Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

Steel poked him in the shoulder. ‘And do you know what they found when they went through the CCTV from the hospital? Sod all. Ran all the faces through the system and not one of them’s got anything to do with Stirling. So your “accomplice” theory’s about as much use as DS Rennie.’ She cricked her head from side to side. Rubbed at the base of her neck. ‘Still can’t believe no one saw anything.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want to head back to Aberdeen with the rest of them? Maybe leave someone less annoying behind instead?’

‘You’d think they’d notice a bloke going in, having a wank over Stephen Bisset, and suffocating him, wouldn’t you? Got to be a wee bit conspicuous, standing there with your sausage d’amour in one hand and a pillow in the other.’

Logan stared at her. ‘They found semen on the body? Do a DNA match!’

‘Aye, thank you, Hercule Poirot, we had actually thought of that. No hit from the database. Tell you, the press will go ape when it comes out.’ She blew out a sigh, slurped down some more coffee. ‘Was bad enough when they only had Graham Stirling to batter us with, but this? This piles on extra baboons. Wee sod might be keeping his head down right now, but you can bet your itchy police trousers he’ll be back with a massive law suit, and it’ll all flange up again. See if I was you? I’d be sucking up to anyone in a position to deflect a bit of the crap away from me.’

‘I told you: I’m not joining your MIT. I can’t .’

She held up her hands. ‘Just saying.’

‘Well, just don’t. It’s bad enough-’

Three quick knocks on the door, and Steel’s right-hand woman stuck her head into the Sergeants’ Office. ‘Boss?’

Steel didn’t even look at her. ‘For the last time, Becky, you’re no’ escaping back to Aberdeen till Dawson gets out of hospital. You’re no’ much, but you’re all I’ve got to keep these bunnets in line.’

DS McKenzie’s neck darkened and the creases around the bottom of her mouth deepened. ‘It’s about the CCTV footage from the hospital. There’s no one on it that isn’t meant to be, right? I mean we’ve got doctors, nurses, volunteers, that consultant urologist …’ She left a dramatic pause. ‘And Bisset’s kids.’

Steel rested her elbows on the desk, head dangling over the coffee cup. ‘You seriously suggesting it was his kids?’

McKenzie stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. ‘I know it’s a long shot, but think about it. They-’

‘Laz, I’m too knackered. You do it.’

Logan pointed at the spare seat. ‘You want to sit?’

She didn’t. Instead she leaned on Steel’s side of the desk. ‘Come on, Boss, no one’s ever going to suspect them, are they?’

He bit down on his lips. Be nice. ‘Well …’ Frown. No point making her look stupid, but it wouldn’t be easy. ‘I can see where you’re coming from, DS McKenzie, but it doesn’t really tally with the semen they found on Stephen Bisset’s body.’

Silence. Then McKenzie’s face creased in around her nose. ‘Sod.’

Steel must have decided that she could be bothered after all, because she sat up. Pointed. ‘They’re brother and sister, Becky. They’re no’ likely to murder their dear old dad then crack one off over his still-warm corpse, are they? It’s Aberdeen, no’ Game of Sodding Thrones .’

The flush on DS McKenzie’s neck deepened. She forced a smile that looked painful as a whole-pineapple suppository. ‘I see …’ Deep breath. Her chin came up. ‘Anything else?’

Steel waved a hand in the vague direction of the door. ‘Away and see if anyone’s spotted Neil Wood yet. Nonces don’t vanish into thin air.’

A curt nod. ‘Boss.’ Then daggers at Logan, as if somehow it was his fault. ‘ Sergeant .’ And she was off, slamming the door on the way.

The blast of air ruffled the Post-its stuck to Logan’s desk.

He blew out a breath. ‘That went well.’

‘Told you — one poke away from an aneurism.’

‘So stop poking her.’ He skiffed his fingertips back and forth on the desktop a couple of times. Looked out of the window as the guilt twisted a little knife into his chest. ‘DS Dawson’s still in hospital then?’

‘Serves him right. Never trust a kebab, that’s my motto.’ She slurped at her coffee again, then frowned. ‘Sure you’ve no’ got any biscuits?’

The familiar, depressing sounds of a hospital ticking over, hummed and buzzed and clanked and murmured down the corridor. Logan stuck his back to the wall and his finger in his other ear. ‘Say again, Deano?’

‘Aye, that’s us going round and round Rundle Avenue again. Got a call your mate Frankie Ferris was getting a lot of visitors.’

Logan checked his watch. ‘At twenty past eight on a Saturday morning? Only way he’s awake this early is if he didn’t go to bed last night.’

‘My thoughts exactly. But we got the call, so we diverted from Pennan to drive round and round in circles looking for early-riser druggies who don’t exist.’

The door at the end of the corridor opened and a young woman in pale blue scrubs stepped out. Stack of folders pinned under one arm. Short brown hair, twin scars reaching from beneath her nose and through her top lip.

‘OK: give it another couple of laps then call it. With Klingon and Gerbil out of the way, someone’s got to be picking up the slack. Might as well be Frankie Ferris.’ Logan stuck his Airwave back on his shoulder and walked over. ‘Doctor?’

She flashed him a smile that looked as if it needed another eight hours’ sleep. ‘Can I help you?’

Logan pointed at the door she’d come out of. ‘Jack Simpson.’

‘Ah, right.’ One of the folders came out and she rummaged inside it. Produced a sheet of paper and squinted at it. ‘Concussion, ruptured spleen, fractured skull, broken ribs, left femur, right tibula and fibula, left humerus and-’

‘That’s the one. He awake yet?’

She pursed her lips for a moment. Sniffed. Probably not used to being cut off mid-flow. ‘Mr Simpson regained consciousness this morning. The swelling’s gone down, so we’re confident he’ll make a complete recovery. Though, obviously, he’s going to need a lot of physiotherapy.’

‘Can I talk to him?’

‘I’ve got to warn you, he’s a bit … fractious.’

No surprise there — Jack Simpson probably hadn’t had a day off the heroin in years. Still, at least he’d have been sedated through the worst of the withdrawal symptoms.

Logan slipped into the room.

The blinds were half open, throwing bars of light across the floor and bed. A TV set was mounted to the wall, the picture flickering in time with some far-off machinery. A reporter in a suit was doing a piece to camera, microphone held like a knuckleduster in one hand. ‘… Prime Minister announced today that Detective Constable Mary Ann Nasrallah of Merseyside Police would be posthumously awarded the Queen’s Police Medal for Gallantry. We’re over live to Westminster …’

Jack Simpson lay spread out on top of the sheets: both arms and both legs in plaster, a neck brace squeezing his chin up, bandages around his head. Face a dark swathe of purple and yellow. Lips swollen and lined with scabs.

‘… dedicated undercover officer whose tragic shooting last Sunday only goes to demonstrate-’

Logan killed the TV with the remote. Gave Jack Simpson a smile. ‘Klingon and Gerbil really did a number on you, didn’t they, Jack?’

Two bloodshot eyes blinked back at him. ‘Gntt sttfffd.’

‘Now, now, is that any way to talk to the guy who saved your life?’ He carried the plastic chair from the corner to the bedside. Settled into it. ‘Sorry, didn’t bring you any grapes.’