The Missing and the Dead

‘Wah, wah, wah. Pity poor Logan.’ Steel had another sook. ‘You’re lucky I’m no’—’

He hung up on her. Switched his phone off. Rammed it into his pocket. Stood there, grinding his teeth for a bit.

As if he didn’t have enough to worry about.

Deep breath.

Count to ten.

Shoulders back.

Then Logan reached out and knocked on the Duty Inspector’s door.

‘Come.’

He stepped into the room. About the same size as the one he had to share downstairs, only with a new blue carpet and chairs that didn’t look as if they would self-destruct if you even thought about sitting on them. A round coffee table and a shiny desk. Two pinboards on opposite walls – almost completely covered in maps. And a stunning view from the corner windows, out over Banff harbour and the bay.

The Inspector sat behind her desk, black T-shirt complete with two shiny pips on each of the attached epaulettes. Hair swept back from her heart-shaped face, greying at the temples. She took her glasses off and pointed at one of the visitors’ chairs. ‘You actually turned up? Are you sure you’re feeling all right? Couldn’t come up with an excuse to wriggle out of it?’

Warmth spread between his shoulder blades, tickled the tips of his ears. ‘Operational priorities …’

‘Sit. Sit.’ She pulled out a notepad and a silver pen. ‘So, four months back in uniform.’

He sank into the chair and plonked his folder on the desk. ‘How did you get on at Broch Braw Buys?’

‘Definitely our friends the Cashline Ram-Raiders. In and out in less than two minutes. If you’re in Fraserburgh tonight, do me a favour and pop past. It’s about time we caught these idiots.’

‘I can go now, if you like?’

‘No you don’t. Appraisals.’

Worth a try. He poked the folder. ‘All up to date. A couple of the probationers could do with a bit more supervision, and Greeny in Peterhead needs a boot up the backside, but other than that everyone’s getting on well.’

‘What about you?’

‘I want to get Constable Scott on the diploma course. It’s about time he got promoted to sergeant.’

She smiled at him. ‘No: what about your performance?’

Ah. He sat forward, hands clasped in his lap. ‘I’m doing OK.’

Inspector McGregor pulled a sheet of paper from her in-tray, stuck her glasses on again, and peered at it. ‘“As Duty Sergeant, Logan McRae continues to integrate well with the various sections of B Division. He manages two teams of constables, in addition to his own team of four, and provides appropriate support to the resident sergeants at both Fraserburgh and Peterhead stations. Sergeant McRae assists with managing service delivery to the Local Policing Area and regularly engages with service partners to deal with local challenges. He has excellent interpersonal skills and responds well to direction.”’

Logan didn’t move. ‘Direction?’

A shrug. ‘Well, I had to put something.’ She gave the paper a shoogle and went back to reading. ‘Since he arrived in Banff, clear-up rates have improved in B Division with particular success being seen in tackling the problems associated with drug usage, such as housebreaking, antisocial behaviour, and dealing.’ She put the form down again. ‘Anything else I should add?’

‘Maggie wants a pay rise. Five percent.’

‘Five percent?’ Inspector McGregor curled her top lip. ‘Has she been helping herself to that cannabis we seized last week?’

‘Can you imagine what would happen if she left? Who else is going to fill in all Maggie’s forms, update STORM, manage the productions and the office. Order pens when Hector nicks them all. And she’s the only one who can work the station CCTV.’

The Inspector took off her glasses and huffed a breath onto the lenses. Polished them on the hem of her black T-shirt. ‘Logan, the rest of the support staff will be lucky if they get one percent, never mind five.’

He held up his hands. ‘I promised I’d ask. She—’

The Inspector’s Airwave bleeped. ‘Bravo India, safe to talk?’

She sighed. Sagged a little. Then pressed the button. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Aye, the SEB have turned up at last from Aberdeen. They’re all talking overtime to deal with the ram-raid at Broch Braw Buys. Say it’s going to take at least six hours. You OK to approve?’

Inspector McGregor stared at the ceiling for a moment. ‘Fine. But tell them they’ve got four hours, not six. They’re not dragging this out, twiddling their thumbs on my budget.’

‘Will do.’

She dumped the handset into a drawer and thumped it shut. ‘A bit of career advice, Logan: never, ever, volunteer to be Duty Inspector.’ There was a brief pause as she clattered something out on her computer keyboard. Then sat back again. ‘Right: what about your development actions for the next four months?’

‘War on drugs. I want Frankie Ferris in the cells before summer’s out.’

