Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

Nicholson grabbed another couple. ‘Always. And no one ever tells us if they turn up again.’

Syd took one more palmful, leaving the box virtually empty.

‘Pair of you are like vultures.’ Logan grabbed the last Malteser before anyone else could. ‘Still, it’s sod all to do with us now. DCI McInnes won’t let us anywhere near Klingon’s place.’

Syd squished the empty box flat. Folded it in half. Then dumped it in the bin and covered it with yesterday’s colour supplement. Burying the evidence. ‘Shame. Otherwise we could nip round there with a couple of shovels and do a bit of grave-robbing. Don’t think they’ll be letting Klingon’s mum move back in any time soon.’

True.

Logan hooked a finger at Nicholson. ‘Come on, Calamity, time to get you back to the station.’

Syd raised a chocolaty hand in salute. ‘Give us a call if you fancy playing Burke and Hare.’

Nicholson followed Logan out into the hallway. ‘Calamity?’

‘Calamity Janet rides again. You’re the one who wanted a nickname.’

They clumped down the stairs.

‘Yeah, but-’

‘No buts. You said people weren’t allowed to pick for themselves. So as of now, you’re Calamity.’

‘All units, we’ve got a fatal RTC on the A90 between Boddam and the Cruden Bay turn-off. Anyone free to attend?’

Out into the car park at the back of the station.

Drizzle greyed the breezeblock and tarmac, misted the windscreens.

A couple of CID types leaned against a pool car, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. They looked up as Nicholson plipped the locks on the Big Car.

One seemed to think a Kevin Keegan perm was a good idea, the other looked as if the Ugly Fairy had paid him a visit and never left. Keegan jerked his chin up. ‘You McRae?’

‘Yes. You?’

‘Brogan, MIT. You got the Ram-Raiders?’

‘One removal van, one four-by-four, one boosted cash machine, and four guys in boiler suits.’

Ugly pinged the butt of his cigarette away into the drizzle. ‘Yeah, we’re going to take it from here.’

‘Be my guest.’ Logan swept an arm towards the cellblock door. ‘Mind you, there’s not far to take it. The other thing we got was four confessions. Job’s done.’ He climbed into the passenger seat. ‘You have fun though.’

Nicholson started the engine, drowning out whatever Brogan’s reply was.

She chewed on the inside of her cheek as she steered the Big Car out onto the street. ‘Curlytop didn’t look too happy.’

‘Poor wee soul probably thought he could swoop down at the last minute and take all the credit. Only to find the bunnets had got there first. Boo hoo. Nobody loves him. Etcetera.’

‘My heart bleeds.’ She took them out past the fish-processing plants, slowing down to peer into the car parks. ‘Shout if you see an old red BMW Z4. Driver’s disqualified.’

Grey hatchbacks and saloons: all sitting in ordered little rows, waiting for their fishy owners to do the five o’clock dash.

No BMW.

Logan adjusted his equipment belt, so the extendable baton wasn’t poking into his leg. ‘Fancy a green shift? Big Paul’s got court in the morning.’

‘Thought we were hitting the town for beer and chips.’

‘Can’t. Got to fill in for Davey Muir again.’

‘Yeah, well my mates are heading off to Ellon to see that new Johnny Depp where everyone’s zombies except him and Bill Bailey. If there’s no beer and chips, I’m joining them.’

Just have to ask Deano then.

Logan pointed through the windscreen at the glowering sky beyond. ‘Home, Calamity, and don’t spare the horses.’

‘… absolutely dinging it down.’

Logan pressed the talk button. ‘Well, don’t hang about too long then, Joe. Don’t want you and Penny catching pneumonia.’

Heat wafted through the Sergeants’ Office, making spider-webs of steam on the mullioned window. A clatter of rain against the glass made it shiver.

‘Definitely. We’ll finish up the last interview and be back in time for eightses. Penny’s got chocolate éclairs.’

Logan put his Airwave back on the desk and bashed in comments against two or three actions that needed following up. Shockingly, none of them belonged to Tufty. And speaking of Constable Quirrel …

His thin face appeared at the door. Cheeks shiny and red, with nose and ears to match. ‘Ooh, it’s perishing out there. Fancy a cuppa?’

Logan held out his mug. ‘Any news?’

‘Hospital say it wasn’t as bad as it looked. A broken leg and a couple of ribs. Not bad for getting knocked down by a bus.’ He pulled off his hat and a dribble of rainwater pattered against the carpet tiles.

Logan dug into his pocket and came out with a small paper bag. Tossed it on the desk. ‘Before I forget, that’s for you.’

‘Is it cola bottles?’ Tufty picked up the bag and peered inside. ‘It’s a badge.’

‘For your help yesterday with the CCTV.’ A smile. ‘Put it on then.’

Tufty unzipped his high-vis jacket and pinned the badge to his stabproof. Round and red, with ‘GENIOUS’ on it in little white letters. He beamed. ‘Thanks, Sarge!’

‘No problem. You earned it.’

‘You’ve got a visitor, by the way. Outside.’

‘In this?’ Logan grabbed his waterproof high-vis gear. ‘Not supposed to leave members of the public out in the rain, Constable. Sends a bad message.’

‘Yeah … Didn’t want to let him into the building. Not after what he did to the Big Car. It’s Stinky Sammy Wilson and, going by the smell, I think he’s here to report his own death.’

‘I’ve changed my mind: you’re an idiot.’ Logan hauled on the vest, the jacket, and fastened his equipment belt over the top on his way to the tradesmen’s exit. Instantly a stone heavier. ‘Go make the tea — Penny and Joe are on their way back for eightses.’

‘Sarge.’

He let himself out the door, pulling his peaked cap on, high-vis collar up.

Joe and Tufty were right, it was a foul evening. Not far off eight o’clock and it didn’t look as if the sun would ever shine again. The sky was a slab of grey marble, mottled with black, and from it icy needles hurled themselves down to bounce off the houses, tarmac, and cars. Making dark lakes on the pavement that spread out across the roads from swollen gutters.

A fist of wind rocked Logan back on his heels.

Yeah, tonight was going to be one for staying indoors and doing paperwork. No villain with half a brain would be out and about in this.

He narrowed his eyes against the rain, and there was Sammy Wilson, huddled in the lee of the portico over the station’s front door. Not that it gave much protection from the horizontal weather. Sammy’s trademark filthy tracksuit hung baggy and shiny, soaked through. But in a fit of inspiration he’d fashioned a balaclava from a Tesco carrier bag — the handles tied beneath his chin.

Tufty had been right about the stench as well. Even from here the reek of rotting onions and spoiled meat was enough to catch the back of the throat.

Logan blinked, working the sting out of his eyes. ‘Sammy?’

He looked up, eyes dark pits in the bony hole of his face. The blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ sign above his head gave his skin a sickly pallor, making him look as dead as he smelled. ‘Sergeant, Sergeant, yeah, right, hi.’ Those grimy twig fingers knotted themselves in front of his chest. ‘Yeah, been looking into it, you know? Doing some James Bond on the down and out. Like you asked.’

‘It doesn’t matter — you can stop looking.’

A cough, then a sniff. ‘You got my ten quid, right? Ten quid for Samuel Ewan Wilson, half now, half earlier, cause I asked questions. Questions, questions. Who is the Candleman?’