Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

‘Mm nntt saynn nthnn.’

‘OK, how about you listen for a bit instead? When I found you in Klingon’s attic, you were half dead. Between the internal bleeding, toxic shock, and dehydration, the doctors say you’d have lasted maybe another day. Maybe two. Max.’

Simpson lay there, scowling at the ceiling.

‘They tried to kill you, Jack. They nearly battered you to death, then they stuck you in the attic. If I hadn’t looked up there, that would’ve been it. No more Jack Simpson.’

Not that anyone would really have mourned that loss. There wasn’t a single ‘GET WELL SOON’ card in the room; no teddy bears, Mylar balloons, or bunches of flowers. The only things decorating the unit by the bed were a sippy cup and a box of tissues.

But then who was going to wish a drug dealer a speedy recovery? By now his customers would have found someone else to sell their favourite poison. Not even his mum and dad cared about poor old Jack Simpson.

Logan leaned forward and knocked on the cast encasing Simpson’s right arm. ‘Do you want Klingon and Gerbil to get away with it? Let bygones be bygones?’

A breath hissed out between the cracked lips. ‘Klll thmmm.’

‘How you going to do that, Jack?’ He pointed at the bag hanging on a stand beneath the level of the bed, connected to a tube that disappeared under Simpson’s hospital gown. ‘You can’t even pee on your own.’

Logan sat forward. Lowered his voice. ‘Right now, they’ll be cutting a deal. Ratting out whoever sold them the drugs in exchange for a reduced sentence. Who knows, if the intel’s good enough, they might even walk. That what you want?’

A cough. Then another one. Spittle flying from his lips. Eyes squeezed shut, chipped teeth bared with every convulsion. Till it was over and he slumped back into his pillow. Dragging in rattly breaths. Face nearly scarlet between the bruises. ‘Watrr …’

Logan took the sippy cup from the beside unit and held it to Simpson’s lips. ‘Slow and steady. That’s it. Don’t choke yourself.’

The breathing slowed, his face returning to its normal unhealthy pallor.

‘Better?’

‘Am I under arrest?’ The words came out with a slight lisp.

‘Nope. You’re the victim here, Jack. All we want is to make sure the guys who did this to you don’t get away with it.’

He frowned at the ceiling for a bit.

A trolley clattered by in the corridor outside.

Voices faded in the distance.

Then Simpson nodded — not much, just a small bob of the chin, restrained by the neck brace. ‘A scummer from down south supplied the stuff.’

‘Hold on.’ Logan slipped the elastic band off his body-worn video and set it recording. ‘Sergeant Logan McRae, eight thirty-two a.m., twenty-fourth of May, Chalmers Hospital. Interview with Jack Simpson.’ Pulled out his notebook. ‘OK, back to the beginning. Who supplied the heroin in Colin Spinney’s mum’s house?’

That got him a look. ‘His mum’s house? You mental? She’s been gone for, like, years.’

‘Years? I know she’s in Australia, but-’

‘Guy who supplied the drugs was a Geordie, or a Scouser. Somewhere like that with the accent, you know?’

Logan scribbled it down. ‘What’s his name?’ Probably a waste of time: Klingon and Gerbil would have spilled their guts to whoever was running the investigation in five minutes flat. By now, their supplier would be under arrest, or on the run. Either way, he wouldn’t be hanging around Banff. But still …

‘Nah.’ Simpson looked as if he was trying to frown, but his battered face wasn’t cooperating. ‘Called him some stupid nickname, like … Candleman? Or Candlestick Man? Something like that. Only met him once: short, and broad, you know? Like a wee rugby player, or a boxer. Hard man.’

‘Age? Hair colour? Distinguishing features?’

‘Vicious bastard stood there, egging Gerbil and Klingon on while they took turns with the baseball bat …’ Tears glistened Simpson’s eyes. Spilled over onto his bruised cheeks. ‘Told them they had to … had to keep …’ He pulled his head back an inch, fighting against the neck brace, pushing himself into the pillows. Blinking it back. ‘I’m lying there on the garage floor, screaming and trying to cover my head, and they’re hammering away at me, and everything’s … God it hurt so bad.’ The tears were flowing freely now, a line of silver bubbling out of one nostril as he shook. ‘And they laughed ! They laughed as they battered the crap out of me.’ A shudder ran up his body, setting the casts twitching. Deep breaths, wheezing on the way in, hissing on the way out.

Logan put his pen down. ‘You want a break?’

‘Want a sodding hit. The morphine here’s pish …’

It took a couple of minutes, but the shudders passed, and Simpson’s breathing returned to normal.

Logan pulled two tissues from the unit by the bed. Stood and dabbed at Simpson’s face with them. Cleared up the tears and the worst of the snot. ‘What did you do, Jack? Why did the …’ He sat down again and checked his notes. ‘Why did this Candlestick Man want Kevin McEwan and Colin Spinney to kill you?’

‘Kill us? Naw, that was just day one.’ What was probably meant to be a laugh crowbarred its way out of Jack Simpson’s ruined mouth. ‘Scummers hauled me out the attic next day and did it again. And the day after. I begged them to kill me.’

‘But they wouldn’t.’

‘Candleboy told them this was how they built a rep. A week of … of breaking every bone in my body, then turf me out on the street. And when word got round no one would ever screw with them again.’ He bared the jagged stumps of his teeth. ‘Wasn’t personal, it was business.’

‘So why’d they pick you?’

A tiny little smile curled one side of Simpson’s mouth. ‘Turns out they don’t like it when you help yourself to free samples …’

Logan stood on the pavement outside the hospital, flicking back through his notebook to last Monday. Found Kirstin Rattray’s number and keyed it into his mobile. Listened to it ring. And ring. And ring. And-

‘Pmmmmph …’ A thick, muggy yawn came from the other end. The words sticky and malformed. ‘Whtmisit?’

‘Kirstin? It’s Sergeant McRae.’

A small whimper. Then a man’s voice in the background. ‘Who the hell’s that?’

‘It’s … my mum. Something’s up with Amy. Dunno … school stuff.’ Back to the phone. ‘Mum, hold on, I’ll go make a cuppa and we can chat.’

‘And close the bloody door.’

Clunk. Then she was back, voice a low whisper. ‘Are you mental ? You can’t call me at home!’

‘Better put the kettle on. Don’t want whoever it is to wonder why they can’t hear it boiling.’

‘If Klingon and Gerbil find out I talked to the cops they’ll kill me!’

‘After what we found in their house? No chance. The pair of them are going away for at least sixteen years.’

‘And what about the guy supplied them? You think he’ll be happy all his gear’s been thieved by the plod?’

‘Well, we’ll just have to do something about him, won’t we? My boss wants you registered as a Covert Human Intelligence Source, so we can-’

‘You told your boss ? God’s sake …’ Some rattling and thumping, then the click-rumble-rattle of a kettle. ‘You want me dead, that what you want? You want my wee Amy to end up an orphan?’

‘That’s why it’s better to go on the books.’

‘Don’t understand why you can’t leave us alone. Never did nothing to you.’

‘It all gets handled through Aberdeen, you never even have to speak to me again.’