Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

Logan pressed the button and talked into his shoulder. ‘Bash away.’

‘Aye, you wanted to know when Kirstin Rattray woke up? That’s her now.’

‘She say anything about who attacked her?’

‘Nah. I’ve seen headstones more talkative. You want to have a shot?’

He let go of the button. ‘Guv?’

‘Might as well. Not as if there’s anything else we can do tonight anyway.’

Logan abandoned the Big Car in someone’s reserved parking space and jogged back through the drizzle towards Accident and Emergency. Forty-five minutes: not bad from Banff to Elgin. Only had to use the blues-and-twos twice as well.

The town’s lights reflected back from the heavy lid of cloud, casting a sickly burnt-orange glow across the hospital’s bland grey façade. A handful of smokers choked the entrance to A amp; E, keeping out of the rain. Shuffling feet and fidgeting fingers, the streams of their cigarettes glowing in the harsh lighting.

He squeezed past into the depressing antiseptic blandness of the waiting area.

A nurse shuffled by in a pair of pink Crocs, clipboard clutched tightly to his chest as if it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Logan stepped in front of him. ‘I’m looking for Kirstin Rattray.’

The nurse blinked at him. Grey-purple skin filled the hollows beneath his eyes. A yawn shuddered its way through him, leaving him slumped around his clipboard. ‘Sorry. Been a long shift. Who?’

‘Kirstin Rattray, assaulted earlier today. Cracked skull, broken ribs, arms, leg …?’

‘Yes. Right. Let’s check the computer.’

The nurse stopped in the corridor and gave his clipboard another squeeze. ‘I can only give you a couple of minutes. She’s been through a lot.’

‘I’ll be quick.’ Logan pushed through the door into the ward.

The room was caught in the dim glow of a reading light in the far corner. Eight beds, four to a side, but only three were occupied. One by an obese teenager, flat on her back and snoring. One by the old lady in the corner reading what looked like a trashy crime novel. And one by Kirstin Rattray.

Her face was a mess of plasters and patches of gauze. One arm propped up on a stick and plastered from fingers to armpit, the other in a sling across her chest. A boxy contraption made a square hump in the blankets where her right knee should have been. Tubes going in from drips, others going out to bags dangling under the bedframe.

Logan drew in a breath. It tasted of disinfectant and pain and despair. ‘Is she …?’

The nurse dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘You wouldn’t believe how much morphine they gave her, and it barely touched the sides. No one wants to OD a patient by accident.’

Logan pulled up a chair, then slipped the elastic band off his BWV and set it recording. ‘Kirstin? Can you hear me?’

The fingers poking out from the full-length cast twitched. Then her head turned. One eye taped shut, the other a mess of burst blood vessels. Kirstin’s skin was an inkblot mess of darkening bruises. ‘Hrrrts.’ Her mouth barely moved.

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

‘Oiiiwwnt mmey Ammgheee …’

Oiiiwwnt mmey Ammgheee … ? Then it dawned. ‘You want Amy? Your daughter? I think they’d like you to get a bit better before they bring her to see you.’ Logan forced a smile. ‘Don’t want to scare her.’

A little shake of the head. Then a wince. ‘Dnnnnt lt thmmm tk hrrrrr awwwweyyyy.’

‘Do you know who did it?’

‘Hrrrts.’

No wonder.

Logan’s hand went into one of the zippy pockets on his stabproof vest. The one where the tiny plastic baggie he’d confiscated from her was. A single wrap of heroin, concealed in an inside-out blue nitrile glove. That’d make a dent in Kirstin’s pain.

Of course it could react really badly with whatever else they’d given her. And then she wouldn’t hurt any more, she’d be dead.

Stupid idea.

Logan let go of the glove, left it where it was.

‘I’ll let your mum and dad know you’re in here. They can arrange for Amy to come visit.’

The bloodshot eye squeezed shut, forcing out a couple of tears. She pulled her lips back, but there weren’t any teeth to bare, just swollen gums spidered with stitches.

‘I’m sorry.’ Logan put a hand on Kirstin’s shoulder. ‘Who did this to you?’

The nurse’s Crocs squeaked on the ward floor. ‘Look, I think she’s probably had enough. She’s tired. She needs to-’

‘Frrnnnnkeee Frrrrs.’

Logan frowned. ‘Who?’

‘Look, I’m really going to have to insist.’

Her whole face clenched with the effort. ‘Frrnnkeee Frrrrrrrrrrrs! ’

Logan took out his notebook and … Sodding Hector. He turned to the nurse. ‘Can I borrow a pen?’

‘This isn’t-’

‘She wants to ID the person who tried to kill her with a crowbar, OK? Now give me your pen.’

A pause, then a chewed blue biro was produced.

Logan held it out to Kirstin and she reached for it with the fingers of her other hand — the one poking out of the sling. Clutched it against the strip of fibreglass cast across her palm. Then picked out the name in painful wobbling capitals: ‘FRANKIE FERRIS’ and underlined it twice, before slumping back into the pillows, panting.

Logan held the notepad up so the BWV could capture what she’d written. ‘You’re saying Frankie Ferris attacked you?’

A nod. A gulping breath.

‘And you’re sure it was him?’

A pause. Then another nod.

Which meant Frankie Ferris was about to get his door battered in.

And if he resisted arrest and fell down the stairs a couple of times, that would be a bonus.

Dark fields flickered past the Big Car’s windows, caught for a brief moment in the flashing lights, then disappearing into the night again.

Logan changed up and kept his foot down.

The headlights made glittering streaks on the wet road as the windscreen wipers thunk-wonk ed back and forth across the glass.

Logan pressed the talk button on the steering wheel. ‘I’m about fifteen minutes away. No one moves till I get there, understood?’

Penny’s voice crackled out of the speaker. ‘Yup — we block both ends of the street and we wait for you. What about a warrant?’

‘Next on my list.’

The Big Car swept around a long bend, engine roaring.

He hit the button again. ‘Shire Uniform Seven to Bravo India, safe to talk?’

‘Go ahead.’ Inspector Fettes paused for a sneeze. ‘Urgh … Sorry about that. How’s Kirstin Rattray?’

‘Lucky to be alive. She’s ID’d Frankie Ferris as the assailant. I’m on my way back to Banff now. I applied for a warrant to search his place yesterday, any chance you can light a fire under Sheriff Harding? He’s dragging his heels and I need to-’

‘Ah. Actually …’ A cough. ‘Logan, there’s a reason Harding’s not issued your warrant. He already gave a search-and-arrest one to DI Porter.’

‘Porter?’

‘Operation Troposphere dunted Frankie Ferris’s door in half an hour ago.’

‘Are you kidding me!’

‘ They’ve netted about eighty grand’s worth of heroin, and another sixty of cocaine. Three bricks of resin, a big box of temazepam, and about thirty thousand in cash.’

‘He was my suspect! I’ve been after him for months.’

‘Well, yes, but look on the bright side: that’s a substantial amount of drugs that are never going to hit our streets. You’ve got to be pleased about that.’

‘Sodding months!’

Brilliant. Thank you DI Porter, DCI McInnes, and Operation Bloody Troposphere. Bunch of scumbag MIT tossers. Frankie Ferris was his . His pet project. His drug dealer. And McInnes waltzes in and wheechs him away, right from under Logan’s nose. Not so much as a thank you.