Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

‘Will do, Sarge.’ Tufty put his snogging gnomes in their box again and humped the lot off to the Constables’ Office.

Logan checked his watch. Napier would be waiting. Sharpening his knives.

Need to do something first, though.

Steel was still wandering back and forth in the courtyard behind the station, so Logan went through the door by the reception hatch, into the hall, past the stairwell, left at the interview rooms, and finally out of the old cellblock door.

The building acted as a windbreak on three sides, with its plain stone walls and barred windows. Cracks broke the concrete courtyard into a chessboard patchwork, and the only thing winning was the moss. All of it bathed in a spotlight of sunshine.

Steel got to the far end, then turned and marched back towards him. ‘… I’ve no idea, Susan, I really don’t. … I know. I’ve tried, but he says he really can’t stand your mother. Says if she comes to the dinner, he won’t. … I know, he’s a complete …’ Her head came up. She blinked at Logan a couple of times. ‘I’ll call you back.’ The phone went in an inside pocket. ‘Well, well, if it’s no’ Mr Grumpy.’

‘Did you get my message?’

She crossed the last couple of feet between them and plucked the mug of tea from his fingers. ‘Ta.’ Took a slurp. ‘What happened to the sugar?’

‘It’s not your sodding tea.’

‘Is now.’ The fake cigarette came out, and got plugged into the side of her mouth. ‘Got any biscuits?’

‘Napier’s upstairs waiting for me.’

‘Again? He must fancy you something rotten.’

‘Wants to shout at me for interfering with Operation Troposphere.’

‘Serves you right.’ She had a couple of puffs, then dribbled steam out of her nose. ‘You know where I spent most of the morning? Peterhead, rummaging through Neil Wood’s bed and breakfast. There’s three hours I’m never getting back. And his taste in soft furnishings is abysmal. Worse than your mum’s.’

‘Hard to believe.’ Logan stared at the cracked concrete around his feet. ‘Look, if you wanted to interrupt my interview and drag me away again, I’d be OK with that. I don’t know, we could traipse round all the sex offenders again, if you like?’

Another slurp of tea, then she turned and pointed at an old granite stone, mounted above the Constables’ Office window. All the stone bricks were the colour of slate, but this one was an ancient grey, sitting next to a coat of arms above the lintel. The words carved into it were still chisel sharp:

‘That no’ a strange thing to put on a police station?’

‘Wasn’t always a police station. Used to be a bank at one point. And they cannibalized something else to make that. Probably a merchant’s house. It basically says, “Don’t bear false witness”.’

‘No it doesn’t, it says, “Nobody likes a clype”.’

‘Speaking of which: Napier.’

‘Can’t. I’ve got a conference call with Finnie in two. You’ll have to take your medicine like a big boy …’ She narrowed her eyes. Tilted her head to one side. ‘You’ve been up to something, haven’t you? You’re all rosy and glowing.’

‘Not you as well.’ Logan folded his arms. ‘I haven’t been up to anything. Now, if you’ll-’

‘You have . What is it? What did you do?’

Don’t flinch. Don’t let her know about Helen. ‘I caught the Cashline Ram-Raiders. They had a whole MIT on that for a fortnight, and who solved it? Me.’

‘Aye, well done, Inspector Morse.’ She took the e-cigarette from her mouth. ‘Don’t suppose your little grey cells have come up with anything about our wee dead girl, have they?’

‘Grey cells are Poirot, not Morse.’ He dug into his pocket and produced the sheet of paper with its boxes and lines and paedophiles’ names. Unfolded it and handed it over. ‘That’s all I can remember from Charles Anderson’s garage. The ones with question marks, I’m not sure of.’

A sniff. ‘Better than nothing, I suppose.’

He turned and marched back inside. Stopped at the door. ‘You sure you can’t interrupt Napier?’

‘You want a bit of advice about dealing with the Ginger Ninja?’

‘If it’ll help.’

Steel grinned. ‘Grope his bum when he’s not looking. Gives him the willies.’

Rain clattered against the Major Incident Room’s window. At the head of the table, Napier steepled his fingers. Again. ‘And you’re certain of that?’

‘Yes.’

The camera’s dead eye stared at Logan, little red light glowing like an ember. Sitting next to it, Inspector Gibb made a note in her pad.

‘So, to be clear, you’re categorically certain, on the record , that you haven’t seen Graham Stirling since the trial collapsed.’

‘No. I haven’t seen him since Tuesday morning. Before the trial was called off.’

Napier’s smile widened. ‘We’re still looking for him, by the way. It may take a while, but we’ll find him.’

The camcorder whirred in the silence.

Logan narrowed his eyes. ‘I thought this was supposed to be about Operation Troposphere: Klingon, Gerbil, Klingon’s mum.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, we’ll get to that. In the meantime: when we do find Graham Stirling, what would you like to bet he’ll be face-down in a ditch? Or do you favour a shallow grave, Sergeant McRae?’

‘I think the more important question would be, “Where are David and Catherine Bisset?”’

‘Enquiries are proceeding.’ He sat forward, resting his elbows on the desk and his chin on his fingertips. ‘Do you know where they are, Sergeant?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure? Because a more cynical man than I might come to the conclusion that if you’re unable to exert justice-slash-vengeance on your own, who better to recruit to your cause than the children of the man you couldn’t save?’

‘I don’t know where they are.’

‘Graham Stirling walked free, because you couldn’t be bothered following procedure. We know you don’t feel bound by the same rules as the rest of us mere mortals. What’s a little conspiracy to commit murder between friends?’

Logan stared at him.

Napier smiled back. ‘You see, the DNA results came in this morning: we know that David and Catherine Bisset were in Stirling’s kitchen. Did you send them there? Did you tell them they could kill Graham Stirling and get away with it?’

Inspector Gibb raised her head, eyes glittering. Pen poised, ready to take notes.

So he’d been right — they’d put their father out of his misery, then broken into Stirling’s house and killed him. It was just a case of waiting now till the body turned up and David and Catherine Bisset went down for twelve years to life.

Logan kept his mouth shut. Let the silence stretch.

‘Well, Sergeant? Would you care to-’

Then Logan’s Airwave gave its four point-to-point bleeps. ‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

He glanced at the screen. No idea whose shoulder number it was, but it was low, so might be a boss.

Napier held up a finger. ‘I don’t think so.’ He put his hand out. ‘If you don’t mind.’

‘And if I do?’

His shoulder rose, then dipped. ‘Well, for a start, I’m a chief superintendent, and you’re a sergeant, so that makes me, let’s see: four steps further up the ladder? If you can’t have the common courtesy to switch off your Airwave when you’re in a meeting, I shall do it for you. Now: the handset, please.’

No point fighting — it wasn’t as if he was ever going to win.

Logan unclipped his handset and passed it across.