The Missing and the Dead

Probably too young to be a boss, but with these fast-track programmes you never knew. ‘And tell me, Inspector, how long do you plan on using my office?’

‘Sorry, Guv, give me a minute.’ He held the phone against his chest, covering the mouthpiece. ‘It’s Detective Sergeant. Detective Sergeant Dawson. MIT.’

‘Ah, I see.’

Dawson – the sexist scumbag who thought it was Nicholson’s job to act as charlady.

Logan unclipped his belt and thunked it down on top of the little grey filing cabinet all the notebooks had to go in at the end of the shift. ‘Well, if I’d known that, I would never have bothered you.’ He dug his fingertips into the join on the side of his stabproof vest, hauled the Velcro flaps apart, then did the same with the shoulder strip above it. Slipped the whole thing off. ‘Big important man like you, clearly has more important things to worry about than the running of B Division.’

A smile cracked across Dawson the Dick’s face. ‘You and me got a problem?’

‘No, no, no. Wouldn’t dream of it.’ He hung his vest on the hook behind the door. ‘How about I get one of my team to make you a nice cup of tea?’

Dawson’s mouth hung open for a moment, accompanied by a frown, and then the smile was back. Broad and magnanimous on that trendy little face. ‘That’s … very cool of you, Sergeant. Thanks. Milk, two sugars.’

‘Not a problem at all.’ Logan held up both hands, palms out. ‘I’ll get out of your hair.’

Back through into the main office.

Becky stormed past, mug in one hand, packet of crisps in the other. Swearing under her breath as she pushed through into the hall, making for the upper floors.

Through into the Constables’ Office.

Nicholson was poking away at her computer keyboard, filling in her actions for the day.

He leaned back against the work-surface desk. ‘You’ll never guess who I just met.’

She looked up. ‘Santa?’

‘Your favourite sexist scumbag, DS Dawson.’

‘Urgh …’ She went back to her keyboard, thumping away harder than before. ‘Hope he gets syphilis. From an angry Rottweiler.’

‘Wouldn’t put it past—’

The Constables’ Office door banged open and there was the PC who’d been banging evidence-label numbers into a spreadsheet: broad-faced with little black flecks along the underside of his double chin, as if he’d shaved in a hurry. ‘Yeah, hi. Sorry.’ A sniff. ‘Listen, DS Dawson says if you guys are making tea anyway: we need three with milk and one sugar; four with milk; two white coffees; and one black, two sugars. Don’t suppose you’ve got any Earl Grey, do you? The boss is partial.’

Nicholson was on her feet. ‘Now you listen to me, you f—’

‘It’ll be our pleasure.’ Logan stood. Patted Nicholson on the shoulder. ‘Isn’t that right, Constable?’

A pause.

The guy with the scabby chin shrugged. ‘Only doing what I’m told.’

She hissed out a breath. ‘Yes, Sarge.’

Nicholson thumped the mugs into a line on the counter beside the sink. All ten of them. Stuck the kettle on to boil, then plonked teabags and spoons of instant coffee in the requisite ones.

Logan leaned back against the vending machine, crumpling the notice saying that prices were going up again. ‘Don’t forget the milk.’

A scowl. ‘Still don’t see why we have to run around after—’

‘Because we are good little parochial police officer teuchters who know their place.’ Sticking out his left arm, Logan grabbed the canteen door and shoved. It swung shut with a clunk.

The room was a washed-out shade of industrial magnolia. Recycling bins, a vending machine, and a TV-on-a-shelf took up one side; a blue worktop-table sat in the middle; kitchen units, cooker and sink against the opposite wall. A concrete garden gnome stood on the windowsill – someone had painted his eyes in with Tipp-Ex and black marker, given him a thick pair of sinister eyebrows, and added a cut-out paper knife to one hand. Presumably so he could guard the piggy bank.

Logan picked up the pottery pig and gave it a shoogle. It barely rattled.

Nicholson pointed. ‘See? They’re not even putting in for teas and coffees! Freeloading—’

‘All right.’ Logan dug into his fleece pockets. ‘How we doing with the kettle?’

She checked. ‘Nearly.’ Then pouted. ‘I mean, come on, Sarge, this isn’t fair.’

‘We’re helping our fellow officers to a tasty hot beverage. Nothing wrong with that.’

Nicholson dumped the big carton of semi-skimmed down next to the cooker. ‘Why are you taking this so bloody calmly?’

‘Because I am a grown-up.’ He held up the drugs he’d purchased from the Fraserburgh Tesco. ‘Four boxes of violent, unpredictable relief.’ He tossed one to Nicholson. ‘What’s the recommended dose?’