Something painful crawled across the Inspector’s face. ‘Frankie Ferris. Again.’

Shrug. ‘He’s got two strikes for Class A drug-trafficking. One more and he wins a giant stuffed panda and a mandatory seven-stretch. What’s not to like?’

‘You’re obsessed.’ She shook her head and scribbled it down in her notepad. ‘Any chance you can have something a bit more cuddly too? An increase in community engagement? How about …’ Her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth then she read out what she was writing: ‘“I aim to build stronger ties with the residents of Banff, Macduff, and Portsoy. I feel that leveraging community-liaison opportunities will add value to Police Scotland’s offerings through the exploitation of soft intelligence.”’

Logan stared at her. ‘Leveraging added value?’

‘You’re never going to get past sergeant if you don’t learn management speak. Soon as you hit inspector it’s like waking up in a foreign country where everyone’s got catch-phrase Tourette’s. Last divisional meeting I was at, someone came out with, “How do we incentivize our stakeholders to embrace three-sixty-degree thinking a hundred and ten percent of the time.” Honest to God, not even the hint of a smile.’

Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. Someone had set a rat loose behind his eyes. Clawing and biting.

Nicholson patted him on the arm. ‘Never mind, Sarge, only seven hours to go.’

Kirstin Rattray’s flat sat on the top floor of a lumpen block of grey on Saint Catherine Street. It was to one end of a row of soulless buildings that loomed over the smaller, traditional, Scottish houses on the other side of the road. Threatening to beat them up and steal their lunch money.

It wasn’t so much furnished as … manky. Peeling wallpaper in the kitchen. Cracked tiles in a bathroom that looked as if it hadn’t seen a bottle of bleach in years. A smell of damp and sweat and dirty washing in the bedroom. The view from the lounge was terrific, down the hill, over the surrounding rooftops and out to sea. The view inside the lounge was a different matter.

Kirstin slumped down on a tatty brown corduroy couch. A fake oil painting – the kind you could order from a photo at Tesco or Argos – was mounted in a gaudy gilt frame above the fireplace. A mousy-haired little girl of two or three grinned from the canvas with a gap-toothed mouth. Button nose. Shiny eyes. A teddy bear and a couple of dinosaurs were arranged along the mantelpiece beneath her picture. Like a shrine.

It was the only clean bit of the flat.

Nicholson pulled a laptop out from behind the bookcase. ‘Anything else?’

A bony shrug.

The pile on the coffee table had grown to a decent size. Phones, MP3 players, a bit of jewellery, two hundred quid in cash, and assorted perfumes and makeup.

Logan picked up a new-ish smartphone, the case squeaking in his blue-gloved fingers as he turned it over. ‘Lot of this doesn’t look shoplifty, Kirstin. It looks breakey-and-entery. When did you turn to burglary?’

She kept her eyes on the dark brown stain on the cushion next to her. ‘Told you: didn’t nick anything. Found it.’

‘I’ll bet we can match most of this stuff to crime reports.’

‘It’s not mine!’

Nicholson put the laptop down then pulled the stained seat cushion from the sofa. A biscuit tin nestled amongst the rusting springs and torn support fabric. The picture on the lid had Jammie Dodgers and those weird pink ring things. ‘Well, well, well …’

On the couch, Kirstin glanced at the biscuit tin and away again. Squirmed. ‘That’s nothing to do with me …’

Nicholson picked up the tin and opened it. Stared for a moment. ‘Sarge?’ She held it out. A handful of tinfoil wrappers sat inside, along with a tiny Ziploc bag of white powder; a thumbnail-sized nub of brown, wrapped in clingfilm; and a pack of Rizla rolling papers.

Kirstin folded forwards till her chest rested against her knees, arms wrapped around her head. ‘It’s not mine …’

Logan dumped the phone back on the pile of ‘found’ electronics, then had a wee poke about in the biscuit tin. Definitely enough for possession. Maybe even possession with intent. ‘So, Kirstin. Looks like you’re a bit screwed.’

‘It’s not mine.’ Voice muffled by her knees.

‘Right. You found it.’ He handed the tin back to Nicholson.

She put the top on again. ‘What do you think Kirstin’s looking at, Sarge? Four years? Maybe five?’

Logan bared his teeth and sooked a breath in. Grimaced. ‘Depends who the Sheriff is. Harding’s got a bee in his bunnet about drugs right now; might go as high as seven, if he thinks she’s dealing.’

