The Missing and the Dead

A big brown bullock waddled down the middle of the road. Broad shouldered and thick bottomed. Tail flicking from side to side. Horns weaving back and forth as it lumbered along.

‘The Inspector says you’re not to put it off again. Appraisals have to be in by Wednesday.’

Nicholson leaned on the horn. Breeeeeeeeeep.

The cow didn’t even flinch.

‘She really was quite insistent.’

‘OK, OK. Tell her we’ll be back at the station about …’ Logan checked his watch. ‘Better make it half four. Twenty to five. Ish.’

‘Will do.’ And Maggie was gone.

Nicholson tried the horn again. Breeeeeeeeeep. Nothing. ‘I went to police college for this? Months at Tulliallan. Two years as a probationer …’ Breeeeeeeeeep. She buzzed down her window. ‘Come on, you hairy bugger, get off the road!’

Logan swivelled in his seat. Empty fields, all around. Not a single head of livestock to be seen, other than the one clomping its way down the middle of the road. ‘No idea where he came from.’ Off to the left, a swathe of green was peppered with big round bales wrapped in black plastic. ‘We’ll stick him in there.’ Logan undid his seatbelt. ‘Come on.’

Nicholson scowled. ‘This is what happens when they don’t let us carry tasers.’

‘Gah …’ Nicholson shoved the gate shut and hauled the pin back, making the spring squeal. Let go and it clacked into place. She spat twice. Then a third time. Wiped a hand through the mud that caked her face from one ear to the other. More covered the front of her high-vis waistcoat. Lumps of it wodged in the armholes of her stabproof. Another gob of muddy spittle. Then a glower in his direction. ‘Where all the cool kids are, my arse.’

Logan shrugged. ‘You imagine what would happen if someone came round the corner doing sixty and hit that?’ Pointing at the big brown beast, who was at least three shades cleaner than Nicholson. ‘They’d have to scoop you into your body-bag like eleven stone of mince.’

She wiped her hands down the front of her vest, smearing the filth. ‘You saying I’m fat?’

‘Come back here, you wee sod!’ Logan vaulted the low garden wall and sprinted across the lawn, knees pumping. One hand clamping the peaked cap to his head, the other clutching his extendable baton in its holder. Stopping it from jiggling about with every other step.

The wee sod in question kept on running. Sneakers flashing their white bellies, his arms and legs going like pistons, hoodie flapping behind him like an obscene pink tongue.

Over into the next garden.

Crashing straight through a bed of nasturtiums and pansies. The owners sat on a bench against the house, sharing a bottle of wine. On their feet and shaking fists as the Wee Sod battered past.

A hedge separated this property from the next one. He leapt it, almost lost his footing on the other side. His shoulder bag slipped, thumped into the lawn. Tins of spray paint clattered across the grass like WWII bombs.

‘I said, come back here!’

The Wee Sod risked a grin over his shoulder. Freckled face, no more than twelve. Maybe thirteen. Curly red hair and dimpled cheeks.

Then THUMP – Nicholson slammed into him from the side with the kind of rugby tackle that would’ve done the nation proud at Murrayfield.

They went careening across the lawn in a tumble of limbs, coming to rest in a clatter of pots and gnomes.

Logan slowed to a jog, then a halt as Nicholson scrambled to her feet, then hauled the Wee Sod upright by his hoodie.

She spat out a blade of grass. ‘When someone yells, “Stop, police!” you sodding well stop.’

He wriggled a couple of times, didn’t get anywhere, then hung limp.

‘Well?’ She gave him a little shake. ‘What’ve you got to say for yourself?’

He bit his top lip. Then shrugged. ‘It’s a comment on our political elite and the disenfranchisement and disengagement of the common man.’ His voice tried out three octaves along the way.

‘Spray-painting willies on a Conservative Party billboard doesn’t count as political commentary.’

‘Does too.’

She pushed him at Logan, then dragged out her notebook. ‘Name?’

He tensed, as if he was about to bolt again. Logan grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘You want a go in the handcuffs? Because I can arrange that.’

He looked up, over his shoulder. A blush filled in the pale skin between his freckles. ‘You’re not going to tell my mum, are you?’

Nicholson poked him with her pen. ‘Name?’

‘I mean, they lord it over us from Edinburgh, don’t they? Our political masters. No one really cares what we think any more. We’re like drones to them, only instead of honey they grow fat on our taxes.’

Logan pulled his chin in. ‘Our taxes? You’re, what, thirteen? When did you last pay any tax?’

‘Workers control the means of production.’