Frowning, she scanned the instructions. ‘One tablet before bedtime. Why are—’

‘What do you think: three or four per mug?’

She shifted from foot to foot. ‘Won’t they … you know, taste it?’

‘Not the way you make tea. Grind them up first, then let’s see if we can’t scare up some biscuits for our honoured guests.’

— Tuesday: Court —

12

Sunlight streamed in through the thin curtains. The smell of damp, still alive under the combined assault of two plug-in air fresheners – bruised, but fighting back. The bleeping warble of an upbeat song on the alarm-clock radio.

Logan rolled over and thumped the snooze button. Lay back and stared at the collection of brown stains on the ceiling. That one looked like a buffalo. That one like a dismembered foot. That one like … Norway?

The walls weren’t much better – covered in peeling paper, painted a revolting shade of blackcurrant mousse. Curling away from the plaster.

Home, sweet home.

A massive yawn grabbed him, stretching his arms and legs beneath the duvet. Leaving him limp and blinking.

Seven a.m. A whole two and a half hours’ sleep.

Come on: up. Graham Stirling wasn’t going to convict himself.

Logan rolled out of bed and padded to the window, bare feet scuffing on the bare floorboards. Pulled one side of the curtain back an inch. Crystal-meth sky with high wispy clouds. The tide out, exposing a swathe of pale-blonde sand from here to the River Deveron. Lines of white rippling the sea. A yacht sailing off into the blue.

‘Unngh …’ Scratch. Yawn.

Cthulhu popped up on the windowsill beside him, landing in ghostly silence. Made a prooping noise, then butted her head against his arm. Small and fluffy, with stripes and a tail nearly as big as the rest of her put together. He rubbed one of her hairy ears, making her grimace and lean into it, purring.

The clock radio lurched into life again. The end of the warbling song replaced by a cheery woman’s voice. ‘I don’t know about you, but I like it!’

The purring stopped. Cthulhu shook her head then thumped back to the floorboards – landing like a sack of bricks – and padded off, tail straight up. Business to attend to.

‘News and weather coming up at half past. And we’ll have more on the hunt for missing forty-three-year-old, Neil Wood. But first, here’s the latest hit single from Monster Mouse Machine …’

Sod that. Time for a quick shower, then off to Aberdeen.

‘All right, all right, I’m coming …’ Logan wrapped the towel around his middle, slipped his wet feet into his slippers and scuffed down the bare stairs as the bell kept up its brrrrrrrringing wail. Along the hall to the front door. Wrenched it open. ‘What?’

Oh … great.

DCI Steel raised an eyebrow, took a long slow draw on the e-cigarette sticking out the corner of her mouth. ‘I’m flattered, but I don’t think my wife would approve.’ Steel’s hair was all squashed on one side, the other looked as if it had filed for independence from her head. Thick, dark circles crowded the bags beneath her eyes. More dark circles beneath the arms of the same blue silk shirt she’d had on the night before. Jacket slung over one shoulder, heavy carrier bag in her other hand. She nodded at his midriff. ‘Nice scars though.’

He folded his arms over the shiny puckered lines.

She frowned. ‘You’ve lost weight. What happened to the cuddly chunky-monkey McRae we all know and love? Just skin and bones now.’

‘You try humphing a stone-and-a-bit of equipment around for ten hours every day.’

A minibus full of old ladies rumbled past, pale creased faces pressed to the window. Assorted whoops and obscene hand gestures.

Steel waved back at them. ‘Well, you going to stand there dripping, with your willy hanging out, or are you going to invite me in?’

He grunted, turned and shuffled back inside. ‘Can’t be long – catching a hurl into Aberdeen with Swanson, remember?’

Steel clunked the door shut behind her, then whistled. ‘Wow. Rennie was right, you do live in a craphole.’

The wallpaper was stripped off in the stairwell and the hall, the lathe and plaster crumbling and stained. Grey flex drooped from the ceiling, dangling a single bare bulb like an unsniffed runny nose. Dust and fluff made little drifts on every step of the stairs, dark varnish chipped and faded on either side of the paler strip where the carpet had been. No carpet on the floor either. Small cracked patches of linoleum made scabs on the wooden boards.

She opened a door off the hall. The room on the other side was nothing but stacks and stacks of file-boxes. Not quite floor to ceiling, but close to it. ‘This your porn collection? Nearly as big as mine.’

He clumped up the stairs in his slippers. ‘Station’s been using this place as an overflow file storage for decades. Kettle’s in the kitchen. Make yourself useful.’

