Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

Tufty took a right, into the yard next door with its offshore containers, stacks of pallets, piles of thick metal pipes, and big chunks of machinery in wire cages. He poked ‘RIGHT ALLEY’ and the other spotlight came on, firing through the pallets and making skeletal shadows up the side of the warehouse. ‘You know, if we put the blues, rear reds, and headlight flashers on, it’ll be like driving about in a Christmas tree. Or we could have a disco.’

‘Do you want me to take that badge back?’

The Big Car slowed to a halt in front of a short office-block attached to the side of the orange warehouse. The door was open. ‘Oh-ho. Maybe not such a waste after all.’ Tufty hauled on the handbrake. ‘What do you think?’

They climbed out into the night.

Wind was picking up again, rattling the corrugated metal on the warehouse roof. Moaning through the chain-link fence.

Could’ve been eating chips, drinking beer, and celebrating instead of this …

Logan twisted his LED torch out of its holder and clicked it on. Swept it across the front of the office block. ‘Might still be in there.’

‘Right.’ Tufty unclipped his extendable baton and clacked it out to its full length. Held it up and back, so it rested on his shoulder, torch in his other hand. ‘You want me to go first?’

‘No point keeping a dog and barking yourself.’ Logan pulled out his own baton. Flicked his wrist and the end shot out, snapping into place. ‘Remember — no hitting anyone unless I tell you it’s OK.’

‘It was only that one time, and I didn’t do it hard.’ He eased the door open and slipped inside.

The beam of Tufty’s torch bobbed on the other side of the window.

Logan followed him in.

A cluttered open-plan office, with whiteboards and noticeboards covered in scrawled notes. Half a dozen desks with antique beige computers. A bank of filing cabinets. A coffee machine. And a bookshelf full of ring binders.

Tufty picked his way around the room, peering under desks. Then straightened up and shook his head. Pointed at the door in the opposite wall, by the filing cabinets.

‘Go for it.’

A wince. Then a whisper. ‘Are we not supposed to be sneaking about in secret?’

‘We turned up in a dirty big patrol car with “Police” down the side and spotlights blazing. Not exactly subtle, is it?’

‘Oh. OK.’ He turned and opened the door through to the warehouse. Stepped through, with Logan right behind him.

Their footsteps echoed back from the high ceiling and metal walls. Racks of things and piles of stuff loomed in the darkness. Tufty played his torch across the nearest rack. Metal things, and plastic things, and things that were a combination of both. The place was huge. Bigger than it looked from the outside — with rack shelving laid out in long rows, like a cash-and-carry.

Ship’s chandlers? Something like that. The bits and bobs looked kind of nautical.

Tufty crept out into the aisles, keeping his torch beam down.

Yeah, sod that. A bank of switches sat beside the door through to the office block. Logan swept a hand down them, clicking them all on.

Clunk . Then pinging and flickering as the fluorescent tubes warmed up.

Tufty froze, mid-creep. Then straightened up. Cleared his throat. ‘OK. Or we could do that.’

Something clanged and thunked against the floor, somewhere deep inside the warehouse, the sound quickly smeared and distorted by its own echoes.

Logan clicked off his torch. ‘Police! We know you’re in here.’

in here … in here … in here …

The echo faded into nothing.

‘Don’t play silly sods, it’s over.’

over … over … over …

Still nothing.

OK, if that was the way they wanted to play it.

He pointed Tufty towards the far corner of the warehouse.

A nod, then Constable Quirrel loped away into the racks.

‘You’re only making it worse for yourself.’ Logan stepped into the gap between two sets of tall metal shelving. Look left: no one. Look right: no one. ‘I’m sure we can work it out.’ Through into the next aisle. No one. Same with the next aisle. ‘Come on, don’t be daft. Only one way this ends.’

Which was a lie: there were plenty of gaps between the racks, so as long as whoever it was timed it right, they could sneak away unseen while Logan and Tufty were still searching the place.

Another clunk.

Logan froze.

Then a crash battered out from the left.

‘Sarge! There!’

‘Where?’ He spun in place.

Someone sprinted across the aisle, down by the far wall.

‘Come back here!’ Tufty appeared, then disappeared into the next row of shelving.

Move. Logan ran back the way he’d come, one hand holding the baton, the other pinning the peaked cap to his head. Past rows of meters and gauges, unidentifiable boxes, sections of plastic piping.

A bang rang out from the front of the building — a door.

Hard right turn, feet clattering on the concrete floor. Knees and elbows pumping. Equipment belt jouncing up and down on his hips. Come on, come on, come on …

There — a door lay wide open, showing off the harbour outside. Logan battered through it and skittered to a halt on the tarmac outside. Spun around in place. No sign of anyone. ‘Tufty?’

Silence.

‘Constable Quirrel!’

Still nothing.

Logan punched Tufty’s shoulder number into the Airwave handset. ‘Where the hell are you?’

His own voice crackled out of the darkness, somewhere to the right. ‘Where the hell are you?’

‘Tufty?’ Logan shifted his grip on his baton, clicked his torch on again.

A rusty van sat at the kerb, the company name faded to a shadow on the dented bodywork.

He picked his way forwards, baton resting back against his shoulder, ready to swing. Pressed the talk button again. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Are you OK?’

Definitely coming from behind the van.

Logan lunged around the corner. ‘POLICE! NOBODY …’

Tufty was face down on the pavement, one arm twisted at his side, the other dangling over the kerb.

‘Shire Uniform Seven, I need backup to Banff harbour now . Officer down.’ He knelt beside the crumpled body.

The back of Tufty’s head glistened with dark red, matting his hair.

Logan grabbed his shoulder and shook. ‘Tufty? You OK?’

Don’t be dead. Don’t be-

‘Unngh …’ Tufty raised his forehead off the pavement. ‘Ow …’

Joe’s voice boomed from the Airwave, crackling and panting, as if he was running. ‘Roger that, Shire Uniform Seven, Penny and me are on our way. Is he OK?’

‘What happened?’

‘My head …’

‘It’s still there. Luckily, you’re all skull and no brain. Can you stand?’

‘Shire Uniform Seven, from Control. Do you need an ambulance?’

‘ASAP. We’ve got an officer with a head wound.’

‘Ow …’

Logan helped him to his knees.

Then Tufty wobbled a bit and slumped back against the rusty van, sitting on the pavement, one hand probing the sticky mess of matted hair. When he pulled the fingers away, they were slick with blood. ‘Ow …’

‘Which way did he go?’

‘Can you hear that? Sounds like sirens?’

Corrugated metal groaned and rattled in the wind. Rain clicked and pattered against the van. No sirens. But they’d be here soon enough.

‘You had a thump on the head, but you’re going to be OK. Now, which way did he go ?’

Tufty prodded at the back of his skull again. Winced. ‘Came out …’ His eyebrows furrowed. ‘That way?’ A blood-sticky finger came up and wobbled in the direction of the Macduff Shipyards warehouse, where the dry docks marked the innermost end of the harbour, furthest away from the exit out into the sea. And right now the security lights were blazing on the closest side of the warehouse.