Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

Logan swapped his phone to his other hand, then dabbed a tissue at the corner of Samantha’s mouth. ‘Yeah, sorry.’

On the other end, Deano sighed. ‘And you’re sure?’

‘Can’t. Something’s come up and I’m stuck.’

‘You do remember I’ve got ribeye steaks the size of your head?’

‘I know. I’d love to, Deano, but I can’t.’

Samantha’s forehead was getting a bit red. Have to get her a big hat or something.

‘We’ve got a heap of beer too.’

A groan escaped Logan’s lips. ‘You’re not making this any easier.’

Well, it wasn’t as if he could abandon Helen to do the DIY while he went out and got stuffed and hammered, could he? And there was no way in hell he could take her with him. Turn up to a barbecue with what might be the dead little girl’s mother in tow? It wouldn’t be fair on her. Or the team.

How were they supposed to relax and enjoy themselves if they had to be on their best behaviour the whole time?

He’d never hear the end of it.

‘Well, if you’re sure you’re sure.’

‘Trust me: if I could, I would.’

After all, there would be other barbecues. Other steaks.

Logan’s stomach growled.

And it wasn’t as if he didn’t have plenty tins of lentil soup at home.

Logan pinned his phone between his ear and shoulder while he tied up the third bin-bag. ‘You’re kidding. Not till Monday ?’

On the other end, Steel sniffed. ‘Two high-profile rapes, and another three severed feet in the Clyde today.’

Logan glanced towards the bedroom door. No sign of Helen, but he dropped his voice anyway. ‘Surely a murdered little girl trumps three severed feet?’

‘In a sensible world, yes. Here? No. Even tried getting Big Tony Campbell to weigh in, but no doing. We’re in the queue.’

‘Someone needs a stiff kick in the balls.’ Logan unfurled another bin-bag and stuffed a wodge of stripped wallpaper into it.

The room looked a lot better without the peeling mess of sickly purple paper. Now the walls were stripped back to the pink plaster — speckled with fresh white filler. A going over with sugar soap and a coat of white emulsion had faded the stains on the ceiling a bit, but nowhere near enough. The air tasted sticky and plasticky from the paint fumes.

‘Which reminds me: I gave Becky a chewing out for no’ getting a hotel arranged for our victim’s mother. So off she goes, looking like she’s about to burst one, and gets everything sorted.’

‘Ah …’

‘Only, you know what Ms Helen It-Might-Be-My-Dead-Daughter Edwards says when Becky tells her there’s a room booked for her? “No thanks, I’m staying with a friend.”’

‘Well, maybe-’

‘Ungrateful cow.’ Something crunched down the line, and Steel’s voice went all muffled, as if her mouth was full. ‘In other news: you want to play the voice of sanity for a change?’

The last of the stripped-off wallpaper went in the bin-bag. ‘What did you do?’

‘Only reason those feet are higher up the list is because the media’s got their teeth into them. What if someone leaked it? “Police labs ignore murdered six-year-old’s DNA in half-arsed PR grab?”’ More crunching. ‘Or something snappier: “Scumbag Labs DNA Cock-up.” You know the kind of thing.’

‘No.’

‘Well, you come up with a better headline then.’

‘No, I mean: no. Don’t do it. You leak it after rattling everyone’s cages, it’ll get back to you. You really that keen to spend more time with Napier?’ Logan tied the last bag and added it to the pile. ‘You can’t leak it. They’ll nail you to the ceiling.’

‘So I get Rennie to do it.’

‘Yeah, because there’s no way that could possibly be tied back to you.’ He gathered the bin-bags together and struggled them out onto the landing.

Tuneless whistling came from the bathroom.

Logan hefted the debris downstairs. ‘How’d you get on with Nicholson last night?’

‘Well, what about Becky then? I could get her to do it.’

‘No.’

‘Pfff …’ More crunching. ‘Your girl Nicholson’s a bit keen, isn’t she?’

He dumped the bin-bags at the front door. ‘Let me guess, you didn’t get anything.’

‘Two hours of sod all. Well, no’ counting nasty cups of tea and dirty looks. Dr Kidfiddler says he’s putting in a complaint about harassment.’ The grin shone through Steel’s voice, ‘Turns out he doesn’t like being roused at three in the morning and grilled about access to barbiturates. Poor baby. Should’ve thought about that before he started molesting wee kids.’

Upstairs, the toilet flushed. She’d be down in a minute.

‘Look, I’ve got to go.’

‘Oh aye, got a hot date, have we? Rosy palm bringing round her five sisters for a gangbang?’

‘I’m hanging up.’

‘Hope you’ve got protection. A Marigold glove would probably do if-’

He poked the button, then slid the phone back in his pocket as Helen appeared at the top of the stairs.

She tucked a curl behind one ear. Smiled. ‘What’s for dinner?’

‘Lentil soup.’

The smile froze. ‘Again?’

‘… going to be with us for the next hour, but first here’s Carol with all your lunchtime news, travel, and weather. Carol.’

‘Thanks, Justin. Greater Glasgow Police are refusing to confirm or deny rumours that three severed feet found in the Clyde yesterday are part of a sectarian feud …’

Logan pulled his rattly Clio into the kerb, opposite the Sergeant’s Hoose. Dug out his phone and checked his messages.

Voicemail from his mother. That got deleted.

A text from Rennie about a dead tramp he’d had to peel out of a wheelie bin back in Aberdeen. Delete.

‘… confirmed that sex-attack-victim Stephen Bisset’s death in Aberdeen Royal Infirmary on Wednesday night is being treated as suspicious. After the collapse of the trial against-’

Logan killed the engine.

Sat in the silence.

Went back to his phone.

A text from Steel was next — moaning about him not going to Jasmine’s dance competition tomorrow. Delete. And another from her about chasing up on Neil Wood’s connections in the sex-offender underground.

And one from Biohazard Bob.

Napier was round here 2day asking loads of questions about U.

Kept asking if U gone mental on this case. Obsessed amp; that.

Watch Ur back: knives R out!

‘Great.’ He thumbed out a response and sent it off. Sat there, staring at the glittering expanse of the North Sea.

Could do a Reginald Perrin. Strip off at the water’s edge and walk out into the waves. Sod off somewhere else …

Then what would Samantha do? Who’d pay her bills?

Yeah. Exactly.

Logan put his phone away and climbed out into the sunshine.

A knot of scruffy blokes and well-dressed women were gathered outside the front of Banff station. Some doing pieces to camera, others smoking and drinking from Styrofoam cups.

What the hell was wrong with Steel? She’d blabbed to the press, even though he’d told her not to.

Idiot.

Out with the phone again.

She picked up on the fourth ring. ‘I’m no’ telling you again: I’m no’ giving you any more money!’

‘What?’

‘What?’ She cleared her throat. ‘Oh … Thought you were someone else. Why are-’

‘What did I tell you last night?’ He stomped across the road to the Sergeant’s Hoose. ‘You leak it, they’re going to trace it right back to you! How could you be so stupid?’