By the time he’d come back down, all dried and dressed in Police-Scotland black, she was in the lounge, an open bottle of beer clutched to her chest. Frowning at the stacks of books on the mantelpiece.

A small TV balanced on a packing box. A bargain-basement couch from the charity shop. A folding chair. Two stepladders draped with dust sheets and a stack of paint tins and brushes. Bags of plaster.

He dumped his black fleece on the couch. Tucked his T-shirt into his itchy trousers. Picked up Cthulhu’s water and food bowls from their placemat in the corner. ‘It’s seven in the morning. Where did you get beer?’

‘Confiscated it.’ A swig. ‘Laz, seriously, this place is a dump. And no’ a nice one either, this is the kind of dump where you’ve got to go see your doctor afterwards to get the bad news. Half the windows are boarded up!’

Logan carried the bowls through to the kitchen. The units might have been cheap, but they were new and they were clean. A fresh coat of cheerful yellow on the walls. A row of potted herbs on the windowsill, drinking in the morning sun.

Through the glass, Banff police station lurked on the opposite corner of the small square. Three storeys of dirty sandstone, with a fake balcony over the main entrance and curly carved bits holding up various lintels. Stone urn-shaped things decorated the front edge of the roof. If it wasn’t for the blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ sign and the sprawl of patrol cars and vans parked outside, it could have passed for an ancient hotel.

A handful of reporters wandered about out front, drinking from Styrofoam cups and sunning themselves in the early morning glow. Waiting …

Logan emptied out the kettle, filled it, and put it on to boil. ‘You want a tea?’

Steel appeared in the doorway. ‘How long’s it going to take you to do this place up: five years? Ten?’

‘It’s a work in progress.’

‘Pfff …’ Then she dug into her plastic bag and pulled out a copy of the Daily Mail. Slapped it down on the working surface. ‘Looks like your PC Nicholson’s no’ the only thing that’s leaky up here.’

Most of the front page was taken up with a photo of Neil Wood, beneath the headline, ‘SICKO SEARCH ~ POLICE HUNT FOR MISSING PAEDOPHILE’. There was even a small inset photo of the outdoor pool at Tarlair.

‘Well, don’t look at my team, this is your bunch of numpties.’ He dug Cthulhu’s bowl into the bag of dried cat food. ‘So what happened with the dead girl?’

‘Post mortem’s at half nine. Messrs Young and Finnie in attendance, while yours truly gets to grab a whole five hours to herself …’ A jaw-cracking yawn, followed by a burp. Then a shudder. And another mouthful of beer. ‘Been on since seven yesterday morning. Two kebabs, three gallons of coffee, two proper cigarettes, a poke of chips, five tins of Red Bull, someone else’s sandwich, a bag of cheese-and-onion, and a beer.’ She raised it in salute. ‘Doing wonders for my diet.’

Logan washed out the water bowl and filled it with fresh. ‘So join divisional, that’ll shift a few pounds.’

‘Cheeky sod.’ Another swig. ‘And the leak can’t have come from my numpties. Most of them spent the night carpet-bombing the porcelain. Was like the battle of Dresden in that station last night.’ A nod. ‘Luckily I’m made of sterner stuff.’

Lucky she got DS McKenzie to make a cuppa before Logan and Nicholson got their poisoned round in, more like.

He dried his hands on a tea towel. Did his best to look innocent. ‘Do me a favour?’

‘If it involves me getting naked too: no.’

‘Pair of local scrotes got a big shipment of drugs from down south. I’ve got a warrant for a raid. Couldn’t go in yesterday because of the wee girl …’ Through to the lounge to put Cthulhu’s bowls back where they’d come from. ‘If we leave it much longer, they’ll cut the shipment up and disappear it out onto the streets. And you’ve got all the spare bodies in the division.’ Then into the kitchen again.

‘Would you stop charging about? Making me seasick.’ She knocked back the rest of her beer. Clunked the bottle down on the worktop. Sagged. ‘When, and how many?’

‘Tomorrow evening. Say … four OSU, and a drugs dog? Syd Fraser’s good, if we can get him.’

A massive yawn left her shuddering and stretching – shoulders up around her ears, arms locked, elbows out. ‘How long?’

‘Two hours. Ish.’ A quick rummage in the cupboard for a bowl and the box of waxy own-brand cornflakes. ‘About your dead girl – you’re searching the outdoor swimming pool, and the car park, and the buildings, right?’ Flakes in the bowl. ‘What if she wasn’t dumped there?’

