Logan McRae 09 - The Missing and the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  Nearly a foot down now.

  Syd stepped into the hole. ‘If it is a dead body, who do you think it is?’

  ‘Don’t know. Toby Neish, maybe? He went missing about five months ago.’

  Dig. Dig. Dig.

  ‘How’s Tufty’s head today?’

  ‘Every bit as empty as it was yesterday. Got two complaints from the hospital about him offering to show the nurses his “extendable baton”.’ Another shovel full of dirt.

  Little chips of stone were appearing in the soil now. Like someone had dumped a bag of gravel.

  Dig. Dig. Dig.

  ‘Should’ve brought some tins of coke or something … Parched.’

  Dig. Dig. Thunk.

  Syd raised an eyebrow. ‘Aye, aye. We have touchdown.’ He poked his shovel into the earth again. Thunk. Then over a bit. Thunk. A big smile. ‘Told you: best dogs in the country.’

  They scraped the soil back. It was a wooden box, not quite as big as a coffin. But that didn’t really matter if you weren’t interested in the dear departed’s comfort or dignity.

  ‘What do you think, Sarge? Do we open it and risk contaminating anything, or leave it and call for backup?’

  ‘Doesn’t smell like a dead body.’

  ‘Wouldn’t if it was old enough. Everything would rot away.’

  ‘Then how did Lusso smell it?’ He dunked his spade off the lid a couple of times. ‘We open it.’ Logan climbed out of the hole and rummaged through the holdall from the Big Car’s boot. Came out with the hoolie bar. ‘This’ll do it.’

  He wedged the curved blade of metal from the pick-end into the wood where the lid joined the box. Leaned all his weight on the prongs. Nothing. OK, shoogle it about a bit. Then more pressure …

  First a small pop, then a splintering crackle, and thunk: the lid sprung open at one corner. No sudden waft of rotting meat. Didn’t take long to work the hoolie-bar’s adze along the gap, levering out the groaning nails.

  ‘Right, let’s see what we’ve got.’

  They pulled the lid free and propped it up against the fence.

  Syd pursed his lips. Sooked in a breath. Then whistled.

  Logan nodded. ‘Looks like Lusso’s not the best cadaver dog in the world after all.’ But he was damn good at finding firearms and explosives. The box contained about a dozen rifles, four sawn-off shotguns, cardboard boxes of bullets and shells, and three semi-automatic pistols. ‘Think they were planning to start a war?’

  ‘Yes, well …’ DI Porter clicked her head to the side. It pulled the hair out of her eyes, but left the bags under them. One hand came up to scratch at the mole on her cheek. ‘Perhaps, in hindsight, we were a little hasty in declaring this no longer a crime scene.’

  Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t say.’

  She leaned back against the stained wallpaper in Klingon’s kitchen, watching as anonymous white-oversuited figures catalogued the contents of the gun coffin. ‘Far as we can tell, they wanted to set up an American-style drug cartel here in Banff. Bring the stuff in on boats and shoot anyone who got in their way. Witnesses, rival drug dealers, police officers.’

  ‘Pair of idiots.’

  ‘Quite.’ DI Porter tore her eyes away from the kitchen window long enough for a brief glance in Logan’s direction. ‘DCI McInnes thanks you for your input.’

  ‘I’ll bet he does.’

  Pink flushed the tips of her ears. ‘Don’t push it, Sergeant. I’m still trying to talk him out of going after you with the career chainsaw. That thing with Sammy Wilson was …’ A deep breath. ‘What were you thinking?’

  ‘Honestly: I told him to stop it. I really did.’

  ‘This whole thing’s been a cocking mess from the start.’ She blew out a breath. ‘Right, we’ll take it from here.’

  Logan turned and made for the kitchen door.

  ‘And Sergeant?’

  He stopped on the threshold. ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Try to keep out of McInnes’s way for a bit. Three or four years should do it.’

  Syd was leaning back against his Dog Unit Transit van. Basking in a wedge of golden light. The sky was swaddled in thick purple clouds, overlaid by wisps of battleship grey, but right now the sun was shining on Klingon’s house. Syd lowered his face, held a hand above his eyes in a makeshift visor. ‘We good?’

