Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

‘Batter on, Maggie.’

‘They’ve had another sighting of Catherine and David Bisset: Waverley Centre. Edinburgh are attending.’

Probably a complete waste of time, but it had to be followed up anyway. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes. Constable Quirrel has reported for duty. Am I letting him, or sending him home again.’

‘He look OK to you?’

She lowered her voice. ‘He’s wearing a badge with “genius” on it, but it’s spelled G.E.N.I.O.U.S.’

‘If Inspector McGregor’s got no objections, send him out. But make sure Tufty sticks with Deano all day. No wandering off on his own.’

‘Will do.’

He clipped his Airwave back into place.

Steel was staring at him. She narrowed her eyes.

‘What?’

‘Thought you said you were phoning him when we were at Mark Brussels’s place.’

‘I trust Maggie more than I trust Tufty. If she says he’s OK, he’s OK.’

Steel folded her arms and let her head fall back. ‘Couldn’t be more bored if I tried.’

‘This is for your benefit! Your case, remember?’

‘So let’s kick the door in and ransack the place!’

A jackdaw hopped sideways across the driveway.

‘We haven’t got a warrant.’

‘Then there’s no point sitting here. He’s hardly going to wander out and invite us in for quiche and a look at his stash of kiddy-porn, is he?’ She hauled her feet off the dashboard. ‘You know what? I’m no’ doing this any more. Back to the ranch.’

Logan opened the door and climbed out onto the street.

‘Hoy! I said back to the ranch.’

He clunked the door shut and walked across the road. Stood at the foot of Gilcomston’s driveway. Wandered along the pavement, looking up at the house. No sign of life. So he tried the other side of the driveway.

Paused on the edge of the kerb.

From there, just outside the front left corner of the property, he had a clear view between the leaves of a rhododendron bush to a garage set back from the house. Black double doors. Difficult to tell for sure without the actual photograph for reference, but it looked a lot like the spot where Charles Anderson must have stood to take a photo of the little dead girl before she appeared face-down in Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool.

He unhooked his Airwave.

Steel was right, they needed a warrant.

Of course that didn’t matter to Charles Anderson. No evidentiary procedures to follow. No slippery defence lawyers waiting to pick holes in everything. No letting people like Graham Stirling back on the streets. No worrying about-

A loud Breeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep! Sounded from the Big Car.

God’s sake, it was like babysitting a drunken toddler.

Logan started back, then stopped. Stared down the street.

An ancient green Jaguar growled its way up the hill towards him, with Dr Gilcomston behind the wheel. The car didn’t slow down as it swung into the driveway, crunching its way up the gravel drive.

Logan marched after it.

The driver’s door creaked open, and Gilcomston stepped out. Shoulders back, chin up, scowling down his nose. ‘This is harassment. I’ve already made a formal complaint about you and that woman’s behaviour. Now please get off my property, I have nothing further to say to you.’ Today’s cardigan was purple. He walked around to the Jag’s boot and popped it open. Took out a clutch of Asda carrier bags. Slammed the boot shut again.

‘We know.’

He picked up his bags and scrunched along the gravel towards the house. A gust of wind snatched at his grey hair.

‘We know about you, and Mark Brussels, and Neil Wood, and Liam Barden. We know about the little girl you bought.’

Gilcomston paused, one foot on the front doorstep. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘She was six years old. You called her “Cherry”. Did you pick her yourself, or did you put it to a vote?’

‘Whoever you’ve been talking to is lying . This is nothing to do with me.’

‘And we’re not the only ones who know about it. There’s someone targeting people like you. And you’re the only one of the ring left.’

His eyes darted to the garage, with its black doors. ‘Please get off my property.’

‘Neil Wood’s dead. Liam Barden’s dead. Mark Brussels is missing, so he’s probably going to be joining them soon. That leaves you.’

He lowered one set of bags and dug out his keys.

‘How long do you think it’ll be before he comes after you too?’

Gilcomston unlocked the front door. ‘Am I under arrest?’

‘You come in voluntarily, you make a complete confession, and we get you somewhere safe.’

‘If I’m not under arrest, you can leave now.’

He marched inside. Slammed the door closed.

Some people think they’re untouchable.

Some people really needed to learn.

Logan clicked the talk button on his Airwave. ‘Shire Uniform Seven to Bravo India, Safe to talk?’

Inspector McGregor’s voice crackled out of the little speaker. ‘What’s up?’

‘We need to get a surveillance operation set up: Dr William Harris Gilcomston, eighteen Firth Place, Macduff. I need a twenty-four-hour observation on him for about a week. Week and a half. Starting now.’

‘You are joking, aren’t you? You’re talking about at least two and a half thousand man-hours. Have you any idea how much that would cost?’

‘Might be our best bet to catch Charles Anderson.’

A sigh. ‘If it was up to me: I’d say go for it, but I haven’t got the bodies, Logan. I’ll try the Area Commander, but it’ll take a while to get an operation of that scale approved. At least two or three days.’

By which time Gilcomston would probably be dead.

Maybe it was for the best? Charles Anderson turns up and carts Gilcomston off somewhere painful for a chat. Then dumps whatever’s left of him at sea. Couldn’t exactly say he’d be a great loss to humanity.

Still …

Logan puffed out his cheeks. Let the breath slowly hiss out. There was one way to save the arrogant scumbag’s life. Not exactly ethical, but it might work. ‘OK, thanks, Guv. Let me know how it goes.’ He twisted the handset back onto its holder.

‘Are you no’ done sodding about yet?’

Logan turned, and there was Steel, puffing away on her fake cigarette.

He nodded at the house. ‘Detective Chief Inspector, was it my imagination, or did Dr Gilcomston seem unsteady on his feet when he emerged from his vehicle?’

‘Eh?’ She pulled her chin in. ‘Why are you talking like that? Sound like you’ve swallowed your notebook.’

‘I’m concerned that he may have been driving under the influence of either drink or drugs.’ Logan thumbed the doorbell. Then gave the police-issue three loud knocks. Stepped back. Released the elastic band from his body-worn video and set it recording.

‘You’re off your head, Laz.’

The door yanked open, and there was Gilcomston glowering down at them. ‘I think I made myself perfectly clear, Sergeant . I want you off my property.’

Logan wandered over to the Jaguar, hands tucked into the zippy pockets on his stabproof vest. ‘Is this your vehicle, sir?’

‘Of course it is. And it’s taxed and insured.’

‘I see.’ Logan turned a smile on him. ‘Have you been drinking, sir? Because you seem a little unsteady.’

‘I have not been drinking. How dare you come here and accuse me!’ Gilcomston stamped down onto the driveway and jabbed a finger in Logan’s direction. ‘I’ll have your badge. Or warrant card. Or whatever it is you petty fascists have.’