Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

A sigh. ‘I’ll see what the Big Boss says. But if we’re keeping her on, we do it properly. She goes on the books with Aberdeen and everything is firewalled. Info comes through the Dedicated Source Unit — no more informal tip-offs.’

He stood. ‘Thanks, Guv.’

‘And phone Napier back!’

Logan finished the background section and moved onto the main body of the report of the raid on Klingon and Gerbil’s love-nest slash drug-den. Torturing the English language as only a trained police officer could.

He’d got to the bit where,

Four trained MOE specialists from the OSU removed the property’s front door by means of concussive force in order to gain entry. This was successful.

… when the Sergeants’ Office door thumped open and in walked Steel.

She had her fake cigarette in one hand and a mug in the other. ‘This where you been hiding, is it?’

He went back to his form. ‘Have you sorted someone to pick Helen Edwards up from the bus?’

‘I’m doing the questioning here, Disaster Boy.’ She dropped into the chair behind the opposing desk. ‘How could you screw up the Stirling case?’

‘I’m not asking you to fly to the moon, I’m asking you to go collect the person who might be able to identify your murder victim from the bus stop. How hard can it be?’

‘You got any idea how much crap I’m getting from the Great Pointy Hats because of you?’ She dumped her mug on the desk and dug a finger into her ear. As if she was searching for a brain. ‘Been on that phone for the last hour.’

‘Look, Helen Edwards might be your victim’s mother. The least you can do is-’

‘You’re in no position to lecture anyone, Laz — no’ after yesterday’s wee fiasco. Lucky they’ve no’ fired you yet, screwing up like that.’

‘I saved Stephen Bisset’s life!’ He glared at her. ‘You know what? Enough. I seized about a hundred grand’s worth of drugs today. How about you? How much success have you had lately?’

‘Don’t be such a fairy princess.’ Steel poked her e-cigarette at him. ‘Get off your magic pony and go pick Helen Edwards up. You organized it, it’s your-’

‘Fine!’ Logan shoved his chair back, thumping it into the wall. ‘I’ll go and do your job for you. As sodding usual!’ He grabbed his hat and stormed out.

Her voice followed him into the main office. ‘And get some decent biscuits while you’re at it!’

Nicholson rested her forearms on the steering wheel. ‘I think Tufty’s parents got him a subscription to New Scientist .’

Logan settled back in his seat and scowled out through the windscreen. ‘They all out of New Idiot?’

The sun beat down on Low Street, glittering back from the Perspex cover over the bus stop. A handful of Banffers strolled along the pavement, as if they were taking the air on the Riviera. Arm in arm, basking in the warmth.

Bloody Steel. All this time and he was still running around after her.

He sniffed. Wrinkled his nose. ‘And what is that horrible smell?’ Eggy, dirty, and rancid. The kind of stench Biohazard Bob would’ve been proud of.

Nicholson shrugged. ‘Told you. We’ve had the windows rolled down all day as well. Going to have to get one of those air freshener things …’ She sat forward in her seat. ‘Oh-ho, here we go.’

A big rectangular single-decker bus grumbled around the corner.

It pulled up at the stop with a hiss of air brakes as Logan climbed out.

He pulled his peaked cap on and marched across the road, in time to catch the doors opening and the first passenger getting off. It was an auld mannie, all dressed in grey and beige. Presumably from Old-Farts-R-Us. Next a pregnant woman with a red face and a screaming toddler.

Then nothing.

Then another, older woman, and finally the last person stepped down onto the pavement. The bus door hissed shut. The engine growled and the thing lurched away.

Then everyone else did the same, leaving the last passenger standing there with a holdall at her feet.

Logan stopped by the public information point. ‘Ms Edwards?’

She shuffled her feet. Picked up her bag. ‘Sorry.’ Dirty-blonde hair hung in a curly bob around a heart-shaped face, like broken springs. Bags under dark eyes. Dark lipstick beneath a long thin nose. Pretty, in a haunted kind of way. Grey woolly jumper and blue jeans. Some sort of puffa jacket, folded over one arm. ‘Actually, it’s Helen.’ A faint Ayrshire accent, almost buried beneath generic queen’s English.

‘Helen.’ He held out a hand for her bag. ‘Sergeant McRae, we spoke when you were coming up on the bus? I’m going to take you back to the station, so you can meet with the Detective Chief Inspector running this part of the investigation. Want to give me your coat too?’

‘Oh. OK. Thanks.’ A small smile. ‘Sorry. Didn’t think it’d be this warm. Raining in Edinburgh this morning.’

He led her back to the Big Car. ‘Have you got somewhere to stay?’

She wrinkled her top lip, made creases around her eyes. ‘Just grabbed my bag and jumped on the first train north.’

‘I’m sure they’ll sort something out.’ He opened the back door on the driver’s side. ‘Probably as quick walking, but thought you’d like to be met.’

A small smile. ‘Thanks.’ She dug into her handbag and came out with a pink envelope — the kind that came with birthday cards for little girls. Held it out. ‘I’ve got those hair samples.’

‘Better save that for DCI Steel.’

‘Oh. Yes. Sorry.’ A breath, then she looked away. ‘You’ve got other things to do.’

‘Don’t worry: we’ve got a dedicated Major Investigation Team working on the case. PC Nicholson and I do the day-to-day policing up here. We want to make sure you give those to the right person.’

‘Right. Of course. Sorry.’ She climbed into the back of the car and Logan clunked the door shut.

Nicholson pulled a three-point turn and headed back to Banff police station.

Helen sat in silence for the five-minute ride. Nose twitching from time to time, as if she was trying to figure out where the funny smell was coming from.

‘All units, be on the lookout for a stolen John Deere tractor in the Strichen area …’

The Big Car pulled up outside the station entrance.

Clunk. Clunk . Helen Edwards frowned in the rear-view mirror. Then tried the door handle again. ‘It’s stuck.’

‘Child locks.’ Logan climbed out and opened the door from the outside. ‘Sometimes the people in the back try to make a run for it.’

‘Oh. Right.’ She climbed out. Looked up at the little portico with its carved curls and fake columns.

‘It’ll be OK. I’ll take you into the reception area and someone will look after you.’

A crease appeared between Helen’s eyebrows. ‘Are you not …?’

‘We’ve got to go patrol. But don’t worry, everything will be fine. If you need anything.’ He dug out a business card and printed his mobile number on the back. Handed it over. ‘The Major Investigation Team are doing everything they can.’

‘Thank you.’ She tucked the card away in her handbag, accepted her coat and holdall, then walked up the steps and into the station.

The sour stench of BO rolled off the stick-thin man in waves as he held up his arms. Hands trembling. It was nearly impossible to tell what colour his tracksuit had started off as. Now it was the colour of rancid liquid leaking from a broken bin. Smelled about the same too.

Nicholson snapped on a pair of blue nitriles. ‘Now, before we start, is there anything in your pockets I need to know about, Sammy? Needles, knives, anything sharp?’