Logan McRae 09 - The Missing and the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  Logan frowned out into the night. ‘You think there’s anything to this sex offenders getting attacked and going missing thing? That’s twice we’ve heard about it.’

  ‘Twice out of what, twenty paedos? No’ exactly statistically significant, is it?’

  ‘Three, if you count Mrs Bartholomew’s “Burn in Hell” threat. And Neil Wood’s dad got beaten up today. Well, technically yesterday, but you know what I mean.’

  Steel took another long drag. ‘Not like they don’t deserve it, is it?’

  All the parking slots outside the station were taken – a mix of patrol and unmarked pool cars, all bathed in the thin sodium light. The car park out front was full too. Among the more everyday vehicles loomed a couple of police pods and a Transit in full riot gear, its front grille raised like a surprised monobrow.

  Logan found them a parking spot further down the street.

  Steel creaked her way out of the passenger seat and paused on the pavement for a big stretch. Her blue silk shirt rode up, exposing a slash of dead-fish skin and a bellybutton. ‘Pffff …’ She had a scratch. ‘Any chance of something to eat? Starving.’

  Logan nodded back towards the station. ‘Vending machine in the canteen. Crisps, caffeinated drinks, and chocolate.’

  Her eyebrows tented in the middle, bringing out the puppy eyes. ‘No chips?’

  Nicholson bounced out from the back of the car, following them along the pavement. ‘The baker’s opens at five. They do a great chicken-curry pie.’

  Steel checked her watch, then sagged. ‘An hour and twenty minutes … Be a skeleton by then.’

  ‘Good, you can keep Hector company.’ Logan thumbed the code into the keypad by the tradesmen’s entrance. Then covered his mouth for a long shuddering yawn.

  The sound of telephones filtered through the building. Raised voices. Someone laughing.

  Nicholson pointed down the corridor towards the Constables’ Office. ‘Paperwork first, Sarge?’

  ‘Do your actions, then sod off home. Put down for three hours’ overtime.’ He turned to Steel. ‘That’s fair, isn’t it?’

  ‘Bloody bunnets, eating my budget …’ Steel turned and lumbered into the main office.

  Two PCs sat at Maggie’s desk, one typing things into a spreadsheet while the other hunched over a pile of evidence bags. Reading out the label numbers as his mate logged them in.

  Someone in a charcoal-grey suit was at the other desk, tongue poking out the side of her mouth as she picked at her keyboard with two fingers. Wrinkles furrowed the gap between her eyebrows, a mass of frizzy brown hair tied back in a wobbly half-bun-half-ponytail-thing.

  Not one of them looked up until Steel clicked her fingers three times. ‘Hoy, Becky: any messages?’

  The woman in the suit flinched. Grabbed the stack of Post-it notes beside her. ‘Body’s arrived at Aberdeen, Boss. PM’s set for half nine. DS Rennie wants to call off the search till dawn. Says it’s too dark to—’

  More finger snaps. ‘I can read, DS McKenzie: give.’

  Becky handed over the Post-its. Her jaw tightened, the muscles flexing. ‘Yes, Boss.’

  Steel flicked through the yellow squares, holding them at arm’s length and squinting. ‘Pfff … Is there no bugger in the whole force who can make a decision on their own?’ She stuffed them into a pocket. ‘If anyone needs me, I’ll be upstairs. In the ladies. Making smells.’ She paused on the threshold to the hall. ‘And see if you can rustle up a cup of tea, eh? And something to eat.’ Then slouched off into the hall and away up the stairs.

  Beat. Two. Three. Four. And the smile died on Becky’s face. Eyes narrowed on the closing door. Voice a serrated-blade whisper. ‘What did your last slave die of, you old bag?’

  She turned and stomped off towards the canteen.

  Looked as if Steel was right: one prod away from an aneurism.

  Nothing like running a happy team.

  Logan crossed to the Sergeants’ Office and opened the door. Then froze.

  A thin bloke in a blue suit was sitting in his seat. Feet up on his desk. Scratching himself on the back of the head with a biro, mobile phone clamped to his ear. ‘… yeah, that’s what I thought …’ A frown. Then he glanced in Logan’s direction: long nose, trendy hair quiffed up at the front, designer stubble. ‘Get lost, I’m on the phone. … No, not you, Guv. Some fanny in uniform. … Yeah …’ Then laughter.

  Logan nodded. Stepped into the room, and slammed the door behind him, hard enough to make the dick in the suit flinch.

  ‘And you are?’

  The guy licked his lips. Took his feet off the desk. Squared his shoulders. ‘On the phone.’

  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 pric
es 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.’

  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 nine. 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, drin
king 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.