Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

Dawson’s mouth hung open for a moment, accompanied by a frown, and then the smile was back. Broad and magnanimous on that trendy little face. ‘That’s … very cool of you, Sergeant. Thanks. Milk, two sugars.’

‘Not a problem at all.’ Logan held up both hands, palms out. ‘I’ll get out of your hair.’

Back through into the main office.

Becky stormed past, mug in one hand, packet of crisps in the other. Swearing under her breath as she pushed through into the hall, making for the upper floors.

Through into the Constables’ Office.

Nicholson was poking away at her computer keyboard, filling in her actions for the day.

He leaned back against the work-surface desk. ‘You’ll never guess who I just met.’

She looked up. ‘Santa?’

‘Your favourite sexist scumbag, DS Dawson.’

‘Urgh …’ She went back to her keyboard, thumping away harder than before. ‘Hope he gets syphilis. From an angry Rottweiler.’

‘Wouldn’t put it past-’

The Constables’ Office door banged open and there was the PC who’d been banging evidence-label numbers into a spreadsheet: broad-faced with little black flecks along the underside of his double chin, as if he’d shaved in a hurry. ‘Yeah, hi. Sorry.’ A sniff. ‘Listen, DS Dawson says if you guys are making tea anyway: we need three with milk and one sugar; four with milk; two white coffees; and one black, two sugars. Don’t suppose you’ve got any Earl Grey, do you? The boss is partial.’

Nicholson was on her feet. ‘Now you listen to me, you f-’

‘It’ll be our pleasure.’ Logan stood. Patted Nicholson on the shoulder. ‘Isn’t that right, Constable?’

A pause.

The guy with the scabby chin shrugged. ‘Only doing what I’m told.’

She hissed out a breath. ‘Yes, Sarge.’

Nicholson thumped the mugs into a line on the counter beside the sink. All ten of them. Stuck the kettle on to boil, then plonked teabags and spoons of instant coffee in the requisite ones.

Logan leaned back against the vending machine, crumpling the notice saying that prices were going up again. ‘Don’t forget the milk.’

A scowl. ‘Still don’t see why we have to run around after-’

‘Because we are good little parochial police officer teuchters who know their place.’ Sticking out his left arm, Logan grabbed the canteen door and shoved. It swung shut with a clunk.

The room was a washed-out shade of industrial magnolia. Recycling bins, a vending machine, and a TV-on-a-shelf took up one side; a blue worktop-table sat in the middle; kitchen units, cooker and sink against the opposite wall. A concrete garden gnome stood on the windowsill — someone had painted his eyes in with Tipp-Ex and black marker, given him a thick pair of sinister eyebrows, and added a cut-out paper knife to one hand. Presumably so he could guard the piggy bank.

Logan picked up the pottery pig and gave it a shoogle. It barely rattled.

Nicholson pointed. ‘See? They’re not even putting in for teas and coffees! Freeloading-’

‘All right.’ Logan dug into his fleece pockets. ‘How we doing with the kettle?’

She checked. ‘Nearly.’ Then pouted. ‘I mean, come on, Sarge, this isn’t fair .’

‘We’re helping our fellow officers to a tasty hot beverage. Nothing wrong with that.’

Nicholson dumped the big carton of semi-skimmed down next to the cooker. ‘Why are you taking this so bloody calmly?’

‘Because I am a grown-up.’ He held up the drugs he’d purchased from the Fraserburgh Tesco. ‘Four boxes of violent, unpredictable relief.’ He tossed one to Nicholson. ‘What’s the recommended dose?’

Frowning, she scanned the instructions. ‘One tablet before bedtime. Why are-’

‘What do you think: three or four per mug?’

She shifted from foot to foot. ‘Won’t they … you know, taste it?’

‘Not the way you make tea. Grind them up first, then let’s see if we can’t scare up some biscuits for our honoured guests.’

Sunlight streamed in through the thin curtains. The smell of damp, still alive under the combined assault of two plug-in air fresheners — bruised, but fighting back. The bleeping warble of an upbeat song on the alarm-clock radio.

Logan rolled over and thumped the snooze button. Lay back and stared at the collection of brown stains on the ceiling. That one looked like a buffalo. That one like a dismembered foot. That one like … Norway?

The walls weren’t much better — covered in peeling paper, painted a revolting shade of blackcurrant mousse. Curling away from the plaster.

Home, sweet home.

A massive yawn grabbed him, stretching his arms and legs beneath the duvet. Leaving him limp and blinking.

Seven a.m. A whole two and a half hours’ sleep.

Come on: up. Graham Stirling wasn’t going to convict himself.

Logan rolled out of bed and padded to the window, bare feet scuffing on the bare floorboards. Pulled one side of the curtain back an inch. Crystal-meth sky with high wispy clouds. The tide out, exposing a swathe of pale-blonde sand from here to the River Deveron. Lines of white rippling the sea. A yacht sailing off into the blue.

‘Unngh …’ Scratch. Yawn.

Cthulhu popped up on the windowsill beside him, landing in ghostly silence. Made a prooping noise, then butted her head against his arm. Small and fluffy, with stripes and a tail nearly as big as the rest of her put together. He rubbed one of her hairy ears, making her grimace and lean into it, purring.

The clock radio lurched into life again. The end of the warbling song replaced by a cheery woman’s voice. ‘I don’t know about you, but I like it!’

The purring stopped. Cthulhu shook her head then thumped back to the floorboards — landing like a sack of bricks — and padded off, tail straight up. Business to attend to.

‘News and weather coming up at half past nine. And we’ll have more on the hunt for missing forty-three-year-old, Neil Wood. But first, here’s the latest hit single from Monster Mouse Machine …’

Sod that. Time for a quick shower, then off to Aberdeen.

‘All right, all right, I’m coming …’ Logan wrapped the towel around his middle, slipped his wet feet into his slippers and scuffed down the bare stairs as the bell kept up its brrrrrrrringing wail. Along the hall to the front door. Wrenched it open. ‘What?’

Oh … great .

DCI Steel raised an eyebrow, took a long slow draw on the e-cigarette sticking out the corner of her mouth. ‘I’m flattered, but I don’t think my wife would approve.’ Steel’s hair was all squashed on one side, the other looked as if it had filed for independence from her head. Thick, dark circles crowded the bags beneath her eyes. More dark circles beneath the arms of the same blue silk shirt she’d had on the night before. Jacket slung over one shoulder, heavy carrier bag in her other hand. She nodded at his midriff. ‘Nice scars though.’

He folded his arms over the shiny puckered lines.

She frowned. ‘You’ve lost weight. What happened to the cuddly chunky-monkey McRae we all know and love? Just skin and bones now.’

‘You try humphing a stone-and-a-bit of equipment around for ten hours every day.’

A minibus full of old ladies rumbled past, pale creased faces pressed to the window. Assorted whoops and obscene hand gestures.

Steel waved back at them. ‘Well, you going to stand there dripping, with your willy hanging out, or are you going to invite me in?’

He grunted, turned and shuffled back inside. ‘Can’t be long — catching a hurl into Aberdeen with Swanson, remember?’

Steel clunked the door shut behind her, then whistled. ‘Wow. Rennie was right, you do live in a craphole.’