Logan McRae 09 - The Missing and the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Shouldn’t even be anywhere near her.’ She hit him again. ‘What’s wrong with you? You—’

  ‘Ow! Cut it out, or—’

  ‘—when you’re investigating the damn case! It’s unethical.’

  Logan marched off a couple of paces. Then back again, hands jabbing the air for emphasis. ‘Nothing happened! And I’m not on the case, I’m barely case-adjacent. You can hardly see the case from where I am.’

  Steel crossed her arms, hoicking up her bosom. ‘Nothing happened? Really?’

  ‘Nothing happened!’

  She hissed out a breath. ‘Well, no wonder you had a face like an unemptied scrotum this morning. See – told you. Sexual frustration.’

  He rubbed a hand across his face. ‘We were eating lunch. That’s all.’

  ‘Fine.’ Steel poked him in the chest. ‘And make sure you keep your hands where I can see them.’

  Tufty indicated left, then sniffed. ‘Why can I smell chicken?’

  The Big Car drifted back onto Rundle Avenue, making its third pass in fifteen minutes.

  Still no sign of anyone that looked even vaguely like the descriptions Maggie had shouted through.

  Logan shifted in his seat. The equipment belt was digging into his stomach’s full load of chicken and sausage rolls and potato salad. Every burp burned. Should really loosen it. But if he did, the damn thing would fall off if they had to chase anyone. ‘So, come on then: what did you do?’

  The tips of Tufty’s ears turned pink. ‘Maybe I wanted to learn from the master for a bit?’

  ‘What did you do?’

  A breath of drizzle fogged the windscreen. The windscreen wipers squealed it away, but it was back a couple of beats later. The tips of Tufty’s ears darkened.

  ‘Well?’

  He shrugged one shoulder. ‘Deano just gets a bit grumpy sometimes.’

  ‘Tufty!’

  ‘All I said was, Einstein states that as an object’s velocity approaches the speed of light, its inertial mass tends towards infinity, right? Well, what about photons? They travel at the speed of light, because they are light.’

  ‘There,’ Logan pointed, ‘woman in the tracksuit.’

  She was trudging along through the drizzle, head down, woolly hat pulled low over her ears.

  Tufty shook his head. ‘Should be wearing a green hoodie. Anyway: light’s both a wave and a particle, right? And it’s travelling at the speed of light, so the particle bit of it should have near-infinite mass, even if the wave bit doesn’t. So maybe that’s what dark matter is? All that excess inertial mass?’

  ‘You think dark matter is light?’

  ‘Well, it’s not gerbils, is it? Stands to reason …’

  ‘Janet’s right – we should’ve had you tested.’ Logan dug out his phone, found Helen’s number, and thumbed in a text.

  Sorry about lunch – didn’t know they were coming.

  They can be a bit much at times.

  He frowned at the screen. Say something about the almost-kiss, or not? What if she didn’t mean it? What if it was a misunderstanding? He’d end up looking like a right idiot. Or a pervert. Or a massive dickhead.

  Gah, it was like being a spotty teenager again.

  Play it cool.

  If I can get free we could try grabbing dinner?

  His finger hovered over ‘SEND’.

  Nah. That last bit looked desperate.

  He deleted the line, then sent the text off into the digital void.

  All nice and bland and unembarrassing.

  The phone went back into his trouser pocket.

  Outside the car windows, the damp streets glistened.

  Tufty sucked on his teeth for a bit. Then, ‘You ever wonder about the origins of the universe, Sarge?’

  Logan hit the button on his Airwave and talked into his shoulder. ‘Maggie, any more sightings?’

  ‘Aye, we’ve got an IC-One female wearing Ugg boots, blue jogging bottoms, and an orange sweatshirt.’

  Tufty stuck on the brakes. Then reversed downhill. ‘Got her.’ He swung the Big Car right, onto Ardanes Brae.

  And there she was, hurrying along the pavement, bent into the wind, a carrier bag dangling from one hand.

  ‘OK, wait till she’s level with the white Passat … Go.’

  Tufty slid alongside, then pulled into the kerb. Grabbed his peaked cap and jumped out into the drizzle.

  Logan went the other way, around the back of the Passat, cutting off the retreat.

  She looked up, just in time to avoid walking straight into Tufty. Stopped. Took a step back. Turned. Saw Logan. Swore.

