Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

‘Correct. You win a Crackerjack pencil.’ That got him a confused look. ‘We’re close to minimum staffing levels everywhere, so losing two officers in Peterhead and Fraserburgh means we’re going to have to pick up the slack.’

Groans.

‘Yes, I know. Take it up with the bride and groom’s families.’

Tufty stuck his hand up. ‘Can’t we get some bodies from the Tarlair MIT?’

‘They’ve scaled back the team. Going to run the bulk of it out of Aberdeen instead, to — and I quote — “maximize operational efficiencies”. AKA: so they don’t have to pay overnights or accommodation.’

Deano twiddled his CS gas canister in its holder. ‘Meaning: they’ve achieved sod all, and now they’re running away home.’

‘Couldn’t possibly comment.’ Logan nodded at Nicholson. ‘Janet?’

‘Luckily it’s pretty q …’ She cleared her throat. ‘We’re not anticipating much happening on a Saturday morning.’

Deano hissed a breath in through his teeth. ‘Ooh, so close to jinxing the whole shift.’

‘Shut up.’ Back to the slides. ‘Anyway. Other things last night: house fire in Rosehearty — one of the cottages on North Street went up. Not being treated as suspicious at this point. Four break-ins at Pennan during the wee small hours — variety of electrical goods, books, knick-knacks, and some jewellery reported missing.’

Logan put his mug down. ‘Deano, you and Tufty go past and do the CSI thing. Photos and fingerprints. Fly the flag.’

‘Sarge.’

‘Four break-ins is a lot for somewhere that wee. Door-to-door the whole village. I want to get a result on this one.’

Nicholson moved on. ‘Two drink drivers taken — one outside Strichen, the other on the A947 north of Keilhill. Silly sod left the road and ended up on his roof in a field. And last, but not least, our boy the peeper’s prowling Melrose Crescent again. We now have a description.’ Click, and the screen changed to a hazy identikit picture of a man. ‘Vague and blurry and sod all use.’

She sat back in her seat. ‘Sarge?’

‘Good. Right, first off: I understand congratulations are in order for Deano’s barbecue on Thursday night …’

Nicholson and Tufty clapped while Deano did a slow three-sixty spin on his office chair, both hands in the air as if he’d just run a marathon, or been asked to hand over his wallet at gunpoint. ‘Thank you, thank you.’

A grin from Tufty. ‘Should’ve been there, Sarge. We had a bouncy castle!’

‘Seriously?’

Nicholson nodded. ‘My uncle’s got one. Says we can have it for the station open day in June, if we want.’

‘Done.’ Logan pulled out his notebook and scribbled it down. ‘Secondly: Klingon and Gerbil have been remanded without bail. Pair of them are going to be banged up in Craiginches till it’s time to try them. Word from Queen Street is that our involvement will be restricted to giving evidence in court, they’ve set up an MIT to handle everything else.’

Deano puffed out his cheeks. ‘Big of them.’

‘And thirdly: I don’t care if the Tarlair MIT is slinking off back to Aberdeen with its tail between its legs, it doesn’t mean we’re giving up. Keep your eyes open when you’re out there, OK? Neil Wood didn’t vanish off the face of the earth, he went to ground. He has to come out sometime.’ Logan thumped his notebook closed. ‘And when he does, we’re going to be there to nab him.’

There was a knock on the Sergeants’ Office door, and Tufty stuck his head in. ‘Sarge? Did you know there’s a tramp sleeping in the canteen?’

Logan looked up from his keyboard. Frowned. ‘Tramp?’

‘Half sprawled across the table. Snoring and farting.’

He sat back in his seat. Narrowed his eyes. ‘Male or female?’

‘Woman. Hair all Albert Einstein meets semtex.’

Of course it was.

‘Better put the kettle on, Tufty. One coffee: milk and two. I’ll have a tea.’

‘Sarge.’

‘And give your tramp a poke. Send her through.’

Logan went back to his screen, checking the other Banff station teams were up to date with their actions. Adding comments. Flagging a couple to follow up.

Next up: Crimefile.

‘Gnnnph …’ Steel slumped against the doorframe, looking as if she’d hired a drunken gorilla as a personal stylist. Her mouth cracked wide in a long shuddering yawn that ended with a little burp. Then some blinking.

He checked his watch. ‘It’s not even eight yet. To what do we owe this honour?’

‘I hate dayshift.’ Another yawn.

Tufty reappeared with a mug in either hand. Put one down on Logan’s desk, then looked from him to the scruffy monster slouched on the threshold and back again. ‘Sarge?’

Steel stuck out both hands. ‘Coffee. Coffee, now. Coffee make feel better.’

Logan logged into Crimefile. ‘Constable Stewart Quirrel, meet Detective Chief Inspector Roberta Steel. Tarlair Major Investigation Team.’

‘Ah. OK. Here you go, Boss.’ He passed her the other mug.

She buried her face in it, making slurping noises.

Tufty pulled his eyebrows up and his mouth down at the edges, doing a fair impression of a startled frog. Then jerked his head at Steel a couple of times. Creased his nose, as if he’d caught a whiff of something stinky. Steel still hadn’t looked up from her coffee.

‘All right, Tufty, that’s enough. Go find something useful to do.’

‘You want me and Deano to hit Pennan?’

‘Have you finished updating your actions?’

Pink bloomed across Tufty’s cheeks. ‘Sarge.’

Soon as he was gone, Steel scuffed her way over to the desk that backed onto Logan’s and collapsed into the chair. Cracked another huge juddering yawn. ‘Pfff … Your bed’s a lot comfier than that manky hotel.’

‘You look like you climbed out of a skip.’

‘I hate you …’ More slurping at the mug. ‘Why haven’t I got any biscuits?’

‘Ask your boyfriend, DS Dawson.’ Logan checked his Crimefile in-tray. Three requests to put a tweet out about a serious assault in Mintlaw. The face of modern policing.

‘Do you a swap: your hovel for my nice luxurious hotel room. Wee bottles of shampoo and all the fresh towels you can eat.’

‘Nope. What’s happening with your Tarlair case?’

‘You get breakfast too. Sausage, egg, and tattie scones. You’d like that. Put a bit of meat on your bones.’

‘Did you come in here to moan, or are you planning on doing some actual work today?’

She hunched forward in her seat, both hands wrapped around her mug as if it was the only thing keeping her from freezing to death. ‘They’re winding us back again. Four days and we’ve no’ got a single sodding clue about who the wee girl is, or who killed her.’

‘I heard.’ He popped onto Twitter and hammered in the requested appeal for witnesses. Fighting crime 140 characters at a time. ‘So you’re heading back to Aberdeen then.’

At least that meant they’d get their station back. Could throw open a few windows and get rid of the stink of desperation, failure, and the aftermath of too many laxatives.

‘You should be so lucky.’ She stretched out her arms, twisted her head to one side and arched her back. Grunted. Yawned. Shuddered. ‘Skeleton staff are staying behind to direct B Division in its enquiries.’

Of course they were.

‘So, basically, the MIT couldn’t find its own backside in a sleeping bag, and now it’s our problem.’ He closed his eyes, folded forward and dunked his forehead off the desk. ‘Oh, lucky us.’

‘You’re in no position to be sarcastic. Stephen Bisset’s dead, remember?’

As if he could forget, with it being all over the papers for the last two days. At least they’d given up hanging about outside the station.