Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

Logan leaned forward and tried Steel instead. ‘You must have heard something. You and all your MIT buddies.’

A sniff. ‘You’re kidding, right? Only way you get info out of another team is if you use a lead pipe and pliers.’

‘Do me a favour then — ask about. See if it came up.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Why? What are you up to?’

Shrug. ‘Just a hunch.’

Left, onto Tannery Street, then a quick right. No houses here: a line of about thirty garages, with identical blue up-and-over doors, lined either side of a short dead-end road. No sign of anyone.

Steel puffed out a breath. ‘I’m still bored. And hungry. Time for lunch.’

Another three-point turn.

Logan twisted his Airwave from its clip. ‘We’re working.’

‘Lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch!’

‘Shire Uniform Seven, you there, Maggie?’

‘Safe to talk.’

‘We got any more descriptions?’

‘Last one was an IC-one female, wearing grey joggies and an orange hoodie. Ugg boots.’

Now there was a fashion statement.

The street slipped past the window. Quiet suburbia. Manicured gardens and pedicured cars — their owners out giving them their Saturday once-over with sponge and shammy.

‘Lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch!’

Logan closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘If we stop at the baker’s, will you promise to shut up?’

The smell of chicken curry pies filled the Big Car with earthy notes of cardamom and cumin, playing off against Scotland’s real national dish: chips. Steel stuffed a couple into her mouth, chewing through the words, ‘Told you.’

Sitting in the driver’s seat, Nicholson ripped a bite out of her pie. Then made ooking monkey noises, mouth open in a little circle. ‘Hot …’

Logan sat in the back, stomach grumbling. ‘Ten minutes, then we’re back looking for druggies to spin.’

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

‘Thump away, Maggie.’

‘Tayside have been through the CCTV from the Dundee Waterstones. It wasn’t Liam Barden. Sorry.’

‘Ah well, it was worth a go.’

‘And Traffic say they’ve got a burned-out Toyota Hilux in a field outside New Pitsligo. The vehicle matches one stolen from a farm north of Strichen three days ago, but apparently now the back end’s all bashed in.’

Probably where it reversed, at speed, through the front window of the Portsoy Co-op.

‘Cashline Ram-Raiders.’

‘Inspector McGregor’s out there now.’

‘OK, let me know if we need to do anything.’ He ended the call as a roll of thunder growled out from the depths of his innards, loud enough to make Steel and Nicholson turn and stare at him.

‘Sure you don’t want some chips?’ Steel wiggled the polystyrene carton.

Pause. Then he helped himself to a small handful.

She snatched the carton away. ‘Hoy! I said, “some”, not “all”.’

He climbed out into the sunshine with his pilfered chips. Popped one in his mouth and twisted his Airwave free from its clip. Picked Deano’s shoulder number into the keypad with a greasy fingertip. ‘Deano, safe to talk?’

‘Give us a minute, Sarge.’

Tiny Scottish cottages lined one side of the curving road, but the other was a line of grass and gorse that died at the edge of the cliff. Beyond that, it was all sea and sky. Tiny fishing boats bobbed in the water, their brightly coloured hulls glowing like neon against the rich blue.

Logan munched the last couple of chips. Not as nice as the plate of mince and tatties he’d left congealing on the kitchen table back home, but better than a kick in the knee.

Then Deano was back. ‘Batter on.’

‘You run a PNC check on those burglaries in Pennan? Find us any suspects?’ Logan sooked the last smear of salt and grease from his fingertips.

‘All the historical stuff? Yeah. Came back with a couple of hits. One guy’s doing a sixer in Barlinnie — so it’s not him. The other’s called Tony Wishart. Bit of a history freak, according to his social worker. Outstanding apprehension warrant for doing over that wee Aberdeenshire Heritage place in Mintlaw. So we’re already looking for him.’

At least that was something.

‘We’re going to be another twenty or so. If you’ve got a chance, swing past Alex Williams’s for a safe-and-well check. And make sure Tufty stays in the car. Don’t want a repeat of last time.’

The Big Car looped around onto Tannery Street again. Going the long way around. Steel lolled in the passenger seat, head on the window. Her breathing deepened, then little snuffling noises burrowed their way out of her open mouth.

Nicholson sniffed from the back seat. ‘What do we do if she starts to snore?’

Logan poked the car radio, bringing it to life. Not an anodyne boy-band this time, but an insipid all-girl outfit, close-harmonying their way through another beige tune. ‘Think we’re probably onto a loser here. Might as well go back to the station and try again tomorrow.’

The song limped to its bland conclusion, replaced by whatever idiot was manning the microphone. ‘I swear that gets better every time I hear it. Don’t forget: we’ll be going live to Liverpool Cathedral for the memorial service of Detective Constable Mary Ann Nasrallah, tragically shot on Sunday. So stay tuned for that. Now though, it’s time to catch a bit of Bieber Fever!’

Nicholson poked Logan in the shoulder. ‘Noooo!’

‘Gah!’ He jabbed the button just in time, and classical music filled the speakers. Logan let out the breath he’d been holding. Thank God for that … ‘One last drift past Frankie’s place and we’re done.’

She stuck her head forward, between the two front seats. ‘You know what hacks me off about this undercover officer getting shot? How come you only ever get politicians lining up to say what a great job we do when one of us dies? What about the rest of the time?’

‘I know.’

‘Oh yeah, we do a spectacular job when we’re dead , but other than that, nothing.’

‘Preaching to the choir, Janet.’ He took them back onto Rundle Avenue with its dot-dot-dash of terraced shed-like houses. Grass. Grass. Gravel. More Grass.

Another poke in the shoulder. ‘Sarge? Back there — shiny new blue Ford Fiesta. Does that not belong to the ugly bloke we stopped Monday for being on his mobile phone?’ A small pause, then the delicate crackle of flipping paper. ‘Here we go: Martyn Baker. AKA Paul Butcher, AKA Dave Brooks. Possession. Possession with intent …’

OK, so Martyn-with-a-‘Y’’s car wasn’t parked right outside Frankie Ferris’s house, but it wasn’t exactly a million miles to walk. ‘Think he’s buying or supplying?’

‘Yes.’

‘Me too.’ Logan pulled in to the kerb. Killed the engine and the music.

Steel sat up. ‘What? I was listening to that.’ A yawn. ‘Where are we?’

Nicholson pointed at the blue Fiesta. ‘Belongs to a dealer from down south.’

‘Good for him.’ She dug a hand in under her left breast and had a scratch. ‘Why’s there no coffee? Thought you bunnets were all about the coffee and doughnuts.’

Logan climbed out into the sunshine. Pulled his peaked cap on. Then turned and opened Nicholson’s door for her.

She joined him on the pavement, wedging her bowler down so far it bent the top of her ears. ‘We got a plan?’

Rundle Avenue didn’t exactly have a lot of places to lay low. No alleys to lurk in and keep an eye on Frankie’s place. No convenient trees or hulking rhododendron bushes. ‘Right, you go that way,’ he pointed back towards the Fiesta, ‘back onto Tannery, left, down to the end, round onto Golden Knowes, and come from the other direction. Find something to hide behind. I’ll watch from this end. We catch him coming out and we search him.’