  Kirstin Rattray screwed her bony face into a fist, then slumped. Licked her thin, pale lips. ‘Was … out for a walk.’

  ‘Afternoon, Kirstin.’

  No one moved.

  She wrapped one bony arm around herself, the skeletal hand gripping her other arm. ‘Going to see Amy.’ She jiggled the carrier bag. ‘Got her some toys and a pretty dress. ’Cos … ’Cos it’s her birthday.’

  Logan pointed over her shoulder. ‘Kirstin Rattray, I have reason to believe that you’re in possession of a controlled substance, so I’m detaining you in terms of Section Twenty-Three of the Misuse of Drugs Act 1971 for the purpose of a search.’

  She curled in on herself, folding at the knees and wrapping her arms around her head. ‘Noo …’

  ‘We are unable to search you here, as I don’t have a female officer to do it. So we’re going to take you to the station until one becomes available. You’re not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say—’

  ‘Please …’ Her voice came out muffled and strangled. ‘Please, if they put me away I’ll never get to see my wee Amy again. Please …’

  Tufty shifted from foot to foot. ‘Sarge?’

  ‘She’s only three!’

  The same age Helen’s daughter was when she disappeared.

  ‘Sarge, maybe we could … I don’t know. Something?’

  Kirstin stayed where she was, rocking back and forward slightly. Crying.

  Logan stared up at the lid of grey that loomed over the town. The drizzle caressed his face with its cold clammy hands. Three years old.

  Ah, sod it. It wasn’t always about banging people up. ‘Kirstin.’

  ‘Please …’

  ‘Kirstin, come on: stand up, I’m not going to arrest you.’

  She peered up at him with bloodshot eyes. ‘My Amy’s only—’

  ‘I know. I’m not arresting you. Up.’

  She stood, sniffling and gulping. Wiped the snot off her top lip with a skeletal hand. ‘I can go?’

  ‘Not yet.’ He snapped on a single blue nitrile glove. ‘What did Frankie Ferris give you?’

  The skeletal hand scrubbed at her eyes. ‘I didn’t—’

  ‘You were seen, Kirstin. What did he give you? You can give it to me, or you can come down the station and wait to be searched. And when we find it, we arrest you and confiscate it anyway. Your choice.’

  She nodded. Sniffed. Then dug into the front pocket of her joggy bottoms. Came out with a small plastic baggie with brown powder in it. Rubbed the thing between her fingertips, like the world’s tiniest violin. Licked her lips again. Cleared her throat.

  He held out his gloved hand. ‘Kirstin?’

  A hatchback went past, the sound of music turned up too loud grinding out through the rolled-up windows.

  ‘Come on, Kirstin. What’s more important: getting high, or your daughter?’

  The drizzle fell.

  Tufty shifted his feet again.

  And finally Kirstin dropped the little packet on Logan’s palm. Her fingertips hovered over it for a moment, then she snatched her hand away and pressed them against her throat. ‘It … Sometimes it’s …’ She looked away. ‘I found it.’

  ‘Of course you did. Does Frankie have a big stash? Is it worth my while paying him a visit?’

  She hauled one should
er up to her ear. ‘Didn’t see anything. He was, you know, working the hall, never got to see anywhere else.’

  ‘OK.’ Logan pointed. ‘Can I see inside the carrier bag?’

  She held it out and open.

  Inside was a little pink princess dress, a set of pink fairy wings, and a pink magic wand.

  He stepped back. ‘Thanks. You tell Amy the nice policemen said hello, OK?’

  A nod. Then she scuffed her Ugg boots on the pavement. ‘She’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘Off you go then.’

  She scurried away, carrier bag clutched to her chest. Getting smaller and smaller, until the hill and the drizzle swallowed her up.

  Tufty grinned. ‘Catch-and-release. Like it.’

  ‘Right. Back to work.’

  While Tufty got in behind the wheel, Logan closed his fist around the little package of heroin, then pulled the glove inside out, trapping it inside. Slipped it into one of his stabproof vest’s zippy pockets. Couldn’t sign it into evidence without implicating Kirstin. Just have to lose it down a drain somewhere.

  The drizzle thickened, the drops turning heavier and wetter.