‘I see …’ Nicholson frowned off into the middle distance. Stroked her chin. Then snapped her fingers. ‘I know! What if Kirstin here tried to cut a deal? You know, if she decided to scratch our backs?’

He folded his arms. ‘Well, I suppose that would depend. I’m pretty itchy.’

Kirstin groaned. Sat up. Slumped backwards. Covered her face with her hands. ‘You didn’t hear it from me, OK?’

Silence.

‘Didn’t hear what, Kirstin?’

‘Klingon and Gerbil got a shipment in from down south today.’

Nicholson slipped the biscuit tin into a large evidence bag. ‘Coke? Heroin? Hash? Crack? Smack? Jellies? Strepsils? What?’

A shrug.

Logan frowned. Outside, the sound of a car droned past. ‘This delivery: was it an ugly bloke in a shiny blue Fiesta? Birmingham accent?’ Then ran a finger along his own jaw. ‘Big line of plukes here? Calls himself Martyn-with-a-“Y”, or Paul, or Dave?’

‘Don’t know. Never met him. But Gerbil’s all excited cause he thinks he’s in with the big boys now. Shooting his mouth off round here last night.’ She dropped her hands away from her face. Stared up at the fake painting of the wee girl. ‘You can’t tell him I told you. He’ll kill me.’

‘Kevin “the Gerbil” McEwan? Got more chance of being gored by a sheep.’ Logan jerked a thumb at the ceiling. ‘On your feet.’

‘You’ve got to promise! So my Amy doesn’t grow up an orphan.’

Nicholson had her notebook out. ‘Where are they keeping the stuff?’

Kirstin stared up at Logan. ‘I only get to see my Amy on the weekends, with supervised visits from the social. I’m trying to change, I really am.’ One hand scratching away at the crook of her arm. Picking the scabs off the needle marks. ‘Please …’

‘Not till you tell us where it is.’

‘Klingon’s place. His mum’s away to Australia for a month.’

‘Right.’ Logan unhooked his Airwave and made for the door. Pointed back towards the pile of stuff on the coffee table. ‘Nicholson – you get that lot bagged and tagged. I’ll be outside.’ He punched in Inspector McGregor’s shoulder number on the way down the stairs. ‘Bravo India from Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

‘Logan, are you heading up to Fraserburgh any time soon? Because this missing cashline machine is a total mess. How come we’ve not got anyone Crime-Scene-Manager-trained on shift?’

‘I want to raid an address in Banff.’

‘What: now?’

‘Soon as.’ He pushed through the main door and out into the sunny evening. ‘I’ve got intel that Kevin McEwan and Colin Spinney have taken possession of a big shipment from down south. Storing it at Spinney’s house. If we move quick, we might catch them before it’s broken up and disappeared.’

‘Klingon and Gerbil moving up in the world, are they?’

‘Trying to.’

Silence.

A seagull wheeled overhead, wings radiant-white against the flawless blue.

‘Guv?’

‘We’d need corroboration.’

‘Got a file yay thick with people complaining about them dealing from Gerbil’s flat.’

‘Hold on …’ Some muffled conversation. Then silence again.

Logan leaned back against the wall, one foot up on the dirty grey harling.

A second seagull joined the first, making slow loops, drifting away out to sea.

‘You still there? Email me an address and I’ll get the warrant sorted. Too short notice to get the Operational Support Unit involved, but you can have one van, and two extra officers from Inverurie.’

‘I need them to be search-trained. And a dog team.’

‘You want jam on it, don’t you?’

‘Best chance we’ve got of finding Klingon and Gerbil’s stash.’

Sigh. ‘I’ll see what I can do. It’s going to take a couple of hours to get everything sorted, though. Stick in the ground: we go at nine tonight.’

‘Thanks, Guv.’

‘Just make sure you find something.’

The desk phone rang and rang and rang. Logan grabbed the Post-it note, stuck a finger in one ear, mobile phone clamped to the other, and marched out of the main office into the corridor. ‘Sorry, what was that?’

Louise’s voice crackled down the line. ‘I’m not saying it’s definitely going to be a problem, but we need to keep on top of it. Samantha’s health has to be our top priority.’

Past the canteen and the gents’ toilet. Through into the Constables’ Office.

More phones ringing – Nicholson scrabbling for a pad and scribbling things down. ‘Uhuh, yes, sir. I will, sir.’ She’d stripped off her protective gear, exposing muddy circles under the arms of her black T-shirt. Like filthy sweat stains.

