Stuart MacBride: The Missing and the Dead

‘… and while we’re on the subject: guess who gets out today?’ Logan let the pause grow as the two officers stared at him. ‘Alex Williams.’

A groan.

The Constables’ Office wasn’t a big room. Magnolia, with a big pinboard covered in mugshots on one wall next to a whiteboard; posters, reports, notices, calendars, and more whiteboards on the others. Scuffed blue carpet tiles covered in layers of tea and coffee stains. A workbench on two sides doubling as desks; four office chairs — plastic scratched, foam-rubber poking out of frayed-edged fabric; the same number of steam-powered computers; Logan and two other officers, all kitted up and ready for the off. A throat-tickling smell of stale feet, pickled onion crisps, and shoe polish.

Logan rubbed a hand across the stubble covering his head. ‘So I’m putting a grade one flag on the house. Anything happens, I want someone there in under five minutes.’

Deano fiddled with the CS gas canister clipped to the front of his fluorescent yellow high-vis waistcoat, twisting the gunmetal canister round and round in its leather case with big spanner fingers. Winding the spiral bungee cord attached to the base in knots. His broad shoulders stretched the black police-issue T-shirt tight. Even slouched in the swivel chair he was clearly the tallest person in the room. ‘Tenner says they make it till Wednesday.’

Constable Nicholson pulled the sides of her mouth down and dug her hands into the gap between her stabproof vest and her black uniform top. Hunched her shoulders, setting the no-nonsense black bob wobbling. Scowled. ‘Hospital or mortuary?’

Deano stuck his head on one side. The overhead light glinted against the thinning patch of hair at the top of his forehead. Grey hair swept back at the sides. ‘I’m going to say … hospital.’

She pulled out a hand — it had a small tartan wallet in it. ‘I’ll take: mortuary by Saturday.’ Then blinked at Logan. ‘Sarge?’

‘Are you and Constable Scott seriously taking bets on when someone’s going to assault or murder their partner?’

Shrug.

‘OK.’ He dug a hand into his pocket. ‘I’ll have a fiver on: nobody dies.’

Deano accepted the cash and hid it away. ‘Fool to yourself, Sarge. But far be it from me to dampen your faith in-’

‘Sorry.’ The door banged open and Constable Quirrel backed into the room, carrying a tray loaded with four mugs and a plate of rowies. Thin-faced, with a number-two haircut of pale ginger and a set of watery blue eyes. A least a head shorter than everyone else in the room. ‘What? What did I miss?’

‘Alex Williams got released.’

‘Is it six months already?’ Quirrel handed out the mugs — starting with Logan — then worked his way around the room with the plate. He took the last rowie and slotted his narrow bum into the only vacant chair. ‘Bags I don’t have to-’

‘Tufty,’ Logan pointed at him, ‘I hereby deputize you to go tell Alex’s partner, “It’s that time again.”’

‘But, Sa-arge …’ His eyebrows bunched for a moment, scrunching up his eyes. Then a smile. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if someone from Domestic Abuse did it? You know, laid out all the options? They’re the experts, and we wouldn’t want to-’

‘Do what you’re told.’ Logan took a bite of rowie, chomping through the waxy crust and into the butter, lard, and salty goodness inside. ‘And try not to be a dick while you’re there. Last thing you need is more complaints.’ A nod. ‘Next.’

Deano clicked the mouse and the image on the computer screen changed to a photo of a small-ish fishing boat — rust-streaked along one side of the blue hull, the name ‘ COPPER-TUN WANDERER ’ picked out in fading white paint. The picture sat beside one of a middle-aged man in a bright orange jacket, hair hanging damp around his leathery face, bottle of beer in one hand, what looked like a dirty big haddock in the other.

It was all written across the bottom of the PowerPoint slide, but Logan read it out anyway. ‘Charles “Craggie” Anderson, fifty-two, missing for a week and a bit now. Tufty?’

‘Yeah …’ Constable Quirrel pulled out his notebook and flicked through to near the end. ‘Spoke to his friends and neighbours again: he’s not been in touch. Got on to the Coastguard and there’s no sign of the Copper-Tun washing up anywhere. Waiting to hear back from ports in Orkney, Shetland, and Norway in case he’s done a runner.’

‘Right. When you’ve been round Alex Williams’s, you and Deano hit Whitehills, Macduff, Portsoy, and Gardenstown. Do a door-to-door of all the boats. Did anyone see Charles Anderson the night he went missing? Anyone hear where he was going? Did he have any money problems? You know the drill.’

Deano nodded. ‘Sarge.’

‘And keep Tufty on a tighter leash this time, OK? Never known a probationer to get in so much trouble.’

Quirrel blushed. ‘How was I supposed to know she wasn’t wearing any pants?’

‘I repeat: tighter leash. That’s five missing persons we’ve got on the books now. Be nice if we could actually find this one.’ Pause. ‘Last, and by all means least, we have a new edict from on high. We are Moray and Aberdeenshire Division. From this point on anyone caught calling it the “Mire” gets a spanking. Any questions?’

Deano gave the canister of CS one last fiddle. ‘Aye, is that the good kind of spanking, or the bad kind?’

‘You’re disturbed, you know that, don’t you?’ Logan finished his rowie and sooked the grease from his finger. Stood. ‘Deano and Tufty, you’re in the Postman Pat van. Janet and me are away to spin some druggies.’

‘Sarge?’ Nicholson took the patrol car round the hairpin bend, changing down for the hill. Off to the left, the North Sea shone like a polished stone. Yachts and tiny fishing boats bobbed lazily in the harbour.

Made a nice change after the horrible weekend.

On the other side of the bay, Macduff shone in the afternoon sunshine.

Then the view was swallowed by the pale harling walls of the Railway Inn. Old-fashioned Scottish houses lined the road, all towered over by the intimidating grey Victorian bulk of the Health Centre. Nicholson shifted her hands along the steering wheel, voice light and carefree. ‘Sarge, has anyone spoken to you about the pool? You know, how it’s going?’

Logan unzipped one of the pockets on his stabproof and pulled out a packet of Polos. Liberated one from its foil prison. Popped the mint in his mouth and crunched. ‘Take it from me: CID’s a mug’s game.’ The stabproof vest was like a fist, squeezing his chest with every breath. Handcuffs clicking against the seatbelt clasp. Extendable baton poking into his thigh. Limb restraints digging into the small of his back. Bet Batman’s utility belt never gave him this much gyp. ‘Still don’t see why you want to join.’ Crunch, crunch, crunch. ‘Polo?’ Wiggling the pack at her.

Past the junction and the road widened out into Castle Street with its much grander houses. Nicholson waved at an old woman having a sneaky fag outside the Castle Bar. ‘Come on, Sarge, you were CID for years. You know why.’

Logan popped another Polo. ‘Yeah, in the old days, maybe. Now they hive off all the interesting bits of the job and give them to specialist groups. If you’re not on the Major Investigation Team you’re not going to catch a murder.’ He counted each one off on his fingers. ‘Then there’s Rape Teams, Violence-Reduction Teams, Domestic Abuse Teams, Drugs Teams, Housebreaking Teams, blah, blah, blah teams.’ A shrug. ‘All that’s left for CID is the boring crap no one else wants to do.’

Right, onto Seafield Street. Climbing again, Banff Bay glinting in the rear-view mirror. The sky above, saltire blue. Unblemished by clouds or airplane-trail scars.