Nicholson poked him again. ‘You’ve got one more chance, then I’m doing you for refusing to give your details. Now: name?’

He took a deep breath. Stared down at his trainers. ‘Geoffrey Lovejoy.’ Then a sniff, and his head came up again, eyes glinting. ‘I’m a political prisoner. I demand you call the United Nations. Power to the people!’

Logan looked up from his notebook. ‘And you’re sure you’d recognize her again if you saw her?’

The shopkeeper nodded, setting a crowd of chins on a Mexican wave. ‘Absolutely. She had half a dozen bottles of Chanel Number Five, a handful of Touche Éclat concealer, Elizabeth Arden, and every single bit of Paco Rabanne we had on display!’ He swept a hand towards the other side of the chemist’s, where the front door was being held open by a little old lady wearing a plastic headscarf. ‘Scooped them up and ran off without so much as a blush. Our Stacey chased her, but …’ A shrug.

Nicholson’s stabproof was beginning to look as if she’d smeared it with camouflage paint – green grass stains mingling with the mud from their run-in with the escaped cow. It wasn’t a good look. She pointed at the security camera bolted to the wall behind the till. ‘You get it on CCTV?’

A blush swept across the puffy cheeks. ‘It’s plastic. I bought it off eBay for a fiver.’

Nicholson pointed. ‘Is that not Liam Barden?’

On the other side of the road, a chubby man in an Aberdeen Football Club shirt walked into the Co-op.

Logan frowned as the automatic door closed, hiding the man and his bright-red shiny shirt. ‘You sure?’

‘Certain.’ She parked outside the shop. ‘Well … eighty percent. You got the ID sheet?’

He dug into the glove compartment and came out with four creased sheets of A4, stapled together. Two photos on each sheet, along with names and details of when and where they went missing. Liam Barden was on the third page: grinning away at a Caley Thistle match, both thumbs up, and what looked like a gravy stain splodging the Orion Group logo on his blue-and-red football top. A wee gold thistle glinted on a golden chain around Liam’s neck. Very classy. A proper Ratners special.

Liam shared the printout with a picture of everyone’s favourite drug-dealing scumbag, Jack Simpson – jagged tribal tattoos on his neck, sunken cheeks, pierced nose and ears.

He’d also grown a Hitler moustache, a pair of glasses, Frankenstein’s Monster bolts, and a blacked-out tooth. There was even a speech balloon with ‘I HAS A SEXY!!!’ written in it.

‘For God’s sake.’ Logan held the sheet out. ‘How many times do I have to tell people not to draw things on missing persons photos?’

‘Don’t look at me: don’t even own a blue biro.’

‘How would you feel if one of your relatives went missing and someone scrawled all over their picture? Jack Simpson’s a nasty wee git, but he deserves the same treatment as everyone else.’

‘It wasn’t me!’

‘Like working with a bunch of three-year-olds …’

Still: had to admit that the photo of Liam Barden did look a bit like the guy who’d gone into the store. Heavyset, balding from the back, toothy smile. ‘Only problem is, what’s happened to his moustache?’

‘Maybe he shaved it off?’ Nicholson unbuckled and climbed out into the sunshine. Pulled her hat on. ‘You coming?’

‘And why’s he dumped Inverness Caley Thistle for AFC?’ Logan joined her on the pavement. Held out the sheet again. ‘See?’

She frowned at the picture. ‘Not illegal to support more than one club. Besides, think how stoked his wife and kids will be if we find him.’

Which was more than could be said for Jack Simpson. Missing for ten days already and not even his mum wanted him back. If he hadn’t owed his granny money, he probably wouldn’t even have been reported missing.

Logan turned the page. ‘And why does no one update these things?’ He rummaged through the zip-pockets on his stabproof vest. Frowned. Took out his notebook. Put it away again. ‘Sodding Hector.’ He held out a hand. ‘Lend me a pen?’

She handed one over and Logan drew a thick X over the face of a little boy on the bottom of page four. ‘We found Ian Dickinson four days ago.’

‘You take my word for it – next one you can score off is Liam Barden.’ Nicholson straightened her cap and marched into the Co-op.

Logan took a lick of his ice lolly, working his way through the raspberry coating to the cheap vanilla inside. Sun warm on the back of his neck. ‘Well, it was worth a go.’

‘Could have sworn it was him.’ Nicholson worked her left arm around in a circle – Cornetto making chocolaty dribbles in her other hand as they wandered down the hill.

‘How’s the shoulder?’

A shrug. ‘Still say we should’ve arrested the vandalizing wee sod.’

