from the outside – with rack shelving laid out in long rows, like a cash-and-carry.

  Ship’s chandlers? Something like that. The bits and bobs looked kind of nautical.

  Tufty crept out into the aisles, keeping his torch beam down.

  Yeah, sod that. A bank of switches sat beside the door through to the office block. Logan swept a hand down them, clicking them all on.

  Clunk. Then pinging and flickering as the fluorescent tubes warmed up.

  Tufty froze, mid-creep. Then straightened up. Cleared his throat. ‘OK. Or we could do that.’

  Something clanged and thunked against the floor, somewhere deep inside the warehouse, the sound quickly smeared and distorted by its own echoes.

  Logan clicked off his torch. ‘Police! We know you’re in here.’

  in here … in here … in here …

  The echo faded into nothing.

  ‘Don’t play silly sods, it’s over.’

  over … over … over …

  Still nothing.

  OK, if that was the way they wanted to play it.

  He pointed Tufty towards the far corner of the warehouse.

  A nod, then Constable Quirrel loped away into the racks.

  ‘You’re only making it worse for yourself.’ Logan stepped into the gap between two sets of tall metal shelving. Look left: no one. Look right: no one. ‘I’m sure we can work it out.’ Through into the next aisle. No one. Same with the next aisle. ‘Come on, don’t be daft. Only one way this ends.’

  Which was a lie: there were plenty of gaps between the racks, so as long as whoever it was timed it right, they could sneak away unseen while Logan and Tufty were still searching the place.

  Another clunk.

  Logan froze.

  Then a crash battered out from the left.

  ‘Sarge! There!’

  ‘Where?’ He spun in place.

  Someone sprinted across the aisle, down by the far wall.

  ‘Come back here!’ Tufty appeared, then disappeared into the next row of shelving.

  Move. Logan ran back the w
ay he’d come, one hand holding the baton, the other pinning the peaked cap to his head. Past rows of meters and gauges, unidentifiable boxes, sections of plastic piping.

  A bang rang out from the front of the building – a door.

  Hard right turn, feet clattering on the concrete floor. Knees and elbows pumping. Equipment belt jouncing up and down on his hips. Come on, come on, come on …

  There – a door lay wide open, showing off the harbour outside. Logan battered through it and skittered to a halt on the tarmac outside. Spun around in place. No sign of anyone. ‘Tufty?’

  Silence.

  ‘Constable Quirrel!’

  Still nothing.

  Logan punched Tufty’s shoulder number into the Airwave handset. ‘Where the hell are you?’

  His own voice crackled out of the darkness, somewhere to the right. ‘Where the hell are you?’

  ‘Tufty?’ Logan shifted his grip on his baton, clicked his torch on again.

  A rusty van sat at the kerb, the company name faded to a shadow on the dented bodywork.

  He picked his way forwards, baton resting back against his shoulder, ready to swing. Pressed the talk button again. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  Definitely coming from behind the van.

  Logan lunged around the corner. ‘POLICE! NOBODY …’

  Tufty was face down on the pavement, one arm twisted at his side, the other dangling over the kerb.

  54

  ‘Shire Uniform Seven, I need backup to Banff harbour now. Officer down.’ He knelt beside the crumpled body.

  The back of Tufty’s head glistened with dark red, matting his hair.

  Logan grabbed his shoulder and shook. ‘Tufty? You OK?’

  Don’t be dead. Don’t be—

  ‘Unngh …’ Tufty raised his forehead off the pavement. ‘Ow …’

  Joe’s voice boomed from the Airwave, crackling and panting, as if he was running. ‘Roger that, Shire Uniform Seven, Penny and me are on our way. Is he OK?’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘My head …’

  ‘It’s still there. Luckily, you’re all skull and no brain. Can you stand?’

  ‘Shire Uniform Seven, from Control. Do you need an ambulance?’