The Missing and the Dead

Tufty pointed. ‘Far as we can tell, he’d take her in a straight line from the entrance over there, along the side, take the walkway between the two bits, and dump her in the pool.’ His shoulders drooped. ‘I wanted to do some searching, but Deano won’t let me go down. Says I’ve got to stay up here.’

Proper procedure. Wonders would never cease.

Logan eased himself down the rock face and onto the amphitheatre steps. No way to get to where Deano was without crossing the killer’s route. Well, except for picking his way along the sea wall, but it looked narrow and slippery with green slime. And according to the sign at the entrance, it was a two-metre drop from there to the rocks, so sod that.

Assuming there was a killer.

He pointed at Tufty. ‘As of now, you’re acting Crime Scene Manager. You record the time and the date and everyone who’s been near the body. Guard the entrance and make sure no one gets past you till I say so. No one. Don’t care if it’s the Chief Constable himself, he cools his heels in the car park till I say otherwise. Understand?’

‘Sarge.’

Good.

He went right, dropped into the D-shaped inshore pool and made his way through the rubble and rubbish to the other side.

Deano jabbed a metal spike into a crack in the crumbling concrete at his feet, then looped the tape through the pig’s tail at the top. Moved on to the next spike, unspooling a trail of crime-scene yellow behind him. He sighed. ‘Poor wee sod.’

Logan stopped, level with the tape, and peered over the crumbling walkway. ‘Suspicious?’

A grimace. ‘When’s a dead kid not?’

‘True.’ He scrambled up and ducked under the yellow-and-black cordon.

The wee girl couldn’t be much more than five or six. The same age as Jasmine. Same hair colour …

Something knotted in the middle of his chest, compressed by the stabproof vest’s squeezing fist until it was hard and sharp.

But it wasn’t her.

Breath hissed out of him.

Deano put the roll of tape down. ‘You OK, Sarge?’

Blink. Logan coughed the lump out of his throat. ‘Yeah. It’s … She looks like Jasmine.’

The girl lay on her front, three feet from the dirty concrete wall and the ramp down into the pool. She was half-in, half-out of the water. Head, arms and torso floating amongst the detritus, lower half stranded on the rocks.

One leg lay straight out behind her, the small red shoe pointing back towards the main building. Looked as if the strap across her ankle had got caught on a rusting length of broken pipe. Holding her in place. The other leg stuck out at nearly ninety degrees. White socks and a grey dress. All covered with a thin dusting of white crystals.

Her grey jumper was sodden – torn between the shoulders, and at the elbows, showing the white shirt underneath. A school uniform.

Skin was pale as snow, covered in small scratches and tiny triangular holes. Her hands swollen and white. Neck bent at an unnatural angle.

Her cheek rested against a submerged rock. Eyes open, staring out through the murky water. Mouth open. Pale blonde hair floating around her face. A big dent in her forehead.

Deano tied the length of tape off on the last metal post. ‘You sure you’re OK?’

A shrug. ‘Yeah. Bit of a surprise, that’s all.’

‘See if I thought it was my daughter, I’d skin the scumbag alive …’ He sniffed. ‘Well you know: if I actually had any kids.’

Logan picked his way down the ramp, boots slithering on the weed-covered concrete, and squatted down at the edge of the water. Licked the tip of his index finger, then tapped it against the snagged red shoe. Pressed the finger against his tongue. Salt.

‘Deano, when’s high tide?’

‘No idea. Can find out, though.’

‘Definitely not an accident?’ Inspector McGregor was cranked up to full volume, trying to compete with the siren of the car she was in. ‘You’re sure?’

‘As I can be, without screwing up the scene.’ Logan marched back to the road, pulling off his blue nitrile gloves and stuffing them into an empty carrier bag. Fingers trembling, struggling with the plastic. ‘Looks as if someone battered her head in, but there’s no sign of blood on the walkway, or the wall, or the steps. So she didn’t do it falling into the pool. Best guess: she was dead by the time she hit the water. Probably had been for a couple of hours. Must’ve been completely submerged at one point – her skirt, legs and shoes are covered in salt crystals.’ He stopped, blew out a breath. ‘Poor wee soul was only five or six.’

The second-hand roar of the siren wailed from his Airwave’s speaker.

‘Guv?’

‘I’ll be there in five minutes. You’ve secured the scene? And got a lookout request on the go for Neil Wood?’

