Logan McRae 09 - The Missing and the Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  No. No. No. No.

  The young woman, standing in Helen’s spot by the sea wall earlier. Thin. Shoulder-length black hair. Samantha didn’t have cousins.

  He looked up and the girl was still there, leaning back against the concrete. A denim jacket, black jeans, big white trainers. Face dead and motionless.

  Catherine Bisset. Stephen Bisset’s daughter. The young woman who’d helped kill her own father. Who’d probably cheered her brother on while he battered Graham Stirling to death. Or did she join in?

  Logan’s throat tightened.

  She’d been in his house, asking questions about Samantha.

  He stepped out into the road.

  59

  Sunlight caught the houses on the other side of the bay, making them shine against the hill. Then the clouds closed up, and they sank into darkness again.

  Logan stepped into the spotlight surrounding Catherine.

  ‘That’s far enough.’ She held up a mobile phone. ‘David’s on the other end.’ Pink speckled her cheekbones and nose. She was thinner than she’d been the last time, back when the trial had collapsed. Two dead bodies ago.

  He reached for the handcuffs on his equipment belt. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘How does it work? You’ve got a girlfriend in a coma, and another one living with you. Have you never even heard of loyalty?’

  ‘Catherine, what – did – you – do?’

  ‘We had a long talk with Helen yesterday. Found out all sorts of interesting things.’

  ‘Catherine Bisset, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Procedure – Scotland—’

  ‘No you’re not.’ She gave the phone a wiggle. ‘David, remember? Don’t you want to know where he is?’

  Sand filled Logan’s mouth. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘You lied about our father, didn’t you? You lied about dad, and you did it in court.’

  ‘I tried to save him. He—’

  ‘YOU TOLD EVERYONE HE WAS A PERVERT!’ Spit flew from her narrow lips. Then a couple of deep breaths pulled her back. ‘David’s right: you lied.’

  Herring gulls wheeled overhead, screaming in the last slice of sunshine as it was swallowed by clouds.

  Down on the sands of the bay, the couple with the excitable dog turned back and headed for home.

  ‘He’s at the care home, isn’t he?’ Logan pulled out his phone and flicked through the contacts. Tapped the one marked ‘SUNNY GLEN’ then listened to it ring. ‘This isn’t TV, you can’t—’

  ‘Sunny Glen Care Home, how can I help you?’

  Catherine pinched her eyebrows together, poked out her bottom lip as if she was about to cry.

  ‘Louise, it’s Logan McRae. Has Samantha had any visitors today?’

  That bottom lip trembled. Good.

  ‘She has indeed. Her cousin David came up from Edinburgh. Managed to get some time off from his uni course.’

  ‘Is he still there?’

  Catherine’s hand came up to cover her mouth.

  ‘Think so. You want to speak to him?’

  ‘Please. And Louise? Make sure you’ve got someone from security with you.’

  ‘Erm … OK …’ Clunks and thumps came from her end – doors and footsteps. ‘I’ve got some good news, by the way: there’s been a drop-out at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. Samantha can get a place on the surgical rota in three weeks, if you don’t mind it being a training opportunity with students watching? It’s all done by camera though, they don’t even get in the room.’

  A sniff. Catherine’s eyes glistened. Shoulders trembling.

  Yeah, go ahead and cry, see what good it does you.

  Three knocks. ‘Samantha? It’s Louise.’ The sound of a door opening.

  ‘Is he there?’

  ‘Oh … No. Hold on.’ A clunk. Then the beep-boop sound of a touchtone-phone dialling in the background. Louise’s voice grew an echo from the care home’s tannoy system. ‘Good morning, everyone, can Samantha Mackie’s cousin David please pick up the nearest courtesy phone? Thank you.’ Then a muffled, ‘Hugh, go check the terrace. See if Miss Mackie’s out there.’

  ‘Louise?’

  ‘They’ve probably gone for a cup of coffee.’

  And Catherine Bisset couldn’t hold it in any more. She spluttered out a laugh. ‘We’re not stupid.’

  ‘Louise, where the hell is Samantha?’

  ‘There’s no reason to worry, I’m sure everything’s all right.’

