Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

It rang.

Straight to voicemail. Straight to voicemail. Straight to voicemail.

Please .

And then a click came down the line. ‘Napier.’

The Voice of Darkness.

Logan closed his eyes. Let his head fall back. Tried not to sound like a man standing on the gallows trapdoor with a noose around his neck. ‘Chief Superintendent. Hi. Sergeant McRae. You wanted to speak to me …’

‘You OK, Sarge?’ The Police Custody and Security Officer peered at him over the booking-in desk. A big bloke, with broad shoulders and thistles tattooed up both arms, disappearing into the short sleeves of his illicit ‘GRAMPIAN POLICE’ polo shirt. ‘Look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

Logan leaned on the worktop. ‘Professional Standards.’

The PCSO sucked air in through a grimace, eyes screwed shut. ‘I remember it well. Like riding a horse through a minefield with haemorrhoids. Fancy a cuppa? I’m making anyway.’

‘Thanks.’

He disappeared through the door behind the desk, into the tiny galley kitchen bolted onto the side. ‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Just milk.’ Logan turned and peered into the detention block. The wide grey-and-beige hall had doors off to one side for detainees, stores, and processing; one at the end for the Custody Sergeant’s office; and two heavy barred gates through to the actual cells. No sign of life. ‘You’ve not seen Constable Nicholson on her rounds, have you?’

‘The delightful Janet?’ He reappeared, placed a Police Scotland mug down in front of Logan. Put a polystyrene cup next to it. ‘She’s helping Suzanne strip-search a young lady caught breaking into the chemist’s next to Farmfoods.’ He pointed at the closed detention-room door. ‘Pretty certain they’ll have heard the screaming and swearing in Inverness. ’Scuse me …’ He squeezed past, carrying the polystyrene cup in one hand, as if it was full of liquid explosives. Rattled his keys in the other. ‘I’m afraid one of our charges is in need of tea and sympathy.’

Logan followed him through into the male cellblock. Clanged the heavy barred gate shut behind him. ‘Any idea how long Nicholson’s going to be?’

‘Depends how much of a pain in the buttocks our novice burglar is when she’s being searched.’ A right, down a short beige corridor. Halfway down, the cells stretched off to one side — ten of them. Five on the left, five on the right. Most had their doors lying wide open — the stainless-steel backs making the place look like something out of a science fiction movie. But three were shut. The front painted the same dark blue as the skirting and architraves.

The PCSO led the way down to the far end, where sobbing oozed through the thick cell door. ‘You know, I had a probationer like your Nicholson, back when I was a PC in Mintlaw. Same fire in her. Couldn’t wait to climb the slippery ladder to CID. Never would take a telling.’

‘What did you do?’

A shrug. ‘Only thing I could do. Married her.’ He grabbed the big metal slider on the safety hatch and pulled it down, lining the rectangular glass partition up with the rectangular hole in the door. Exposing the warning about the hatch now being unsafe, and the little patch of plastic where the occupant’s details were scribbled up. Whether they were a biter, or a spitter. A self-harmer, or prone to outbursts of violence. This one had ‘REALLY NEEDS A WASH!!!’ printed on it in wobbly black marker.

The PSCO peered through the window, then unlocked the door. Stepped inside as the wails and sobs went on. ‘Come on, it’s not that bad, is it?’

Logan stayed where he was as a wave of mouldy body odour crashed out into the hall. Rancid, cloying bitter onions, and the ammonia nip of clothes left too long in the washing machine. ‘Dear God …’

A cough. Blinking as the stench tried to sandpaper his irises off.

Kevin ‘the Gerbil’ McEwan sat on the thin concrete ledge that ran along one wall. He was hunched over with his forehead on his knees and his hands wrapped around his head. Ginger hair poked through the gaps in his fingers. Shoulders quivering in time with the sobs.

The PCSO put the polystyrene cup on the ledge, an inch or two out of reach. ‘Look, if you tell the truth, it’ll be OK.’ He looked back at Logan. ‘Won’t it?’

‘I’m not allowed to talk to him. Don’t want to contravene his human rights.’

Gerbil raised his head. Cheeks pink and shiny, clean bits showing through the dirt where he’d been crying. Snot did a Magnum PI on his top lip. Eyes like bullet holes. Barely able to get the words out. ‘They’re … they’re going to … going to … kill me!’ All traces of the hard-man Weegie accent was gone. Now it was pure, terrified, Teuchter.

The PCSO tutted. ‘No one’s going to kill you, son.’

‘They’re … going to find … find out we lost … lost their stash.’

‘Well, it’s not the end of the world, is it?’

‘I’ll … I’ll go to … prison and they’ll kill me. They’ll get someone to kill me!’

Logan didn’t move.

Don’t get involved. Follow procedure like a good little robot.

Wasn’t even his case any more.

Remember what Napier said.

Logan cleared his throat. Turned his back. And walked away.

‘Don’t understand why you didn’t eat it for tenses.’ Logan took the Big Car out through the Fraserburgh limits, heading back to base. The sky was a patchwork of indigo and black, covered in stars.

Nicholson took another big bite of her custard slice, getting pastry flakes all down the front of her stabproof vest. Little Tesco carrier bag tucked around her neck like a bib. ‘Delayed gratification — you should try it sometime.’

Her Airwave crackled away to itself: ‘Anyone in the vicinity of Dales Industrial Estate, Peterhead — reports of a break-in to the container yard round the back of the Marathon building …’

‘And don’t get icing and stuff all over the passenger seat. Bad enough with manky sods planking mouldy egg sandwiches-’

‘Not the half-eaten sarnie rant, again .’ She grinned, talking with her mouth full. ‘Think they should make it compulsory for Police Scotland to buy you cakes if you’ve got to do a full-on body-cavity search?’

‘I’ll vote for that.’

‘It was like Aladdin’s cave in there. She’d banked three tubs of Temazepam, one of Diclofenac, and one of Oxycodone. To be fair, that last lot are actually suppositories, but you’re meant to take them out of the packaging first.’

He clicked on the radio. Yet more bland boy-band rubbish. ‘Is this national horrible music day?’

The road twisted and turned, the hills and dips accompanied by the hiss of tyres and beige singing.

‘Sarge?’

Here we go. ‘Deano suggested “Killer” or “Snuggles”. I quite like “Crippen”.’

A frown. ‘No … I wanted to know if there were any, you know, opportunities going on the Tarlair murder MIT. When we went to see all those sex offenders, I did a good job with the sneaking and searching, didn’t I? I mean, I know I didn’t find anything, but that’s not my fault if there’s nothing to find.’

‘Reports of a grey BMW people carrier being driven erratically on the Keith road, north of Huntly …’

Shadowed fields rippled past the car windows, the lights of distant farms and cottages like glowing amber eyes in the darkness.

‘You want to jump ship? OK, I’ve got a nickname for you: Rat. And we’re not even sinking.’

‘Oh, come on, Sarge, I want a bit of excitement . Like on the telly. Catching murderers, kicking in doors, high-speed car chases, the full Sweeney.’