Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

Her eyebrows peaked in the middle. ‘Are you sure? You didn’t collect your messages when you came in. And … well …’ She held up a small stack of Post-its. ‘Maybe I should dig out some biscuits?’

‘Oh God. Is it that bad?’

She handed the notes over and he thumbed through them. Two from the Area Commander. Three from Steel. One from Detective Chief Superintendent Finnie. All pretty much the same thing: how had he managed to screw up the Graham Stirling trial? And, right at the bottom, one from Professional Standards. A mobile number was printed across the top in Maggie’s perfect handwriting, followed by ‘CALL CHIEF SUPT. NAPIER. HE SAYS “YOU KNOW WHY.”’

Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant .

Well, couldn’t say Biohazard hadn’t warned him.

Septic-tank hot tub time.

Logan scrunched the notes up and stuffed them in his pocket. ‘If Napier calls again, I’m out running an operation. You don’t know when I’ll get back.’ The phone rang on the desk facing Maggie’s, but there was no one there to answer it. ‘Where is everyone? Shouldn’t the MIT be doing something?’

‘Didn’t you hear?’ Maggie lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘DS Dawson had to be hospitalized .’

Ah …

‘Apparently his insides are all outside now. And-’

‘Right, well, I’d better get on with it.’ Logan backed towards the door. ‘Got a … house to raid.’ And escape.

Through in the Constables’ Office, Deano poked at his keyboard with two fingers. Nicholson hunched over a stack of evidence bags, cross-referencing their labels with the official log. Tufty was slumped in his seat — arms dangling, head back. Swivelling left, then right again.

Logan thumped the door shut.

Tufty almost collapsed off his chair. ‘Careful, Sarge, frightened the life out of me.’

‘Tell me, Constable Quirrel, are you up to date with all your actions on STORM? Because last time I checked — which was, ooh …’ Logan popped his arm out, flashing his watch, ‘five minutes ago — there were ten you haven’t touched for a week.’

‘Ah …’

Logan loomed over him. ‘Now I don’t normally approve of workplace bullying, but I’m going to start giving you a clip round the ear for every action you’ve done sod all about.’

‘But-’

‘No. No buts.’ He jabbed a finger at Tufty’s monitor. ‘Get your backside in gear before I skelp the ears right off you!’

‘Yes, Sarge. Sorry, Sarge.’ Tufty spun the chair around and logged in. Fingers clattering across the keyboard.

‘Better.’ Logan pinned the ID sheet for Stevie Moran up on the corkboard by the radiator, adding his ugly face to the collection of druggies, dealers, burglars, and other dodgy sods currently at liberty in Banff and Macduff. ‘Inspector McGregor says Stevie Moran’s back in the area. Keep your eyes peeled: there’s a fancy piece for whoever nabs him.’

Nicholson stared at the photograph for a bit. Then held up a biscuit tin. ‘We doing presumptive testing, or just sending it off?’

A frown. Biscuit tin …? Ah, OK: the one hidden under a sofa seat cushion in Kirstin Rattray’s fleapit flat. ‘Do me a favour and mark it as “pending” till we’re done with Klingon and Gerbil. Might want to put her on the books if the dunt goes well.’

Janet put the tin to one side. ‘Sarge, about yesterday,’ she glanced at Deano and Tufty, ‘we want you to know that we’re behind you. If there’s anything you need us to do? You know, like-’

The door opened and she clicked her mouth shut.

But it wasn’t Steel, or one of DS Dawson’s team of tossers, it was PC Syd Fraser. Leather dog leads draped around his neck and fastened behind his back. Fleece all tatty and worn. Checked ‘POLICE’ baseball cap on his head. ‘Afternoon, strange people. We knocking on someone’s door today, then?’

‘Waiting for the OSU.’

‘They’re outside, in the van, having a singsong.’ Syd clapped his hands together. ‘Time for a cup of tea?’

Nicholson jumped to her feet. ‘I’ll get it, Syd. Sarge? Deano? Tufty?’

OK … No way that was suspicious.

Logan shook his head. ‘I’m good, thanks. And Constable Quirrel is far too busy to drink tea. Aren’t you, Constable Quirrel?’

‘Yes, Sarge.’

‘Right.’ She squeezed past Syd and out of the room.

Deano’s Airwave bleeped. ‘All units be on the lookout for a blue BMW — driving erratically on the A97 near Aberchirder. Possible drink driver …’ He turned it down. Pointed at his screen. ‘Sarge, got another misper. Linda Andrews, eighty-two, dementia sufferer. Gardenstown. Husband says he got back from the shops half an hour ago and she was gone.’

Logan drummed his fingers on the worktop. Couldn’t cancel the drugs bust twice . No way they’d let him have the extra bodies again. Not after yesterday. And he needed this.

So what was he supposed to do, ignore a vulnerable adult wandering lost somewhere on his patch? No thanks.

He stood, thumped a hand down on Tufty’s shoulder, making the little sod flinch. ‘Constable Quirrel. You are hereby granted a temporary reprieve. Get out there and find Mrs Andrews before something happens to her.’

Tufty scrambled out of his seat. ‘But, Sarge, I want to go on the dunt, can’t someone else …’ He must have finally recognized the look on Logan’s face, because he swallowed. Cleared his throat. ‘I mean, “Yes, Sarge.”’

‘Damn right you do. And soon as you’ve found her, I want those actions completed.’

‘Right, Sarge.’ He grabbed his peaked cap and his equipment belt and legged it, nearly colliding with Nicholson on her way back in.

‘Hoy, watch it!’ She jerked to a halt, Syd’s tea swinging in one hand, the milky contents tidal-waving from one side of the mug to the other as he scrambled past. ‘Idiot.’ She handed it to Syd as a barrage of ‘excuse me’s came from the corridor behind her.

The Operational Support Unit lumbered into the room. Four of them, all dressed in black, all looking as if they’d been carved from granite. One even had to stoop to get through the door.

He peered at Logan for a beat then stuck his paw out. ‘You’ll be McRae, then?’

It was like shaking a bench vice — the thick fingers dwarfed Logan’s hand, crushing it. ‘Sergeant Mitchell?’

‘Rob.’ He nodded at his fellow mountains. ‘Baz, Davy, and Carole.’ They waved. ‘Sorry we’re late — “Bohemian Rhapsody” came on as we were pulling up. Can’t pass up something like that, can you?’

Logan pulled the briefing sheets from the folder and handed them out. Front page: a photo of Gerbil and one of Klingon, along with a potted bio of each. Gerbil’s red hair was cut in some weird 1920s throwback style — a number one at the sides, bowl haircut with extra fringe on top. Wide face. Little eyes. Klingon’s dirty blond mop of curly hair hung in spaniel curls around thin, suspicious features. A wet, pouty mouth. Thick-rimmed glasses. ‘We have a warrant to enter and search the residence of one Colin Spinney. He and his associate, Kevin McEwan, have a lot of form for dealing. You’ll find the list of recent intel on page two.’

Everyone dutifully turned the page.

‘Property is number thirty-six Fairholme Place. Page three has a photo of the house and a map. Any comments, questions, or concerns?’

Silence. Then Carole put her hand up. ‘What kind of door we looking at?’

Logan went back into his folder and came out with the Method of Entry form. ‘Brown UPVC with glazed panels.’ He passed it over.

She skimmed the form, a crease between her eyebrows. Then nodded. ‘You want to snap the lock, Rob, or pop the whole thing in with the Big Red Door Key?’