Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

Mark Brussels’s house loomed in silence. Curtains drawn.

He tried the bell again, letting it ring and ring and ring.

‘Told you. He’s no even in .’

‘Do you have to complain about everything?’ Logan knocked — three, loud and hard.

Still no reply.

He levered the letterbox up. ‘MR BRUSSELS? HELLO?’

‘Still don’t see what playing postman’s knock with Manky Marky Brussels is supposed to achieve. No’ without a warrant.’

‘You want to go back to the station and twiddle your thumbs till Finnie gets there, or do you want to actually do something?’ One more go: ‘MR BRUSSELS?’ He straightened up. ‘Better try round the back.’

Through a gate at the side of the house, and down the path into the rear garden: a small patch of seedy grass surrounded by thistles and bushes laden with redcurrants. A battered wooden door hung open a couple of inches, revealing a small utility room on the other side.

‘Mr Brussels?’ Logan snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves and pushed it all the way. ‘Hello?’

The smell of bleach and washing powder drifted out into the garden. A puddle of water reached across the linoleum from the back door. ‘Mr Brussels? It’s the police.’

‘Oh stop fannying about. Haven’t got all day.’ Steel barged past him, into the room, then through into the kitchen beyond. ‘SHOP! Come out, come out, wherever you are!’

He followed her into an ancient-looking kitchen, with painted cabinets and an electric cooker.

‘Game’s a bogey, the cat’s in the lobby.’

Logan stepped out into the hall. The smell of bleach was stronger here, and a patch of carpet at the foot of the stairs was a different colour to the rest of it: pale and yellowed.

He pushed open the living-room door.

It was exactly the same as they’d left it a week ago. Clock on the mantelpiece. TV on with the sound muted. Small terrier slumped in a tartan beanbag in the corner. Only difference was that this time it wasn’t snoring and twitching, it was lying perfectly still. Not so much as a wheeze. Its chest wasn’t rising and falling either.

Steel slumped into the room, hands in her pockets. ‘Well, looks like Manky Marky B’s no’ in.’

‘His dog’s dead.’

‘No …’ Her face drooped. ‘Poor wee thing. Spends his whole life being loyal to Brussels, never knowing his master’s a child-molesting wee turd. And then he dies. No’ much of an existence, is it?’ A sniff. ‘Maybe he’s nipped out to buy the dog a wee coffin?’

‘Yeah, maybe.’ Or maybe Charles Anderson had paid a visit and covered his tracks with bleach afterwards. ‘Can you give me a minute? I want to nip out and phone Tufty. Make sure he’s OK after his bash on the head.’

‘Knock yourself out.’ She sank into Brussels’s armchair, in front of the TV, and picked up the remote. Then poked at the buttons until a woman in a bikini appeared, lining up a shot off the tee.

Logan slipped out into the back garden. Took out his phone and checked the caller history. The entry he was looking for was right there — twenty-five to twelve, last night. He pressed the button and listened to it ring.

Checked over his shoulder to make sure Steel wasn’t standing at the kitchen window, watching him.

Come on, come on …

‘Hello?’

‘Where are you?’ Keeping his voice down.

‘Who is this?’

‘We spoke last night, remember? You were on the boat and I was on the harbour wall, getting drenched.’

‘If you’re trying to trace the call, you’re-’

‘I’m not.’

‘Soon as I hang up, I’m ripping the SIM card out of this phone and destroying it.’

‘I’m trying to trace Mark Brussels.’

‘Ah … Mark can’t come to the phone right now. You want to leave a message?’

Logan marched out onto the lawn. ‘Whatever you’re doing, stop. OK? Just stop. No more.’

‘That’s what I’ve been telling him. And do you know what he’s been telling me?’

Silence.

‘What?’

‘He’s been telling me about the Livestock Mart. He’s been telling me about turning up in a barn in the middle of the night and picking a little girl to buy. He’s been telling me lots of interesting things he’d never tell you.’

Logan checked the kitchen window again. Still no Steel. ‘Then tell me. Tell me where it is, and who runs it, and I’ll make sure they go away for a long, long time.’

A laugh. ‘You really think I should trust you?’

‘Of course you bloody should!’

Silence.

A car drove by on the street outside.

A faint mist of drizzle caressed Logan’s face with its clammy hand.

‘Hello?’

‘I don’t know where it is. It floats around — they take over people’s barns. Sometimes it’s people like them, sometimes it’s hired anonymously. If you’re in the loop, you get a text telling you where to go on the night. Cash only.’

‘When’s the next one?’

‘Brussels doesn’t know, but probably not for a couple of months. Doesn’t know who’s running it either — changes every time.’

Well, that was sod all use.

Logan paced his way to the garden wall. ‘Who killed her?’

Nothing.

‘Come on, Charles, one of them has to know.’

A sigh came down the line. ‘They all point the finger at each other. Well, while they’ve still got some. But it doesn’t matter. They’re all guilty. They all have to be punished.’

Logan stopped. Stared down at the damp grass at his feet. ‘It doesn’t have to be like this, Charles.’

‘ Yes it does .’ The line went dead. Charles Anderson was gone.

Logan leaned against the doorframe. ‘You ready?’

‘Hold on, Britney’s going up for a putt.’ Steel scooted forward in the armchair, elbows on knees, hands clasped together. ‘Come on, Britney, check the lay of the green for Aunty Roberta … Oh yeah …’

He picked at his fingernails. ‘If it was up to you, would we let paedophiles out of prison? Or keep them locked up for ever?’

‘If it was up to me? I’d castrate the bastards. Make them wear their severed dicks round their necks in little tubes so everyone would know what they did. Show me a police officer who says different and I’ll show you someone who’s no’ got kids of their own, or they’re bucking for promotion.’ A shrug. ‘Or they’re a moron. Maybe all three.’

‘Time to go.’ Logan picked up the remote and killed the TV. ‘Let’s go see if Dr Gilcomston’s in.’

Steel jerked her head at the tartan beanbag. ‘What about man’s deadest friend?’

A bluebottle landed on the little brown-and-white body.

‘He’s not going anywhere.’

After all, it wasn’t as if Mark Brussels was ever coming home.

‘Well, this is fun.’ Steel clunked the passenger seat back a foot, then stuck both of hers on the dashboard. ‘We should do this more often.’

On the other side of the road, Gilcomston’s big granite house lurked behind its partial screen of trees and bushes.

‘You didn’t have to come.’

Her voice jumped up an octave. ‘Ooh, look at me, my name’s Logan, we should totally go sit about like a pair of morons outside Dr Kidfiddler’s house for half an hour.’

‘Was that supposed to be me? And it’s only been ten minutes.’

She blew a wet raspberry. ‘I’m bored.’

‘Really? Because you’re doing a great job of hiding it.’

Wind rattled the sycamore trees, sending a cascade of second-hand rain tumbling from their leaves. Up above, the sky loomed grey and black.