  ‘Difficult to tell.’ Logan clunked open the passenger door and climbed into a solid block of Labrador stink. ‘Back to the station, young man, where we shall be fêted with tea and biscuits. If I can find any planked in the canteen.’ He belted himself in and pulled out his Airwave. ‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

  Nicholson’s voice came through the speaker. ‘Go ahead, Sarge.’

  ‘That’s us finished up at Klingon’s. How are you getting on with those names?’

  Syd pulled away from the kerb, did a quick three-point turn, and headed back towards the centre of town.

  ‘Mark Brussels. Serial sex offender, assaulted at least twenty-three boys and girls over a decade, not one of them older than eight. Spent sixteen years in various prisons up and down the country. Kept getting targeted, so they kept moving him on. Someone in Shotts pinned him down and carved the names of every one of Brussels’s victims into his skin with a sharpened spoon. Brussels’s skin, not his own. Apparently it took three hours. Nearly died from shock and blood loss.’

  ‘Supervision?’

  ‘On the register for life, but he’s been scoring consistently low on the ACUTE-2007 guide for a couple of years, so they’ve cut back his supervision.’

  ‘No hint of anything?’

  ‘His case officer says they wouldn’t have cut it back if there was.’

  Fair enough. ‘What about Gilcomston?’

  ‘Dr William Harris Gilcomston, no longer allowed to practise medicine, or come within three hundred yards of a school. Did eight years in Peterhead for assaulting wee girls in his surgery. Lots of very detailed, very unnecessary examinations. Youngest was four, oldest was nine. That one jumped off the Union Terrace Bridge on the eve of her tenth birthday. He’d been molesting her for five years by then.’

  Houses drifted by the van’s windows.

  A rainbow reached from the bridge over the Deveron, up past Macduff and disappeared into the bruise-coloured clouds.

  ‘Hello? Calamity, you still there?’

  ‘Sorry, Sarge. It’s just … people like Gilcomston and Brussels, you know?’

  ‘What about his supervision?’

  ‘Every week. He’s still denying he did anything wrong, won’t take responsibility for his actions, he’s hostile to his case workers, claims he’s being victimized.’

  ‘You’d think he’d have learned to play the game by now.’

  ‘Some people think they’re untouchable.’

  And then along comes Charles Anderson.

  ‘OK, thanks.’ He twisted his handset back into place.

  Of course, in the good old days, they’d haul Gilcomston and Brussels in. Stick them in a couple of cells and grill them for a bit. See who cracked first. But that wasn’t exactly legal any more. Hard to burst someone with a lawyer sitting there advising them to no-comment everything.

  Didn’t even have any grounds to arrest them.

  Yes, Milord, we’d like a warrant. Why? Well, a man we thought was dead told me the accused had chipped in with two other paedophiles to buy a little girl they could share. Only those other paedophiles are now dead. What’s that: you’re calling security? I’m suspended? Oh dear …

  ‘… there all day?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Logan frowned.

  Syd was looking at him, as if he was expecting an answer.

  ‘Er … In what way?’

  ‘What way do you think? We’re here. Now are you getting out or not?’

  Ah, right. ‘We’re celebrating catching the Cashline Ram-Raiders and the guy who shot Constable Nasrallah tonight, you should tag along. We’ll add “unco
vering Klingon and Gerbil’s weapons stash” to the list of B Division successes.’ He climbed out. ‘Inspector McGregor’s buying everyone chips.’

  ‘Wouldn’t want to miss that. Right, better get back to it, got some woods to search for a missing eighty-four-year-old. Two guesses how that’s going to turn out.’

  Logan closed the door, and the van took a right, down past the car park, right again, and away towards Macduff.

  Even with the threat of rain, a couple were walking their dog on the sands of the bay, throwing sticks and eliciting excited barks. A young man slouched past, cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth, tattoos up and down both arms, wheeling a pushchair full of screaming toddler. A thin young woman stood leaning against the sea wall, where Helen used to stand. Only she had shoulder-length black hair, instead of Helen’s knot of dirty blonde curls.

  Don’t suppose he’d ever see those again.