  He climbed into the passenger seat. Clunked the door shut. ‘Right, a couple more goes, then we’re off to Gardenstown to see about that shed fire.’ He pulled his Airwave free as Tufty crossed Tannery Street and started yet another long slow loop of Rundle Avenue.

  ‘Sarge?’

  ‘Is this about Einstein again?’ He thumbed the Duty Inspector’s shoulder number into his Airwave. ‘Bravo India from Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

  ‘You know the Big Bang?’

  ‘Go ahead, Logan.’

  ‘Any chance I can get a warrant to dunt in Frankie Ferris’s door? We’re getting a lot of tip-offs about him dealing today. Sounds as if he’s got a new batch of heroin in.’

  ‘You doing stop-and-searches?’

  ‘On it now.’

  ‘Good. I want you copping a feel of everyone who comes out of that place. You get me one solid bit intel and I’ll get you a warrant.’ There was a bit of rustling at her end. Then, ‘I’ve no spare bodies for a dunt today. Have to be tomorrow or Tuesday.’

  Might all be gone by tomorrow or Tuesday. But it was better than nothing. ‘Thanks, Guv.’

  Tufty took them out the end of the street and onto Golden Knowes Road. It was the Westernmost edge of town, no houses on the left side of the road, from here on it was fields and cattle all the way to Whitehills. ‘If we hadn’t let Kirstin Rattray off with a caution, you’d have got your warrant.’

  ‘And make sure she never saw her kid again? Thought you were all in favour of catch-and-release.’

  ‘Yeah, but …’ A small frown and a little chewing on the inside of his cheek. Then whatever ethical dilemma was raging inside that misshapen little head of his must have passed. ‘Anyway, so we know that the universe goes from nothing to everything: boom, in teeny wee fraction of a second.’ He took his hands off the steering wheel and mimed an explosion.

  ‘Anyone in the vicinity of St Fergus, got reports of a campervan with German plates acting suspiciously. MOD staff want them picked up …’

  A right, onto Windy Brae, making another long loop.

  ‘So there’s nothing, then there’s inflation, then there’s expansion, then there’s everything, right?’

  ‘I’m beginning to know how Deano felt.’

  Little houses, terraced bungalows, all darkening in the rain.

  ‘All units be on the lookout for an IC-Two female, suspected of robbing a Big Issue vendor in Peterhead, Back Street …’

  ‘So, in that first trillionth of a trillionth of a trillionth of a second, all this primordial quantum foam is accelerating faster than the speed of light—’

  ‘How about him?’ Logan pointed through the windscreen at a man in a scuffed bomber jacket with a hoodie underneath, marching on through the rain.

  ‘Should be green cargo pants, not stonewashed jeans. But it’s the same thing, isn’t it? Closer you get to the speed of light, the greater your inertial mass, so if it wasn’t for that tiny fraction of a second wheeching everything up to uber-fast speeds, there wouldn’t be any mass in the universe. We’re made of speed, not stuff.’

  Logan stared at him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I swear to God, Tufty, I was this close to being nice to you today.’ He held one hand up, thumb and forefinger less than an inch apart.

  Right, onto Meavie Place, then another quick right onto Ardanes Brae again.

  ‘Only trying to get a bit of intelligent debate going.’

  There was blissful silence all the way back to Rundle Avenue. Well, except for the rhythmic squeak-and-groan of the windscreen wipers.

  Tufty heaved a big sigh. ‘Must be weird, living in one of the wood-clad houses. Think it’s a bit like moving into a two-storey shed?’

  ‘Don’t know what’s worse, your cosmology, or your social commentary …’ Logan sat forward in his seat. Peered out through the rain-smeared windscreen. ‘Up there. Is that not our good friend, Martyn Baker?’ And he was going into Frankie Ferris’s delightful little drug den too. Logan grinned. Rubbed his hands together. ‘Right, park the car around the corner. Soon as he comes out, we’ve got ourselves a winner.’

  And best of all, he had plausible deniability. The Duty Inspector gave the order to stop-and-search everyone who comes out of Frankie’s place. Everyone. And that included Martyn Baker.

  Yes, DCI McInnes would blow a vein, but sod him.

  About time these MIT scumbags learned what a real police officer looked like.

  40

  ‘Mr Baker, what a nice surprise.’ Logan stepped out from behind the mouldy Transit van. Rain pattered on the brim of his peaked cap, bounced off the shoulders of his fluorescent yellow jacket. Not exactly subtle, but Martyn-with-a-‘Y’ still hadn’t seen him.