  The laughter faded and Catherine’s face died again. ‘I liked Helen. She told us all about her daughter, and how you thought she was the dead girl in the swimming pool.’

  He took a step closer. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Little limp body, floating face down in seawater, head all bashed in like that. Must’ve been horrible.’ She frowned up at him. ‘But it’s more horrible for Samantha, isn’t it? David and me know what it’s like to have someone you love stuck in a hospital bed. Unable to move, or talk, or do anything. Needing someone to feed them and wipe their backside. Not really alive, are they?’

  He lowered his voice. ‘Catherine, I swear to God …’

  ‘Logan? I’m sorry, there seems to be some sort of mix-up. We’re having a bit of difficulty locating Samantha right now, but she’s probably in one of the TV rooms. I’ll give you a call back, OK? It—’

  He hung up. Put his phone away. Unclipped his CS gas. ‘What have you done to Samantha?’

  ‘You did that to my father. You. You could’ve found him in time, but you didn’t.’

  ‘Where – is – she?’

  ‘You let someone cut him and beat him and take him away from us. Nothing left but skin and bone and blood and shame.’

  He flicked the safety off the canister.

  ‘No. Because if you do …’ She held out the phone. ‘What do you think happens to her?’

  The gulls screeched.

  A patter of rain darkened the concrete wall.

  Catherine shook her head. ‘Really, really think about it.’

  He slid the CS gas back in its clip. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want my father back.’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t have killed him.’

  She pulled one shoulder up. ‘He was dead long before that. We saved him. We had to, because you didn’t.’ Catherine pointed at a little Nissan Micra, the green paint scraped through to the metal down the passenger side. ‘Do you want to come see Samantha? I’ll give you a lift.’

  ‘You’re fourteen. And I can drive myself.’

  She wiggled the phone at him again. ‘No, you can’t.’

  Beneath the tartan blanket, everything smelled of dust and dog. It itched his cheeks and cut the light down to a multi-coloured gloom. Seatbelt clips dug into the small of his back as the car swung around to the right. ‘Where are we going?’

  Catherine’s voice was muffled by the blanket. ‘I’m not allowed to tell you. David says it’d spoil the surprise.’

  Lying on his side, on the backseat, Logan screwed his hands into fists. Should’ve hit the transmit button before handing over his Airwave. Stupid. Shouldn’t have given her his phone. Stupider.

  But what was he supposed to do? Climb up on his pedestal and let them kill Samantha?

  Stay in the backseat. Stay under the blanket.

  Hope to God they don’t have a gun.

  Or a knife.

  Why did he take his stabproof vest off? Idiot.

  A hard left this time, and the clips dug in again. ‘David’s not thinking clearly right now. He’s grieving. You both are.’

  ‘You didn’t see him lying there in that hospital bed. All eaten away … We did the right thing.’

  ‘I know. You did it because your dad was suffering. But this is wrong.’

  ‘We cried, and cried, and he didn’t even struggle, and …’ A sniff. Then a long shuddering breath. ‘No more talking.’

  Click and the radio ca
me on. ‘… and that’s your news and weather. We’ll have more at half nine, but first: here’s Water’s Edge, with “Love Fill Me Up” …’ A kitsch dollop of boy-band pop globbed out of the car radio.

  A count of four, and Catherine joined in. ‘I was empty as a picture of a bucket on the wall …’

  Still wasn’t too late.

  ‘Empty since she left me, I’m the loneliest of all …’

  Sit up, wrap an arm around her throat and squeeze hard. Her phone was on the passenger seat, no way she could get to it – she’d be too busy pawing at his sleeve. Enough pressure and she wouldn’t even get a squeak out.

  ‘Hollowed out and broken, and battered, and so cold …’

  And even if she did, so what? David Bisset would have Samantha as a hostage, and Logan would have Catherine. Mexican standoff.

  ‘Then in my mind, I think I find, the price for all the lies she told …’

  Only they all knew that Logan wouldn’t kill anyone.

  And David had already proven he would. Twice.

  ‘Doooo doo, dooo-deee-doo la-dooo, as something taking hold …’

  Acceleration pushed Logan back against the seatbelt clips again. Either she was speeding, or they’d passed the town limits.

