Logan McRae 09 - The Missing and the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  The screen jumped to an image of a winding road, trees and bushes reduced to a green blur by the speeding car as its siren wailed out of the computer’s nasty little speakers. A readout in the corner of the picture put Nicholson’s speed at eighty-five. The ‘WELCOME TO PORTSOY’ sign flashed past. Houses. Cars. Then onto the main street.

  Bottles and cartons and tins covered the road in a slick outside the Co-op with its ruptured window. The car screeched to a halt. Some clunking. Then Logan appeared on the screen, pulling on his peaked cap.

  ‘You! Which way did they go? What are they driving?’

  The young woman with the pushchair pointed, mouth moving, but she was too far away for the microphone to pick up any words.

  Logan jumped back in. There was a thump. Then, ‘Go!’

  And they were off again, tearing along the street, past houses and cars and stunned pedestrians.

  ‘Shire Uniform Seven to Control, perpetrators have fled the scene. Witness says they took the Cullen road. We’re in pursuit.’

  Whatever Control said in reply, it got reduced to a tinny burr.

  His own voice again: ‘Negative.’

  A caravan blocked the left side of the road, ignoring the flashing lights and screaming siren. Cars coming the other way … There.

  Logan hit pause. Three cars. A bus. A removal van. And a milk tanker. All pulling into the side of the road to let them past. The van was big and black, with ‘MAGNUS HOGG & SON ~ MOVING FAMILIES HOME EST 1965’ down the side in curly red lettering.

  Same one that was sitting outside the Kenyan Bar in Fraserburgh the day before Broch Braw Buys got ram-raided. Only this time the number plate was clearly visible. He copied it down into his notebook and called up the PNC interface.

  ‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

  Logan grabbed his Airwave and checked the screen. No idea whose shoulder number that was, but it was a low one, so maybe a boss. He pressed the button. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Ah, Sergeant McRae, it’s DCI McInnes.’

  Oh joy. Here it came – McInnes’s revenge.

  Logan typed the registration in one-handed. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘You can join me at thirty-six Fairholme Place, that’s what you can do. Right now, would be good.’

  Brilliant. ‘Sir.’

  The screen filled with ownership details for the removal van – a firm down in Bristol. The next page had the insurance details, and who was insured to drive the thing. None of the names seemed familiar.

  Mind you, there was no guarantee there was actually anything dodgy about the thing. So it had turned up near two ram-raids, so what? Coincidences happened all the time.

  Still …

  But it’d have to wait. No point winding McInnes up any more than he already was.

  Logan grabbed his hat and his keys.

  Logan pulled the Big Car into the kerb, behind the Scene Examination Branch’s manky white Transit van. Someone had finger-painted ‘IF YOUR MUM WAS THIS DIRTY I WOULDN’T NEED PORN!’ in the grime covering the back doors.

  OK. Might as well get this over with.

  He climbed out into the drizzle. The tips of his ears burned in the cold. So much for May, felt more like December.

  His phone launched into its generic tune. He pulled it out as he walked along the pavement towards Klingon’s mum’s house. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Sergeant McRae? It’s Stacey from Portsoy. I’ve looked through the CCTV like you asked.’

  He ducked under the cordon of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape. ‘And?’

  ‘Why did you want me to look for a removal van?’

  ‘We …’ Good question. ‘We think they might have witnessed a crime, we’re trying to track them down so we can get a statement.’ OK, so it was a lie, but she didn’t know that.

  There wasn’t an officer on the front door, so Logan let himself in.

  ‘OK. Well, I found one. Had to go back to Wednesday to do it, but there’s a removal van parked opposite the shop for a couple of hours in the morning.’

  The smell of burst bin-bags and rotting filth was like a wall across the porch.

  ‘Let me guess: blue, with Duncan Smith Movers down the side?’

  ‘Oh … No. It’s black. Magnus Hogg & Son.’

  Bingo.

  There was a thump from somewhere inside, followed by a shrill woman’s voice, ‘NO I WILL NOT CALM DOWN! LOOK AT IT!’

  Logan paused. ‘Forgot to ask earlier: when do they refill your cash machine?’