‘Deano handed it off to the OMU soon as we knew the guy was missing. Don’t know if they’ve done it or not.’

‘For God’s sake, Logan, it’s—’

‘You said, get back to you ASAP.’ The carrier bag went in his pocket. ‘Thought that made it top priority.’

A sigh, barely audible over the background noise. ‘Suppose you’re right.’

Deano scrambled up the shingle beach, back onto the road. Stopped and shook one leg, as if he’d stood in a puddle. Waves hushed against the pebbled shore.

‘Guv, you still there?’

‘Yes. Fine. I’m getting the MIT up from Aberdeen. Make sure no one touches anything till I get there.’

‘Already got Constable Quirrel as acting CSM.’

‘Tufty’s our Crime Scene Manager? … Wonderful … We’re all doomed.’ This time she was gone for good.

Deano marched over – one shoe leaving damp footprints on the age-dulled tarmac – while Logan punched in the badge number of the admin assistant Inspector McGregor had dug up for them.

The woman on the other end picked up. ‘Sergeant McRae?’

‘I need you to run a check on all missing persons aged eleven and under.’ The wee girl looked a lot younger than that, but there was no point taking any risks. ‘Female. Blonde hair. Wearing a school uniform – grey with white socks and shirt. Red shoes and tie. No school badge on the jumper.’

‘Where am I looking?’

Deano stopped in front of him, pointed at himself. Mouthed, ‘Anything needing doing?’

‘Better start with the Northeast and expand it from there. Go UK wide if you have to.’ He took his finger off the transmit button. ‘Deano, whoever you spoke to at the Offender Management Unit – give them a poke and make sure they’ve got a lookout request on for Neil Wood. I want him picked up.’

‘Sarge.’

‘… OK, I’ve got three mispers that match the age range in the Northeast …’ The clatter of fingers on keyboard. ‘Two are female … One red-haired, one brown. Sure yours hasn’t dyed her hair?’

He pulled out his mobile and scrolled through the photos he’d taken. That pale little face, staring down at the stones. Deep breath. ‘Far as I can tell. Eyebrows match the hair colour, anyway.’

‘Then we’re going to have to search further out. Might take me a while. How far back do you want me to go: one month, two, three?’

‘Better give it two years. Just because she only turned up today, doesn’t mean she’s not been missing for a long, long time.’

A sigh. Then, ‘Josef Bloody Fritzl has a lot to answer for.’

‘Email me if you get anything.’ Logan clipped the handset back in place.

Deano was on the other side of the police van, marching back and forth with one squelchy shoe. ‘… oh no you don’t. I told you he was missing. I told you to get a lookout request and … No, no, no, no, no: this is your cock-up, sunshine, not mine.’

Brilliant.

As if today could get any worse.

The cliffs were washed with blood, shadows long and dark as the sun sank towards the horizon. Painting the grass in shades of amber and gold. Glinting on the chain-link fence. Making the North Sea glow like it was on fire.

Nicholson tucked her hands into the armholes of her stabproof, covered now with a clean high-vis waistcoat. Shrugged her shoulders up round her ears and kept them there, peaked cap wedged on top of her head. ‘Getting a bit nippy.’

Logan rocked on the balls of his feet. Shoulders back. Hands clasped behind him. Chin up. ‘No slouching.’

A double line of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape stretched between the end of the chain-link fence and the telegraph pole on the other side of the road. A handful of rusty cars were parked in front of the cordon, their drivers and passengers sitting on the bonnets, cameras and microphones hanging idle. Waiting. The Sky TV outside-broadcast van partially blocked the entrance to the wastewater plant, a journalist in a fleece and serious expression doing a piece to camera. The BBC doing the same a couple of hundred yards behind them.

‘Feel like a right turnip.’ But Nicholson stood upright anyway. ‘Stuck here like a pair of willies while everyone else is off doing proper police work.’

‘Pair of Wallies. Not willies.’

‘I know what I said.’ She turned back to the patrol car. ‘Don’t suppose we’ve got any of those nice padded jackets in the boot, do we?’

A sigh. ‘Go on then.’

An unmarked car came to a halt on the other side of the barrier tape and the nightshift Duty Inspector climbed out. Held up his hands as a swarm of lenses turned in his direction. When he spoke, the words came out as a thick roll of bunged-up vowels. ‘We’re not making any comment at this time. Thank you.’ He turned his back on them, ducked under the tape and marched up to Logan. Kept his voice low. ‘Bunch of vultures.’ A waft of Vicks VapoRub and menthol sweets.