  ‘Love fill me up, to the top of my heart …’

  Climbing a slight incline. Not steep enough to be the road out to Fraserburgh. Not enough right turns to be the one heading south either.

  ‘Overflow, let it go, right off the chart …’

  Definitely came over the bridge into Macduff. So that only left one option.

  ‘Cause loving you’s easy, and loving you’s smart …’

  They were going to the outdoor swimming pool.

  ‘Love fill me up, to the top of my heart …’

  The car took a hard right, then descended a steep hill as Catherine ran out of words and went back to doo-dee-doo again.

  It levelled out, then the Micra rocked and scraped its way through the potholes. Eased to a halt.

  ‘There we go.’

  She killed the engine and the music died with it.

  ‘It’s OK, you can come out now. There’s no one can see you.’

  Logan pulled the blanket off his head and sat up.

  She tried for a smile, but it didn’t really work. ‘Told you it wouldn’t take long.’ Catherine climbed out of the car.

  Rain clicked across the windscreen like the feet of tiny crabs.

  OK. This was all doable. They were just a pair of kids.

  He stepped into the grey morning. Turned to look back up the hill.

  ‘There’s a big sign up there, saying “Road Closed”. No one’s coming.’ Catherine picked Logan’s equipment belt off the passenger seat and clipped it on. Far too big – she had to hold it up with one hand. ‘They’re waiting for us.’

  The North Sea surged, dark and heavy against the pebble beach.

  She marched off, through the gap in the rock at the far end of the car park.

  Just a pair of kids.

  60

  He followed her along the old tarmac road: past the rocks and another pebble beach lined with the bones of old seaweed; past the warning sign about Tarlair pool being closed and dangerous. Past the crumbling concrete wall. Then onto the apron of rain-slicked grey that led out to the two derelict pools.

  Tarlair’s boxy art deco buildings stood like gravestones around the edge.

  Catherine kept going. Down, onto the terraced steps leading to the water.

  Both pools were nearly full – the one closest to the defunct changing rooms, and the one nearest the sea. Probably topped up by yesterday’s storm. Three figures were on the walkway between the two – one standing, one kneeling, and one in a wheelchair.

  Catherine glanced back over her shoulder at him. ‘Do you like it here? I like it. It’s all decayed and broken … A dead place, where the dead come. Like all of us.’

  ‘This doesn’t have to go this way, Catherine. It can be made right again.’

  ‘Can it?’ Her trainers squelched through vast puddles of standing water, the surface pebbled with rain.

  ‘It can if you want it to be.’

  They’d almost reached the concrete walkway separating the inner pool from the outer one. The water in both was nearly black, reflecting back the clouds and surrounding hills.

  A boom, and a wall of spray leapt over the sea wall. It hissed down against the dark water.

  They’d wheeled Samantha out to the middle of the walkway and parked her facing out to sea. Both arms were curled against her chest, knees lopsided and together. Head hanging on one side, as if she was trying to get something into focus.

  Next to her was a man, on his knees, hands tied behind his back, a pillowcase over his head.

  Catherine rubbed her palm down the side of her jacket, as if she was trying to remove a stain. ‘David says everyone dies in the end. The unlucky ones keep on breathing afterwards.’ She paused on the edge of the pool. ‘Dad was unlucky. Watching him lie there, all cut up and broken, and dead, and still breathing …’ She shook her head. ‘It’s not fair to make people suffer like that. If he’d been a dog, we wouldn’t have let him suffer, we’d have put him down to spare the pain.’

  ‘Catherine!’ Logan grabbed her arm. ‘I thought you were meant to be the sensible one. The one who kept David from doing something stupid. It’s not too late.’

  ‘Did you never think that about your girlfriend? That it’d be kinder to put her to sleep?’

  He stared at her. ‘Please. This doesn’t have to—’

  ‘We don’t have any choice.’ She marched out onto the walkway.

  Logan stepped onto the strip of concrete. Had to be about five-foot wide, but they’d positioned Samantha’s wheelchair with the small front wheels resting on the very edge.

  David Bisset stood right behind her, leaning on the back of the chair.

  Catherine walked up to him. Stopped. ‘See? I brought him.’

  ‘You did great.’