He plonked the Post-it in the middle of the desk, in front of her.

She nodded.

‘This chest infection’s been dragging on for a couple of weeks and I’d really like to see if we can shift it.’

‘And there’s no risk?’

‘There’s always a risk when you change someone’s medication. But a chest infection’s a serious thing for someone who was in a coma for as long as Samantha.’

Nicholson must have finished her call, because she picked up the Post-it. Squinted at it. Then waved it at Logan. ‘What?’

‘OK, so let’s fix her medication then.’ He put a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘It says, “We’ve got a dog unit coming from Aberdeen.”’

‘It does?’ More squinting. ‘You ever think about becoming a doctor?’

‘Are you going to be up tomorrow?’

‘Can’t, I’m in court all day. Wednesday though: about ten?’

Nicholson grabbed a dry marker and stomped over to the whiteboard above the radiator. Printed ‘DOG UNIT’ in the column marked ‘ASSETS’.

‘Perfect. And we need to take another look at getting you formally appointed as Samantha’s legal guardian.’

‘I hate—’

‘I know you do. But if you’re going to make decisions about medical interventions we need something a bit more legally secure than simply being her boyfriend. It’s important, Logan.’

A weight pressed down on his shoulders, making them sag. ‘OK. We’ll talk about it Wednesday.’

‘Trust me: it’s for the best. You’ll see.’ And she was gone.

Logan slid his phone back into a pocket then turned to face the whiteboard. Inverurie had reneged on the two extra officers – something about a big barney going on outside Specsavers. But the Duty Inspector had managed to scare up one search-trained constable from Mintlaw and another from Fraserburgh. Add in Nicholson, Deano, Tufty, and Logan: that made six officers, one dog handler, a dirty big Alsatian, and a Labrador with a thing for sniffing out drugs.

Could have been worse. At least they only had the one address to hit. None of that double-dunt nonsense.

The office phone rang. Nicholson grabbed it. ‘Banff station, how can I help?’

With any luck, that would be their warrant ready for collection. Colin ‘Klingon’ Spinney’s mum was in for a bit of a shock when she got back from Australia.

Logan’s Airwave bleeped.

‘Sarge?’ Deano.

‘Safe to talk. Where are you? Grab Tufty and get back here, we’ve got an op to plan. Big drugs—’

‘Aye, no.’ Deep breath. ‘Sarge, I need you down at Tarlair Swimming Pool. Right now.’

‘Don’t be daft, it’s—’

‘Sarge, we’ve got a body. It’s a wee girl.’

Bloody hell … A missing paedophile and a dead little girl, all in the same day. He grabbed his hat. ‘We’re on our way.’

7

‘… What do you mean, “The drugs raid’s on hold”?’

Logan took hold of the grab handle above the passenger door as Nicholson floored it along High Shore, past the boxy terraced houses of Newton Drive, siren wailing and lights flashing.

Inspector McGregor sounded as if she was chewing a wasp. ‘Do you have any idea how many strings I had to pull to get you extra officers, a van, and a dog? Never mind the warrant, it’s—’

‘We’ve got reports of a young girl’s body at Tarlair Swimming Pool.’

The houses with their red pantile roofs faded in the rear-view mirror. Now there was nothing keeping the car company but the chain-link fence between it and the cliffs that hugged the left-hand side of the road.

A hissed breath. ‘Should you not have led with that?’

‘Sorry, Guv. Constables Scott and Quirrel are securing the scene. We’ve got an ETA …?’ He looked at Nicholson. Raised both eyebrows.

She changed down and threw them around the corner. ‘Going as fast as I can …’

The needle hit ninety.

‘Call it two minutes.’

The wastewater-treatment plant flashed by on the left, and Nicholson slammed on the brakes, swinging the car round into a steep hairpin bend. A squeal of tyres.

Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool appeared in the distance. A collection of boxy art deco buildings – not much bigger than a handful of Portacabins – were surrounded on three sides by cliffs, the fourth open to the sea. Their whitewashed walls going grey with neglect, caught by the evening sun. The two outdoor pools empty and decaying in front of them.

‘Have we got an ID?’

Logan switched off the siren. ‘Not yet. We’ve no support staff in Banff after five. Can you spare someone?’

The road dipped steeply down to another hairpin – gorse bushes like a sheet of rolling flame on the right, the bay on the left. Dark rocks making broken submarines and stranded ships in the glittering water. White foam marked the outward edges as the waves tried to shoulder them up onto the grey stony beach.

