Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

‘We had a high-speed last week. Harry Valentine: dog fighting and assault. We kicked a door in this morning and got eighty grand’s worth of heroin. And we chased down Stevie Moran: remember that? How much more Sweeney do you want?’

‘Anyone in Banff? We’ve got reports of a domestic-’

‘You know what I mean. It’s-’

‘Shhhhh!’ Logan tilted his head. ‘Where was that domestic? Was that Alex Williams’s address?’

She clicked the button on her Airwave. ‘Shire Uniform Seven here — can you repeat the address for that domestic, Control?’

‘Flat thirty-nine B, Colleonard Heights. Are you attending?’

Not Alex Williams after all.

Logan waved a hand at her. ‘Tufty and Deano will get there long before we can.’

‘Negative, Control, we’ve just left Fraserburgh. Constables Scott and Quirrel should be closer.’ She settled back in her seat. Let go of her handset. ‘Anyway, I don’t see how it’s disloyal to want to solve a murder.’

‘That’s what all the rats say.’

‘Couldn’t you put in a word with your old boss?’

A truck thundered past, going the other way, the ‘FILLITIN’ FINE FISH’ logo glowing in the Big Car’s headlights.

‘OK, I’ll see what I can do. Assuming we can get someone in to backfill for you.’

A huge smile. ‘Thanks, Sarge.’

‘You know they’ll lumber you with all the rubbish jobs, don’t you? Piddle Patrol’s a highlight, everything else will be-’

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

She clicked the button again. ‘Batter on.’

‘We’ve had a call from Highlands and Islands — there’s been a fatal RTC on the Kessock Bridge, Inverness side. Ford Fiesta went under an articulated. Wife’s OK, but the husband and four-year-old boy are dead. Next of kin are in Gardenstown.’

Logan closed his eyes. No prizes for guessing where this was going. ‘H-and-I want someone to deliver the death message, don’t they?’

Of course they did.

Pale yellow streetlights lit the way down the steep hill to the North Sea. A string of fireflies, trapped in the darkness below the stretch of grey granite houses where Nicholson parked the Big Car.

Gardenstown perched on the side of the cliff, its streets winding their way to the small harbour at the bottom.

She killed the engine. Took a deep breath. ‘We got the names?’

Logan read them out of his notebook. ‘Joyce Gordon — serious condition in Raigmore Hospital. Ian and Colin Gordon both pronounced dead at the scene.’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Four-years old.’

Nicholson wiped her palms on her trousers. ‘I hate this bit.’

‘Me too.’ He undid his seatbelt and stepped out into the night.

Stars blazed down from the inky sky, reaching from horizon to horizon, crystal clear.

They let themselves through the gate and walked up the path to a semidetached two-storey house. Roses and honeysuckle around the door, turning the cool air sickly sweet.

‘Right.’ Nicholson straightened her shoulders. ‘No point putting it off.’ She reached out and rang the bell. ‘Ian, Joyce, Colin. Ian, Joyce, Colin. Ian, Joyce, Colin.’

No reply. So she leaned on the bell again, keeping her thumb on it till lights flickered on inside the house.

Logan blew out a breath. ‘It’s OK. I’ll do it.’

She nodded. ‘Thanks, Sarge.’

The front door creaked open and a white-haired man scowled out at them, pink dressing gown wrapped tight around his thin body. ‘Have you got any idea what time it is?’

Logan stepped up. ‘Mr Gordon, can we come in? I’m afraid I have some bad news …’

The living room was an oven, decked out in seascapes and photographs. A collection of little greenstone carvings on the mantelpiece above the blazing electric fire.

Mr Gordon sat on the couch, staring out into nothing, one hand holding onto his wife’s as she sniffled and sobbed.

Nicholson squatted on the floor beside her, holding her other hand. ‘Shh …’

The only other sound was the clock ticking away on the wall.

Then Logan’s phone burst into the ‘Imperial March’ from Star Wars. Loud enough to make everyone flinch.

Didn’t need to check the screen to know who it was: Steel.

‘I’m really sorry about this.’ He hurried out into the corridor and closed the door behind him, before dragging his phone out. ‘What?’

DCI Steel’s voice growled in his ear. ‘You’re no’ answering your Airwave.’

He marched down the hall and into the kitchen. ‘I’m busy.’ A small room, bright-red walls, black tile floor, wooden work surfaces. Lots of stainless-steel appliances. Expensive looking.

‘Don’t care.’ A sooking noise. ‘Listen-’

‘You get anything from the schools?’

‘Of course we didn’t. And in case you’re wondering, we looked into that long before you stuck your nose in.’

Might as well do something useful while he was in here.

Logan put the kettle on to boil. ‘Well … Did you check on kids who’re meant to be off sick, or on holiday?’

‘You about done telling me how to suck eggs? No one knows her, no one recognizes her, no one misses her.’

Poor little soul.

He found mugs in the cupboard above the kettle. Tea and sugar was there too.

‘Probably not in school then. He dressed her up.’

The sarcasm positively dripped from the phone’s speaker. ‘Do you think ?’ Then another sooking noise — probably Steel’s e-cigarette. ‘Got Becky to go digging. Uniform’s all from Asda’s “Back to School” collection. No way to know which store. Nothing specific about it, so we’ve no’ clue which school he’s pretending she’s from.’

A frown. ‘She’s wearing red shoes. That can’t be normal.’

‘Your head’s no’ normal.’ More sooking. ‘And speaking of no’ normal: how come you’ve no’ asked about your Mrs Edwards, up from Edinburgh, yet? The first flush of ardour fading, is it?’

Logan pinned the phone between his ear and shoulder, then dumped teabags into mugs. ‘Did she ID the body?’

‘No distinguishing features or childhood broken bones. According to the pathologist, that matches what we’ve got. Yeah, there’s signs of breakages, but no’ till she’s four or five. So we’re going to try a DNA match with the mum. Aberdeen labs are still down, so it’s off to sunny Dundee with the samples. Going to be a couple of days before we know for sure.’

Well, at least that was something.

‘I’ve got to go: we’re on a death message. RTC, one of the fatalities was only four-’

‘Listen, about your complete and utter cocking disaster yesterday …’

Logan closed his eyes and dunted his forehead off the wall unit. Here we go. ‘I told you: I’m not apologizing for saving Stephen Bisset’s life.’

‘Aye. Very noble of you. Turns out it doesn’t matter anyway.’

The kettle rattled to a boil. Clicked and fell silent.

Then Nicholson’s muffled voice came from the hall outside. The clunk of a door closing.

And still nothing from Steel.

He poured hot water into each mug. ‘Come on then, I’ll bite. What cutting bit of sarcasm have you got for me?’

‘It’s no’ a joke, Laz. Graham Stirling got set free at half four. And fifteen minutes ago, some nurse found Stephen Bisset. Dead. All alone in his hospital bed. Someone suffocated him.’

Oh that was just … perfect.

Brilliant end to a brilliant sodding day.

Logan thumped his head against the unit again. Stayed there. ‘Please tell me someone’s arrested Stirling.’