  ‘And I got this too.’ She unfastened the equipment belt and held it out to her brother. Then produced a four-inch kitchen knife from her denim jacket. Held it clenched in her fist. ‘He thinks we’re being stupid.’

  Logan held his hands out, palms up. ‘You are, but you don’t have to. We can sort this out.’

  Stubble made patchy blue-grey shadows on David’s chin. His eyes had sunken into his head, underlined by the same bony cheeks as his sister. He stared back for a moment, then fastened the equipment belt around his waist. Pointed at the kneeling figure. ‘Does this look stupid to you?’

  David snatched a handful of pillowcase and pulled.

  Graham Stirling blinked in the light. His face was a paisley-pattern of yellow and purple bruises, one nostril crusted with black. A thick wad of fabric poked out of his mouth, held in place by the gag tied behind his head. ‘Mmmnnnnngh! Mnnngghhnnnghnnnphhhh!’

  ‘He says he never touched our dad. Says you made it all up to frame him. That right?’

  ‘No. He’s sick and he’s dangerous and he should be locked away for the rest of his life.’

  ‘But he’s not, is he? They let him go, and they let you call our father a pervert.’

  David untied the gag and Stirling spat out the lump of fabric. Coughed. Spluttered. Retched. Then his shoulders drooped.

  Stirling’s voice creaked like an unoiled hinge. ‘I didn’t … I didn’t touch … your father. I swear … I didn’t touch him.’

  ‘See? He says you’re a liar, Sergeant McRae.’

  ‘I’m not! I saw what he did – he led me there! He did it. But he needs to go to prison, not whatever this is.’

  ‘I didn’t … it’s … it’s all … lies.’

  David’s left hand drifted down to the extendable baton, thumb toying with the catch keeping it in its holder. Pop – it was off. Click – it was back on again. Pop. Click.

  ‘He set … He set me up.
’

  ‘This doesn’t help you, David.’ Logan inched closer, hands still out. ‘We know you killed your dad, but it was a mercy killing. He was suffering. It was an act of love. No jury’s going to hold that against you.’

  Pop. Click. Pop. Click.

  ‘Stop this now, before it goes too far.’

  Pop. Click. Pop. Click.

  ‘Please … don’t kill … don’t kill me. I didn’t …’

  ‘He says he didn’t do it, McRae.’

  Pop. Click. Pop. Click.

  ‘He’s lying, because he’s scared. Come on, let’s all—’

  ‘OK.’ Pop. David yanked the baton free of its holder, hard enough to send the extendable end clacking out to full lock. Raised it high above his head, arm drawn back, teeth bared.

  Stirling flinched, shoulders up, as if that was going to save him. ‘Please! I didn’t! I didn’t do it!’

  Oh Christ, David was going to kill him.

  ‘NO!’ Logan lunged, then stopped as Catherine rested the tip of her knife against the dip in Samantha’s head, where the bone was missing.

  Catherine stared at him. ‘You stay where you are.’

  ‘Please, don’t do this. He’s sick, OK? He’s broken. He deserves to be locked away for ever, but he doesn’t deserve to die.’

  David lowered the baton. ‘Doesn’t deserve to die? After what he did to my dad, he DOESN’T DESERVE TO DIE?’

  ‘David, please, I know you’re upset, but—’

  ‘HE DESERVES TO DIE!’ The pale skin darkened, whites showing around the iris of his eyes. ‘HE DESERVES TO BE TORN TO PIECES! I SHOULD SKIN HIM ALIVE!’

  ‘David, you don’t get to decide who lives and who—’

  ‘I SHOULD CASTRATE HIM! CARVE HOLES IN HIS CHEST! RIP HIS BOWELS OUT HIS BACKSIDE!’ David’s arms and legs trembled, the extendable baton slapping against his own thigh. The tendons in his neck twitched. Teeth glittering with spittle in the gloom.

  Catherine reached out her other hand and tugged on his sleeve. ‘It’s OK. Just do it like we practised.’

  A couple of deep breaths. Then he nodded. ‘But I can’t do those things, because I’m not a pervert like him. So I’m going to bash his brains out. He’s guilty. And he does deserve it.’ The baton swooped up again.