  ‘Friday evening. Usually. Sometimes Saturday if there’s a problem at the bank, or they’re busy.’

  ‘LOOK AT IT!’

  ‘OK, thanks. I’ll let you know if anything comes up.’ He hung up. Took a deep breath. Regretted it. The air tasted of mank. He coughed a couple of times. Then stepped into the hall.

  The shouting was coming through the open kitchen door.

  He walked over and knocked on the frame.

  McInnes leaned back against the work surface, arms folded, while a PC tried to placate a battleship of a woman in stonewashed jeans and a Burberry coat.

  HMS Angry jabbed a finger at the kitchen window. ‘AND WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING TO MY GARDEN?’

  McInnes turned his head in Logan’s direction and pulled on a cold smile. ‘Ah, Sergeant, good. So glad you could join us. Have you two met?’ He pointed at the quivering mound of irate woman. ‘This is Lesley Spinney. Colin Spinney’s mother.’

  Ah … So maybe she wasn’t dead and buried after all.

  43

  Detective Chief Inspector McInnes held out his arms. ‘Doesn’t she look good for a corpse?’

  Klingon’s mum turned her considerable scowl on him. ‘Are you being funny?’

  ‘Not at all, Lesley. Would you mind telling Sergeant McRae where you’ve been for the last four months?’

  ‘And what happened to my house? It was just decorated before I left!’

  ‘Please.’ He patted her on the shoulder. ‘Tell the Sergeant where you were.’

  ‘I was in Perth, looking after my brother Sydney. Pancreatic cancer. We buried him, Wednesday.’

  McInnes’s smile grew. ‘Not Perth, Australia, mind you, but Perth, Scotland. One hundred and thirty miles away, not nine thousand.’

  No wonder Derek Stratman couldn’t find her visa application.

  Logan shifted his feet. ‘I see.’

  Not in Australia. And not dead.

  How could she not be dead? The council records Maggie’s partner dug up yesterday showed Klingon’s mum hadn’t paid the rent for nearly a year. How could any sane human being put Colin Klingon Spinney in charge of keeping a roof over their heads?

  ‘But …’ He cleared his throat. ‘Why did you cancel your direct debit ten months ago? For the rent? Why did you let Colin take over?’

  ‘None of your damned business, that’s why.’ She thumped over and glowered at him. ‘Now what happened to my bloody house?’

  Logan pulled his shoulders back. ‘I’m afraid it’s a crime scene.’

  ‘No it isn’t.’

  ‘Your son and Kevin McEwan were dealing drugs and—’

  ‘How dare you! No they were not!’

  ‘—attempted murder of Jack Simpson—’

  ‘My Colin’s a good boy! How dare you talk about him like that.’

  Logan stared at her. ‘We recovered over a hundred thousand pounds’ worth of heroin from the attic, and Jack Simpson’s battered body.’

  She shook her head. ‘No you didn’t. This is all lies.’

  ‘I was there. I saw it. I found it!’

  ‘No, you planted it. You’re a liar and I’m making a formal complaint.’ Klingon’s mum pulled herself up to her full height. ‘You won’t get away with this!’

  And today had been going so well …

  ‘Well … I thought she was, OK?’ Logan leaned back against the garden fence.

  �
�Doesn’t look dead to me. Does she look dead to you?’ McInnes produced a packet of cigarettes, dug one out of the plain packaging and lit it. ‘Thought they might have covered the difference between a living person and a dead one when you were at police college. Did you skip that day?’

  Drizzle crawled down from the gunmetal sky, cold and damp.

  ‘Everyone said she’d gone to Australia …’

  There was a crash, and the Scenes Examination Branch tent lurched to one side. A white-suited figure emerged from the blue plastic edifice, carrying a metal pole. She dumped it on the ground with a clang. Her colleague cracked his knuckles, then went in to get his own pole. SOC-tent Jenga had begun.

  McInnes took a long draw on his cigarette, then blew the resulting smoke in Logan’s face. ‘See, everyone’s going to be patting you on the back. “Well done, Sergeant McRae, you caught the drug-dealing scumbag who shot Constable Mary Ann Nasrallah.” Oh, the press are going to be shining your backside with their tongues for a bit, but you and I know different.’ Another puff. At least this one went off to the side. ‘You only lucked into that because you tried to screw me over.’