  He pulled out his phone. Fingers hovering over the contact list. Then put it away again and went inside. No way he was calling her first.

  Banff station was quiet for once. Only the hum-and-click of the photocopier broke the silence.

  Maggie looked up, caught in the act of feeding another sheet into the machine. ‘Sergeant McRae, I’ve got those Biros you wanted. And you’ve got a visitor in your office.’

  Logan stayed where he was. Lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Who is it?’

  DCI Steel’s smoke-roughened rasp filled the room. ‘Who the hell do you think it is? It’s your fairy bloody godmother with the “I’ll give you three wishes” routine.’

  ‘Maggie, we need a signal. Put a sock in the window if someone horrible’s in my office so I know to steer clear.’

  ‘I heard that!’

  ‘You were meant to.’ Logan thumped through to the Sergeants’ Office and peeled off his stabproof vest. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’m getting a visit from Finnie this afternoon. Apparently I’m no’ making enough progress on the Tarlair case.’

  ‘Oh.’ He sat in his chair. Frowned. ‘What about Mark Brussels and Dr Gilcomston? Have you hauled them in?’

  She collapsed into the seat opposite. ‘Why, because you think you saw something in a burning house? Don’t be—’

  ‘Because of what Charles Anderson said last night. It was in the report.’

  ‘There was a report?’

  ‘I sent it to you. For goodness’ sake, can you never—’

  ‘Since when do I read reports? You want me to know something, sodding well tell me.’

  Logan stared at the ceiling for a moment. ‘Every time …’ Back to Steel. ‘Charles Anderson says Gilcomston and Brussels were part of a paedophile ring who bought the little girl. They killed her.’

  ‘Is that it? That all you’ve got? A rumour from a dead man?’

  ‘More than you’ve got.’ He picked at a scar on the desk, right through the veneer to the chipboard below. ‘We should take another look at them. Them, Liam Barden, and Neil Wood too.’

  Steel covered her face with her hands. ‘Neil Sharny Wood is the bane of my existence, second only to you.’

  ‘So go have a bit of a dig. Speak to friends and neighbours. At least it’ll look as if you’re doing something when Finnie gets here.’

  Logan killed the engine and climbed out onto Firth Place. The rain had passed, leaving the road glistening. Small puddles clung to the gutter. Overhead, the sky was grey as a shroud.

  Steel slammed the car door. ‘Still say this is a waste of time.’

  Logan locked the Big Car and stepped across the road to Mark Brussels’s front door. He leaned on the bell. ‘Better than sitting about, moping.’

  Mark Brussels’s house loomed in silence. Curtains drawn.

  He tried the bell again, letting it ring and ring and ring.

  ‘Told you. He’s no even in.’

  ‘Do you have to complain about everything?’ Logan knocked – three, loud and hard.

  Still no reply.

  He levered the letterbox up. ‘MR BRUSSELS? HELLO?’

  ‘Still don’t see what playing postman’s knock with Manky Marky Brussels is supposed to achieve. No’ without a warrant.’

  ‘You want to go back to the station and twiddle your thumbs till Finnie gets there, or do you want to actually do something?’ One more go: ‘MR BRUSSELS?’ He straightened up. ‘Better try round the back.’

  Through a gate at the side of the house, and down the path into the rear garden: a small patch of seedy grass surrounded by thistles and bushes laden with redcurrants. A battered wooden door hung open a couple of inches, revealing a small utility room on the other side.

  ‘Mr Brussels?’ Logan snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves and pushed it all the way. ‘Hello?’

  The smell of bleach and washing powder drifted out into the garden. A puddle of water reached across the linoleum from the back door. ‘Mr Brussels? It’s the police.’

  ‘Oh stop fannying about. Haven’t got all day.’ Steel barged past him, into the room, then through into the kitchen beyond. ‘SHOP! Come out, come out, wherever you are!’

  He followed her into an ancient-looking kitchen, with painted cabinets and an electric cooker.

  ‘Game’s a bogey, the cat’s in the lobby.’

  Logan stepped out into the hall. The smell of bleach was stronger here, and a patch of carpet at the foot of the stairs was a different colour to the rest of it: pale and yellowed.

