Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

‘Guv?’

‘We’d need corroboration.’

‘Got a file yay thick with people complaining about them dealing from Gerbil’s flat.’

‘Hold on …’ Some muffled conversation. Then silence again.

Logan leaned back against the wall, one foot up on the dirty grey harling.

A second seagull joined the first, making slow loops, drifting away out to sea.

‘You still there? Email me an address and I’ll get the warrant sorted. Too short notice to get the Operational Support Unit involved, but you can have one van, and two extra officers from Inverurie.’

‘I need them to be search-trained. And a dog team.’

‘You want jam on it, don’t you?’

‘Best chance we’ve got of finding Klingon and Gerbil’s stash.’

Sigh. ‘I’ll see what I can do. It’s going to take a couple of hours to get everything sorted, though. Stick in the ground: we go at nine tonight.’

‘Thanks, Guv.’

‘Just make sure you find something.’

The desk phone rang and rang and rang. Logan grabbed the Post-it note, stuck a finger in one ear, mobile phone clamped to the other, and marched out of the main office into the corridor. ‘Sorry, what was that?’

Louise’s voice crackled down the line. ‘I’m not saying it’s definitely going to be a problem, but we need to keep on top of it. Samantha’s health has to be our top priority.’

Past the canteen and the gents’ toilet. Through into the Constables’ Office.

More phones ringing — Nicholson scrabbling for a pad and scribbling things down. ‘Uhuh, yes, sir. I will, sir.’ She’d stripped off her protective gear, exposing muddy circles under the arms of her black T-shirt. Like filthy sweat stains.

He plonked the Post-it in the middle of the desk, in front of her.

She nodded.

‘This chest infection’s been dragging on for a couple of weeks and I’d really like to see if we can shift it.’

‘And there’s no risk?’

‘There’s always a risk when you change someone’s medication. But a chest infection’s a serious thing for someone who was in a coma for as long as Samantha.’

Nicholson must have finished her call, because she picked up the Post-it. Squinted at it. Then waved it at Logan. ‘What?’

‘OK, so let’s fix her medication then.’ He put a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘It says, “We’ve got a dog unit coming from Aberdeen.”’

‘It does?’ More squinting. ‘You ever think about becoming a doctor?’

‘Are you going to be up tomorrow?’

‘Can’t, I’m in court all day. Wednesday though: about ten?’

Nicholson grabbed a dry marker and stomped over to the whiteboard above the radiator. Printed ‘DOG UNIT’ in the column marked ‘ASSETS’.

‘Perfect. And we need to take another look at getting you formally appointed as Samantha’s legal guardian.’

‘I hate-’

‘I know you do.But if you’re going to make decisions about medical interventions we need something a bit more legally secure than simply being her boyfriend. It’s important, Logan.’

A weight pressed down on his shoulders, making them sag. ‘OK. We’ll talk about it Wednesday.’

‘Trust me: it’s for the best. You’ll see.’ And she was gone.

Logan slid his phone back into a pocket then turned to face the whiteboard. Inverurie had reneged on the two extra officers — something about a big barney going on outside Specsavers. But the Duty Inspector had managed to scare up one search-trained constable from Mintlaw and another from Fraserburgh. Add in Nicholson, Deano, Tufty, and Logan: that made six officers, one dog handler, a dirty big Alsatian, and a Labrador with a thing for sniffing out drugs.

Could have been worse. At least they only had the one address to hit. None of that double-dunt nonsense.

The office phone rang. Nicholson grabbed it. ‘Banff station, how can I help?’

With any luck, that would be their warrant ready for collection. Colin ‘Klingon’ Spinney’s mum was in for a bit of a shock when she got back from Australia.

Logan’s Airwave bleeped.

‘Sarge?’ Deano.

‘Safe to talk. Where are you? Grab Tufty and get back here, we’ve got an op to plan. Big drugs-’

‘Aye, no.’ Deep breath. ‘Sarge, I need you down at Tarlair Swimming Pool. Right now.’

‘Don’t be daft, it’s-’

‘Sarge, we’ve got a body. It’s a wee girl.’

Bloody hell … A missing paedophile and a dead little girl, all in the same day. He grabbed his hat. ‘We’re on our way.’

‘… What do you mean, “The drugs raid’s on hold”?’

Logan took hold of the grab handle above the passenger door as Nicholson floored it along Low Shore, past the boxy terraced houses of Newton Drive, siren wailing and lights flashing.

Inspector McGregor sounded as if she was chewing a wasp. ‘Do you have any idea how many strings I had to pull to get you extra officers, a van, and a dog? Never mind the warrant, it’s-’

‘We’ve got reports of a young girl’s body at Tarlair Swimming Pool.’

The houses with their red pantile roofs faded in the rear-view mirror. Now there was nothing keeping the car company but the chain-link fence between it and the cliffs that hugged the left-hand side of the road.

A hissed breath. ‘Should you not have led with that?’

‘Sorry, Guv. Constables Scott and Quirrel are securing the scene. We’ve got an ETA …?’ He looked at Nicholson. Raised both eyebrows.

She changed down and threw them around the corner. ‘Going as fast as I can …’

The needle hit ninety.

‘Call it two minutes.’

The wastewater-treatment plant flashed by on the left, and Nicholson slammed on the brakes, swinging the car round into a steep hairpin bend. A squeal of tyres.

Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool appeared in the distance. A collection of boxy art deco buildings — not much bigger than a handful of Portacabins — were surrounded on three sides by cliffs, the fourth open to the sea. Their whitewashed walls going grey with neglect, caught by the evening sun. The two outdoor pools empty and decaying in front of them.

‘Have we got an ID?’

Logan switched off the siren. ‘Not yet. We’ve no support staff in Banff after five. Can you spare someone?’

The road dipped steeply down to another hairpin — gorse bushes like a sheet of rolling flame on the right, the bay on the left. Dark rocks making broken submarines and stranded ships in the glittering water. White foam marked the outward edges as the waves tried to shoulder them up onto the grey stony beach.

‘Any idea if it’s accidental, or …?’

‘I hope so. We’ve got a missing paedophile on the books: Neil Wood. Disappeared three days ago. His father only reported it today.’

‘That’s all we need …’ The sound became muffled, as if she’d stuck her hand over the microphone, partially blocking her firing orders at someone in the background — telling someone to get the Scenes Examination Branch to hotfoot it over from the cashline job in Fraserburgh.

Smooth tarmac gave way to scabby potholes. Knee-high grass bordered the sides of the road, punctuated by the searching pink antennae of rosebay willowherb. The patrol car bumped across the pockmarked tarmac, then wallowed as Nicholson slowed. The sound of a mudflap grinding against the uneven surface.

The road gave up in a dead end, just before the entrance to the pool. One way in, one way out. Well, unless you wanted to work your way down the cliff path from the golf course.