Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

Stevie Moran lunged to the right, but Nicholson hauled the cuffs up, and he went down on his knees in the middle of the car park, wheezing out a barrage of swearing.

‘So get one of your flying monkeys to do it. I’m busy.’

‘You’re hiding.’

True. But that didn’t mean he was going to admit it.

Nicholson pulled Moran to his feet. ‘Try that again, please. I’d love another go.’ And they both limped off towards the Big Car again.

‘Bad enough I had to pick up your victim’s mother — well, potential mother — without having to do all your legwork.’

‘Ah … I wondered how long it’d take you to bring her up. Pretty young woman with curly hair and pouty lips? All distressed and vulnerable? Right up your alley.’

Logan paused, letting a shiny new Mini drive past before stepping out onto the road. ‘I barely met the woman.’

‘Blah, blah, blah. You’re fooling no one.’ A sniff. ‘You ask me, it’s all a bit creepy.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Dotting about from crime scene to crime scene, like an abduction tourist. Creepy-weird. No wonder you like her.’

Nicholson plipped the car’s locks, then wrenched open the back door and bundled Stevie Moran into the passenger side. Buckled the seatbelt for him, pinning him in. Slammed the door closed. Leaned back against it. Raised her left foot off the ground and flexed it one way, then the other. Rubbed at her left elbow. ‘Oww …’

‘You know what she’s doing right now? Hanging about outside the station like a stalker. Woman that screwed up? I’m amazed you’ve no’ tried to shag her yet.’

‘OK, I’m hanging up now.’

‘Don’t be daft. If I-’

Logan switched his Airwave off. Clipped it back onto his vest.

Nicholson’s eyebrows pinched together, her mouth turned down, working on a pout. ‘Think I ruptured something when I hit that bench.’

‘We got him, though: eight counts of robbery, two of resetting, possession of a Class A, an assault, and breach of bail conditions. And we can add resisting arrest.’ Logan opened the passenger door. ‘Best of all, now Police Scotland has to buy us both a fancy piece for nabbing him. I’m having a Danish pastry.’

‘Custard slice for me.’ She poked and prodded at the elbow again. Baring her top teeth. ‘Oww …’

Logan checked his watch. ‘If we hurry, we can get him to Fraserburgh, process him, and pick up our reward in time for tenses.’ Add on the time sodding about waiting for a lawyer, initial interview … Probably wouldn’t make it back to Banff for dinner. ‘Have to pop past the station on the way though. Haven’t got my soup.’

Nicholson sank into the driver’s seat. ‘You’re obsessed with soup.’

‘Yeah, well. Glutton for punishment.’

‘I’ll only be a minute.’ Logan clunked the passenger door shut and pulled on his peaked cap.

The sun was an orb of gold, dripping its way down to the border between the sky and the North Sea. It sparked rubies from the water, painted the Sergeant’s Hoose with fire. Turned the shadows a deep midnight blue.

The Big Car idled at the kerb — Nicholson peering out from behind the wheel, Stevie Moran glowering out from the back seat as Logan let himself into the Sergeant’s Hoose.

Quick rummage in the kitchen for a tin of lentil and two slices of cheap floppy white bread, stuff the lot in a carrier bag, and out again. All in under two minutes.

Logan locked the door, then turned. Stopped.

A figure leaned on the sea wall, staring out across the bay. Dirty-blonde hair, hanging in corkscrew curls around her head.

Logan popped his dinner on the Big Car’s roof. Crossed the road. And stepped up onto the kerb beside her. ‘Ms Edwards? Helen? You OK?’

She didn’t look around. ‘There’s dolphins.’

‘They come in from time to time.’

She pointed out into the bay as a sleek shape arced out of the water then disappeared again. ‘Never seen one in real life before.’

‘It’s a beautiful place.’ He leaned his elbows on the wall beside her. From here, the ground fell sharply away to the beach eight or twelve feet below. The sand turned dark orange by the setting sun. ‘You sure you’re OK?’

She picked at a fleck of lichen, growing on the concrete wall. ‘They wouldn’t take Natasha’s hair for DNA testing. Said it wouldn’t work because it was cut; they needed the roots attached. So they took a swab from my cheek instead.’

‘That’ll be enough to go on.’

Out in the bay, the dolphins danced.

‘I don’t know whether to hope for a positive match or not. If it matches, she’s dead. If it doesn’t …’ Helen swept a wodge of curls out of her eyes. Her hand trembled, the fingernails bitten down to the quick.

‘Why do you think it might be your daughter? Maybe she’s in … is it Spain? With her father?’

‘Because he’s not in Spain. Hasn’t been for years. I hired a very expensive private investigator to track Brian down. Trail went cold in Middlesbrough two years ago.’

The sun sank lower, the colours richer.

‘Well, it’s-’

‘Brian had a drink problem and a temper on him. Oh, butter wouldn’t melt when we started going out, but then I got pregnant …’ Another bit of lichen was peeled off by a ragged thumbnail. ‘Most days it was like trying to defuse a bomb with boxing gloves on. He’d get drunk and bang — the smallest thing would cause an explosion.’

‘Must’ve been hard.’

‘I can’t even change my name back. I have to be Mrs Edwards till I find Natasha. Soon as people think I’m not her mother, that’s it: up go the barricades. Till then I can’t even wash his stink off me.’ She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, as if trying to scrub her ex-husband away. ‘So this is my life. Every time they find a little girl my private investigator lets me know, and off I go, getting my hopes up. Maybe this one will be her? Maybe. But it never is. So I lurch from one crime scene or abduction or accident to the next. Three years.’

Logan pointed back towards the station. ‘Do you want a cup of tea, or something? I’m off to Fraserburgh, but I can get someone to-’

‘Do you have any idea what it’s like to love someone who’s completely lost? At least if they were dead you could start moving on. But they won’t give you that, they keep dangling that sliver of hope just out of reach.’

Warmth spread between his shoulder blades, curled its claws around his throat. Choked down the words. ‘It’s difficult.’

‘Sorry.’ She let go of her arms and stared up at the darkening sky. ‘Didn’t mean to bang on like a crazy person. Helen Edwards, the broken record of doom and gloom.’

Logan glanced at the Big Car.

Nicholson was staring out through the windscreen at them, eyebrows up.

He backed towards the car. ‘We’ve got a prisoner. Sorry.’

‘Yes. No. Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.’ Helen turned and stared out into the bay again as glittering beads of sunlight scattered and died in the water.

Logan let himself into the empty office and closed the door behind him. Outside, the floorboards creaked and groaned as someone walked past. Fraserburgh police station had to be at least a hundred years newer than Banff’s, but it sounded like a galleon in full sail anytime anyone set foot in the corridor.

Through the office window, the granite buildings were washed in golden light as the sun sank. A few high wisps of cloud painted impossible shades of pink and orange.

Might as well get it over with.

He settled his backside into a creaky office chair, sooked the last sticky remnants of Danish pastry from his fingers, pulled out his mobile phone and the stack of Post-its Maggie had given him way back at the start of the shift. Called the number.