‘Any idea if it’s accidental, or …?’

‘I hope so. We’ve got a missing paedophile on the books: Neil Wood. Disappeared three days ago. His father only reported it today.’

‘That’s all we need …’ The sound became muffled, as if she’d stuck her hand over the microphone, partially blocking her firing orders at someone in the background – telling someone to get the Scenes Examination Branch to hotfoot it over from the cashline job in Fraserburgh.

Smooth tarmac gave way to scabby potholes. Knee-high grass bordered the sides of the road, punctuated by the searching pink antennae of rosebay willowherb. The patrol car bumped across the pockmarked tarmac, then wallowed as Nicholson slowed. The sound of a mudflap grinding against the uneven surface.

The road gave up in a dead end, just before the entrance to the pool. One way in, one way out. Well, unless you wanted to work your way down the cliff path from the golf course.

Inspector McGregor’s voice went from muffled to full volume again. ‘Logan, I need to know if this was a suspicious death ASAP. Am I calling in an MIT or not? Then secure the scene. I’ll be right there, soon as I get someone to run admin tasks for you.’

Logan stuck his Airwave handset on its clip.

Deano and Tufty’s little police van was parked in the middle of the road, between two jagged lumps of rock, blocking off the entrance to the site. The thing needed a wash, its white paintwork nearly grey with grime, but the stripe of blue-and-yellow blocks along the side glowed in the pool car’s flashing lights.

No sign of either of them.

Nicholson hit the button, killing the blue-and-whites.

Silence.

Logan grabbed his hat. ‘Get the tape out and secure the road. I want it blocked.’ He turned in his seat, then pointed at the top of the hill, where the first hairpin was. ‘Better make it other side of the water-treatment plant. Don’t want some scumbag with a telephoto lens selling snaps to the tabloids.’

‘Sarge.’

As soon as he clunked the passenger door shut again, she was reversing through the potholes. Did a sharp three-pointer, then accelerated off.

He turned. Picked his way around the police van. Punched Deano’s badge number into the Airwave.

But before he could press send, Tufty appeared, scrambling across the pebbled beach, both arms held out as if he was walking the high wire. He paused. Slithered back a couple of steps. Waved. ‘Sarge? Over here.’

Logan followed him across the pebble beach, avoiding the road. Broken kelp roots clung to the high-tide mark, pale and weathered, like a thousand human tibias. Everything smelled of ozone and salt, underpinned by a thin smear of rotting fish. He looked over his shoulder. ‘Guy was down here taking photos for some urban-decay-project-thing. Young lad doing an HND in photography at Aberdeen College. Peed himself. Then battered it over to Macduff on his bike. Saw us at the harbour, and that was that.’

A nod. Pebbles crunched and shifted under Logan’s feet. ‘You confiscate the camera?’

‘Deano got the SD card.’ Tufty pointed off to the right, towards a crumbling concrete embankment. ‘This way.’

‘Why didn’t your student call nine-nine-nine? Thought everyone had a mobile phone now.’

Tufty flashed a wee smile and a shrug. ‘Panicked. Says he couldn’t remember the number. Bit of a climb, sorry …’ He clambered up the embankment, then up onto the grass. Then over an outcrop of lichen-covered rock.

‘You sure you know where you’re going?’

‘Deano said there’s no way anyone would come this way carrying a body. So, you know, common approach path.’ More clambering and scrambling, and they were up on a ridge above the swimming pools. Tufty nodded. ‘Down there.’

The site was split into two halves. In front of the main buildings were a set of wide amphitheatre steps in dark-grey stained concrete, the edges picked out in decaying whitewash. They enclosed a D-shaped shallow pool – dry as an abandoned riverbed – the wall between it and the main swimming area crumbling and partially collapsed. On the other side of the wall, water came halfway up. A stony beach at one side that couldn’t have been an original feature, speckled with broken pipes and other bits of rusting flotsam. Then the sea wall, and then the blue expanse of the North Sea.

A dark shape was hunched at the far side of the pool, a line of black-and-yellow tape trailing from one hand: ‘CRIME SCENE – DO NOT ENTER’. Deano. He stuck both arms up and waved them. ‘Sarge!’

It took a moment to pick out the body. Grey against grey.

Not a mistake then.

A couple of inches below the ridge they stood on lay the decaying flat roof of some sort of ancient pump house. No way in hell Logan was risking standing on that. ‘Where’s this common approach path go, then?’