Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

‘Hmm …’ A frown creased Sergeant Mitchell’s slab of a face. ‘Any chance they’ve barricaded the door?’

Logan shook his head. ‘Doubt it. It’s Spinney’s mum’s house.’

‘Oh.’ Those huge shoulders dipped a bit. ‘Shame. Been ages since we’ve used the chainsaw. OK, we go with popping.’

Carole’s hand was up again. ‘What about dogs? Kids? Firearms?’

‘None that we know of.’

‘Sweet.’

Logan produced the last bit of paperwork. ‘Now, I need everyone to read the warrant and sign it on the back. Then we’ll go do this dunt.’

‘Right, stop here.’ Logan hauled a baggy red hoodie on over his stabproof vest. The bulky padding made it look as if he’d put on two stone. Like the cuddly chunky-monkey Steel claimed to miss so much. A green baseball cap completed the look.

The OSU van pulled in to the side of the road. The thing was all big and white, with ‘POLICE’ down the side in reflective lettering. Riot grille raised. Not exactly subtle.

Sitting opposite, Deano buttoned up an oversized checked shirt. Then pulled a pair of grey joggy bottoms on over his black trousers.

Nicholson sniffed. ‘You both look ridiculous.’

‘Thanks.’ Logan hauled the van’s side door open and hopped out onto the pavement. His fold-down seat snapped back up like a shot going off. ‘OK, I need everyone to set their Airwaves channel to Shire Event Two. No chatter on open comms. Soon as we know someone’s home, we’ll give you the shout.’

Deano climbed out after him, then thumped the door shut and waved as the van pulled away. He followed Logan up the narrow alley joining Harvey Place and Victoria Place. ‘Sarge?’

‘You should have gone before we left the station.’

The sun pounded the tarmac and the houses all around. The smell of freshly cut grass sharp and green on the warm air.

‘No, Sarge. We need to talk about Tufty.’

Out onto Victoria. Quick check left and right, then across the road. ‘What’s he done now?’

‘The STORM actions. He’s done the actual work, he’s just a bit … lackadaisical when it comes to updating the system.’

‘“Lackadaisical”? Hark at you with your big words.’

They headed right, keeping on up the hill. The wee traditional houses on the other side of the road petered out, exposing a straight run of grass down to the cliffs and the sea beyond. This side of the road, a shoulder-high wall kept a swathe of raised lawns in place. Big Eighties-style bungalows sitting well above street level.

‘Maybe, you could cut him a little slack? I know you’re pissed off about the Graham Stirling case, but that’s not Tufty’s fault.’

True. But still …

The 35A bus grumbled past, heading for the hedonistic delights of Elgin.

Logan tucked his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. ‘A boss once told me, there are two kinds of people in this world — carrot people, and stick people.’ To the left, a set of steps were cut into the wall between two of the properties. He took them. ‘You and Janet are carrot people. Tufty couldn’t be more of a stick if he tried.’

‘Probably …’ Up the stairs, along the path, up another set of stairs. Deano was beginning to look a bit puffed. Not surprising. It was baking hot, and the silly sod was wearing two pairs of trousers. ‘But try slipping Tufty the carrot every now and then, eh? If all he ever gets is stick, he’ll end up one big lump of gristle and bruises.’

‘Thought you were his tutor, not his mum.’

‘You want him thinking, “Sod this, I could go work offshore instead”?’

Fair point.

Another set of steps.

‘OK — next time he does something right, I’ll give it a go.’ The stairs came to an end and they emerged onto Provost Gordon Terrace. ‘Talking of carrots, Janet wants to know why she’s not got a nickname. Thinks it’s because she’s a girl.’

This bit of the street was a line of semidetached houses down one side, and the strange front/back gardens of the houses with the raised lawns they’d walked past on Victoria Place. Parking areas and garages and caravans and wheelie bins.

A nice area. Blighted by the presence of two drug-dealing tossers in the next street.

Down to the end of the road, then through a little alley and onto Fairholme Place.

Deano tipped his head at one of the semidetacheds. ‘That it?’

‘Yup.’ To be honest, they all looked alike: two storeys of grey harling with grey pantile roofs. Two windows upstairs. Two down — one belonging to a built-out porch. The only distinguishing feature being that Klingon’s mum had painted her garage door a revolting day-glo purple.

Logan and Deano wandered down the street, hands in pockets. Not a care in the world. Two mates out for an afternoon stroll. Nothing to see here. All nice and innocent.

Deano sniffed. ‘Janet say what kind of nickname she wanted?’

‘I think it’s meant to be up to us.’

‘Clock the car parked outside Klingon’s house. That not Gerbil’s?’

A shabby Honda Civic hatchback with alloy wheels and a red go-faster stripe running across the white paintwork. The passenger door had obviously come from another car — it was a rusty orange colour. A buckled bumper on the rear driver’s side.

‘Yup. We’ve got movement inside too. Top floor, left.’

‘What about … “Killer”? Or, we could go sarcastic with “Cuddles”?’

‘Given the way she makes a cup of tea, we should call her Crippen.’ Logan slipped the Airwave out of his hoodie pocket. Knelt as if he was about to tie his shoelace. Pressed the button. ‘Operation Schofield is go. Silent approach.’

Sergeant Mitchell’s voice crackled out of the handset. ‘And there’s me with “Ride of the Valkyries” all ready to pound out the PA speakers.’ Deep breath. ‘Spartans, tonight we dine in Banff!’

Logan put his Airwave away and looked up at the house. The only way into the back garden was through, or over, the six-foot-high gate. And going by the big yellow padlock on it, through wasn’t really an option. ‘You want front or back?’

‘Rock, paper, scissors?’

Logan held out his fist next to Deano’s. ‘Three, two, one.’

‘Aw … pants .’ Deano pulled up his joggy bottoms and marched across the drive, past the garage and jumped for the top of the fence. Struggled and wriggled over it as the OSU’s van roared around the corner.

It screeched to a halt right in front of Klingon’s mum’s house, the doors sprang open, and Sergeant Mitchell’s team piled out. All done up in their riot gear — crash helmets, elbow and hand pads. Shin guards. Faces obscured behind visors and scarves.

They swarmed over the low garden wall. One of them had the hoolie bar — like a three-foot long metal ice-axe with two prongs on the other end. Another clutched the small red battering ram by its carrying handles. That had to be Mitchell: he was nearly six inches taller than everyone else.

Mitchell swung the Big Red Door Key back and up, then hammered it forwards, right into the middle of the UPVC door — right above the letterbox, between the glass panels. It went right through, collapsing the whole middle of the door, leaving nothing but the outer frame behind.

Then Mitchell flattened himself to the wall and the other three bundled inside.

‘POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!’

He dropped the Big Red Door Key and charged in after them.

Nicholson stepped down from the van. ‘Beautiful sight, isn’t it, Sarge?’

‘Few better.’ Logan pulled the hoodie over his head and chucked it into the van. ‘Listen, about the … The round of teas and coffees we did on Monday night …’

‘Ah.’ She bared her teeth for a second. ‘Yes.’