Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

‘You got any idea what they do to grasses? Like all my fingers where they are, thank you very much!’

‘It’s not grassing, it’s helping keep your community safe. You want little Amy to grow up somewhere safe, don’t you?’ He shifted the phone to his other ear as a manky old Land Rover rattled past, haunted by the cloud of blue-grey smoke billowing out of its exhaust pipe. ‘Have you ever heard of someone called the Candleman? Maybe Candlestick Man?’

‘Are you off your head?’

‘He’d be from Newcastle or Liverpool. Wee guy, but fancies himself a bit dangerous?’

‘No.’

A little old lady stepped off the kerb, shoulders hunched, pulling an ancient Westie behind her. It walked on stiff limbs, its once-white coat stained like a smoker’s teeth.

The Land Rover’s driver leaned on his horn, forcing out an asthmatic honk.

The old lady scurried back to the kerb and glowered as it passed. Stepped out onto the road again and stuck two fingers up at the departing smokescreen. The manky Westie managed a bark.

Auld wifies, got to love them.

‘… are you even listening to me?’

Ah, right. Back to the phone. ‘Sure you don’t know him?’

‘Can I go back to bed now?’

Ah well, it’d been worth a try. ‘Give whoever it is my best when you get there.’

The old woman doddered across the road towards him, grumbling and swearing away to herself. Westie lumbering behind her like a broken wind-up toy.

Hmm …

‘… can go bugger yourself with a-’

‘Listen, while I’ve got you: Klingon’s mum.’

Pause. ‘What about her?’

‘You said she’d gone to Australia. When?’

‘Dunno. Couple of months? Does it matter?’

‘What was she like: scruffy? Drunk? Bit of a druggie?’

‘You’re kidding, aren’t you? Like she was born starched, holding a can of Mr Sheen in one hand and a vacuum in the other. Had to take your shoes off at the door.’

She was in for a shock when she came home and saw the state of the place, then.

‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a contact number for her, do you?’

‘Yeah, cause my middle name’s “Yellow Sodding Pages”. God’s sake …’ And Kirstin was gone. Back to bed with whoever was financing her habit today.

A couple of months in Australia. Long enough for Kevin and Gerbil to turn the house into the sub-slum pit they’d raided?

Maybe. Maybe not.

The old lady was getting closer, brows down, mouth chewing through a buffet of profanity.

Logan keyed Maggie’s number into his Airwave handset. ‘Aye, Maggie: does your Bill still work for the Council?’

‘Depends on your definition of “working.”’

‘Do me a favour — see if he’s got any friends in Housing. I need them to find out who’s paying rent on Klingon and Gerbil’s place.’

‘On a Saturday?’

‘They don’t call you the miracle worker for nothing.’

The old lady came to a halt in a waft of Ralgex and peppermint. She jabbed a twisted finger in the direction of the dissipating exhaust fumes. Flashed her dentures like she was about to bite him. ‘Did you see that?’ Up close, she barely came up to his breast pocket.

‘Well, I’ll see what I can do. But no promises.’

‘Thanks, Maggie. And put the kettle on, I’ll be back at the ranch in five.’ He put his Airwave handset back on its mount ‘Now, how can I help?’

‘People like that should be taken out and shot! Beeping his horn, like it’s my fault. Little sod. I’m eighty-two!’

‘Well, at least you’re OK, that’s the important-’

‘They’ve got no manners at all. None. It’s like living in the Lord of the Flies .’ She sniffed. Chewed for a bit. ‘Got a good mind to get myself a shotgun and teach them all a lesson.’

‘Yeah. Probably not such a good idea.’

‘I blame the parents. This is what happens when you tell people they can’t smack their children. I’m eighty-two and my father would leather the living hell out of me and my brothers for leaving the toilet lid up! Never mind cheeking my elders.’

Behind her, the Westie sank its backside onto the pavement and sat there puffing and panting with its mouth hanging open, tongue lolling over a row of stumpy brown teeth.

She gave a little yank on the lead, hauling the dog back to its feet again. ‘And have you seen what they’ve done to the billboard by the bridge? A great big purple willy, painted right across the nice man from the SNP. It’s a disgrace.’

Wonderful — Geoffrey Lovejoy, their resident political analyst, strikes again.

Logan nodded. Backed away a step. ‘Right. Yes. A disgrace.’

‘I wouldn’t put it past the Tories to do something like this. It’s their level. It’s not a by-election, it’s a war zone.’ Getting closer with every word, forcing him back against the wall.

Logan put his cap on his head. Slipped sideways out of the gap between her and the hospital’s granite blocks. ‘Right, well …’ He pointed over his shoulder back towards the bay and the bridge and the big purple willy. ‘I’d better go see what we can do about that billboard.’

Her parting call growled out behind him. ‘I’m eighty-sodding-two!’

‘Roger that, we are two minutes away …’ Logan clutched at the grab handle above the passenger door as Nicholson roared past a joiner’s van. The Big Car’s blue lights strobed through the morning air, accompanying the siren’s throbbing wail.

They flashed through the town limits. ‘WELCOME TO PORTSOY PLEASE DRIVE CAREFULLY’. So much for that — the needle on the speedo ticked up past seventy.

‘Be advised, perpetrators are still at the scene.’

Bungalows on one side of the road, fields of lustrous green on the other.

Logan clicked the button again, talking into the Airwave pinned to his stabproof. ‘Copy that.’

Nicholson turned and flashed him a grin. ‘We’re going to catch them red-handed!’

‘Just watch the road.’

The bungalows gave way to old-style Scottish granite, then trees — whipping past the Big Car’s windows. Then into Portsoy proper, with its ancient, flat-fronted granite. A hard right onto Seafield Street, the engine howling as Nicholson battered down the gears and hit the brakes, then on with the power again. Accelerating past shops and little old ladies. A minibus with ‘C’MON THE SOY!!!!’ lettered down the side, little kids dressed in black-and-white-striped football tops staring as the car wheeched by.

Logan jabbed a finger. ‘There.’

Nicholson hammered on the brakes, slithering them to a halt outside the bus stop.

Little cubes of glass, tins, packets, and jars spread across the road in front of the Co-op. The signage above the windows was buckled out on the side closest to them, the support beneath the word ‘Co-operative’ missing — the glass it held in place reduced to a sagging web around the edges. A hole ripped through the knee-high blockwork beneath it.

No sign of whoever did it.

Logan jumped out, grabbed his peaked cap. ‘You!’ pointing at a young woman with a pushchair. ‘Which way did they go? What are they driving?’

There was a pause, then her arm came up. ‘One of them big four-by-fours. Erm … blue? I think?’

He got back in. Thumped the dashboard. ‘Go!’

Nicholson put her foot down again and the Big Car roared forward.

‘Shire Uniform Seven to Control, perpetrators have fled the scene. Witness says they took the Cullen road. We’re in pursuit.’

‘Do you have visual?’

The car powered past leafy gardens and someone walking their dog.