Steel produced a bottle opener and clicked the top off another beer. ‘She didn’t fly there on her own. Body had to get there somehow.’

‘There’s green weed and slime all around the main pool, especially on the seaward side. That’s only going to grow if the wall’s regularly underwater. And given we had a couple days of rough weather over the weekend …?’

She stared at him. Then covered her face with her hands. ‘Sodding hell. She washed in from the sea.’

‘Sure you don’t want a cup of tea?’

‘Want a pee.’

‘Top of the stairs.’

Her footsteps clumped up the bare steps. Then the clunk of a door closing.

Logan sploshed milk on the flakes and checked his phone – a voicemail from Deano and a text from his mother. That got deleted unread.

‘Sarge, Deano. Listen, we’re having a barbecue at ours, Thursday evening. A mate’s come into some steaks, if you fancy it? Give us a shout back.’

Why not? Be nice to have something that actually looked like real meat for a change. And by then Graham Stirling would be heading off to Barlinnie for the rest of his unnatural. Plus: they’d have raided Klingon and Gerbil’s place. Big haul of drugs, mentions in dispatches, medals, and a parade. Time to celebrate.

It was too early to call Deano back. So Logan wolfed down the cornflakes, slipped his phone in his pocket, and a slice of bargain-basement white into the toaster. Stuck his head out into the hall. ‘Hurry up: I’ve got to go in a minute.’

No reply.

‘OK, I’ll leave a spare key on the table for you. You can let yourself out.’

Silence.

‘Listen,’ he walked to the bottom of the stairs, ‘thought I’d pop past and see Susan while I’m in town. See how she’s getting on. She at home today?’

Nothing.

Maybe she hadn’t been so lucky with the poisoned tea after all?

‘Hello?’ The steps creaked beneath his feet, all the way up. ‘You’ve not fallen in, have you?’ When he knocked on the bathroom door, it swung open.

Thankfully Steel wasn’t sitting on the toilet with her trousers around her ankles. The room was empty – freshly tiled with a new bathroom suite. Cheap, but serviceable. Even if it had taken weeks to put in.

‘Hello?’

A jagged rasp, like a wood-saw hacking away at a sheet of corrugated metal, came from the bedroom. Then a pause. Then another one.

He put a hand on the door and swung it open. There she was: lying flat on her back, on his bed, with both feet still on the floor. One arm flung out to the left, the other hand draped over her right boob. Mouth wide open. Snoring.

Wonderful.

He swung her legs up onto the duvet, pulled off her boots, then pulled a blanket over her.

A ‘Proooop?’ came from the hallway. Cthulhu sauntered in and hopped up on the bed beside Steel. Treddled the blanket for a minute, then turned round twice and settled onto the pillow beside her head.

‘Disloyal little sod.’

Logan closed the door and left them to it.

Logan shifted his fleece to the other hand and let himself into the station. The unnatural-pine scent of disinfectant and air freshener clawed its way into his nose, itched at the back of his throat. As if someone was trying to cover up a terrible smell.

Keep a straight face.

He poked his head into the Constables’ Office: no one there. A couple of cardboard boxes sat in the middle of the room – piled high with brown-paper evidence bags – but other than that, it was the same slightly scruffy collection of posters, notices and in-trays laden with paperwork.

No one in the canteen. No one in the main office either.

Two abandoned papers hung folded over the edge of the partition by Maggie’s desk – an Aberdeen Examiner and an Evening Express. One had gone with an aerial photo of Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool, with a silhouette inset of what was meant to be a little girl: ‘BODY FOUND IN NEGLECTED NORTHEAST BEAUTY SPOT’. The other featured a head-and-shoulders of Neil Wood: ‘DID MISSING PAEDOPHILE KILL TRAGIC SCHOOLGIRL?’ A tiny article in the sidebar was titled, ‘STIRLING TRIAL CONTINUES’. Would have thought it deserved more page space than that, considering what Graham Stirling had done to Stephen Bisset.

Logan did a three-sixty. ‘Hello? Anyone home?’

Maybe the MIT had caught whoever killed the little girl and sodded off back where they’d come from? That’d be nice …

He got out his keys and opened the little blue locker with his name on it. Unhooked his Airwave handset from its charger. Switched it on and slipped it into his fleece pocket. Then pushed through into the Sergeants’ Office.

Stopped.

DS Dawson was sitting in his seat again. Only not looking quite so cocky this time.