‘Then we’d have to take him all the way to Fraserburgh for processing, and that’s you and me off the streets for at least two hours. With Deano and Tufty still up the hospital, who’s going to look after the good people of Banff and Macduff?’

‘That’s not the point, he’s—’

‘All the kid did was draw a big willy on a billboard. Some people might think our prospective Conservative MSP looks much better with a big willy sprayed all over him. At least Citizen Geoffrey’s taking an interest in the political process.’

Four bleeps sounded from his Airwave handset. ‘Sergeant McRae?’

Another lick of lolly. ‘Go ahead, Maggie, safe to talk.’

‘Are you forgetting someone?’

They crossed over to the other side of the road. ‘Am I?’

The reply came back as a hiss. ‘Inspector McGregor! I told you, she needs to do your appraisal.’

Damn. ‘How pissed-off is she?’

A wee dog barked and barked and barked as they passed, pogoing up and down behind a little wrought-iron gate.

‘You said you’d be back here by twenty-to. And it’s nearly five.’

‘We’re …’ Another lick of lolly, catching an ice-cream tear. ‘We’re in the middle of something here, Maggie. Can’t we reschedule for tomorrow?’

Silence.

Around the corner and onto Low Street with its bars and shops and cafés.

‘Maggie?’

‘You want me to dignify that with an answer? And you’re supposed to put in a word for me – how are you going to do that if she’s in a foul mood?’

‘OK, OK. Tell her … half past five.’

Past the Cats Protection League and the whisky shop.

‘All right. I’ll try. But make sure you’re not late.’ Maggie signed off.

The gift shop next door had obviously started selling papers, because a little folding placard thing sat on the pavement outside it: ‘LIVERPOOL SHOOTING ~ PICTURES EXCLUSIVE’.

He’d barely got the Airwave back in its twisty holder when the handset bleeped again. ‘Sarge? Aye, it’s Dean. Safe to talk?’

‘Deano. You and Tufty finished at the hospital yet, or are you planning on skiving the whole shift?’

‘Still there, Sarge. Got a missing person for you.’

Another road led off to the right. Long, thin, dark, and claustrophobic. Rows of terraced buildings on either side, tall enough to block out the sunshine and leave the patchy tarmac blanketed in shadow. Raw grey walls and dark slate roofs. The occasional one painted with aging whitewash – standing out like a filled tooth in a broken mouth. ‘Do you mean you’ve found someone who’s missing? Or that someone else has disappeared?’

‘Aye. One Neil Wood, owns a B-and-B on the Shortgate Lane, Peterhead. His dad says Wood’s been gone for three, maybe four days.’

‘So take his details.’ A bite of lolly, before it collapsed off the stick, then Logan froze. Pointed with his other hand.

Up ahead, loitering in the doorway of a boarded-up shop was a stick-thin woman in a baggy T-shirt and pink tracksuit bottoms. Filthy Ugg boots on her feet. Roll-up cigarette cupped in her hand as if it was going to give away her position to snipers in the enemy trenches.

Nicholson squinted. ‘You jammy sod.’

‘Not jammy, Constable, skill.’

‘Sarge? You still there?’

‘Look, Deano, you’ve been doing this longer than I have. You know the drill – you take his details and fill out a misper form. And maybe we find him, and maybe we don’t. It’s not—’

‘The old boy who got a kicking in Whitehills is Neil Wood’s dad. Seems the guys did it because of who his son is. Turns out Neil Wood’s a stot. Did eight years for abusing kids in Tayside. Got out of Peterhead, couldn’t go home, settled here. Bought a B-and-B and moved his dad up from down south to live with him,’cos the old guy’s got heart problems.’

‘And now he’s disappeared.’

‘Which is why I’m not just filling in a form.’

‘That’s all we need.’

The woman turned her back, one hand scratching away at the crook of her arm, making the cigarette smoke curl and coil around her fingers. Couldn’t be long until she spotted them.

‘Deano, get onto the Offender Management Unit. Find out who’s meant to be monitoring Wood, and tell them to get their finger out. We do not want someone like that running around our patch with no idea where he is. Tell them to get a lookout request on the go.’

‘Will do.’

‘Right, now bugger off, we’ve got a druggie to spin.’

A nod to Nicholson and they ditched the ice creams in a bin and marched down the road.

‘Anything?’ Logan shifted his grip on the skeletal arm as Nicholson rummaged her way through the leopard-skin-print handbag. Big enough to take a breezeblock or a small child.

A delivery van grumbled by, the Tesco Logo emblazoned down one side, trailing a cloud of dust behind it.

