Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

He pushed the door open and stopped.

Helen sat at the little table, with a mug of what probably used to be tea and a bottle of supermarket brandy. When she looked up her eyes were red, her nose too. She sniffed, wiped the back of a hand across her eyes. ‘Sorry.’

‘What happened?’

‘She’s not dead.’

Logan turned Cthulhu the right way up and lowered her onto the table. ‘I thought that was a good thing this morning?’

The cat stood where she was for a moment, then butted her head against Helen’s shoulder and thumped down to the floor. Wandered off with her tail in the air and her bumhole on display.

‘It is. It isn’t.’ She poured a slug of brandy into her mug, then took a sip. ‘Like being beaten up, every time.’

He sank into the chair opposite. ‘I’m sorry it’s not her. And I’m glad she’s not dead.’

‘I didn’t even make anything for lunch.’

‘Don’t worry about it. There’s still some leftover mince and tatties, I could microwave that? Or we could tart it up with baked beans and make Mexican mince? Be like the Seventies all over again.’

She stared at the bitten fingernails resting against the brandy bottle. ‘Logan …’

‘I know.’ He stood. Fought his way out of his protective gear. ‘You have to go.’ He took the bowl of mince out of the fridge and topped it up with a tin of own-brand beans. Chucked in some chilli powder and stirred the lot into a gloopy mush. Kept his eyes on the lumpy surface, not looking at her. ‘But you don’t have to go right now, do you? You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.’ It went in the microwave, at full power. ‘Why not stay till your next lead comes up? It’s … nice having you here.’

Lunch buzzed around in its slow pirouette.

Behind him: the sound of a chair scraping backwards. Then her arms wrapped around his chest, squeezing. He put a hand on hers.

She kissed the back of his neck. ‘Your poor head’s all bruised.’

‘Helen, I-’

‘Shh … No talking.’

By the time the microwave went ping , they were already upstairs.

Nicholson frowned at him. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing happened.’ Logan chucked his teabag in the bin. ‘I smile like this all the time.’

‘No you don’t. Your cheeks are all rosy too.’

‘Had a good lunch.’ Milk. Stir. Let the spoon clang and clatter in the stainless-steel sink. ‘You seen Tufty? I popped past the Spotty Bag Shop and made him a badge.’

‘Out patrolling with Deano.’

Logan dug into his pocket and produced the paper bag the badge came in. Held it out.

Nicholson peered inside. ‘Oh. Erm …’ Wrinkles appeared between her eyebrows. She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. ‘Not to be funny, Sarge, but that’s not how you spell “genius”.’

‘I know. How long do you think it’ll take him to notice?’

‘Fiver says Wednesday.’

‘I bet he’s still wearing it when we start back on nights, Friday.’ Logan took a sip of tea. Glanced up at the ceiling. Two floors up, Napier was waiting. Ah well. ‘Right, I’ve got a meeting. Take the Big Car and drift about on Rundle for a bit, then head over to Macduff and see if you can find something out about that peeping tom. Look for patterns — are there specific days he likes to peep? What about times?’

‘Sarge.’

Logan took his tea through to the Sergeants’ Office. Someone had dumped a big box of stolen garden gnomes on his desk, so he shifted them to the other side. Then stood, staring out of the window.

Steel was out there, marching up and down in the courtyard behind the building, phone pressed to her ear.

‘Sergeant McRae?’

He turned.

Maggie stood in the doorway holding a short stack of Post-it notes. ‘Got some messages.’

‘Let me guess: I’ve won the lottery?’

‘Sorry.’ She peered at Post-it number one. ‘A Lesley Spinney’s been in three times, demanding to know when she can get back in her house. Klingon’s mother?’

‘No idea. She’ll have to ask DCI McInnes — I’m not allowed to interfere.’ A point that Napier was no doubt about to ram home with a tiny size-six boot.

Post-it number two. ‘We’ve had a complaint about an … ahem, “aroused” male dancing naked down Harbour Road in Gardenstown?’

‘Tell Deano and Tufty to take a swing by, see if anyone recognizes this fine upstanding member of the community.’

Post-it number three. ‘Sean MacLauchlan called — he’s running the investigation into the fire last night. Says it was definitely deliberate. Apparently something about the burn patterns means the place was doused with petrol first, then torched.’

Not exactly a huge surprise, but at least they were doing something.

‘Thanks, Maggie.’

He took his tea through to the main office. Deano appeared in the doorway, head down, shoulders back, face like a Rottweiler eating nettles, storming by on his way to the Constables’ Office. Thirty seconds later, Tufty lumbered by, straining under the weight of a large plastic crate.

Logan pointed. ‘What did you do to Deano?’

‘Wasn’t me, Sarge.’ Tufty shuffled into the room and lowered his crate down onto an empty desk. ‘God, these weigh a ton.’

‘Come on: he looked like he was about to murder someone.’

Tufty reached into the crate and produced a garden gnome. ‘Found them planked in the graveyard, posed like they were having a wee orgy.’ He pulled another one out and made them kiss. ‘Oh yeah, you’re so sexy Mr Fishy Gnome. I love you too Mr Diggy Gnome.’ He puckered his lips and made kissy-kissy noises. Looked up. ‘What?’

‘Never mind, I know what you did.’

The gnomes went back in the crate. ‘I went digging, like you asked, Sarge.’ Tufty produced his notepad. ‘Helen Edwards’s ex-husband, Brian Menendez Edwards: thirty-eight, IC-Two male, born in Kilmarnock. Went to Stirling University studying-’

‘Skip to the relevant bit, while we’re all still young enough to enjoy it.’

‘Oh. Right.’ He flipped forward a couple of pages. ‘Here we go: Brian Edwards did a runner from the accountants he worked at not long before a massive fraud turned up. Firm says he got away with quarter of a million. Went out to lunch, picked up his daughter from school — middle of a PE lesson — and got the next flight to Spain from Edinburgh airport.’

‘He pack bags and things?’

‘Yup. Bought his tickets in advance as well. Looks like he’d been planning it for weeks. Far as local plod could tell, he got met at the airport by a cousin from Vilar.’ Tufty waved his other hand from side to side. ‘Sort of in the west of the country, not that touristy. His mum’s family have a farm in the hills around there.’

‘Extradition?’

‘No joy. Sounds like a pretty half-arsed investigation to be honest. I checked births, marriages, and death records online, but nothing for Brian Edwards. So I tried the family name, Guerra, in case he changed his, you know, to blend in? A Brian Menendez Guerra got married in the Iglesia Catedral de San Martín, Ourense.’ Tufty put on a Spanish accent for the place names. ‘That was three months after Brian Menendez Edwards got off the plane with his kidnapped wee girl. So technically he’d still be married to Helen Edwards at the time.’

Three months after he snatched his daughter — exactly the time he sent that postcard from Ourense, telling Helen she was a useless ugly cow and no one would ever love her. Did he post it before, or after the wedding ceremony?

Yeah, Brian Edwards just got lovelier and lovelier.

A nod. ‘Thanks Tufty.’

That got a beaming smile. ‘I did good?’

‘You did good. Now have a dig around for Brian Menendez Guerra — did he ever come to the UK? Where is he now, are there photos of him on Facebook, that kind of thing.’