  Logan shrugged a shoulder. ‘It was a legitimate—’

  ‘Don’t even try.’ McInnes stepped in close enough that the glowing end of his cigarette cast a warm glow against Logan’s cheek. ‘You think you’re the dog’s balls, don’t you, McRae? But you’re nothing but a jumped-up little squirt in an itchy uniform and a bad haircut. And you’re right at the top of my list.’

  Silence.

  Another clang, then the first SOC tech went in for the next pole.

  McInnes took a step back. ‘Oh, I can’t touch you right now. But see when the dust settles, and everyone’s over Constable Nasrallah getting shot? I’m coming for you.’

  Logan parked the Big Car outside the Sergeant’s Hoose. Slumped in his seat. Thumped his forehead off the steering wheel a couple of times.

  Typical. It’d been going really well today, but they couldn’t let him have that, could they? No. Of course they couldn’t. One step forward, three steps sodding backward.

  How could she not be dead? Syd’s dog found her body, for God’s sake.

  He hissed out a long, slow breath. It was a dead family pet, or an old chicken carcass, wasn’t it? Or maybe Syd’s golden retriever was every bit as thick as every other retriever in the world.

  ‘Gah …’

  Come on. Finger out.

  Logan flipped through his notebook, then pressed the talk button on his Airwave. ‘Shire Uniform Seven, I need a lookout request on a black removals van …’ He rattled off the description and the number plate. ‘Suspected involvement in the Cashline Ram-Raiders. Stop and search.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  And with any luck, he wouldn’t end up looking like an idiot on that one as well.

  He climbed out into the damp evening. Slammed the car door. Then hurried across the road and let himself into the house. The dark earthy smell of frying mushrooms met him at the door. ‘Hello?’

  ‘In here.’

  He followed the scent into the kitchen. ‘Sorry – got caught up at work.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Timed it perfectly.’ Helen stood at the stove, wooden spatula in hand, poking away at the contents of the frying pan. Then nodded at the twin steaks sitting on their plate, raw and purple. ‘Rare, or medium rare? I don’t do well done.’

  He settled at the kitchen table. ‘Rare. Thanks.’

  She brushed a handful of tarnished-golden curls from her face. The bags under her eyes were smaller than yesterday, and the day before. ‘Chips will be ready in a minute.’ She hunched her shoulders, poured the mushrooms into a bowl. Turned up the heat under the frying pan. ‘Look, about last night—’

  ‘It’s OK. Really. Not a problem.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Sorry about the … you know. It …’ A small cough. Warmth tingled the tips of his ears. ‘Been a while since …’ Yeah, probably best not to bring up an awkward erection at the dinner table. Sniff. ‘Anyway. Steak and chips, eh? Been looking forward to this since yesterday.’

  ‘Only I didn’t want you to think that I’m some sort of tease and … I’m really …’

  ‘No, don’t worry about it.’

  ‘And it’s just so lonely, you know? The never knowing drives me insane.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The steaks hissed and crackled in the hot pan.

  She cricked her neck to one side. ‘I know it’s difficult. With Samantha.’

  Difficult.

  ‘It’s been four years since she went into a coma. Four years and seven days. That’s longer than we were together in the first place. I’ve known her longer like this than I did … It’s …’ A long slow breath took all the air from him. Made his back bend and his shoulders sag. ‘Yeah. Difficult’s a good word for it.’

  Helen didn’t turn around. ‘And in all that time, did you never …?’

  He stared at the back of her head. ‘Yes. A couple of times. An old girlfriend. She’s separated now.’

  ‘I see.’

  Logan put a bit of steel in his voice. ‘I’m not proud of it.’

  She lifted the steaks out of the pan. ‘I haven’t. And I’m not proud of that either.’

  A timer bleeped, and she bent down and opened the oven door, letting out the enticing aroma of fake chips.

  He rearranged the cutlery.

  She put the oven tray on the stovetop.

  He lined up the salt, pepper, mustard, and vinegar. Looked down at his hands. ‘I’m going to be late again tonight: probably half-two. Something like that.’

