Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

He carried her back upstairs. Popped her down on the landing. Eased open the bedroom door. ‘Helen?’

Grimy orange light spilled in through the window and onto the bed. Curtains weren’t closed. And the bed was empty, still made from that morning.

Maybe she wanted to sleep on her own tonight?

Had he done something?

Back downstairs.

His knuckles made a dull thunk on the living-room door. ‘Helen?’

Idiot. What was the point of whispering?

Knock again. Louder. ‘Helen, you awake?’

Silence.

Maybe she’d been drinking again and passed out on the couch?

He opened the door. But there was no one there.

Kitchen.

Empty.

An envelope sat in the middle of the table, birthday-card sized, with ‘LOGAN’ written on the front. He tore the flap open.

Wasn’t a birthday card after all, it was a thank-you one. A photo of a kitten wearing a jumper and John Lennon glasses looked out at him. The message inside was written in neat blue biro:

Dear Logan,

They’ve arrested a traveller family in Gwent and taken a little girl into care. They’re all dark haired, but she’s blonde. She’s six. It might be Natasha.

Thank you so much for letting me stay with you. It’s been a long time since I’ve let anyone get that close. And I’m sorry about the washing up.

Love,

Helen x

Brilliant. That was really sodding brilliant.

He pulled out his phone. Glared at the card.

Not even a goodbye.

Logan scrolled through his contacts. Found her number …

No.

He swiped down to Syd Fraser’s details instead. Hit dial.

Syd Fraser wiped the sheen of sweat from his face. Leaned on his shovel. ‘You know, when I said we should go grave-robbing, I didn’t mean it literally.’

‘Shouldn’t have said it then.’ Logan dug the blade of his spade into the turf and heaved. The grass roots crackled as they tore, letting out the rich dark smell of the soil beneath.

‘It was more an expression of moral support.’

‘I’d feel more supported if you were actually digging right now.’

Early morning sun dappled the back gardens of Fairholme Place, drying up yesterday’s rain.

‘All units, be advised that the lookout request on Ronnie Bronowski is cancelled. Found safe and well by his dad.’

Syd hacked out another patch of turf. ‘Be easier if we didn’t have to wear black the whole time.’

They’d staked out the corners of the lush patch of weeds and grass in Klingon’s back garden.

‘Told you, you could put on an SOC suit if you liked. They’re white.’

‘Yeah, and like wearing your very own sauna. No thank you.’

Another chunk of sod joined the pile. ‘Moan, moan, moan.’

At least they were getting somewhere now.

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

Logan heaved the last chunk of green out of the plot. Pressed the button. ‘Bang on, Calamity.’

‘Me and Deano have been round Portsoy. Break-ins all look like they’re done by one person. Even left us some fingerprints.’

‘Good. Get them off to the lab, then see if you can’t get hold of whoever’s monitoring Mark Brussels and William Gilcomston. Both sex offenders.’

‘Anything in particular you want to know?’

‘Everything.’

‘Sarge.’

Syd heaved out a lump of thick black soil. ‘Course, you know this might be a complete waste of time?’

‘Don’t you start. Was hard enough convincing the Duty Inspector to let us have a bash.’

Dig. Dig. Dig.

‘Look on the bright side, Sarge. Worst comes to worst, Klingon’s mum gets a lovely tatty patch dug for her.’

They worked in silence for a bit, except for the occasional grunt and hiss.

Nearly a foot down now.

Syd stepped into the hole. ‘If it is a dead body, who do you think it is?’

‘Don’t know. Toby Neish, maybe? He went missing about five months ago.’

Dig. Dig. Dig.

‘How’s Tufty’s head today?’

‘Every bit as empty as it was yesterday. Got two complaints from the hospital about him offering to show the nurses his “extendable baton”.’ Another shovel full of dirt.

Little chips of stone were appearing in the soil now. Like someone had dumped a bag of gravel.

Dig. Dig. Dig.

‘Should’ve brought some tins of coke or something … Parched.’

Dig. Dig. Thunk .

Syd raised an eyebrow. ‘Aye, aye. We have touchdown.’ He poked his shovel into the earth again. Thunk . Then over a bit. Thunk . A big smile. ‘Told you: best dogs in the country.’

They scraped the soil back. It was a wooden box, not quite as big as a coffin. But that didn’t really matter if you weren’t interested in the dear departed’s comfort or dignity.

‘What do you think, Sarge? Do we open it and risk contaminating anything, or leave it and call for backup?’

‘Doesn’t smell like a dead body.’

‘Wouldn’t if it was old enough. Everything would rot away.’

‘Then how did Lusso smell it?’ He dunked his spade off the lid a couple of times. ‘We open it.’ Logan climbed out of the hole and rummaged through the holdall from the Big Car’s boot. Came out with the hoolie bar. ‘This’ll do it.’

He wedged the curved blade of metal from the pick-end into the wood where the lid joined the box. Leaned all his weight on the prongs. Nothing. OK, shoogle it about a bit. Then more pressure …

First a small pop, then a splintering crackle, and thunk : the lid sprung open at one corner. No sudden waft of rotting meat. Didn’t take long to work the hoolie-bar’s adze along the gap, levering out the groaning nails.

‘Right, let’s see what we’ve got.’

They pulled the lid free and propped it up against the fence.

Syd pursed his lips. Sooked in a breath. Then whistled.

Logan nodded. ‘Looks like Lusso’s not the best cadaver dog in the world after all.’ But he was damn good at finding firearms and explosives. The box contained about a dozen rifles, four sawn-off shotguns, cardboard boxes of bullets and shells, and three semi-automatic pistols. ‘Think they were planning to start a war?’

‘Yes, well …’ DI Porter clicked her head to the side. It pulled the hair out of her eyes, but left the bags under them. One hand came up to scratch at the mole on her cheek. ‘Perhaps, in hindsight, we were a little hasty in declaring this no longer a crime scene.’

Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t say.’

She leaned back against the stained wallpaper in Klingon’s kitchen, watching as anonymous white-oversuited figures catalogued the contents of the gun coffin. ‘Far as we can tell, they wanted to set up an American-style drug cartel here in Banff. Bring the stuff in on boats and shoot anyone who got in their way. Witnesses, rival drug dealers, police officers.’

‘Pair of idiots.’

‘Quite.’ DI Porter tore her eyes away from the kitchen window long enough for a brief glance in Logan’s direction. ‘DCI McInnes thanks you for your input.’

‘I’ll bet he does.’

Pink flushed the tips of her ears. ‘Don’t push it, Sergeant. I’m still trying to talk him out of going after you with the career chainsaw. That thing with Sammy Wilson was …’ A deep breath. ‘What were you thinking ?’

‘Honestly: I told him to stop it. I really did.’

‘This whole thing’s been a cocking mess from the start.’ She blew out a breath. ‘Right, we’ll take it from here.’

Logan turned and made for the kitchen door.

‘And Sergeant?’