‘Guv.’

Inspector Fettes tucked his peaked cap under his arm. His hands were huge – completely out of proportion with the rest of him – and covered with freckles. His cheeks and nose were a freckle playground too, reaching all the way up his forehead to a magnificent mop of red hair. He nodded at the road, where it snaked off down the hill. ‘Inspector McGregor still down there?’

‘You taking over?’

‘Got enough on my plate running the division as it is. Wendy can hold the fort here till her shift ends. Wanted to make sure I’m up to speed before she heads home.’

Logan’s phone vibrated in his pocket. ‘Sorry.’ He pulled it out – an email from the support officer in Elgin, listing all the young girls reported missing in the UK for the last two years, filtered for hair colour. None of the photographs worked on his phone. ‘Bloody typical.’

‘Problem?’

‘Someone’s emailed through photos of all the missing girls on file, but they won’t display.’ He gave the side of the phone a slap. It didn’t help.

Of course, the photos only mattered if she’d actually been reported missing …

Inspector Fettes sniffed. Dabbed at his nose with a hanky. ‘Still, I suppose it’s not really our problem any more, is it?’

‘Like they’d trust us with a murder.’ Logan put his useless phone away again. ‘No: the Major Investigation Team turns up an hour ago, in a blaze of flashing lights and sirens, and takes it off our hands. Thanks for your help, now sod off and go guard the scene for the rest of the night.’

‘Tossers.’

‘Exactly what I was thinking, Guv.’

Another sniff. ‘Speak of the devil …’

A battered Vauxhall grumbled up the hill from the swimming pool, and rattled to a halt next to the patrol car. Sat there with its engine running.

Probably expected him to abandon his post and rush over to see what they wanted.

Well, tough.

Inspector Fettes popped his hat on his head. ‘Suppose I’d better go make myself useful.’ He headed over to the Vauxhall. Leaned on the roof and spoke to someone through the open window. Pointed at Logan. Then stood back up and marched off down the road towards Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool.

Nicholson reappeared, hauling on a big fluorescent jacket with reflective strips. Nodded at the idling Vauxhall. ‘Something happen?’

Logan faced front again. ‘Doubt it.’

She checked her watch. ‘Soon be time for tenses. Nice cuppa and a chocolate éclair.’

‘No tenses for us tonight.’

‘Oh …’ Her face drooped. ‘Elevenses?’

‘We should be so lucky.’

The Vauxhall’s passenger door opened and a dishevelled head poked out. Hair like an angry weasel had rampaged through a haystack. The creases deepened around her mouth. Voice like sandpaper on a rusty pipe. ‘Laz! Stop dicking about.’

Nicholson raised an eyebrow. ‘Laz?’

‘Don’t ask.’

Detective Chief Inspector Steel clambered out of the car. Slightly hunched in her wrinkled grey trouser suit. Black overcoat. Blue silk shirt. She waved at him. ‘Get your arse over here.’

Pause.

‘Sarge?’

Sigh. ‘OK. You stay here. No one—’

‘Yeah, “None shall pass”, I get it.’

He turned and walked over to the Vauxhall.

‘About sodding time.’ Steel hooked a thumb over her shoulder. ‘Come on, you and me’s going for a walk.’

8

They stopped at the top of the hill, overlooking the bay and the abandoned outdoor swimming pool. Steel waded into the knee-deep grass, then settled onto the park bench someone had erected years ago to make a viewing point. Back when councils still had money for things like that. She produced an electronic cigarette and took a deep puff, setting the tip glowing blue. Trickled out a stream of vapour from her nose. ‘Well this is a bloody mess.’

Logan sat next to her, engulfed in the throat-catching smell of perfume and mints. He pointed down to the pools, where a phalanx of bodies in white SOC suits picked their way around the far side. Two marquees sat beside the old building, both glowing with their internal lights. Three patrol cars. Two police vans. A big Range Rover. And a scruffy Transit van. ‘Any idea who she is yet?’

Steel jammed the e-cigarette into the corner of her mouth and took an envelope out of her pocket. ‘Came today. Haven’t dared look yet. Susan’s terrified.’

‘Going from the look of her, she can’t have been dead long. Maybe a day? Possibly two? We’re lucky the seagulls didn’t find her first.’

‘Right.’ Steel ran a finger along the envelope’s seal, ripping it open. Then ferreted out the sheet inside. Stuck the whole lot on her lap. ‘I can’t look.’