  He pushed open the living-room door.

  It was exactly the same as they’d left it a week ago. Clock on the mantelpiece. TV on with the sound muted. Small terrier slumped in a tartan beanbag in the corner. Only difference was that this time it wasn’t snoring and twitching, it was lying perfectly still. Not so much as a wheeze. Its chest wasn’t rising and falling either.

  Steel slumped into the room, hands in her pockets. ‘Well, looks like Manky Marky B’s no’ in.’

  ‘His dog’s dead.’

  ‘No …’ Her face drooped. ‘Poor wee thing. Spends his whole life being loyal to Brussels, never knowing his master’s a child-molesting wee turd. And then he dies. No’ much of an existence, is it?’ A sniff. ‘Maybe he’s nipped out to buy the dog a wee coffin?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’ Or maybe Charles Anderson had paid a visit and covered his tracks with bleach afterwards. ‘Can you give me a minute? I want to nip out and phone Tufty. Make sure he’s OK after his bash on the head.’

  ‘Knock yourself out.’ She sank into Brussels’s armchair, in front of the TV, and picked up the remote. Then poked at the buttons until a woman in a bikini appeared, lining up a shot off the tee.

  Logan slipped out into the back garden. Took out his phone and checked the caller history. The entry he was looking for was right there – twenty-five to twelve, last night. He pressed the button and listened to it ring.

  Checked over his shoulder to make sure Steel wasn’t standing at the kitchen window, watching him.

  Come on, come on …

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Where are you?’ Keeping his voice down.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘We spoke last night, remember? You were on the boat and I was on the harbour wall, getting drenched.’

  ‘If you’re trying to trace the call, you’re—’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Soon as I hang up, I’m ripping the SIM card out of this phone and destroying it.’

  ‘I’m trying to trace Mark Brussels.’

  ‘Ah … Mark can’t come to the phone right now. You want to leave a message?’

  Logan marched out onto the lawn. ‘Whatever you’re doing, stop. OK? Just stop. No more.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been telling him. And do you know what he’s been telling me?’

  Silence.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s been telling me about the Livestock Mart. He’s been telling me about turning up in a barn in the middle of the ni
ght and picking a little girl to buy. He’s been telling me lots of interesting things he’d never tell you.’

  Logan checked the kitchen window again. Still no Steel. ‘Then tell me. Tell me where it is, and who runs it, and I’ll make sure they go away for a long, long time.’

  A laugh. ‘You really think I should trust you?’

  ‘Of course you bloody should!’

  Silence.

  A car drove by on the street outside.

  A faint mist of drizzle caressed Logan’s face with its clammy hand.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘I don’t know where it is. It floats around – they take over people’s barns. Sometimes it’s people like them, sometimes it’s hired anonymously. If you’re in the loop, you get a text telling you where to go on the night. Cash only.’

  ‘When’s the next one?’

  ‘Brussels doesn’t know, but probably not for a couple of months. Doesn’t know who’s running it either – changes every time.’

  Well, that was sod all use.

  Logan paced his way to the garden wall. ‘Who killed her?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Come on, Charles, one of them has to know.’

  A sigh came down the line. ‘They all point the finger at each other. Well, while they’ve still got some. But it doesn’t matter. They’re all guilty. They all have to be punished.’

  Logan stopped. Stared down at the damp grass at his feet. ‘It doesn’t have to be like this, Charles.’

  ‘Yes it does.’ The line went dead. Charles Anderson was gone.

  Logan leaned against the doorframe. ‘You ready?’

  ‘Hold on, Britney’s going up for a putt.’ Steel scooted forward in the armchair, elbows on knees, hands clasped together. ‘Come on, Britney, check the lay of the green for Aunty Roberta … Oh yeah …’

  He picked at his fingernails. ‘If it was up to you, would we let paedophiles out of prison? Or keep them locked up for ever?’

  ‘If it was up to me? I’d castrate the bastards. Make them wear their severed dicks round their necks in little tubes so everyone would know what they did. Show me a police officer who says different and I’ll show you someone who’s no’ got kids of their own, or they’re bucking for promotion.’ A shrug. ‘Or they’re a moron. Maybe all three.’