Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

Nicholson slipped into the kitchen, face pink, scrubbing at her eyes with the heel of her hand. She saw Logan and froze. Blinked. Straightened her stabproof vest. ‘Sarge.’

He pointed at the phone in his other hand. ‘Have they arrested Stirling, or haven’t they?’

‘So all that grief and running about was for nothing, wasn’t it? So much for bending the rules to save the poor bugger’s life. Stephen Bisset still wound up dead, only he got to suffer for four months first.’

So, he’d been wrong. Today could get worse.

Nicholson pulled into the only free parking space anywhere near Banff station. The MIT’s collection of ragged pool cars and the search team’s Transit vans clogged everything else. Wouldn’t be long before the people living either side started complaining.

‘All units, be on the lookout for an IC-One male wearing a dark hoodie and baseball cap. Mid-twenties with a moustache and soul patch. Chipped front tooth. Attempted sexual assault in Stuartfield …’

Logan climbed out. ‘Right. Cup of tea, then get your actions up to date. We’re going to be out of here bang on time for a change. Two o’clock on the dot.’

She nodded — eyes all puffy and red in the light spilling out from the station windows. ‘Sarge.’

The main office had its familiar contingent of two uniforms battering away at a computer, while Steel’s right-hand woman scowled away at the other. She looked up and let Logan enjoy that scowl for a bit, before going back to whatever was blighting her life on the screen.

Nice to see you too.

The Sergeants’ Office was empty for once. Logan fought his way out of his protective gear and settled into his chair with a sigh. Spread his hands out on the desktop. No DS Dawson. How lovely …

And then a small barb of guilt hooked itself into his throat; and why was DS Dawson not there? Yes, well.

Still, it wasn’t as if anyone ever died from an overdose of laxatives. Was it?

Hope not.

Logan logged into STORM and wrote up their visit to Gardenstown. Then started in on the team’s actions.

The office door thumped open and Steel marched into the room. Scowled at him. Put her mug down on top of his notebook. ‘Where the hell you been?’

‘I told you: death message.’ He moved the mug. Went back to his keyboard. ‘If you want something, it’ll have to wait. Got everyone’s actions to review. Then I’m going home.’

‘Pffff …’ She thumped down into the chair opposite and heaved her feet up onto the desk. ‘Don’t be such a wheenge — night’s barely getting started. Got a kid killer to catch.’ Then stuck two fingers in her mouth and let out a piercing whistle. ‘BECKY, BUMHOLE FRONT AND CENTRE!’

There was some muttered swearing from the main office, then Detective Sergeant McKenzie stomped to a halt on the threshold. Her bun was coming loose on one side, a handful of frizzy brown hair breaking free to puff around her ear. ‘Don’t have to bellow like that. You could pick up the phone.’

‘Blah, blah, blah.’ Steel dug into an inside pocket and came out with a small evidence bag. Then scribbled something down on one of Logan’s Post-its. ‘Get that sent off to this address. And don’t stick it in the post. I want it hand-delivered by someone in a shiny uniform. Tell them, if it’s no’ in Dundee by lunchtime I’m going to take my fist and turn them into a glove puppet.’

DS McKenzie’s cheeks flushed. ‘Yes, Boss.’ Then she snatched the evidence bag and Post-it off the desk and stormed out. Slamming the door behind her.

Logan waited for the echoes to fade. ‘Did you have to?’

‘Ah, she loves it really.’ Steel delved into her cleavage for a scratch. ‘Probably die of old age before those lazy sods get back with the DNA, but my new bestest friend — Professor Whatshisname, at that institute in Dundee — says if I get him some samples from our wee dead girl, he’ll run stable isotope analysis on them. On the sly. No charge, just the warm fuzzy feeling of helping catch whichever dirty sod killed her. And a bottle of malt whisky.’

‘Seriously, if you don’t lighten up on DS McKenzie she’ll either go off on the stress, or come after you with a meat cleaver.’

‘Could only get my hands on some hair, but it’s better than nothing. With any luck, the Prof gets back to us with where our victim’s from, and where she’s been. Postcode would be nice, but probably asking a bit much.’ A sniff. ‘Aye, assuming Becky doesn’t cock it up and send the sample to Glasgow, or Timbuctoo.’

‘There’s no point talking to you, is there?’

‘Nope.’ Steel clicked her fake cigarette on and stuck it in her gob. ‘How about you and me head out to rattle a few more sex offenders?’

‘Shift’s over in fifteen minutes. And then I’m going home and having two rest days. So if you want someone to run around after you, you better get one of your minions to do it.’

‘I don’t like my minions. My minions are no fun.’ She waved her fake cigarette about, like a conductor’s baton. ‘My old minions were much better.’

‘Tough.’

She stared at him. ‘Laz, in the old days, we’d dig through a dead tramp’s used knickers if we thought it’d catch a killer. What happened to you?’

‘What happened? Seriously ? You can’t be-’

Three knocks on the door and Nicholson stuck her head in. ‘Sarge, do you … Oh, sorry, didn’t know you had company.’ Her puffy eyes were back to normal. Couldn’t even tell she’d had a wee cry in the kitchen of an elderly couple who’d lost their son and grandchild in a stupid car accident. ‘Can I get-’

‘Do us a favour, Constable?’ Steel held up her mug. ‘Coffee: two and a coo. Laz here’ll have a milky tea.’

That got her a frown. ‘Sarge?’

Steel waggled the mug. ‘Give us a minute, eh? Got some motivating to do.’

Logan closed his eyes and swore.

Nicholson blinked a couple of times, then pulled on an uncomfortable-looking smile. Accepted the proffered mug. Backed away a couple of paces. ‘Yes, fine. No problem.’ Then turned and disappeared back through the door. Closed it behind her.

Steel had a dig at an armpit. ‘Alone at last.’

Here we go … ‘Look, if you’re trying to bully me into staying late, you can-’

‘We need to talk about Stephen Bisset.’

Oh.

Steel fiddled with the buttons on her suit jacket. Looked at her reflection in the dark office window. ‘Media’s going to have a field day: “Pervert victim killed in hospital!” Demanding to know why we didn’t have a guard on his bed. Why we wasted all that money on a half-arsed excuse of a trial, only to let Graham Stirling walk away scot-free.’

She gave up on the buttons and had a fiddle with her bra strap instead. ‘Jump in any time you like.’

‘Have they arrested Stirling for the murder yet?’

A small sharp laugh barked out. ‘Of course they haven’t. He was with his scumbag lawyer when it happened. Probably trying to figure out how much he can screw us for wrongful prosecution.’

‘God’s sake …’ Logan slumped in his seat. Scrubbed a hand across his forehead. ‘OK, so it’s someone else. Stirling’s got an accomplice, or a relative, or someone with a vested interest in making sure Stephen Bisset never woke up and identified him.’

‘That’s-’

‘We get the CCTV from the hospital and we comb through it, looking for anyone with a connection to Stirling.’

‘Aye, believe it or no’ we did actually think of that. Nada.’ She shook her head. ‘This time tomorrow there won’t be a front page, news bulletin, or chat show that doesn’t have Bisset’s family all over it. Telling everyone how incompetent we are.’