Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

Stubble made patchy blue-grey shadows on David’s chin. His eyes had sunken into his head, underlined by the same bony cheeks as his sister. He stared back for a moment, then fastened the equipment belt around his waist. Pointed at the kneeling figure. ‘Does this look stupid to you?’

David snatched a handful of pillowcase and pulled.

Graham Stirling blinked in the light. His face was a paisley-pattern of yellow and purple bruises, one nostril crusted with black. A thick wad of fabric poked out of his mouth, held in place by the gag tied behind his head. ‘Mmmnnnnngh! Mnnngghhnnnghnnnphhhh!’

‘He says he never touched our dad. Says you made it all up to frame him. That right?’

‘No. He’s sick and he’s dangerous and he should be locked away for the rest of his life.’

‘But he’s not, is he? They let him go, and they let you call our father a pervert.’

David untied the gag and Stirling spat out the lump of fabric. Coughed. Spluttered. Retched. Then his shoulders drooped.

Stirling’s voice creaked like an unoiled hinge. ‘I didn’t … I didn’t touch … your father. I swear … I didn’t touch him.’

‘See? He says you’re a liar, Sergeant McRae.’

‘I’m not! I saw what he did — he led me there! He did it. But he needs to go to prison, not whatever this is.’

‘I didn’t … it’s … it’s all … lies.’

David’s left hand drifted down to the extendable baton, thumb toying with the catch keeping it in its holder. Pop — it was off. Click — it was back on again. Pop. Click .

‘He set … He set me up.’

‘This doesn’t help you, David.’ Logan inched closer, hands still out. ‘We know you killed your dad, but it was a mercy killing. He was suffering. It was an act of love. No jury’s going to hold that against you.’

Pop. Click. Pop. Click .

‘Stop this now, before it goes too far.’

Pop. Click. Pop. Click .

‘Please … don’t kill … don’t kill me. I didn’t …’

‘He says he didn’t do it, McRae.’

Pop. Click. Pop. Click .

‘He’s lying, because he’s scared. Come on, let’s all-’

‘OK.’ Pop . David yanked the baton free of its holder, hard enough to send the extendable end clacking out to full lock. Raised it high above his head, arm drawn back, teeth bared.

Stirling flinched, shoulders up, as if that was going to save him. ‘Please! I didn’t! I didn’t do it!’

Oh Christ, David was going to kill him.

‘NO!’ Logan lunged, then stopped as Catherine rested the tip of her knife against the dip in Samantha’s head, where the bone was missing.

Catherine stared at him. ‘You stay where you are.’

‘Please, don’t do this. He’s sick, OK? He’s broken. He deserves to be locked away for ever, but he doesn’t deserve to die.’

David lowered the baton. ‘Doesn’t deserve to die? After what he did to my dad, he DOESN’T DESERVE TO DIE?’

‘David, please, I know you’re upset, but-’

‘HE DESERVES TO DIE!’ The pale skin darkened, whites showing around the iris of his eyes. ‘HE DESERVES TO BE TORN TO PIECES! I SHOULD SKIN HIM ALIVE!’

‘David, you don’t get to decide who lives and who-’

‘I SHOULD CASTRATE HIM! CARVE HOLES IN HIS CHEST! RIP HIS BOWELS OUT HIS BACKSIDE!’ David’s arms and legs trembled, the extendable baton slapping against his own thigh. The tendons in his neck twitched. Teeth glittering with spittle in the gloom.

Catherine reached out her other hand and tugged on his sleeve. ‘It’s OK. Just do it like we practised.’

A couple of deep breaths. Then he nodded. ‘But I can’t do those things, because I’m not a pervert like him. So I’m going to bash his brains out. He’s guilty. And he does deserve it.’ The baton swooped up again.

‘Stop! OK, you’re right!’ Logan held his hands out again. Flicked his eyes towards Graham Stirling — kneeling there with his eyes screwed shut and his teeth bared, waiting for the blow to come. Waiting to die. Logan cleared his throat. ‘I was lying. He didn’t do that to your dad. I picked him, because I didn’t know who did it. Put the baton down.’

No one moved.

David stared at him. Then lowered his arm. The colour faded from his face, leaving him ghost-pale again. ‘You were right.’

Stirling looked up. Smiled. ‘What did I tell you? Sergeant McRae lied .’ He worked his way to his feet. ‘All that time, lying about me.’ He pulled his hands apart. The rope had been wrapped around his wrists, not tied. It was all for show. ‘A dirty, filthy, liar.’

Logan stepped back. ‘You planned it?’

‘I helped David and Catherine see through your lies, McRae. They came to me, and they were angry and upset, and I helped them.’

‘I only said that because they were going to kill you!’

‘See? I told you. He lies, and he schemes, and he could’ve saved your dad, but he was too busy fitting me up to care.’

David looked up at the lowering clouds.

Boom — another wave hit the sea wall, sending spray bursting over it like fireworks.

Then down again.

He turned to his sister. ‘Like we practised.’

She grabbed hold of the wheelchair and wrenched the handles upwards, pitching it and Samantha forward into the pool.

‘NO!’

Samantha hit the water, and the weight of the wheelchair pulled her straight under.

Logan ran for the edge, then David crashed into him. A one-shouldered tackle that sent them both crunching onto the walkway.

A grunt, then pain flashed across Logan’s ribs as the extendable baton cracked into them.

He raised an arm, covering his head. Kicked out, missed.

But David didn’t. The baton smashed into Logan’s upper arm. Numbness followed a wave of broken glass, from his shoulder to his fingertips. Flat on his back, one leg in the cold water.

David scrambled on top, hauled the baton up again.

Logan jerked up a knee and made contact. But it didn’t make any difference.

The baton cracked down again, tearing into his scalp. Echoing through his skull on waves of burning coal.

His fist jabbed up and round. Caught David on the side of the nose, snapping it. Warm blood pattered down.

‘AAAAAAAAAAAAGH!’ David reared back, one hand covering his ruined nose, bright red oozing between his fingers.

Logan forced himself up on his numb arm and battered his right elbow into David’s face, mashing those bloody fingers into teeth and bone. Then grabbed a handful of long dark hair and yanked him forwards. Turning. Putting his weight behind it.

David’s head bounced off the concrete with a dull thunk . Twice. Three times.

Catherine screamed.

Logan pushed the limp body off of him and tumbled into the swimming pool. Cold, squeezed his body, forcing the air out of his lungs.

The wheelchair was only a couple of feet underwater, on its front, pinning Samantha to the rocky floor of the pool. She wasn’t moving. Wasn’t trying to save herself. She sat there, face down, strapped in, still like the dead.

He wrapped his arms around the chair’s back and heaved, dragging the whole thing up.

She flopped in her seat, head lolling, skin pale as ivory, lips granite grey. Water cascaded from her open mouth.

Thunder growled through the sky, reverberating back from the hills. A squall of rain pebbled the surface of the pool, bounced off the concrete walkway.

He snatched at the Velcro straps holding her in the chair. Tore them free, then dragged her out of it. Half wading, half swimming to the ramp at the side of the water leading up onto the tiered apron.