Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

‘Who are you calling stupid? I should-’

‘Telling the media — you really think that’s not going to blow up in your-’

‘Hold your sodding horses right there, Tonto. I didn’t tip anyone off about anything.’

He stuck his head around the corner. The pack of journalists were still there. ‘Then why am I looking at a bunch of idiots from the national press and TV hanging about outside Banff station?’

Silence.

Yeah, she didn’t have an answer to that, did she.

He let himself into the house. ‘What were you thinking?’

Still nothing.

Inside, the sound of tuneless whistling came from the open kitchen door, floating on an air of rich meaty scents.

‘Hello? You still there?’

Helen’s mess of explosive curls poked out of the kitchen. ‘Logan. Hi. Thought I heard something. You’re right on time.’ Her face glowed, the skin pink and shiny.

He closed the front door. ‘Hi. Sorry.’ He pointed at the phone in his other hand.

‘Ah, right. Sorry.’ She backed into the kitchen.

Back to the phone. ‘OK, I’m hanging up. You have-’

‘I didn’t leak sod all to anyone. For your information, Chuckles, the press mosh-pit outside the front door isn’t there for the Tarlair case. It’s no’ there because of me, it’s there because of you .’

Sand and gravel filled Logan’s mouth. ‘Me?’

‘Aye, you. Who’s the idiot now?’

He cleared his throat. Peered through the open kitchen door and out through the window. There had to be at least a dozen of them out there, with their cameras and their microphones and their notepads. ‘Why are they after me?’

‘Why do you think? You screwed up the Graham Stirling case and now Stephen Bisset’s dead.’

Oh God …

Logan stepped away from the door. ‘I’m off duty. Tell them to go away.’

‘Free country. They can hang about if they like, long as they don’t cause a disturbance.’

He rested his head back against the wall. Closed his eyes. ‘It’s not my fault.’

‘Aye, well remember that next time you try calling me an idiot.’

The line went dead.

Perfect. As if Napier’s witch-hunt wasn’t bad enough, without the press banging the drum for a full-on crusade.

‘Logan? You OK?’

Excellent. Couldn’t be better.

He opened his eyes and Helen was standing in the doorway again.

Little wrinkles appeared between her eyebrows. ‘Did something happen at the care home? Is Samantha OK?’

‘Everything’s fine. Just … work.’ He put his phone away. ‘You know what it’s like. Always something.’

‘Anyway, I couldn’t find anything in the kitchen for lunch except tins of lentil soup.’ She turned and headed back into the kitchen. ‘And I know it must be a favourite, otherwise you wouldn’t buy so much of it, but there’s only so much lentil I can take.’

He followed her through. Forced a smile. ‘Smells good, whatever it is.’

‘Mince and tatties. I’m a carrots and peas kind of girl. You didn’t have any Bisto.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Or carrots. Or peas. Or mince. Or onions. You did have potatoes though.’ She produced a pair of plates. ‘Mash, or boiled?’

‘Mash.’

‘Good choice.’ She poured the tatties, then put them back on the stove with milk and a wodge of butter. Stood mashing away with her back to him. ‘It’s Natasha’s favourite.’ Helen fidgeted with her fingers. Looked away. ‘Well, it was when she was wee. “Mint an’ tatties.” I always make too much.’ She pointed at the table, set for two — complete with napkins and glasses of water. ‘Ready to serve up if you are.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Mint an’ tatties. Markanory cheese an’ chibs. She used to love anything you could gloop about with a fork …’ Helen dug the potato masher out of the drawer. ‘Of course Brian always wanted her to eat paella and chorizo and all the rest of it. She told him pale ella tastes of worms. And it’d all kick off again. How I was disrespecting his Spanish heritage. And I’d point out he wasn’t actually Spanish, he was born in Dalkeith. Didn’t even visit Spain till he was three.’ Helen’s head dipped. ‘Same age Natasha was when he abducted her.’

She battered the potatoes into submission. ‘So I’d shut up and make his stupid paella and maybe he wouldn’t scream at me. Or maybe he would. And this, children, is how we play happy families.’

More potato battering.

‘Why didn’t you leave him?’

‘Right, I think we’re about ready.’ She glopped tatties and mince onto two plates. Then sank into the chair opposite.

Logan dug a fork into the mash, scooped up a glob of mince — dark brown, flecked with glistening slivers of onion and emerald green peas.

She rubbed her fingertips across her stomach. Mouth pinched into a circular scar, eyebrows pinched. ‘Is it OK?’

He swallowed. Dug out another forkful. ‘Thanks. It’s lovely.’

‘Are you sure it’s OK? I know lentil soup’s your favourite, but …?’

‘Honestly, it’s great. I’ve got loads of lentil soup because it’s cheap. And you can sling it in a carrier bag and not worry about it going off if you’ve left it in the car, in the sun, for four hours. Every station’s got a microwave and a toaster.’

She watched him shovel down another forkful. ‘So you live on cheap soup and pound-shop bread?’

‘A whole pound? Are you kidding? It’s nowhere near as expensive as that.’

Helen swirled her fork through her mashed potatoes, leaving it raked like a Zen garden. ‘Logan, the thing with work: it wasn’t about Natasha, was it?’

‘No. It’s another case. The labs are still trying to push through the DNA sample you gave us, but …’ A shrug. ‘Not supposed to talk about it, but those severed feet turning up in the Clyde are probably a serial killer. So it’s all hands to the pumps on that before he kills someone else. Or the media find out it’s not some Protestant sectarian gang thing.’

‘I see.’

‘They swear blind our samples will be ready Monday.’

She kept her eyes on her plate. ‘Right.’

They ate in silence for a bit.

Logan tried for a laugh. Didn’t quite make it. ‘Suppose that means you’re stuck with me for the weekend.’

The clock on the wall ticked.

Helen had a sip of water. ‘I was thinking, if we finish painting the bedroom today, I could get cracking on the lounge tomorrow while you’re at work. If that’s all right?’

He reached across the table and took her hand. ‘If I could get them to go any faster, I would. I promise.’

‘I know.’

‘… every single time: rats in her bed. And she hates the police.’ Nicholson clicked the mouse, sending the morning briefing PowerPoint onto the next slide. A grainy CCTV image of what looked like a mosh pit outside a pub. ‘OK, so there was a mass altercation outside the Fish and Futrit, in Peterhead, last night — wedding reception got a bit out of hand.’

She looked at Logan.

He took a sip of tea. ‘As a result, the Peterhead cells are full and the overspill’s in Fraserburgh. Which means …?’ He thumped a hand down on Tufty’s shoulder, making him flinch.

‘Er … They’ve got to have two people manning the cell blocks, because it’s the law?’

‘And when do the courts open again?’

‘Monday?’

‘So?’

‘So …’ Frown. Think. Think. Think. ‘They’re going to be short-staffed all weekend?’