Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

‘Course they couldn’t stay at Craphole House with you, but it’d be nice, wouldn’t it? Trip up here, in the sun.’

‘How could she not ask?’

‘They could jump in the car today, spend the night, and go back on the Sunday. Be nice to have them for longer, but these idiot teachers throw a wobbly if you take kids out of school in term time.’ Steel stared at the picture. ‘We could have a barbecue. Go for a walk along the beach. Swim in the sea.’

‘Are you even listening to me?’

‘Nope.’

Fine. If she wasn’t going to help …

He took out his own phone and scrolled through the contacts list. Selected one, then listened to it ring. And ring. And ring.

And then a man’s voice came on the line, very well spoken with a faint Essex twang. ‘Department of Administrative Support.’

‘Derek? It’s Logan McRae. We met at the big security briefing weekend for the Commonwealth Games? You and your boss were getting chucked out of that strip-’

‘Ah yes, Logan. Of course. Yes. How are you?’ He cleared his throat. ‘I thought we weren’t going to talk about that again.’

‘You still with the Secret Squirrel Squad?’

Steel changed the photo on her phone to Susan and Jasmine in bathing suits on a white sandy beach, with palm trees and tins of Irn-Bru.

Derek was silent for a moment. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes then. Listen, I need to find out if someone’s left the country. She’s supposed to be on holiday in Australia. Any chance you can find out when, and if , she went?’

Steel turned and held the phone out to him. ‘Tiree. Got sunburnt every morning, eaten alive by midges every evening, and loved every minute.’

‘Logan, the Department of Administrative Support doesn’t do counter-terrorism, it does requisitions for staplers and Bic pens. Photocopier maintenance contracts. All very mundane.’

‘Sure it does. And you still owe me one, remember? The strip-’

‘It wasn’t …’ Deep breath. ‘Yes, well, perhaps I can make some discreet enquiries on your behalf. Name?’

Logan dug it out of his notebook. ‘Lesley Spinney, born in Fraserburgh, eighth of April, 1971.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He hung up.

Steel held out her mobile again. The three of them sitting around a camp fire with fish on sticks. ‘That’s us in Lossiemouth. Went out fishing in a wee boat.’ A grin. ‘Susan caught this mackerel; got it off the hook and it starts wriggling like a mad thing. Slaps her in the face with its tail, and sods off back into the water. Fish: one, Susan: nil.’ A sigh. ‘I’m going to call them.’

The driver’s door clunked open and Nicholson slumped in behind the wheel. Sighed.

Logan put his phone away. ‘Let me guess: it wasn’t him.’

‘ Looked like him.’

‘It’s the same bloke as last time, isn’t it? The one you chased into the Co-op. No moustache. Supports the wrong football team.’

‘Well … what sort of idiot goes about looking like a missing person? That’s asking for trouble.’ Nicholson stayed where she was for a moment, then turned the key in the ignition. ‘Could’ve sworn it was him.’

‘Shire Uniform Seven — urgent.’

Logan unhooked his Airwave. ‘Safe to talk.’

‘Reports of raised voices and screaming at number sixteen, Chapel Hillock Crescent. You’ve got a grade one flag on that-’

‘Alex Williams.’ He thumped a hand down on Nicholson’s shoulder. ‘Go!’

She shifted gears then jabbed the 999 button setting the lights and siren blazing. Put her foot down.

The Big Car’s back end wriggled for a moment, rear wheels spinning, then they caught and the whole thing rocketed forwards, pushing Logan into his seat.

Traffic parted before them, Saturday shoppers stopping on the pavement to gawp as the patrol car flashed and wailed past.

Logan clicked the talk button. ‘Roger that, we are en route. Who reported it?’ He snatched at the grab handle above the door as Nicholson Silverstoned around the sweeping curve at the bottom of Castle Street. Bushes, trees, and lampposts flashed by the windows. Out onto the wrong side of the road to overtake a lorry full of cattle.

‘Next-door neighbours. Say they can hear plates and things smashing.’

Nicholson hunched forward, closer to the wheel. ‘Told you, Sarge: all fun and games till someone turns on the blender.’

Steel shoogled in her seat. ‘This is more like it. Bit of excitement for a change.’

He thumbed Deano’s shoulder number into the handset. ‘Deano, where are you?’

‘We’re up the hospital. Again . Our overdose took offence at getting a shot of Narcan. Nearly ripped the head off the paramedic who injected her. What’s up?’

‘Alex Williams.’

‘Crap. Right, give us a minute. We’ll be there, soon as.’

The football ground came and went, then the bridge into Macduff. Tearing through the streets of the town, walls of granite flashing past the windows.

The Big Car screeched around the corner onto Chapel Hillock Crescent. Cookie-cutter houses in the familiar pattern of semidetached houses and mini-terraces. Grey harling. White harling. Red pantile roofs.

Nicholson stamped on the brakes, bringing them to an abrupt halt outside number sixteen. She jumped out, reached back and opened Logan’s door.

He’d got one foot on the pavement when his Airwave gave its point-to-point bleeps.

‘DCI McInnes to Shire Uniform Seven.’

Who the hell was DCI McInnes?

Logan lunged out of the car and hit the button, talking into his shoulder. ‘Have to call you back, sir, we’re-’

‘No you won’t! You will talk to me now or I will personally get someone over there to kick a hole in your backside big enough to drive a bus through!’

Nicholson scrambled up the path to the red front door. Hammered on it. ‘POLICE! OPEN UP!’

‘I’m attending a domestic. You do what you want.’

More hammering. ‘POLICE!’

He let go of the Airwave. ‘Kick it in.’

Nicholson stepped back and hammered her foot into the UPVC, an inch below the handle. The thing gave a wobbling BOOM , but it didn’t seem to do anything. She gave it another go. BOOM .

‘Sergeant, I am warning you!’

Steel got out and made a loudhailer out of her hands. ‘TRY THE HANDLE, YOU IDIOT!’

Nicholson did. And the front door swung open. The sound of raised voices battered out into the afternoon. Then something smashing.

She charged inside, Logan right behind her. Steel puffing along at the rear.

It was a short hallway with a set of stairs on one side, heading up to a small landing. Downstairs, two doors lay wide open. One to a kitchen, the other-

A scream — off to the right.

Nicholson threw herself into the lounge, clacked out her extendable baton. ‘POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!’

An older man stood with his fist raised, ready to snap forward. Little shards of white clung to his grey hair and the shoulders of his torn shirt. Scarlet dripped from the lobe of one ear.

A young woman scrambled back on the couch, trying to push herself into the cushions. One eye was screwed shut, the skin already starting to redden around it. Blood made a greasy smear at the side of her mouth. Long brown hair, a tangled mess around her face.

Logan snapped out his extendable baton. ‘ENOUGH!’

The man’s arm trembled. Then he dropped the fist and stood there with his shoulders slumping. Chest heaving. ‘I’m … I’m sorry …’

Steel appeared at Logan’s shoulder. ‘Aye, you sodding well will be.’