  ‘Oh. OK. I’ll probably read a book.’

  ‘Good. Right.’

  The chips rattled onto both plates like finger bones.

  ‘Any unit in the vicinity of Bunthlaw, we’ve got a report of indecent assault at the caravan park …’

  He turned down the volume on his handset. ‘Sorry.’

  The steaks were thick and bloody. Glistening and rich. And they ate them in total silence.

  Half-past eight and the rain had faded away to nothing, leaving the streets slick and dark. The sun had found the chink between the sea and the lowering clouds, spreading its golden rays across the fields and houses as it sank towards America.

  Logan took the Big Car around onto Rundle Avenue again.

  Never knew your luck.

  ‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

  ‘Batter on.’

  ‘You’re on the update list for David and Catherine Bisset? We’ve got a sighting of them getting on the Megabus from Dundee to London.’

  ‘Someone stopping it?’

  ‘On their way.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  No sign of anyone on Rundle Avenue. Frankie Ferris’s customers would all be indoors, eating their microwave dinners in front of the telly. Moaning about how there was never anything decent on.

  Wasting his time here.

  Well, except for the whole deterring trade thing. With any luck Frankie’s customers would shy off for a bit. Meaning all those lovely drugs would still be there when Logan battered his door down and raided the place.

  Speaking of which: he keyed Sergeant Mitchell’s shoulder number into the Airwave handset. ‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

  A crackle. A pause. Then Mitchell’s booming rumble sounded. ‘Sergeant McRae. Hear you’re to thank for catching the scummer who shot that undercover cop. Well done. The Operational Support Unit salutes you.’

  ‘Bit short notice, but are you and your Singalong Troupe free tomorrow for another dunt? Well, assuming I can get the Sheriff to stop being a pain in the hoop long enough to cough up my warrant.’

  ‘Love to, but we’re booked tomorrow. Could do the day after though, we’ll be up your neck of the woods anyway. First thing Tuesday morning?’

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance we’ll get to use the chainsaw …?’


  ‘I think we can swing that.’

  ‘Then it’s a date!’

  And maybe this time they’d actually get Frankie Ferris for something more impressive than possession of a Class A.

  Logan turned the car around and headed back towards the town centre.

  ‘All units be on the lookout for a grey Volvo estate, driving erratically on the A98 east of Blakeshouse …’

  He drifted through the rain-slicked streets – all nice and quiet – then over the bridge to Macduff.

  The harbour was dead, and so was High Shore. No one hanging about outside the pubs, hotels, or chip shop.

  Maybe it was the rain that had chased everyone inside? Sent them off to batten down the hatches and weather the storm. A little slice of December in May.

  He stopped at the top of the hill, looking down the curling sweep of the road to where Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool nestled at the base of the cliffs. The cordons of police tape were gone, the place abandoned to the ghosts of bathers past, and a murdered little girl.

  Yeah … this was getting a bit morbid.

  So what if McInnes wanted to come after him, what was the baldy wee sod going to do? All mouth and shiny trousers, that’s what he was. He wasn’t the one who’d solved a murder from the other end of the country, was he? No. That was Logan, thank you very much.

  Even if it had been a complete accident.

  Long blue shadows reached across the weed-slicked water of the two swimming pools, then swallowed them entirely.

  One dead little girl, head caved in with a metal pipe. Two missing men.

  ‘All units: reports of a domestic disturbance on Fair Isle Crescent, Peterhead. Urgent response required.’

  ‘Sierra Two Four, roger that. We are en route.’

  No sign of Neil Wood – probably not even in the area any more. He’d have jumped the first bus out of there, set up shop in Edinburgh or Dundee. Somewhere big enough to blend in. Get himself a bit of anonymity. Difficult not to stick out in wee communities like the ones around here.

  And then there was Charles ‘Craggie’ Anderson, burned to death on the bridge of his own boat …

  Logan narrowed his eyes, blurring the swimming pool. Drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

  What if they were in it together? What if Neil Wood didn’t hop a bus? What if he hopped on Anderson’s boat instead? The pair of them make a run for it. There’s a fight when they get to Orkney, and Neil Wood wins. Kills Anderson. Burns the boat to hide any evidence. Then disappears.