Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

‘Sir, I have reason to suspect that you’ve been driving under the influence of drink or drugs in contravention of Section Two of the Road Traffic Act 1988. Are you sure you’ve not been drinking?’

‘I’VE JUST TOLD YOU THAT!’ Blood flushed his face, hands curled into fists at his sides, arms shaking.

Steel raised an eyebrow. ‘Aye, aye, someone’s no’ been taking their happy pills.’

‘If you’ve not been drinking, sir, I can only conclude that you may have taken, and be in possession of, a controlled substance.’

‘I don’t have to stand here and listen to this nonsense!’

‘Sir, I’m detaining you in terms of Section Twenty-Three of the Misuse of Drugs Act, 1971 for the purpose of a search. Do you have anything in your pockets I should know about? Any knives, needles, anything sharp?’

‘You are not searching me! I demand to speak to your superior.’

Steel gave him a grin. ‘That would be me. You search away, young Logan. Methinks Dr Kidfiddler doth protest too much.’ A wink. ‘That’s your actual Shakespeare.’

‘Arms out, please, sir.’ Logan snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves.

‘I’ll make damn sure the pair of you never work again. Do you hear me?’

‘Yes, sir. Now: arms out, please.’

Logan ran his hands along the sleeves of Gilcomston’s cardigan, then the legs of his corduroy trousers. Checked the turn-ups. Then the cardigan’s pockets. The left one contained a pipe, and a packet of tobacco. The right one contained a box of matches. ‘Well, well, well. Would you care to explain this, sir?’ He held up a small plastic baggie with brown powder in it. Remarkably similar to the one he’d confiscated from Kirstin Rattray when she was on the way to her daughter’s fairy princess party. Identical, in fact.

‘It … I never …’ Gilcomston’s face darkened again. ‘YOU PLANTED THAT!’ He lunged, fist swinging.

Logan grabbed the arm, locked the wrist, and thumped him chest-first into the Jaguar’s passenger door.

‘GET OFF ME! I’LL KILL YOU!’

‘Possession of a Class A drug, resisting arrest, threats to kill.’ Logan snapped on the cuffs. ‘William Gilcomston, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Procedure — Scotland — Act 1995, because I suspect you of having committed an offence punishable by imprisonment …’

Wind whipped a fistful of rain against the Sergeants’ Office window. Outside, Fraserburgh scowled beneath a swathe of grey clouds.

Logan pinned the phone between his ear and shoulder, and ran a thumbnail along the foil, between the KitKat’s fingers. ‘We did presumptive testing, and it’s definitely heroin.’

The officer on the other end of the phone sighed. ‘Never pegged him for a druggie, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything.’ Her voice was big, round, and warm. The kind of voice that went with hot chocolate and marshmallows.

Click , and the two bits of biscuit snapped apart. ‘I was wondering: is this a violation of his supervision order?’

‘Not explicitly. But given how prickly he is at the best of times, it’s not a good sign. Did he admit to it?’

‘Does he ever?’ Logan crunched into one of them, sooking the chocolate off the wafer.

‘Not that I’ve ever heard. You could catch him peeing in your shoe and he’d tell you someone else did it.’

The chair swivelled left, then right, then left again. ‘Can you do me a favour? Get a search warrant for his house? If he’s up to this, maybe he’s up to something else?’

A pause.

Logan crunched down the rest of the finger, and started on the other one.

‘Do you know something I don’t?’

‘Well … let’s just say it might be worth taking a look around before he gets out and disposes of whatever it is he’s hiding.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

The door opened and Steel bundled into the room, fastening her belt. ‘You getting a search warrant?’

He put a chocolaty hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Offender Management Unit are handling it. We could probably tag along, if you like?’

Little creases appeared between her eyebrows. ‘How come you’re no’ doing it?’

‘He’s a registered sex offender. Thought it made more sense if they were in charge.’ And it didn’t hurt to put a little distance between himself and the warrant.

‘Oh no you don’t, it’s my shout.’

Back to the phone. ‘Can you give DCI Steel a bell when you’re ready to go in? She’s keeping an eye on him for something else. Wants to tag along.’

‘Will do.’

Logan put the phone back in its cradle. Scrunched up the tinfoil wrapper and lobbed it in the bin. ‘You ready to head back to the ranch? Gilcomston’s solicitor’s not going to be up till three-ish.’

Steel settled on the edge of the desk. ‘Do you no’ think it was a bit of a coincidence? You think he’s acting a bit funny, you search him, and hallelujah, praise the Lord, you find a wrap of heroin.’

Logan didn’t look at her, gathered up his things instead. ‘Sometimes you get lucky.’ OK, so it wasn’t ethical. And if anyone found out he’d done it, he’d be fired, then prosecuted. But he’d probably just saved William Gilcomston’s life.

She was still staring at him.

‘What?’

Steel took out her fake cigarette, clicked it on. Took a puff. ‘Nothing.’

Logan pushed through the tradesmen’s entrance and into Banff station. ‘No. The photo was taken outside Gilcomston’s house. That means the wee girl was there. There’s going to be DNA. Maybe photographs.’

Steel followed him into the canteen. ‘Going to be hard to get him for killing her. Even if we get anything at the house, he’s going to blame one of the others. Pass the corpse.’

Logan grabbed a couple of mugs from the cupboard. ‘We can still do him for the abuse. Maybe conspiracy to commit?’

‘Well, that’s sod all use, isn’t it? I want to bang someone up for killing that wee girl, no’ slap them on the wrist for being a nonce.’

‘What am I supposed to do, magic up a witness?’ Teabags.

‘How about a wrapper of heroin, because-’

Logan’s phone blared out its anonymous ringtone. Saved by the bells. ‘McRae?’

What sounded like singing in the background, then, ‘Logan? It’s Helen. Helen Edwards?’

‘Hold on a minute.’ He put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘I need to take this.’

Steel folded her arms. ‘I’m no’ stopping you.’

‘In private .’

‘Tough.’

‘Fine. You make the teas.’ He turned and marched back outside. ‘Sorry. Had someone with me.’

‘No, I’m sorry for running off. I didn’t want to leave without talking to you, but I was running out of time and I had to get the bus, or I would’ve missed my train. I stayed for as long as I could.’

‘You could’ve called me!’

‘I know. I tried, but … I’m really, really sorry.’

A big stone weight dragged at his shoulders, pulling them down. ‘Yeah, I’m sorry too.’

A handful of herring gulls swooped and crawed across the bay, glowing like diamonds when they hit a blade of sunlight, then fading to grey on the other side.

He cleared his throat. ‘So: Gwent. Wales.’

‘Took all night and all morning to get here. I’m at the police station.’

‘Well … make sure you get a B-and-B this time. No more sleeping rough waiting for nice police officers to take you in.’

‘I really am sorry, Logan.’

A couple of cars drove past. An ugly man with an uglier child walked along the road.

The awkward silence stretched.