Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

‘Nah.’ The word slumped out on rotting corpse breath. Sammy Wilson’s skin was nearly translucent, stretched tight across a large skull with prominent cheeks like knife blades, the bones sticking out in his wrists. Fingers like dirty twigs. Thin silver lines ran from his nose to his top lip. Pupils constricted to full-stop dots. ‘But, you know, take your time in the front pockets, yeah?’ A bloodshot wink. ‘I like it nice and slow .’

Logan tried not to breathe the stench in. ‘Who are you buying from now, Sammy? You still Klingon’s client?’

A shrug. ‘I’m, like, nondenominational. Secular. And I don’t do … don’t do drugs no more …’ His eyes half-closed, then a slow smile spread across his face as Nicholson eased her gloved fingers into his front pocket. ‘Oh yeah … Nice and slow …’

The Big Car’s blues-and-twos cut a path through the evening traffic, the engine roaring as Nicholson floored it.

Logan hung onto the grab handle above the door, thumbed his Airwave’s talk button again. ‘Sorry, Control, missed that last bit, say again?’

‘Roger: we’re getting reports about people going in and out of a Francis “Frankie” Ferris’s house, fifteen Rundle Avenue. Caller said it’s probably drug dealing.’

‘Any idea who?’

A squeal of tyres as Nicholson swung them around the corner and onto School Lane, drifting onto the other side of the road as the back end kicked out. Barely missing a big red removal van. Their brand-new Magic Tree air freshener swung like a pendulum from the rear-view mirror.

‘Caller can’t ID any of them, but we’re getting descriptions.’

Worth a go. ‘Tell Constable Scott to get over there and dragnet the surrounding streets. Anyone matching the descriptions gets a free stop-and-search. With any luck we’ll get enough for a warrant on Frankie’s hovel.’

‘Will do.’

The car battered across the junction with Main Street, ignoring the stop sign. Little granite houses flashed by the Big Car’s windows. An old lady stopped to gawk as they roared past in a blare of lights and sirens.

Logan let go of the talk button. ‘Are you channelling Jeremy Clarkson today?’

Nicholson spared him a quick grin. ‘Urgent danger to life, Sarge.’

Across North Street, the needle hitting sixty as they battered past the ‘TWENTY’S PLENTY’ limit.

Back on to Control. ‘You got an ETA for the fire brigade?’

‘En route … Board shows them fifteen miles away.’

Sodding hell.

A hard right, and there it was — Taylor Drive. But instead of flames searing through broken windows, crackling roof timbers, and palls of black smoke streaking the blue sky, there was a middle-aged man standing in the middle of the road wearing a ‘KISS THE COOK’ apron. Face blackened with soot.

He held his hands up, as if expecting to be shot, as Logan and Nicholson scrambled out of the car.

‘Sorry, sorry, my fault.’

Logan hurried over. ‘Is everyone out of the house?’

‘No, it’s a bit of a disaster. Sorry. I put a tiny bit too much lighter fluid on the barbecue and … well … the shed, sort of, caught fire. Just a little. We put it out with the garden hose.’ A thin, uncomfortable smile. ‘Sorry.’

‘Nah, sod all so far.’ Deano’s sigh rasped out of the Airwave’s speaker. ‘Been round this block so many times, Tufty’s getting dizzy.’

Logan reclined his seat an inch. ‘All we need’s to get lucky once.’

Sun glittered on the windscreen, catching the flecks of dust and sticky fingerprints left behind by whoever did the Big Car’s service. But Nicholson was still visible as she knocked on the red door. Stood there, hands tucked into her stabproof. Rocking back and forward on the balls of her feet.

Mind you, whoever serviced the car had left more behind than fingerprints, going by the smell. It was like something dead was being marinated in Biohazard Bob’s eggiest of farts.

‘If this was TV we could batter Frankie’s door in, quick search montage, and back to the station in time for the ad break.’

A petite brunette opened the door, looked up and down the street, then disappeared inside again. Nicholson followed her into the house. Closed the door behind her.

‘That’s because made-up cops never have to deal with Professional Standards.’

‘Or paperwork. Tell you, I was watching something last night and … Hold on, Sarge. Tufty: over there — bloke in the green hoodie and orange joggy bottoms.’

Silence.

A kid went by on his BMX, standing on the back bar.

Still nothing from Deano.

Logan pulled out his phone and checked his text messages.

Puffed out his cheeks.

Played a game of solitaire on the little screen.

Lost.

Sat where he was, sniffing.

The smell wasn’t coming from the back, or the passenger side. That left the driver’s side.

Logan climbed out into the sun, opened the driver’s door and sniffed at the seat.

Definitely something stinky going on there. Maybe someone had an accident?

He squatted down and peered under the seat. Yeah: there was something there.

Then Deano was back. ‘Sorry about that, Sarge.’

‘Get anything?’ He reached into the gap, fingers searching along the gritty carpet.

‘Not so much as a joint.’

‘Ah well, worth a go.’ Almost there … Got it. The smile died on Logan’s face as his fingers sank into something squishy. Urgh.

‘Looks like our info’s a load of old wank. That’s the new Police Scotland technical term, in case you’re wondering.’

Bile caught at the back of his throat.

Oh God. Why didn’t he put on a pair of gloves?

Too late now.

He pulled the squishy thing out. A half-eaten egg sandwich, the bread and filling gone green and hairy. ‘Dirty …’ He dropped it in the gutter, then dragged his hand along the kerb, trying to wipe off the sticky bits.

‘Sarge?’

‘No wonder the Big Car’s been stinking. Some filthy sod left half a sandwich going mouldy under the seat!’ He got back into the passenger side. Popped open the glove compartment and pulled out the emergency packet of baby wipes. Scrubbed his fingers clean.

‘Bet it was nightshift. You want me and Tufty to keep at it here?’

The red door opened again and Nicholson stepped out into the sunshine. Turned to face the house, obviously saying something. Then nodded and marched back towards the car.

‘Give it another ten minutes, then go see if you can find something useful to do instead.’

‘Thanks, Sarge.’

Nicholson opened the driver’s door and slid in behind the wheel. Rearranged her equipment belt so the extendable baton wasn’t jabbing into the handbrake. ‘Safe-and-well check done.’

Logan twisted his Airwave handset back into the clip on his vest. ‘And?’

‘Usual lies.’ Nicholson turned the engine over. Pulled away from the kerb. ‘Alex has changed. Alex is sorry. Alex promises it’ll never happen again. They love each other.’ Around the corner, heading back towards the middle of town. ‘Tell you, Sarge, some people are too thick to realize they’ve got their hand in a blender till the love of their life turns it on.’

The driver wrapped his hands tight around the steering wheel. Cheeks flushed. Jaw muscles working like an industrial clamp. He stared straight ahead as Logan checked the proffered driving licence.

‘Thank you, Mr Clifton.’ Logan handed it back. Then followed it up with the fixed-penalty notice.

It was snatched out of his hand. Crushed in a fist. A strangled, ‘Thank you,’ forced out between gritted teeth.