Warm golden light washed the gap between two buildings.

It was big enough to fit another house, but if there had been one on the site, it was long gone. Now it doubled as a dirt-floored car park and access through to the garages and lock-ups that ran along the rear of the gardens.

Weeds jungled at the base of the five-foot wall that formed either side of the gateless entry to the secret land beyond. Shutting the three of them off from the street.

Nicholson held up a golden pen thing in one blue-nitrile-gloved-hand. ‘This is a bit fancy, isn’t it, Kirstin? Touche Éclat? I’ve seen it in Boots – stuff costs a fortune.’

Kirstin Rattray shrugged one bony shoulder. The motion caused the neck of her baggy T-shirt to slip far enough to expose a bright-green bra strap stretched taut over semi-skimmed skin. ‘Found it, didn’t I?’ A small flock of purple lovebites perched in the crook of her neck. Eighties hair and dark circles under her eyes. Cheekbones you could peel tatties with.

‘Right. Course you did. What about these?’ Nicholson pulled out two lots of Chanel No. 5, still in their boxes, then one of Paco Rabanne. ‘You find them, too?’

Kirstin’s bottom lip disappeared between her teeth. Eyes down to the left. ‘You planted that. Never seen them before.’

‘Don’t be a spaz, Kirstin. Did you rob them yourself? Or did someone do it for you?’

‘I should get a lawyer and that. Sue you for false thingummy.’

‘Ooh and a brand new iPhone too.’ Nicholson wiggled it at Logan. ‘When I was on the dole it was a red-letter day if I could afford to buy chips and pants the same week. Now it’s all smartphones and perfume.’ Back to their new friend. ‘Let me guess: you found it?’

Kirstin’s head fell back so she was staring up at the warm blue sky. A breath hissed out. Her knees sagged an inch or two. ‘What do you want?’

‘World peace for me. Sarge?’

Logan frowned. ‘I’m partial to Maltesers, myself.’

‘Look, I’ve got a little girl. Amy. She’s three, I swear on her life I never nicked nothing.’

‘Really? Then how come you match the description of the woman who pilfered a heap of perfume and makeup from Fisher’s the Chemists? And how come your handbag’s full of the stuff that got robbed?’

‘Told you, I found it.’ She stuck her hand out. ‘Now can I get me bag back?’

‘Sarge?’

Logan let go of the thin pale arm. ‘Police Scotland thanks you for your cooperation, and for handing in the items you “found”. Very public spirited. We’ll try to return them to their rightful owners.’ He scribbled out another receipt. ‘Now, we’ve got to make a quick stop at the station – prior engagement – but after that, why don’t we all pop over to yours and see if we can’t turn up anything else you’ve “found” recently? Voluntarily.’

Kirstin’s head drooped back again. ‘Sodding hell …’

6

Kirstin scowled up at him from the bench in Interview Room Two. Both hands in front of her, fingers knotting and twisting, while Nicholson leaned back against the wall behind her.

The vertical blinds were closed, but the light was still painfully bright in the small room. The panic strip all shiny and unused. A creased chunk of flip-chart paper was pinned to one wall. Far more chairs than would ever be needed in an interview cluttered the grey carpet.

Logan gave Kirstin a smile, then slipped out and closed the door behind him.

Into the front hall, with its elaborate beige, brown, blue, and white tiles. They didn’t really go with the walls – white to the waist-high rail, then pastel blue above. The Response Level sign was just visible through the open door to the stairwell. Apparently, today’s terrorism threat level was ‘FABULOUS!’ in big block capitals.

Bloody day shift …

Logan replaced it with the official ‘MODERATE’ then punched his access code into the keypad to get through to the main office.

It was all scuffed blue carpet tiles, magnolia walls, boxy plastic ducting, and slightly grubby ceiling tiles. Two desks, back-to-back, corralled in by blue fuzzy cubicle walls. Another barricade of the same blue fuzz separating the front desk – little more than a wide shelf with a roller shutter above it – from the reception area.

Maggie had one of the small square locker doors open, so she could fiddle an Airwave handset into its charger. A tall woman in black trousers, shiny shoes and a pink silk blouse. Grey hair pulled back in a ponytail. Sharp, bird-like features. She twitched her head towards the front desk’s barricade, with its covering of posters and notices. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Saving society from a one-woman shoplifting crime-spree.’ He clunked open the filing cabinet in the corner and rifled through it. ‘Any messages?’

‘That horrible Detective Chief Inspector Steel called. Then Nelson Street: they say you can’t have the Big Car back till tomorrow—’

‘You’re kidding. Sick of not having a car with a proper radio in it.’