‘Put on your glasses then.’

She stared at him. ‘I don’t need glasses. It’s important, OK?’ She poked the sheet of paper. ‘This is a big deal.’

‘And a dead wee girl isn’t?’

Another long drag on the fake cigarette. ‘Got a point.’

‘Look …’ He cleared his throat. Took off his peaked cap and held it in his lap. ‘I know it means a lot to Susan. But maybe she needs to …’

Steel just stared, mouth hanging open.

‘What?’

‘What the hell did you do to your head?’ She reached out and scrubbed her hand across the back of it. ‘It’s like a velour egg.’

‘Get off.’ He scooted away to the edge of the bench.

‘Who cut your hair? You tell me and we’ll go round right now and beat the crap out of them. You look like an angry scrotum!’

‘I cut it.’ He slapped her hand away as she went in for seconds. ‘Got a set of clippers off the internet.’

‘One born every minute.’ She took another puff on her e-cigarette. Glanced down at the paperwork in her lap. ‘Pathologist’s examining the wee girl now. Quick once-over then off to Aberdeen. Post mortem tomorrow.’

‘You got any idea how much a haircut costs these days? Don’t get anything like the same overtime I did in CID. And with the pension contribution going up …’

‘Right now it looks like a blow to the head. Something solid and cylindrical. Best guess: he bashed her head in with a metal pipe. Find out more tomorrow when they cut her open.’

Logan screwed his hands together, knotting the fingers tight. ‘When I saw her lying there, all twisted in her school uniform … For a heartbeat, I thought it was Jasmine.’

Steel draped an arm along the back of the bench. Gave Logan a little squeeze. ‘Don’t be such a big girl’s blouse. She’s home with her mum.’

‘Who’s SIO?’

‘Officially, our beloved Detective Superintendent Young is the all-powerful Senior Investigating Officer. But it’ll be Finnie’s face on the TV. Dead wee girl. Paedo on the run. Got to bring out the big guns for something like that.’ A sniff. Then she poked herself in the chest a couple of times with her thumb. ‘No prizes for guessing who’ll be doing all the work though.’

‘I’d put my money on whatever poor sod you’ve got running around after you.’

‘Damn straight.’ She blew out a breath. Pulled her shoulders back. ‘Right.’ Picked up the sheet of paper from her lap. Paused. Then thrust it at Logan. ‘I can’t. You read it.’

He smoothed out the crumpled sheet. ‘“Dear Mrs Wallace-Steel, I write to inform you of the combined test results from your first-trimester nuchal translucency scan and bloodwork, taken on the”—’

‘Get to the point!’

‘Fine.’ Logan skimmed the page with his finger. ‘Blah, blah, blah … HCG is normal, but the PAPP-dash-A is elevated. Given Susan’s age, they’re going for a one in five hundred chance of the foetus having Down’s syndrome.’

‘Oh thank God.’ Steel let her head fall back and covered her face with her hands. Then sat up again, frowning. ‘One in five hundred. That’s good, isn’t it?’

No idea.

He manufactured a smile. ‘Course it is.’

‘Ha!’ She slapped him on the back. ‘You’re going to be a daddy again!’ The smile froze and Steel checked over her shoulder, as if someone might be lurking in the long grass. Her voice dropped to a raspy whisper. ‘But if your mum asks, it wasn’t you, OK? Someone else did the squirt-in-a-cup thing. Don’t want her going all stalkery over this one like she did with Jasmine. I’ve had verrucas easier to shake off than that woman.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Logan stood. ‘Look, any monkey in uniform could guard the cordon. And you’ve got heaps of bodies here.’

‘Want me to release you from your servitude?’

‘The whole team. Got a division to look after.’

The tip of Steel’s artificial cigarette glowed. ‘One in five hundred.’ She grinned. ‘Ah, go on then. I’m feeling generous.’

He marched back up the road. Tapped Nicholson on the shoulder. Lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Looks like tenses are on again.’

Logan swivelled his chair left and right, phone in one hand, mouse in the other. Scrolling through his team’s actions on STORM. Waiting for the Sergeant at Fraserburgh station to pick up.

The sound of telephones and stomping feet came from overhead. Like elephants in cheap machine-washable suits. A pair of them thundered past the open door to the Sergeants’ Office, trumpeting about getting a HOLMES suite set up and which of the bunnets was going to have to make the tea.

