Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

Maybe they’d be right.

Logan let his head fall back against the shelves. ‘Top brass are looking for a scapegoat, aren’t they?’ And no prizes for guessing who that would be.

Silence.

Steel cleared her throat. ‘Listen, why don’t you come back to work for me? Told you, my minions are pants. Rennie’s useless and Becky’s got a face only a baboon’s backside could love. Don’t know what’s crawled up her today, but it’s laid eggs.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Course you can. I could protect you.’

‘How?’ Logan threw his arms out. ‘How the hell are you going to protect me from Napier? He’s a one-man jihad and I’m sodding America.’

‘Don’t know yet, but I’ll figure something out. We get you seconded to my MIT and I make you invaluable. We set stuff up so it looks like you’re Sherlock Holmes and Robocop all rolled into one. They won’t dare sack you.’

Good luck with that.

‘You can’t magically-’

‘All we need to do is find Neil Wood, batter a confession out of him, and tell everyone you saved the day.’

‘That’s your plan? You and me solve the case when a whole MIT can’t? Just like that? And I suppose we’re going to do it before Napier does his suicide-bomber thing?’

She scowled at him. ‘Well, I’m no’ hearing any brilliant plans coming from your side of the desk!’

‘There is no plan. I’m screwed, OK? That’s it. Me. Screwed.’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘I was acting DI for four years. Four years , and they wouldn’t promote me. You think they’re ever going to make me an inspector if I wimp out on Banff after three months? I’ll be a sergeant for the rest of my career.’ He let his arms fall to dangle at his sides. ‘Gah …’

‘So you’re giving up? Wimping out.’

‘No! That’s exactly what I’m not doing. I’m staying here and I’m sticking it out.’

A knock on the door.

‘Hallelujah. Come in, Janet.’

Nicholson pushed her way in, carrying two mugs. A packet of Ginger Nuts tucked under one arm. ‘Sorry, Sarge, didn’t want it getting cold.’

Steel sniffed. ‘Constable, your Sergeant here wants to call it a night.’

‘Oh. OK …’ She placed a mug on the desk. ‘Well, if you’re needing help with something, I could-’

‘No.’ Logan held up his hand. ‘Shift ends in …’ He checked his watch. ‘Twenty minutes. Home on time for a change.’

‘But, Saaa-aaarge .’

‘He’s no’ bothered that there’s crime afoot. That the good people of Banff can’t sleep safe in their beds at night, for fear of blah, blah, blah.’ Steel had a slurp of coffee. ‘What happened to that can-do CID spirit, Sergeant McRae?’

‘It disappeared soon as you got me transferred out to uniform.’

Nicholson scuffed forward. Held out the mug of tea. ‘But it’d be great experience for me, wouldn’t it? Working on an MIT?’

‘You want to do it? You do it. With my blessing.’ He pointed at Steel. ‘You’re covering the overtime though.’

Steel peered out at him from the passenger seat. ‘I’m serious, Laz — we can beat this.’

‘No we can’t. And stick to your hotel room this time, I’m not running a B-and-B.’

She stuck her nose in the air. ‘You’re such a whiny princess.’ Then Steel reached across and thumped Nicholson on the shoulder. ‘Onward to justice!’

Logan stood on the pavement as the Big Car’s tail lights dwindled to tiny red dots, then disappeared around the corner.

Pair of idiots.

Light blazed from the station windows. Normally, they’d only leave a single bulb on in the main office, so it looked as if someone was in. Well, it wouldn’t do to have some scrote break into the place and make off with seized narcotics, electronics, and firearms, would it? But tonight, the whole top floor, half the middle, and the ground floor glowed like it was Christmas.

The MIT burning the quarter-to-two-in-the-morning oil.

As if he and Steel could catch a wee girl’s killer when all this lot couldn’t.

Even if half of them couldn’t investigate their own pants for genitals.

A long slow breath hissed out of him.

It wasn’t possible.

If he was going to look indispensable, it would have to be something closer to home. Something achievable.

He keyed in Deano’s shoulder number. ‘Shire Uniform Seven. Deano, you safe to talk?’

A pause, then: ‘Fire on, Sarge.’

‘How’d you get on at that domestic?’

‘Storm in a teapot. Big fight about going to EuroDisney or Lossiemouth with the grandkids this summer. Only thing that got battered was a tea set.’

‘Tufty?’

‘Good as gold. Might even buy him a lolly.’

Wonders would never cease.

‘Glad to hear it. You still dealing with your drink driver, or are you Foxtrot Oscar?’

‘Up the hospital again. Silly sod’s so blootered he can barely stand, but he thinks he’s safe to drive. No one at home to take care of him, so he’s the NHS’s problem till he sobers up. Remember the good old days when we could chuck them in a cell for the night?’

‘OK, well, I’m finishing up soon. Make sure Tufty updates his actions before he goes back to his tree, or he’s in for a swift kick in the acorns.’

‘Sarge.’

Logan let himself back into the station.

Something closer to home …

He pressed the button again. ‘Deano, do me a favour while you’re up the hospital? Pop in and see if Jack Simpson’s got over his time in Klingon and Gerbil’s attic. If you can’t get me on the Airwave, I’ll be on my mobile.’

Worth a try anyway.

Back to the Sergeants’ Office.

Logan finished updating the actions on STORM. Logged off. Shut down the computer. Stuck his dirty mug in the canteen sink. Unlocked the little blue door to his Airwave locker. More of a sealed pigeonhole than anything, set amongst twenty-eight identical little blue sealed pigeonholes. He pulled out the charging cable.

The Airwave bleeped at him and Deano’s shoulder number appeared on the screen. ‘Sarge, you safe to talk?’

‘Thump away.’

‘Jack Simpson. Docs say he’s going to be under for at least a couple more days. Klingon and Gerbil really did a number on his head with that baseball bat. They’re keeping him sedated till the swelling goes down a bit.’

Because that worked so well for Samantha.

‘Thanks, Deano.’

Logan switched the handset off. Plugged in the charging cable. Stuck the lot back in its sealable pigeonhole and locked the door.

Just have to look somewhere else for salvation.

Logan slouched out of the station’s side door. Made sure it was closed. Then stood there on the pavement and let a huge yawn shudder its way up from his knees. Sagged.

So much for finding a case he could crack quickly to get Napier off his back. Nothing was anywhere near big enough to make up for what happened at the Graham Stirling trial. A spate of shoplifting wasn’t even going to put a dent in that.

He dumped his peaked cap on his head and cut across the car park … Then stopped.

A figure was huddled against the wall that separated the road from the beach. Bum on the pavement, knees up against its chest, arms wrapped around itself. Face hidden in the depths of a parka’s periscope hood.

Logan walked over. ‘Are you OK? Hello?’

The figure jerked, then looked up at him. Peeled back the hood to reveal an explosion-in-a-spring-factory haircut. Helen Edwards — the woman with the missing daughter. She blinked a couple of times, then pulled her shoulders in. ‘Cold.’