‘Well, you’ll have to sing along with yourself then, won’t you. They need to put in a whole new CCTV system.’

‘Again?’

‘Take it up with Sergeant Muir. I’m not the one who left Stinky Sammy Wilson unsupervised in the back. Oh, and Louise from Sunny Glen was on the phone an hour ago.’

Logan froze, one hand on the thick manila folder marked ‘B DIVISION ~ STAFF APPRAISALS’. He cleared his throat. ‘Something wrong?’

‘Oh, no, nothing bad. She wants to talk to you about changing your girlfriend’s medication, that’s all.’ Maggie picked a couple of yellow Post-its from her desk and held them out. ‘Here you go.’

So it wasn’t an emergency. Nothing bad had happened. The breath huffed out of him, leaving a metallic taste behind. As if he’d been sucking on copper wire. ‘Thanks, Maggie.’ He took the proffered Post-its. ‘Any chance you could order up some more Biros? Hector’s nicked all mine again.’

‘Hmmph.’ A small selection of today’s papers were draped over the partition of her cubicle. The Press and Journal had ‘STORMS BATTER NORTHEAST COAST’ in big letters across the front page and a photo of waves crashing over the harbour wall in Peterhead. Aberdeen Examiner – ‘WOODLAND RIPPER TRIAL OPENS’ stretched above a photo of Graham Stirling grinning away at a party somewhere. And the Daily Mail had gone for, ‘DRIVE-BY SHOOTING KILLERS ON THE RUN’ with a picture of a bus stop and blurry figures sealed off behind a line of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape. ‘LIVERPOOL POLICE LAUNCH NATIONWIDE MANHUNT FOR GANGLAND MURDERERS.’

Maggie grabbed the Aberdeen Examiner and slipped it under her arm. ‘Right. I’d better get on. Bill’s stovies won’t make themselves.’ She pulled on a multi-coloured hiking jacket and picked up her bag. ‘Don’t forget to put in a good word for my extra five percent.’ She disappeared out the door to the tradesman’s entrance, humming what sounded like ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’.

Took all sorts.

And five percent? What planet did she beam down from? Lucky if she got three quid and a box of staples.

He grabbed the appraisals folder, clanged the filing-cabinet drawer shut, then flicked through the Post-its. Groaned when he got to the one about Steel.

‘CALL DCI STEEL ABOUT GRAHAM STIRLING ~ URGENT.’

Brilliant.

He pulled out his phone and selected her name from the contacts list. Listened to it ring.

Steel’s gravelly voice rasped in his ear. ‘About time. You all prepped for your testimony tomorrow? Cause if you’re no’, I’ll—’

‘Yes, I’m all prepped. It’s fine.’ He settled his bum against the photocopier.

‘Better be. Last thing we need is Graham Stirling back on the streets. You see what the press are calling him now? The—’

‘The Woodland Ripper. I know. It’s fine. Open-and-shut case. Graham Stirling isn’t going anywhere but jail for the next sixteen to life.’

‘Good.’ There was a sooking noise, then she was back. ‘Susan says are you remembering Jasmine has a dance competition Saturday?’Cos you’re going whether you like it or not.’

‘Saturday?’

‘There an echo in here? Aye, Saturday. She’s been lolloping about the house for weeks, driving me and her mum mad. Don’t see why we should be the only ones to suffer.’

‘What time?’

‘Half twelve. I’ve got you down for a pair of tickets. That’s twelve quid you owe me. And before you ask: you’re no’ taking your mother.’

As if.

Logan’s shoulders dipped. ‘I can’t make half twelve. Saturday’s dayshift – won’t get off till three.’ He pushed through the door and into the stairwell, his footsteps echoing on the tiled floor. ‘Tell Jasmine I’m sorry.’

‘Oh no you don’t. I’m no’ doing your dirty work for you. You can call your daughter and tell her why Daddy can’t be arsed turning up for anything any more.’

He closed his eyes and thunked the side of his head against the wall. ‘We’ve been over this.’

‘Far be it from me to—’

‘You got me transferred up here! This is your fault.’ He scuffed his way up to the first floor. ‘What am I supposed to do, go AWOL in the middle of a shift? This isn’t CID, OK? Divisional policing doesn’t work like that.’ Took a left at the top of the stairs and stopped outside the blue door: ‘BANFF & BUCHAN ~ INSPECTOR’. A brass nameplate had been slid into the holder above the notice: ‘WENDY MCGREGOR’.