Logan stretched the phone cord to its full length and reached out with his leg. Caught the edge of the door with his foot and shoved. It banged shut.

A not-quite big enough room: two cupboards locked away behind white panelled doors; a pair of desks, back to back so the occupants could face each other over creaky black computers; some metal cabinets and overflowing in-trays. A line of body-worn video units winking their green lights at him as the mouse moved onto the next set of action.

Click.

Deano was all up to date. As was Nicholson. But Tufty …

God’s sake. It was like having a five-year-old. Three assaults, two burglaries, and a purse-snatching, all needing following up.

He clicked on the first assault, wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder, and battered a remark into the system, fingers sparking across the keyboard.

Follow this up ASAP – this action has been open too long. I want it updated!

Finally, someone picked up in Fraserburgh and a rough male voice echoed out of the phone: ‘Billy Broch’s House of Horrors, how may I direct your call?’

‘Sergeant Smith, is that any way to answer the station telephone?’

‘Knew it was you by the number. What’s this I hear about you and your numpties turning up a body?’

‘Dead child.’

‘Aw, no … Sorry. No one said.’

‘What are you and your hired thugs up to the night?’

‘They inflict you with an MIT yet?’

More footsteps, stomping overhead. ‘They’ve commandeered most of upstairs. And the night shift. Can you get a couple of bodies down Fraserburgh harbour? I need a door-to-door on the boats – looking for any intel you can get on Charles “Craggie” Anderson. Went missing a week ago. No sign of him or the Copper-Tun Wanderer.’

‘You coming to see our cashline-machine-shaped hole later?’

‘Planning on it. Anything else?’

The sound of air being sucked between teeth. ‘Let’s see. New today: two potential bail violations, three domestics, couple of complaints about that traveller camp outside Rosehearty, handful of break-ins, and we’re looking for a druggie who’s been snatching handbags. Otherwise it’s same old, same old. What about your drugs raid? You still needing Constable King-Kong McMahon?’

‘On hold. Going to try again Wednesday, if they let me.’

A knock on the door. A muffled voice: ‘Sarge?’

‘Come in, Tufty. Got to go, Bill. Try and behave till I get there, OK?’

‘No promises.’

Logan hung up as Constable Quirrel sidled into the room. ‘Well?’

He glanced back over his shoulder like a really bad sneak thief. Dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Tenses in the cellblock.’

‘Old one or the new one?’

‘Ah …’ A grimace. ‘Forgot to ask.’

‘… and don’t get me started on that prick Dawson!’ Nicholson paced the scuffed grey floor, her hands jabbing out at random angles as she went. She marched straight through one of the two open, thick, blue metal doors and into the darkened cell beyond. Turned and stamped back into the room again. ‘Do you know what he said to me? Do you?’

The new cellblock was a low-ceilinged room that smelled of lemon-scented cleaner and flaky pastry. The cells empty and immaculate, barely used since they were installed a decade ago, but still kitted out with their thin plastic mattresses and stainless-steel toilets. Waiting for the day when they had enough staff to open it up again. As if that was ever going to happen.

Logan leaned against the door through to the garage, Deano the one through to the older part of the building while Tufty handed out the pastries. ‘No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell us.’

‘He said—’

‘On second thoughts, don’t.’ Logan pointed at the office chair behind the custody desk. ‘Sit. Deep breaths. And calm down.’

‘But, Sarge, he—’

‘Down. Arse in chair. Now.’

Whatever she said under her breath, it probably wasn’t polite, but she thumped down in the chair and folded her arms.

‘Thank you.’ Logan helped himself to a bite of maple pecan twist. Talking with his mouth full. ‘For better, or worse, we’re lumbered with these guys. Some of them will be tossers, some of them won’t. But I don’t want any of you lowering yourselves to that level, am I understood?’

Pink bloomed across Nicholson’s cheeks. She stared at her boots.

Deano sighed. ‘She’s only letting off steam.’

‘I don’t care. And that goes for all of you. We are a professional modern police force. I will not have you letting B Division down by acting like sulky children.’

The response was a barely audible, ‘Yes, Sarge,’ from Nicholson. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

Logan nodded. Had a sip of tea. Hot and milky. ‘Now that we’re all calm and grown-up again, what did he say?’

‘Sexist scumbag thought I was going to make the tea for them!’ Nicholson ripped a bite out of her apple turnover, getting flakes of pastry all down the front of her black T-shirt.