Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

The sun caught his thinning nimbus of ginger hair and made it glow like a halo of fire. A smile spread across his face, causing the end of his long nose to twitch.

He didn’t look very comfortable in the police-issue black T-shirt. Probably didn’t have enough shiny buttons for him. Or a place to hang his good conduct medal. Nothing to intimidate anyone with but the silver crown and single pip on each epaulette.

Logan sat perfectly still in his seat.

The Inspector who’d arrived with Napier fiddled with a digital video camera mounted on a tripod. Muttering to herself as she played with the settings. Then a red light appeared on the thing and she nodded. Middle-aged and gaunt, with a brown fringe swept forward in an attempt to cover the toast-rack wrinkles that crossed her forehead.

She settled into a chair diagonally opposite Logan. Put a digital dictaphone on the table between them. Then delved into a leather satchel and came out with a memo pad and a thick folder. Lined them up. Took the top off her pen. Cleared her throat. ‘Saturday twenty-fourth of May, two forty-seven p.m.’ Her voice was surprisingly light and girly. ‘Present are Chief Superintendent Napier, Inspector Gibb, and Sergeant Logan McRae.’ She turned and nodded to her boss.

His smile widened. ‘Sergeant McRae, how kind of you to take time out of your busy schedule to talk to us today.’

Rule number one of being recorded during interview: keep your gob shut unless you’re asked a direct question.

Napier rested his chin on the tips of his steepled fingers. ‘Perhaps you’d like to get something off your chest before we begin? Something that’s weighing on your conscience.’

Still no actual question. Logan kept his gob shut.

‘Well, perhaps later.’ He checked the file lying open on the desk in front of him. ‘For example: I see that you’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time on one Francis “Frankie” Ferris. Hundreds of man-hours spent for no result at all. Do you really think that’s a worthwhile expenditure of police resources?’

‘Yes.’ Rule number two: only answer the question you’ve been asked, nothing more. Never volunteer anything. Never go off on a tangent.

‘Really?’ A frown creased Napier’s forehead. ‘Can you explain?’

‘Raids disrupt the flow of drugs and keep the dealers unsettled. It makes the environment more dangerous for them to deal in.’ Not quite word-for-word from the B Division drug-prevention strategy document, but near enough. ‘It’s proactive policing.’

There was no way Napier came all the way up from Aberdeen to ask about Frankie Ferris. This was just starters for whatever horrible meal he had planned. A prawn cocktail before the main course arrived.

He couldn’t be leading up to something about Stephen Bisset dying in hospital, could he? Already had a big moan about that over the phone on Wednesday night. Why do it again, in person?

Inspector Gibb sat with pen poised. She hadn’t taken a single note so far.

Logan narrowed his eyes. Opened his mouth … then shut it again. Rule three: never ask a question you don’t already know the answer to.

Napier let the silence stretch. Then tilted his head to one side. ‘You have a girlfriend, called Samantha Mackie, do you not?’

‘Yes.’

‘She’s currently residing at a private care home not far up the coast from here, I believe. Sunny Glen?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Hmm …’ The head came up, then tilted to the other side. ‘From what I understand, it’s a rather expensive facility. Full-time care for someone in a vegetative state — that must be difficult to afford on a Sergeant’s salary.’

Never volunteer anything.

‘So tell me, Sergeant, how exactly do you pay for Miss Mackie’s care?’

Inspector Gibb’s pen scrawled across her memo pad.

OK, that was a question. ‘I sold my flat in town. I was going to rent it out, but it wouldn’t bring in enough to cover Samantha’s care.’

‘So you sold your flat to take care of your sick girlfriend. How very noble of you.’

Please don’t ask who he’d sold it to. Stay far, far away from that particular wasps’ nest.

Logan spread his hands on the desktop, felt the muscles in his shoulders bunch. ‘She was hurt as a direct result of an ongoing investigation, she should’ve been covered under occupational health!’

Napier settled back in his seat. ‘Your investigations have a habit of creating collateral damage, don’t they, Sergeant McRae? Other people’s misery follows you around like an unwelcome stench.’

‘That wasn’t …’ He closed his mouth. Stupid. That’s what he got for breaking rule number two. Don’t go off on a tangent.

‘And speaking of collateral damage, we have Stephen Bisset. Murdered in his hospital bed, much to the delight of the press.’ Napier flicked a finger in Inspector Gibb’s direction and she dug into her thick folder.

Gibb pulled out a small stack of newsprint — the front pages of six or seven papers — then spread them out in front of Logan. ‘A small selection from the Daily Mail, Daily Record, Scottish Sun, Aberdeen Examiner, Evening Express, Scotsman , and last, but not least, the Press and Journal .’

The headlines ran from, ‘TRAGIC DAD MURDERED IN HIS BED’ to ‘PERVERT’S VICTIM KILLED WITH HOSPITAL PILLOW’. The Aberdeen Examiner had gone with, ‘“DAD WASN’T A SEX FREAK!” SAY GRIEVING FAMILY’.

Each came with a photo of Stephen Bisset, all smiles and happy families. Not lying beneath a filthy blanket, covered in his own blood and filth, in a shack, hidden away in the depths of a snow-covered forest.

One had a little inset picture of Logan in his full dress uniform, getting a commendation for catching the Mastrick Monster. ‘POLICE “HERO” ACCUSED OF “FITTING-UP” GRAHAM STIRLING.’ Another had ‘“OFFICER FABRICATED EVIDENCE” JURY TOLD.’

So that was it.

This wasn’t about someone killing Stephen Bisset, or Samantha’s care-home expenses, it was about Logan not following procedure back in January. Because obeying the rules mattered more than someone’s life.

He kept his mouth shut.

Napier pursed his lips. ‘Tell me, Sergeant …’ dramatic pause, ‘where were you last night between the hours of eleven p.m. and three a.m.?’

What?

OK, wasn’t expecting that.

Logan stared at him. ‘Why?’

‘It’s a simple question. Where were you?’

‘I was at home, painting the bedroom.’

Napier did the head-tilting thing again. ‘Until three in the morning?’

‘No, about one. Then I went to bed.’ Rule Number Two.

That pointy smug smile of his never wavered, it sat there on his stupid face like it’d been welded on. ‘And can anyone vouch for that?’

Yeah, because Logan was going to tell him all about Helen Edwards staying at his house.

The red light on the digital camcorder glowed like an ember, the lens a dead, black, eye.

Logan shuffled his chair back from the table an inch. To hell with the rules. ‘Do I need to have a Federation rep in here with me?’

‘Do you think you need one?’

‘I want it made clear — for the record — that I haven’t been cautioned, nor am I under oath, nor have I been informed what the hell is going on.’ Back another inch.

Napier spread his hands, palms up, fingers out. Like a Bond villain about to disclose his master plan. ‘It’s interesting that you think you’ve done something which merits being interviewed under caution.’

Logan stood. ‘We’re done here.’

‘Do you remember discussing Graham Stirling with Miss Mackie on the morning of Wednesday the twenty-first?’