Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

‘I think it’d probably be best if you and I never talked about it to anyone. Ever. Just in case.’

‘Is it true Dawson’s ended up in hospital?’

‘We’ll keep it as our little secret. OK?’ He cleared his throat. ‘So, what did you and the rest of the Wombles get up to last night? Anything I should know about?’

‘The usual. Spun a few druggies, dealt with a drink driver, two housebreakings, two counts of piddling in doorways. Thrilling stuff.’

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

Logan pressed the button, talking into his shoulder. ‘Spank away, Maggie.’

‘We’ve had a call. Someone spotted Ian Dickinson getting off the bus, with a woman, in Cullen. You’ve got a lookout request for-’

‘Ian Dickinson? Five years old, brown hair, blue eyes? The same Ian Dickinson we found last Thursday? Has he gone missing again, or have they forgotten to take down the posters?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Was he with a big woman with curly hair and a walking stick?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s his mum. Maggie, do me a favour — get onto someone and make sure they cancel the lookout properly this time. And tell them to take down those damn posters.’

A second Transit van rumbled down the road. Parked behind the OSU’s sing-along wagon. Constable Syd Fraser waved at them from behind the wheel, then creaked open the van’s door. ‘Place secure yet?’

‘Working on it.’ He turned back to Nicholson. ‘Anything else?’

Nicholson shrugged. ‘Well, Deano and Tufty stopped a fight outside the Seafield Hotel. There was a break-in at the Spotty Bag Shop. Someone set fire to a bin on Castle Street. I investigated reports of a peeping tom on Melrose Crescent — no joy. And I picked up that old woman wandering up and down Market Street again. That’s two nights in a row. Said she couldn’t sleep in her bed because it was full of rats.’

Syd wandered over to a soundtrack of dogs barking in the back of his Transit. ‘What’s full of rats?’

‘Auld wifie thinks her bed is. Every night they crawl out of the walls and under her duvet. Says it’s driving her mad. I get her back inside and she gives me an earful of abuse about how nobody cares and we’re all bastards. Again .’

A sigh. ‘What idiot thought “Care in the Community” was a good thing?’ Syd leaned back against the OSU van. ‘What are we on for here: heroin? Bit of coke? Weed?’

Logan nodded. ‘Probably.’

‘Good. As long as it isn’t Valium. Enzo’s not been trained to find Valium.’

Nicholson smiled. ‘Aye, aye, getting the excuses in early, are we?’

Logan’s Airwave bleeped.

‘Operation Schofield sont arrivé. Deux hommes dans des handcuffs.’

He smiled. Pressed the talk button. ‘Couldn’t remember the French for handcuffs then?’

‘Everyone’s a critic. Rejoice, sinner, for thy crime scene is secured.’

He fixed the Airwave to the clip on his stabproof vest. Picked his peaked cap from the van and settled it on his head. ‘Right, Syd, time for the hairy boys to shine.’

And please, dear God, let them find something.

Gerbil and Klingon sat side by side on the grubby couch. The whole place was grubby — carpet, walls, curtains. Even the ceiling had its own collection of stains. Filth streaked the floor around the couch, as if whoever usually sat there couldn’t be arsed getting up to use the bin, just tossed it where they sat.

Sergeant Mitchell stood behind Gerbil and Klingon, a hand on each of their shoulders. The pair of them doing their best not to make eye-contact with anyone else in the room.

A sagging coffee table sat in the middle of the carpet, a set of digital scales and a spoon parked on a red-top tabloid: ‘NONCE ON THE RUN ~ DID MISSING SICKO WOOD CLAIM ANOTHER VICTIM?’

Logan pulled on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. ‘Right, you want to save us the bother and tell us where the stuff is?’

Gerbil stared at his knees. Klingon blinked behind those thick NHS-style glasses. Not a single word.

‘OK.’ Logan removed the elastic band holding his body-worn video closed, and slid the front panel down, setting it recording. ‘Sergeant Logan McRae, five minutes past four p.m., twenty-first of May, thirty-six Fairholme Place. Constable Fraser?’

Syd unclipped the lead from Enzo’s collar, then slipped a fluorescent yellow vest thing over his head. Fastened the strap behind the Labrador’s front legs. The dog was huge — big fluffy golden ruff, big fluffy tail, big block-shaped head. ‘Come on, Enzo, off you go …’

The dog bounced his front legs from one side to the other, then scampered off, tail wagging, nose down.

Syd slung the lead over his head, clipped it behind his back in one fluid movement. ‘The first ninety seconds, he’s not really working. Having a bit of a sniff about. Too excited at being somewhere new.’

The dog reappeared from behind the couch and went straight for his master’s legs. Bounced about a bit again.

‘Come on, Enzo, calm down and get your nose in gear.’

Gerbil shifted in his seat. Squared his shoulders. Then came out with a Glaswegian accent you could cut soap with. ‘I want a lawyer, and aw that. Ma rights, in’t it?’

Deano stared. ‘Seriously? You’re from Peterhead, Kevin, what’s with the mock Weegie?’

‘I’m no’ answering anything else till I see a lawyer, but.’

He sighed. Raised his eyebrows at Logan. ‘Tell you, they do eighteen months in Polmont and they come out sounding like Begbie.’

The Labrador did another circuit of the lounge. Only this time there was a lot less bouncing about and lot more snuffling.

‘There we go, he’s got his working head on now.’ Syd waved an arm up and out, as if he was introducing the wall. Enzo turned and followed the direction of the gesture, sniffing his way along the skirting board. Around the sofa. Then settled down in front of Klingon and stared at him.

Sergeant Mitchell took his hand off Gerbil’s shoulder and hauled Klingon to his feet, getting an involuntary squeak from those wet rubbery lips. ‘Think it’s strip-search time, don’t you?’

‘Come on, Enzo, let’s try the kitchen.’ Syd clicked his fingers and did the same magician’s apprentice gesture, this time aiming at the hallway.

Logan followed them, keeping the dog more-or-less in range of the BWV lens.

Through the hall, past the stairs, and into a small kitchen.

If the lounge was grubby, the kitchen was a pigsty. Dishes piled up in the sink. Food smears on the walls above the cooker. Everywhere covered in opened tins and takeaway containers. The bin overflowing with pizza boxes and kebab papers. A curdling reek of spoiled food and cigarette ash. The lazy burrr of bluebottles, dancing a slow-motion waltz through the foetid air. Pausing now and then to bang their heads against the window.

Logan curled his top lip. ‘Can you imagine living like this?’

‘Pff …’ Syd puffed out his cheeks as Enzo did the rounds. ‘You think this is bad? Had to search a place once, and they kept a bucket at the end of the couch. Not for rubbish, it was so they wouldn’t have to leave the room to take a crap or have a pee. Never bothered to empty it either. Dear Jesus, the smell .’

Logan opened the cupboard nearest the door. It was stuffed with boxes of baby milk formula. ‘Looks like they’ve stocked up stuff to cut it with.’

‘Probably be more milk than heroin by the time it hits the streets. Honestly, if Trading Standards had to regulate drug dealers …’ A smile. ‘There we go.’

Enzo sat down in front of the cooker, giving it the same stare he’d treated Klingon to.