Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

‘It’s not …’ Logan slid his key into the lock. ‘Look, there was nothing we could do. We saved Stephen Bisset’s life. At least that’s something.’

‘Tell that to his kids.’

Logan let himself into the Sergeant’s Hoose. Closed the door behind him. Locked it. Held the phone against his chest. ‘Cthulhu? Daddy’s home.’ No sign of her in the lounge. Or the kitchen. Back to Biohazard. ‘Professional Standards say anything to you?’

‘What do you think? Spent the last two hours getting my ear chewed off about gender bias and equal opportunities for trannies and drag queens.’

He dumped the big bag of value tatties in the cupboard under the sink. Stuck the kettle on. ‘They say anything about me?’

‘No way the jury’s going to convict the slimy little git now. No confession, no forensics, and no corroboration. All we’ve got is a couple of adverts placed in the lonely hearts column.’

‘Biohazard: focus. What did Napier say about me?’

‘No idea, got my spanking off Inspector Laird. Sour-faced nettle-licking old bag. Far as I know, they’re coming after you next.’

Wonderful.

‘Tell you: when this whole thing collapses, you, me, and the boy Rennie, are going to be up to our ears in a septic-tank hot tub.’

‘And on that cheery note.’

‘Exactly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to get blootered.’ Biohazard hung up.

Logan stood in the kitchen, staring out of the window at Banff police station.

Might be a good idea to get the resignation in early. Take what he could get before they kicked him out. Go work offshore or something where you didn’t have to haul on a stabproof vest to start your working day. And you got decent regular shifts. And more money. And loads of time off …

Tempting.

But then, who’d look after Cthulhu while he was away on the rigs?

He dug her special saucer out, then went looking for a pouch of wet food. Whistled two notes, high-then-low. Stood at the kitchen door with the saucer in his hand. ‘Cthulhu?’

No prooping noise. No sound of surprisingly heavy paws thumping down the stairs.

He climbed up to the first floor.

Stood in the hallway and listened to the rhythmic asymmetrical purr.

Let his head fall back, and swore .

Placed one hand on the bedroom door and pushed.

Steel was lying flat on her back, in his bed, one bare foot and one hand sticking out from beneath the duvet. Mouth hanging open, snoring.

A pile of clothes lay crumpled on the floor by the window. A copy of Fifty Shades of Grey on the bedside cabinet.

Cthulhu raised her head from the pillow, gave a wide triangular yawn, stood. Turned around, and settled down to sleep again.

Typical.

Logan put the saucer of cat food on the chest of drawers and poked Steel in the shoulder. ‘Hoy!’

‘Mmmnnnghphhhhh …’ Her mouth made glistening wet circles. Then the snoring started again.

‘WAKEY, WAKEY!’

‘Gnph …!’ She scrambled up in bed, eyes wide and blinking. ‘What? I never touched her …’

Oh. Dear. God.

Steel wasn’t wearing anything …

Logan swallowed. Flinched back a step. A sour taste filled his mouth. ‘Oh God, not again !’

‘Noooo …’ Then she grabbed the covers and hauled them up to her chin. Scowled at him. ‘You rotten sod. I was dreaming about Claudia Schiffer!’ More blinking. ‘What time is it?’

‘What are you doing in my bed? Naked. Why are you naked in my bed?’ He backed up till he hit the wall. ‘You swore this wouldn’t happen again. You promised!’

Steel thumped back onto the pillow. ‘She was all covered in Nutella and everything.’

‘You know what? Tough.’ Deep breath. Then Logan straightened. ‘I’m not running a B-and-B here.’ He crossed to the window and yanked the curtains open. ‘Up.’

‘Gah! Don’t be a scumbag!’ She pulled the duvet over her head, exposing naked shins and knees. ‘Couldn’t stay in the hotel, some moron was snoring.’

‘That was probably you. Come on, out.’

The lump under the duvet didn’t move. ‘I don’t snore.’

‘Bloody well do. You sound like a drunk pig trapped in a wheelie bin.’ He picked up the pile of clothes and dropped them on her. ‘Downstairs. Five minutes.’

Steel scuffed into the kitchen wearing a hotel bathrobe and Logan’s slippers. Thumped into the single wooden chair and cracked a huge yawn, showing off her fillings. ‘Coffee.’

‘In my sodding bed!’

‘Oh, don’t be such a girl. I changed the sheets and duvet cover first. Wasn’t going to get into your filthy pit, God knows what I might catch.’ Another yawn. ‘Got any toast?’

‘It wasn’t my fault: Graham Stirling. I did what I had to and I’m not apologizing for it any more. They don’t like it, tough.’

She stuck one hand down the front of her robe and had a scratch. ‘Probably should’ve put on a bra …’

Oh God. Not again. Once was bad enough.

He turned his back. Stuck the kettle on to boil again. ‘If you want to shout at me, you can get your stuff and bugger off. My shift starts at three: till then, I don’t care.’

‘Course you do.’ She picked the bottle of supermarket whisky from the floor. Gave it a shoogle. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be drinking this pish.’

‘And while I’m at it, how the hell did you get in here?’

Another yawn. ‘You left me a key, remember?’

Outside the kitchen window, a knot of uniform in high-vis waistcoats clambered into the back of a big police van. Probably off to search the cliffs or the road again. As if that was going to make any difference.

He took two mugs from the cupboard and spooned instant coffee into them. ‘You got an ID on your victim yet?’

‘I wish.’ A little deflating noise came from behind him. ‘She’s no’ in the misper database, so Finnie went on the news last night with a picture and did an appeal for info. No prizes for guessing what happened next.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘Six hundred phone calls, and no’ a decent bit of intel between them.’ More yawning. ‘Don’t know why we bother.’

The kettle’s clicking grumble built to a rattling boil.

He stuck two slices of floppy white bread in the toaster. Put on his casual voice. ‘We still on for that raid today? Four OSU and a dog team?’

‘You’ve got a cheek. After your performance yesterday?’

He poured boiling water into the mugs. ‘I can still throw your arse out on the street. In your stolen dressing gown.’

She shrugged. ‘Try it.’

…

Fair enough.

He poured the water over the coffee granules. Stared out of the window as the police van pulled away. ‘I need a success, OK? Biohazard says Professional Standards are coming after me.’

‘Wondered when we’d get to that. Poor Logan, oh pity poor Logan, look at him all sad and unloved, he’s only little, etc.’ Steel went in for another scratch. ‘Mind you, Biohazard’s no’ wrong. The rubber heelers are going to be all over you for yesterday. Right now you’re about one screw-up away from getting booted off the force.’

Logan pulled his epaulettes from his fleece pockets, huffed a breath over the chrome-plated sergeant’s bars, and polished them on the leg of his trousers. Clipped them into place on the shoulders of his police T-shirt. Stared at his computer screen.

The STORM system was full of actions from yesterday’s unsupervised backshift. A lot of which still needed updating. Tufty was the worst offender: from the look of things, he hadn’t actually done a single bit of work yesterday. Well today he was going to be busy, even if it was only trying to extract a size-nine boot from his backside.