  A narrowing of the eyes. Probably weighing up the odds of doing a runner, but then Tufty stepped onto the pavement behind him.

  ‘Sarge?’

  Baker took his hands out of his pockets, curled them into fists. The tendons on his neck tightened, stretching the skin. Rain soaked into his bomber jacket, slicking the red fabric. ‘What?’ Those thick eyebrows glowered like storm clouds.

  ‘I see you’ve been visiting with Frankie Ferris.’

  ‘Nothing illegal, is it? Visiting someone?’ His Brummie accent thickened with every word. ‘Youse jocks are harassing us.’

  Logan smiled at him. Smiled at the gel-spiked hair drooping in the rain. Smiled at the nuclear-furnace plooks ready to blow along his jaw. Then slipped the elastic band off the body-worn video unit and set it recording. ‘Martyn Baker, I have reason to believe that you’re in possession of a controlled substance—’

  ‘Don’t.’ He bared his teeth. ‘Don’t you bloody don’t.’

  ‘—under Section Twenty-Three of the Misuse of Drugs—’

  ‘You’ve already got my phone, that not enough for you!’

  ‘—detained for the purposes of search—’

  All the air vanished from Logan’s lungs, as a fist smashed into his stomach hard enough to skid him back a couple of inches on the pavement. Yeah, a stabproof vest might be a pain to lug about all day, but if it didn’t let a kitchen knife through, a fist wasn’t going to have much luck.

  He snapped his hand up and out, palm forward, fingers splayed, channelling his weight through his hip. The heel of his hand slammed into the underside of Baker’s chin. ‘Back!’

  Baker’s head jerked up, and his feet went out from underneath him. Windmilling arms and a gurgling moan, all the way down to the pavement. He hit like a sack of tatties, and lay there, blinking up at the rain.

  Tufty lunged, whipping out the cuffs and snapping them on one wrist, before hauling him over onto his front and flicking the other one into place. He looked up at Logan. ‘You OK, Sarge?’

  ‘Never better, Officer Quirrel.
Never better.’

  They stood him in the middle of the custody suite and searched him.

  The Fraserburgh Cellblock Choir did a round-robin of ‘Soft Kitty’ as Tufty worked his way along Martyn Baker’s limbs, then through his turn-ups and pockets.

  The PCSO puffed out his cheeks and stirred his tea. ‘You’re lucky you weren’t here this morning: we got the Spice Girls’ greatest hits. Can you imagine spending your honeymoon in the cells, waiting for the courts to open Monday morning? Singing about wanting a zigazig-ah?’

  Logan leaned back against the custody desk and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I want Baker processed ASAFP, but keep it low key, OK?’

  The Police Custody and Security Officer folded his thick, thistle-tattooed arms. ‘You hiding him from anyone in particular?’

  ‘Not hiding him, I’m ensuring his safety. In case someone decides to throw a fit.’

  ‘So …?’

  ‘I want to be done before anyone from Operation Troposphere, or some MIT numptie comes sniffing about. Baker calls his lawyer, then we get him in an interview room. And make sure you give me a shout, soon as he’s ready. We burst him, we throw a party, then everyone gets medals.’

  Tufty came to the end of his search, then held out his gloved hand to Logan. A ziplock plastic bag of dried green herbs sat in the middle of the palm. Not a huge bag, not even big enough for a charge of possession with intent.

  Logan walked over and picked it out of Tufty’s hand. ‘This it?’

  A shrug. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

  He walked around to face Martyn Baker. ‘Well, Mr Baker? Anything else on, or in, your person I should know about?’

  Martyn Baker’s jaw clenched and ground, the muscles writhing beneath the skin. Making the spots ripple. His feet made restless patterns on the grey floor, following the steps of some obscure, guilty dance. His eyes flicked from side to side, never meeting Logan’s. ‘I want my lawyer.’

  ‘I’ll bet you do.’

  Logan rinsed the empty mug under the hot tap, then added it to the pile on the draining board. A couple of support staff sat around the TV in the canteen, having a deep and meaningful conversation about the new series of Danger Mouse.

  A buzzing sensation worked its way into Logan’s thigh, followed by the tell-tale sound of a new text message arriving. He dug his phone out of his pocket.