Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

The desk phone burst into its annoying electronic trill.

So much for the peace and quiet.

Logan had a sip of tea, then answered the phone. ‘Banff station.’

A woman’s voice, hesitant and slightly hushed. Faint hint of an Ayrshire accent The sound of a grumbling diesel engine in the background. ‘I need to speak to someone about the … the little girl’s body they found.’

He pulled out his notebook. ‘Do you have some information?’ Pen poised.

‘Can I … Can I see her?’

Great. Another nutter.

‘Police Scotland don’t do general viewings for people who want to look at murder victims. It’s considered insensitive. Thank you for calling.’

‘Wait! I …’ She cleared her throat. ‘I think she might be my daughter.’

‘OK.’ He peered at the phone’s display and jotted down the mobile number she was calling from. ‘Can I get your name please?’

‘It’s Helen. Helen Edwards. My daughter’s name is Natasha. Natasha Clara Edwards. She … She’d be six now. I haven’t seen her for three years.’

‘Can you hang on a second?’ He pinned the phone between his ear and shoulder, logged into the Missing Person system and hammered ‘NATASHA EDWARDS’ into the search box. Got back a raft of results for the surname Edwards, Edward, and Edwardson. Natasha Clara Edwards was halfway down the screen.

A click, and the summary appeared.

Abducted on the eve of her third birthday, three years ago, from the family home in Falkirk. Blah, blah, blah … Investigating officers were sure it was her father who snatched her — he disappeared at the same time, two weeks before financial irregularities surfaced at the firm of accountants he worked for. The assumption was that she’d been wheeched off to Spain where her dad had family. Enquiries with the Spanish authorities fizzled out and the case was shelved.

He opened a web browser and had a bash on Google. Lots of red-top tabloid outrage about wee kids getting snatched by their estranged dads and what were the police going to do about it?

The photo beneath the headlines was pretty standard across the newspapers and editions: a little girl sitting in a paddling pool. Ash-blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders, eyebrows so pale they almost weren’t there. Big grin. Spade in one hand. Ducks on her swimming costume.

Add three years and she could easily be the girl found in Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool.

‘OK, sorry about that.’ He underlined the name in his notebook. ‘Mrs Edwards, can you remember any distinguishing features your daughter has? Birthmarks? Scars? Did she break any bones when she was small? Moles? Anything like that?’ Dental records might help … assuming she’d had a lot of work done when she was tiny and those teeth hadn’t fallen out yet. But it wasn’t likely.

‘Do you need DNA, or something? I’ve got a lock of her hair.’

There was a knock on the door. ‘Logan?’ Inspector McGregor stepped into the room. ‘Are we all set for the raid on Klingon and Gerbil’s place?’

He pointed at the phone in his other hand. Mouthed the words, ‘Murdered girl.’

That got him a raised eyebrow.

‘Before we go down the DNA route, we need to see if there’s anything obvious to rule Natasha in or out.’ He scribbled the words ‘TARLAIR BODY — MIGHT BE HER MUM ON PHONE’ on a Post-it and held it out.

The Inspector took it, raised an eyebrow. Then perched on the edge of the desk.

‘Oh, I see …’

‘No point wasting your time coming all the way up here if it definitely isn’t her.’

‘Too late. I got the train to Aberdeen this afternoon. I’m on the bus to Banff now.’

‘Right … Well … When are you going to arrive?’

‘Quarter past five?’

Which gave them about two hours.

‘OK, I’ll get someone to meet you at the bus stop and we’ll see what we can do.’

‘Thanks.’ She hung up.

Logan put the phone back on the hook. Frowned at it.

The Inspector craned her neck to peer at the search results on his monitor. ‘Credible?’

‘No idea. Maybe.’ He pointed at the wee girl grinning out from the front page of the Daily Mail on his computer screen. ‘Looks a bit like her. After three years …?’ A shrug.

‘Well, make sure you let the MIT know.’ Inspector McGregor folded her arms. ‘Anything I need to worry about today?’

‘Should be fine, Guv. We’ve got Syd Fraser coming over with his dogs and a four-person team from the Operational Support Unit. Plan is to go in soon as everyone’s here.’

‘I see. Well, make sure you keep an eye on Constable Quirrel — you know how excitable he gets.’ She dumped an ID sheet on Logan’s desk. Pointed at the lined face glowering out of the photograph. Skin tanned to an oaky brown, a mop of curly blond hair. ‘Divisional Intelligence Unit says Stevie Moran’s back in the country. Chances are he’ll put in an appearance on our patch sooner or later, visiting his mum. Be nice if we could make his stay a bit more permanent this time. Say, six to eight years.’

Logan added the sheet to his in-tray. ‘I’ll tell the teams to keep an eye out.’

‘Good. There’s cakes and-slash-or pastries for whoever arrests him.’ She slipped her glasses off, huffed a breath onto the lenses, and polished them. Kept her voice nonchalant. ‘Now, do you want to tell me about what happened yesterday?’

Not really.

Deep breath. ‘Hissing Sid made it look as if I was on a mission to stitch-up Graham Stirling. I’m too arrogant to follow procedure, but too incompetent to make my lies stick. So unless Stephen Bisset wakes up and dobs Stirling in, there’s nothing we can do.’

A bit more chewing. Then, ‘There are going to be repercussions, you know that, don’t you? The vultures will be circling, looking for a scapegoat, and you’re the most goat-like thing we’ve got right now.’

He slumped in his seat. Rubbed a hand over his face. ‘What was I supposed to do, let Stephen Bisset die?’

Inspector McGregor stood. ‘I’ll have a word with a few people. See if there’s any wiggle room.’ She marched for the door, then stopped on the threshold. ‘Meantime, it might be a good idea to get yourself a result at Klingon and Gerbil’s. Bigger the better.’

Logan waited till the door clunked shut behind her before rolling his eyes. ‘Yeah, thanks for that.’ Then he punched the internal number for the MIT’s incident room on the top floor.

It rang for a while, then a while longer, then finally: ‘DS McKenzie.’

‘Took your time.’

‘We’re short-staffed today. What do you want?’

‘I got a call from someone who thinks they might be your victim’s mother.’ Logan passed on Helen Edwards’s details. ‘She gets into Banff at quarter past five. Bus stop on Low Street.’

‘I’ll let the Boss know.’

Clunk — she hung up on him.

‘You’re very sodding welcome.’ He popped the handset back in its cradle, grabbing his briefing notes, and headed out into the main office.

The usual newspapers were draped over the side of Maggie’s cubicle: an Evening Express and an Aberdeen Examiner , joined by a Scottish Sun . ‘CASE AGAINST GRAHAM STIRLING SET TO COLLAPSE’, ‘POLICE “BUNGLED” INVESTIGATION’, and ‘LEFT-FEET FOUND IN CLYDESIDE SHOCK’.

Logan grabbed the Evening Express and the AberdeenExaminer and dumped them in the nearest bin. In for a penny … The Sun joined them.

Maggie meerkatted her head over the parapet. ‘You want me to make you a nice cup of tea?’

‘I appreciate the thought, but I’m OK. Really.’