Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

David glared back, mouth a hard trembling line.

Then his sister took his arm and led him back towards the taxi. ‘Come on, David. Let’s go home. It’s OK.’

‘He’s not a pervert …’

‘I know.’

They climbed back into the taxi, him hunched over, one hand wiping the tears from his eyes, her rubbing his back between the shoulder blades.

Logan stood where he was as the taxi drove past him.

David was in full flood now, face screwed up, back heaving. But his sister stared out of the window, her eyes locked on Logan’s. Face dead and expressionless.

And then they were gone. Down to the bottom of Marischal Street and left, disappearing onto Regent Quay.

Graham Stirling ruined more than Stephen Bisset’s life, he screwed up Bisset’s kids too. Screwed them up so much they might never get past the sight of their father lying on his back in the High Dependency Unit with tubes and wires hooking him up to machines and drips and bags.

Four months and he’d barely moved. Hadn’t said a word. Just lay there.

A small shiver danced across the back of Logan’s neck.

Four months as a stump of a man, waiting for death. And Logan couldn’t even put the bastard who’d done it behind bars.

David Bisset had been right to have a go at him.

He deserved it.

Logan’s seat rattled as the big diesel engine changed down to climb the hill. Outside the windows, granite tenements shone in the afternoon light. Trees glowed green and gold. Roses made frozen scarlet fireworks in gardens.

He dug into his carrier bag and pulled out the first tin of beer. Still cold from the chiller cabinet. Little beads of condensation prickling on the metal surface. He clicked the tab, took a deep swig. Ground his teeth together and swallowed. Bitter. Which fitted perfectly.

The number 35 was nearly empty. A couple of oldies sat up front near the driver. Neither of them talking — him buried in his newspaper, her staring out of the window. Leaving Logan with most of the bus to himself.

Another swig.

Bloody Sandy Moir-Bloody-Farquharson.

What the hell was he supposed to do: let Stephen Bisset die?

He took his peaked cap off the seat next to him and stuffed it in the carrier bag. Followed it up with the epaulettes off his T-shirt. OK, so the sleeves still had ‘POLICE’ embroidered on them, but rolling them up a couple of turns hid that. Now he was just another skinhead, dressed in black, drinking cheap beer at the back of a bus. Glowering out at the city as the driver took them through Berryden, past Aberdeen Royal Infirmary, through Bucksburn, Dyce, then out into the countryside.

Tin number two died in his hands. He crushed the empty and dumped it in the bag.

Fields and sheep and cattle slid by outside the windows. Green land, blue sky, and happy little fluffy sodding clouds.

Should’ve been raining. Should’ve been hammering it down from a slate-grey sky, wind battering the bus and whipping the trees.

Logan’s phone went again. Not the ‘Imperial March’ for a change: unrecognized number.

His thumb hovered over the button. Pressed it. ‘Hello?’

Steel’s voice bellowed into his ear. ‘How could you possibly screw this up? Simple, open-and-shut case. What the hell’s wrong with you?’

‘It wasn’t my-’

‘Do you have any idea what the Big Brass are doing right now? They’re getting a dirty big stake sharpened, so they can ram it up my backside and roast me on an open fire!’

‘I didn’t-’

‘All the man-hours we put into that investigation and it’s ruined !’

‘There’s still the DNA evidence. It’ll-’

‘YOU TOOK STIRLING TO THE BLOODY CRIME SCENE!’ Silence. She was probably counting to ten. Then she was back, sounding as if she’d dropped something heavy on her foot. ‘Hissing Sid’s screaming cross-contamination. Never mind sending the bastard down, we’ll be lucky if we get out of this without Graham Stirling suing our arses off! It’s-’

Logan hung up.

Three seconds later, his phone started ringing again. Then the Airwave handset joined in.

He turned them both off. Rammed them deep into his fleece pockets.

Opened another tin of beer.

So much for celebrating.

The sound of happy-clappy piano and guitars dragged Logan up from the depths, hurling him into Wednesday morning.

‘And we’ve got more smashing hits of the Eighties after the news and weather with Bernie.’

He slumped back on the bed, one hand over his eyes while the other fumbled for the alarm-clock radio.

‘Thanks, Clyde. Merseyside Police confirmed this morning that one of the women killed in the drive-by shooting in Liverpool on Sunday was Mary Ann Nasrallah, an undercover police officer. We’ll have more on that later this morning. Next, the hunt for missing sex offender Neil Wood enters its second day as-’

Logan slapped the radio into silent submission.

Should’ve switched the damn thing off before crashing last night.

Something dark and spiky throbbed behind his eyeballs. It coated the back of his throat with grit and bitterness. Made everything taste of cheap supermarket whisky. Then it sank its teeth into his bladder.

Unnngh …

The world was a sharp and queasy place as he lumbered through to the toilet.

Then back to bed again.

To hell with the day.

The padlock tumblers squeak beneath his blue fingertips. The hasp falls to the ground, followed by the lock as he pushes the door wide.

Its hinges creak like a coffin lid and he steps into the foetid darkness.

‘Stephen?’ The word comes out in a plume of breath, pale as a ghost. ‘It’s OK, you’re safe now …’

No he isn’t.

The torchlight swings its yellow septic eye across stacks of poles and saws and chains, logs and a cast-iron stove. Settles on a pile of filthy blankets.

Don’t do it.

But his hand reaches out anyway. What choice does it have?

He grips the barbed-wire fabric and pulls.

‘Stephen?’

The body lies on its side, curled up on a wooden pallet that’s stained crimson and black. The gaps between the slats are dark and hollow, like the gaping mouth. Gums torn and ragged where the teeth had been ripped out. Fingers bent and twisted, as if someone had taken a hammer to them. Thick strips of silver duct tape wrapped over the eyes. Dried blood caked around the empty groin and filthy buttocks. More blood across the swollen chest. Chains around the wrists and ankles, heavy and rusted.

He’s dead. He has to be dead.

A fist of gravel catches in Logan’s throat. He swallows it. Forces it down into his chest, sharp and hard and cold. ‘I’m sorry.’

And then that ruined blind head turns and screams …

The toilet bowl was cool against Logan’s cheek. Breath slowing. The pounding in his temples settled to a galley-slave beat, battering the drums in time with his heart.

Sitting on the bathroom floor, Logan howched and spat out streamers of bile-yellow spittle. Groaned.

Pulled himself upright.

The man in the mirror looked like an extra from The Walking Dead .

He rinsed out his mouth. Washed his face. Dried it. Couldn’t look at it any more.

His stomach gurgled and he froze, one hand pressing against the scars that criss-crossed his abdomen. Then it settled.

Never drinking cheap own-brand whisky ever again.

Ever.

Especially not half a bottle of it.

He slumped back to the bedroom. Stood, looking down at the crumpled, sweat-soaked sheets.

Yeah, sod going back to bed.

Sun streamed through the window, turning the air into golden syrup, flecked with glowing dust motes. The ward’s quiet was punctuated by the hum and hiss of ventilators. The wub-wub-wub of a far-off floor polisher. The squeak of comfortable shoes on blue terrazzo flooring.