Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

‘Thank you.’ Napier glanced down at the screen as he reached for the off switch. Then stopped, fingers hovering over the control. ‘Ah …’ He pursed his lips. ‘I think you probably better take this one.’ Then stood, walked around behind Logan, on those silent little feet, and placed the Airwave on the table in front of him. ‘It’s the Chief Constable.’

The breath wheezed out of Logan, dragging heart and lungs down into his bowels. Great — a tag-team bollocking.

He pressed the button. ‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk.’

Napier settled back into his seat, that Night-of-the-Living-Dead smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

Inspector Gibb’s pen hovered over her notepad.

And then the Chief Constable’s voice thumped out into the room. ‘Sergeant McRae — Logan — it’s John.’

‘Sir.’

Here we go …

‘I wanted to call you anyway; say congratulations on catching the man who shot Constable Mary Ann Nasrallah. Excellent result, especially given the case was a national priority. First-rate job there. Really showed the power of good old-fashioned divisional policing.’

Logan blinked at the handset a couple of times. OK … ‘Thank you, sir.’

Time for the other shoe, not so much to drop as get rammed home into his groin.

‘And now I hear you’ve been instrumental in arresting the Cashline Ram-Raiders.’

Warmth bloomed in his cheeks. ‘Thank you, sir, but it was a team effort.’

‘That’s what I like to hear, Logan: shoulder the blame when things go wrong, share the credit when they don’t. That’s the kind of leadership I want in Police Scotland.’

Logan raised an eyebrow at Napier. ‘Glad to hear it, sir.’

‘The media lot are putting out a statement, and believe me when I say you’re going to get a glowing write-up. Well done again. We could do with a lot more Logan McRaes out there, Sergeant.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ But the Chief Constable was already gone. Logan placed his Airwave handset back on the tabletop. Gave Napier his widest smile. ‘Now, I think you were busy implying that I colluded with David and Catherine Bisset to kill Graham Stirling?’

Napier pulled his chin in. Bit his top lip. Closed his eyes. Let out a small sigh. ‘Inspector Gibb, switch off the camera: this meeting is concluded. I’m sure Sergeant McRae has lots more vital work to be getting on with.’

And, escape.

‘Interview suspended at sixteen hundred hours.’ Logan gathered his papers together and stood.

The guy on the other side of the table squinted back at him. The green overalls were gone, replaced by a white paper oversuit with bootee feet. The skin across his left cheek had darkened to a thundercloud of blue and purple, marbled with yellow. That’s what he got for doing a runner on Nicholson’s watch. He sniffed, rubbed at his nose with cuffed-together hands. ‘You’ll make sure McNee goes down for it, aye? Rest of us was only doing what we was told.’

The solicitor from the Scottish Legal Aid Board polished a pair of little round specs. ‘Albert, there’s no need for you to continue talking. The interview’s over.’

He pulled one shoulder up till it almost touched his ear. ‘Just want to make sure, like.’

Logan looked down at the dirty fingernails, the thick hands, the cuffs. ‘Why Broch Braw Buys?’

‘Eh?’

A sigh from Mr Solicitor. ‘Sergeant McRae, this interview has been terminated.’

‘I’m curious.’

‘Was McNee’s idea.’ Albert picked at the wart on the back of one thumb. ‘We was hungry, so we parked up to get a burger. McNee went into the shop for a paper. Said there was this wee blonde girl comes skipping in and the gadgie running the place is shouting and swearing and kicks her out. Tiny wee girl, all dressed in pink with a skateboard. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

Another sigh. ‘Albert, I really have to advise against this.’

‘So McNee comes back and he says, “We’re doing that miserable old git next.” Said it was payback for being cruel to kids and that.’

At least that was one mystery solved.

Logan shifted his Airwave to the other hand and had a slurp of tea. ‘I thought Billy was doing it.’

‘Can’t, he’s been summoned to Tulliallan to explain that firearms thing from two weeks ago.’ Inspector McGregor sounded as if she was in a wind tunnel. ‘Sorry.’

Creaks and groans came from outside the Sergeants’ Office door as someone stalked Fraserburgh station’s wonky corridors.

‘Gah …’ Logan folded forward and rested his forehead against the keyboard. ‘We’re supposed to be going out tonight to celebrate.’ And then home to celebrate some more with Helen. Hopefully twice.

‘It’s just for tonight. Billy will be back tomorrow evening, we’ll do it then.’

‘Chips and beer.’

‘I wouldn’t ask, but we need a duty sergeant.’

Logan groaned. Swore. Then hit the button. ‘OK, put me down for a green shift.’

‘And we need someone to fill in for Big Paul as well. He’s stood down tonight because he’s got court first thing tomorrow — that attempted murder in Peterhead three months ago.’

‘I’ll have a word with the team.’

‘Good. Now, where are we at?’

‘Finished the last interview half an hour ago. Soon as the other three heard the van driver had rolled over on them, they all changed their plea. According to them, he’s the mastermind behind the Cashline Ram-Raiders. It’s like a competition to see who can shaft him the hardest. I’m writing it up now.’

‘So they’re all pleading guilty?’

‘That’s the plan.’

‘Excellent. What else?’

There was a knock on the door and Nicholson stuck her head into the room. ‘You want a tea before we head off, Sarge? Nearly home time.’

‘Got one, thanks.’ He flipped over a couple of pages in his notepad. Keyed the talk button again. ‘Right, we’ve got two drink drivers and one driving while disqualified, a break-in at Peterhead Cinema, an aggravated assault in Gardenstown, and a mum of three’s gone missing from Aberchirder. Friends say she’s never done it before, but rumour has it she’s got a fancy man in Cullen. I’ve asked the Moray lot to keep an eye out for her.’

‘All pretty calm for a Monday.’

‘Don’t knock it.’

‘And we’ll do chips and beer tomorrow. Promise.’

Assuming nothing went wrong between now and then. And knowing his luck …

Logan finished off writing up the interview notes, then headed through to the canteen.

Nicholson sat in one of the purple couches in front of the TV, Syd Fraser in the other one. The pair of them froze, hands dipped into a box of Maltesers.

Then Nicholson grinned. ‘Sarge, frightened the life out of us.’ She nabbed a Malteser and popped it in her mouth and went straight back for another one. Munching. ‘Thought you were the owner.’

Syd scooped up a clicking palmful of little chocolate balls. ‘They were planked in the back of the cupboard. Dig in before whoever bought them finds out.’

Logan helped himself. All malty and chocolaty and melty and crunchy. ‘Did you hear Klingon’s mum’s not dead?’

A shrug. More Maltesers. ‘To be fair, I did say Lusso’s not been a cadaver dog for years. They lose the nose for it if they don’t practise.’

‘Yeah.’ Crunch. Munch. Sook. ‘Would’ve been nice though.’

Syd rubbed a hand across his shiny bald head. Frowned. ‘OK, so it’s not Klingon’s mum buried in the back garden. So what? That doesn’t mean someone else isn’t. You got any missing druggies on the books?’