Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

It was his case in the first place, too.

Logan jabbed his thumb against the ‘BLUES’ button on the central console and the strobing lights flickered out. No point hurrying now.

Rundle Avenue was blocked off. Three patrol cars, two unmarked CID Vauxhalls, Syd Fraser’s dog van, and an OMU Transit with its riot grille up and its side door open. Logan parked in front of the cordon of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape.

His dunt. His arrest. His bloody suspect.

Half the houses in the street had their lights on. Probably standing there with their mobile phones out, filming everything for posterity and YouTube.

He grabbed his peaked cap and climbed out into the rain.

Sergeant Mitchell waved from the open door of the Operational Support Unit van. Then held up a thermos. ‘Dear God, do they issue every bunnet up here with tea-detecting radar? Haven’t even opened it yet.’

Logan stood outside, water drumming on his high-vis shoulders, bouncing off his black-and-white cap. ‘This is the thing you were doing, isn’t it? Why you couldn’t come on my dunt.’

‘Bit of a result. Found heaps of gear under the floorboards in the bedroom. Like an Aladdin’s cave for druggies.’ He screwed the top off the thermos and poured a measure into a mug with ‘WORLD’S BEST DOOR-KICKER-IN’ on it. ‘Shame you missed the dunt, though.’ A grin. ‘They let us use the chainsaw.’

‘Glad someone’s having a good night.’ Logan turned his back and marched up the path to Frankie Ferris’s house.

A uniformed PC slouched on the threshold, sheltering from the rain. He stood up straight. ‘Sergeant.’ Wasn’t a local lad — definitely not from B Division. Probably a big-city boy up from Aberdeen. Big ears, small forehead, thick furry hair.

The outer edges of the door framed him like a particularly unattractive picture, its UPVC ragged where the chainsaw had ripped through it.

Logan gave him a nod. ‘Your guvnor about?’

‘DI Porter? Yeah.’ He didn’t move. Then it must have dawned on him. ‘Oh, right. I’ll shout her.’ He turned, still blocking the entrance, and bellowed back into the house. ‘Boss? There’s a sergeant here to see you. Want me to let him in?’

Rain soaked through the collar of Logan’s high-vis jacket.

PC Ugly pulled a face. ‘Maybe she’s in the bog?’

Then feet thumped down the stairs and a short woman in a grey suit appeared. Carefully manicured haircut. Shiny boots.

PC Ugly scrambled out of the way, without being asked, and Porter took his place. Looked Logan up and down. ‘Well, you’ve saved me a phone call at least. Come to confess, have we?’

Logan tightened his hands into fists. ‘You arrested Frankie Ferris.’

‘Did you come all this way to stand in the rain and tell me things I already know? Or, let me guess, are you here to stick your nose into my investigation instead?’

‘He assaulted Kirstin Rattray earlier today, tried to batter her to death with a crowbar and left her for dead in a lay-by.’

‘I know. You phoned me, remember?’ Porter raised an eyebrow. ‘Has your Kirstin Rattray ID’d him?’

Logan tapped his BWV unit. ‘Did it on camera.’

‘Well, we’ll follow it up.’ The rain continued to fall. ‘Now, are you deaf, Sergeant, or just stupid? You were told time and time again to stay the hell away from Operation Troposphere, but you couldn’t do it, could you?’

‘I stayed away. I’ve been staying away.’

‘Really? Then tell me, Sergeant McRae, when I dunted in Frankie Ferris’s door, why did I find this?’ She turned and nodded at PC Ugly. ‘Bring the smelly one out.’

Smelly one?

PC Ugly reappeared with a dishevelled stick-figure in a manky tracksuit. Both hands were cuffed together in front. Stinky Sammy Wilson. Oh God …

Sammy sniffed, wiped his nose on a grimy sleeve. ‘See? I told you, yeah? Told you. I’m like, on police business. Totally official.’

Porter’s smile didn’t look all that genuine. ‘Well, Sergeant? Care to enlighten us how getting drug addicts to poke about in my investigation is “staying away”?’

‘I told him not to! I told him it was over. Sammy, tell her — I told you to drop it.’

Sammy shook his head, setting his greasy hair swishing. ‘I’m here undercover, yeah? Doing my bit. Asking questions for ten quid, questions for ten quid, questions, questions, questions.’ Another sniff. Then he stared at Logan. ‘You got my three seventy-seven, yeah? I found out for you — I found out who the Candleman is.’

‘THERE ISN’T ANY CANDLEMAN!’ Two steps away, then back again. Staring at DI Porter, but jabbing a finger at Sammy Wilson. ‘I told him to quit it! He was outside the station and I told him to stay the hell away from this thing.’

‘And yet, here we are.’ She folded her arms. ‘Anything else?’

He bit the inside of his cheek. Calm it down. Unclenched his fists. ‘Do you know if your team’s finished at Klingon’s house yet?’

‘Let me guess: his mum’s been moaning about not being allowed home yet?’

‘Something like that.’

A shrug. ‘She can have it back any time she wants. Not a crime scene any more — we’re focusing our efforts here on Rundle Avenue now.’

‘Good.’ He turned to go.

‘Sergeant?’

Logan stopped. What now, more gloating?

DI Porter’s voice softened. ‘We’re charging Colin Spinney and Kevin McEwan with the attempted murder of Jack Simpson. They’re not getting away with anything. Thought you’d like to know.’

Probably wouldn’t make much difference to Klingon and Gerbil’s sentences, but at least it was something.

And the day had started so well …

‘You woke me up to tell me that ?’ A cough rattled down the phone. ‘Urgh …’

Logan stepped out into the rain and clunked the station door shut behind him. ‘Thought you’d still be up watching porn.’

The streetlights made sickly yellow spheres in the downpour as he hurried across the street.

‘What you want me to do, pat you on the head and say, “There, there, poor Logan. Aunty Roberta kiss it all better”?’

Down the steps to the car park — taking the quickest route to the Sergeant’s Hoose. ‘It was my case.’

‘You’re no’ six, Laz. For God’s sake, grow a pair. If you flounce off in a huff every time some Major Investigation Team swoops in and takes over your case, you think anyone’s going to care? This is how it works now.’

He dragged in a deep breath, then huffed it out again. Hurrying between the puddles. ‘I’ve been working on nailing Frankie Ferris for months.’

‘I’m going back to sleep now.’

‘Thanks for the sympathy.’

‘Laz, if you don’t like MITs nicking your cases, come back and work for me. Be the nicker, not the nickee. Either way, stop whingeing.’

‘I’m not “whingeing”, I’m getting screwed over. How is that “whingeing”?’

Nothing.

‘Hello?’

She’d hung up on him. Lovely.

Across the road, around the corner. Water overflowed the weed-blocked gutters, cascading down the side of the house. Yet another thing to stick on the to-do list.

He let himself in.

Darkness. No sound of television. No creak of floorboards.

Not really surprising at quarter to two on a Tuesday morning — Helen would be asleep — but it would’ve been nice.

A pair of eyes glittered at the top of the stairs, then thump-poc, thump-poc, thump-poc , and Cthulhu worked her way down. Wound herself around his ankles, purring. He bent down and picked her up. Soft and warm and fuzzy.

‘Daddy’s had a crappy day.’