His face was a pale shade of grey, the bags under his eyes a smudgy, bruised colour. His quiff had lost its arrogant strut and dangled limply across his shiny forehead. He looked up as Logan closed the door. Grimaced. Stuck one hand to his stomach as a coffee-percolator-gurgle rumbled somewhere inside it. ‘What you doing in? Thought you were backshift.’

Logan did his best not to smile. ‘You look a bit rough.’

‘Urgh … Think we hit a dodgy kebab shop last night. Half the station’s been welded to the bogs since back of four.’

‘That is a pity.’ He unlocked the little grey filing cabinet and pulled out the drawer with his notebook in it. Popped it into a pocket. ‘Supposed to be getting a hurl into Aberdeen with Swanson. You seen her?’

‘I ended up stuck in the cells for two hours – only bog that was free.’ Dawson puffed out his cheeks and rubbed at his growling stomach. ‘Never touching another doner as long as I live.’

‘Sounds dreadful.’ Don’t grin. Don’t grin. ‘So, Swanson?’

‘No idea. All I know is everyone ran off to break up some fight outside the— Urgh …’ Another roll of gurgling thunder. ‘Oh God …’ He grabbed the desk. Paused. Took a deep breath. Let it out in a long slow hiss. ‘No, I’m OK …’

Logan pulled on the most sympathetic face he could. ‘Well, as I’ve got a couple of minutes, how about I make you a nice cup of tea?’

Constable Swanson shifted her grip on the steering wheel, hunched forward in her seat as they roared around the bend, heading south on the A947. Big hands; broad face; scruffy brown hair streaked with blonde like a humbug, tied up in a bun. Glasses. ‘I’m really, really sorry. Only these two auld mannies were really laying into each other. Fists and false-teeth flying everywhere.’ She grimaced. ‘Sorry.’

‘Told you: it’s OK. As long as I’m at the High Court for nine, we’re fine.’ Logan took out his phone as they thundered over the Castleton Bridge. No new messages.

A constant burble of calls murmured from his Airwave handset – B Division going about its daily business.

‘Suspected overdose on Crooked Lane, Peterhead.’

‘Anyone in the vicinity of Asda’s in Fraserburgh? Shoplifter’s been apprehended by store security.’

‘All units, lookout request for one Tony Wishart, IC-one male, eighteen years old, dark hair. Outstanding apprehension warrant for burglary.’

‘Getting complaints of a domestic disturbance in Whitehills, any unit free to attend? Priority one.’

Logan turned the volume down and wriggled in his seat. Settling further into the fabric.

Nice not to be wearing a stabproof vest and equipment belt for a change.

Outside the window, vivid green fields and trees swooshed past. The hissing soundtrack of tyre noise joining the Airwave’s chatter and the throaty growl of the patrol car’s engine. The rattle of the blue plastic crate on the back seat. Their car swept around another bend, and the rustle of the crate’s evidence bags joined the music.

Swanson grimaced at him. ‘Just have to hope we don’t catch the rush hour heading into Dyce. Don’t know if going via Inverurie’s worse or—’

‘We’ll be fine. Labs won’t do anything with your stuff till this afternoon anyway.’ He reclined his seat a couple of notches, tipped his peaked cap forwards so it covered his eyes and nose. ‘And if it’s getting tight, we’ll blues-and-twos it. Don’t think the Powers That Be will complain if it helps put Graham Stirling away.’ He stretched out. Stifled a yawn. Sighed.

‘Sarge?’

‘What?’

‘You don’t snore, do you?’

‘About to find out.’

The round of applause started as soon as Logan walked into the CID office. Beige walls, grubby ceiling tiles, grubbier carpet tiles, whiteboards covered in notes and lines. It was smaller than the old one, but then so was the team – whittled down by all the other specialist units that had sprung up with the change from Grampian Police to Police Scotland. But the half-dozen officers who were there gave him a standing ovation, a mug of milky tea, and a bacon buttie.

Biohazard slapped him on the back and popped the cap on a bottle of tomato sauce. Squirted it into the buttie. ‘Got to keep your strength up for today.’

‘Ta. When are you giving evidence?’

‘Tomorrow morning.’ He stuck the tomato sauce back on his desk. ‘Course, by then it’ll all be over.’

The others drifted back to their desks and their phones while Biohazard led him over to a file-box by the printer, with ‘NOTEBOOKS’ written on it in heavy black marker letters. ‘Took the liberty.’

Logan had a bite of buttie. It was lukewarm, but it tasted of smoky victory as he rummaged through the box for the notebooks he’d had when they’d been after Graham Stirling. Popped them onto the printer. ‘What about Rennie?’