Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

Mr Towbar jumped back and thumped on the side of the vehicle. Mr Chain hurried behind the cash machine as whoever was at the wheel put their foot down, snapping the chain taut and ripping the whole machine from its moorings.

Then Mr Chain and Mr Towbar opened the canopy lid, thumped down the tailgate, and humped the cash machine into the loadbay. Shut everything up and clambered out through the broken window again.

Camera one caught them clambering back into the four-by-four and it roared off. Inside the shop, a chunk of ceiling tiles collapsed.

Pause. Two. Three. Four. And then Stacey peeked out from behind the counter.

The whole thing had taken a little over a minute.

Brilliant. So much for ‘Be advised, perpetrators are still at the scene.’

Logan put a mug of tea on Nicholson’s desk.

‘Thanks, Sarge.’ She cleared her throat, leaned over in her seat to peer out through the open Constables’ Office door. Then back again, voice lowered to a whisper. ‘Maggie told me that DS Dawson’s still in hospital.’

‘Yup.’ He took a sip of his own tea. Hot and milky. ‘We’re never mentioning it again, remember?’

‘Yeah, but, Sarge, maybe, you know, if they knew what caused it, they might have more luck fixing him? I don’t know, we could do it anonymously, or something? They wouldn’t have to know it was us …’

‘They’d know. And you’ll never make it in CID if you can’t keep a secret.’

She pulled a face. ‘Yes, Sarge.’

He headed back through to the Sergeants’ Office.

Inspector McGregor sat in the other chair, digging through the contents of a large cardboard box. ‘Do we have any triple-A batteries? All I can find are double-A’s. Hundreds and hundreds of double-A’s …’

‘Sorry, Guv — the Alcometers are all double.’ Logan settled in behind his desk. ‘I can get Tufty to pick some up on his way back?’

She pushed the box away. ‘A little bird tells me there was a crowd of journalists outside most of yesterday.’

Ah. He took a sip of tea. Arranged his notepad, Post-its, and keyboard into a straight line. Tried for a nonchalant shrug. ‘Didn’t notice. I was busy painting the house.’

‘They were very interested in talking to you. Apparently, now Stephen Bisset’s dead, the story’s become a lot more shiny. Anything you want to tell me?’

His head dropped. ‘It wasn’t my fault.’

‘I don’t like journalists staking out my stations, Logan, it makes the public nervous. Makes it look like we’ve done something wrong.’

‘It wasn’t my fault! I did what …’ He sighed. ‘We’ve been over this.’

‘Of course, things might have gone a bit better if you’d actually caught the Cashline Ram-Raiders this morning, instead of letting them get away.’

‘I didn’t lose them, they were long gone by the time we got there. I saw the security-camera footage: whole thing was over in eighty-two seconds.’ He sat forward and poked the desk with a finger. ‘The only way we could’ve got to Portsoy before they sodded off is if Police Scotland issued us with a TARDIS.’

‘Thought they were still at the scene?’

‘I checked with the control room — turns out the guy who said the Ram-Raiders were still there was blootered. Not bad going for half nine on a Saturday morning.’

The Inspector picked up a manila folder. Tapped the edge against the desk. ‘Did you hear? Traffic stopped a blue Isuzu D-max a mile north of Keith.’

A smile bloomed on Logan’s face. ‘That’s great. Did-’

‘Wasn’t them. Still, it’s not our problem any more, it’s DI McCulloch and his MIT’s.’

The smile faded. ‘Does it really not bug you? Every time something big comes up, we’ve got to hand it over?’

She dumped the folder on his desk. ‘Appraisal results, hot off the press from Division Headquarters. The Big Boss says Maggie can have two and a half percent and not a penny more.’

‘Better than nothing.’ He opened the folder, pulled out the printouts. ‘Oh, I spoke to Jack Simpson this morning.’

‘And how is everyone’s favourite drug-dealing minker?’

‘Lucky to be alive, and feeling vindictive. Got a sworn statement off him, fingering Klingon and Gerbil for assault. They weren’t trying to kill him, they were trying to put the fear of God into everyone else. And whoever supplied the drugs is down as an accessory. So, soon as the MIT are done with their drugs charges, we can ask the PF to prosecute.’

‘Excellent.’ She hopped down from the desk. Straightened her police-issue T-shirt. ‘Don’t suppose he ID’d the supplier?’

‘Best he could do is: wee hardman from Newcastle or Liverpool, calling himself the Candleman, or Candlestick Man. Doesn’t know his real name. I’m going to call round, see if anyone recognizes the alias.’

‘Well, keep me informed.’ She paused in the doorway. ‘It does bother me when the MITs swoop in and grab everything. But it is what it is. We just have to try and get one in under the radar every now and then.’

Logan folded his arms and leaned against the alley wall. ‘Really?’

Sammy Wilson blinked a couple of times with his good eye — the other swollen and darkened, the skin turned purple-blue and green. Looked down at the paper bag in his grubby skeletal hand. Licked his thin lips with a pale tongue. Then sniffed. ‘Yeah … I wasn’t … This …’ He looked over his shoulder where Nicholson blocked his escape route.

A cough.

Another sniff.

Then Sammy’s working eye raked the ground around his manky trainers. ‘Found it.’

‘Did you now?’

He rubbed his other hand along the grass-stain streaks on his tracksuit top. ‘Bag was kinda lying there.’

‘I’ll bet it was.’

Nicholson stepped up close. Opened her mouth to say something. Wrinkled her nose. Then stepped back and tried again from a safer distance. ‘Why’d you run then, Sammy?’

‘Had to catch a bus. Yeah, a bus, can’t be late for the bus or they drive off, don’t they? Like, you know, the Ninky Nonk …’ He peeled open the paper bag. ‘Wow, look at that, got rowies in it, rowies, yeah, not that big a deal is it? Bagarowies? Found them.’

She pointed. ‘Where’d you get the black eye, Sammy?’

‘Found it.’ Sammy swayed from side to side. ‘You don’t need me, right? I’m not, like, on your radar or nothing and I was just nipping past the baker’s … to get something for Jack Simpson. Yeah, a present, cause of him being in hospital with the beatings and that.’ Sammy’s smile was a graveyard of yellow and brown. ‘Cause of Klingon and Gerbil. Bad stuff, eh? Bad stuff. You don’t need me, right?’

‘Thought you said you’d found it?’

Logan took a deep breath. Regretted it. The air tasted of rotting meat and onions. ‘Normal people bring flowers and grapes, Sammy. Not rowies.’

‘Yeah. Right. Forgot. Flowers not rowies.’ Another brown gap-toothed smile. ‘Get them confused. You should see my mum’s grave, like.’

‘Sammy, you ever heard of a drug dealer from down south, calls himself the Candleman? Maybe Candlestick Man, something like that? Wee tough nut from Newcastle or Liverpool?’

‘Yeah, nah, I don’t know no drug dealers. Don’t do drugs. Nah, used to, but I’m clean as a … you know, these days? Clean, clean, clean.’

Logan kept his mouth shut and stared.

One set of filthy fingers beat a tattoo on his pigeon chest.

Dirty trainers shuffled on the pavement.

‘Nope. No drug dealers. Never.’ Sammy cleared his throat. Looked down at his scabby arms. ‘Couldn’t lend us a tenner, could you? You know, for a cuppa tea and that? To go with me rowies …’