Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

Logan stared down at her. ‘What do you mean, “we”? “We” didn’t tell her to cut her partner’s balls off, that was all you.’

The murmur became a growl. ‘You remembering who alibied you to the Ginger Ninja?’

He nodded at the Big Car and Alex Williams in the back seat. ‘Not me you’ve got to worry about, it’s her. Probably well on the way to convincing herself that you made her do it.’

‘Well … At least …’ Steel frowned. ‘Looking on the bright side …’ She scuffed a toe along the pavement. Pulled out her e-cigarette. ‘No, I’ve got nothing.’

Singing echoed out through one of the closed cell doors, reverberating down the corridor. It was an old Elvis number about Mr Presley setting his soul on fire, only sung in a thick Northeast accent with the chorus changed to, ‘Viva, Pee-Ter-Heed’.

The Police Custody and Security Officer undid Alex Williams’s cuffs, then stepped back out of the cell as Alex rubbed at her wrists.

He closed the door with a solid, final thump . Then slid down the observation hatch. The female cellblock was old-fashioned compared to the new male wing. No science-fiction row of stainless steel with fancy fittings here, it was all dark blue and industrial.

The PCSO took out a whiteboard marker and printed the words, ‘VIOLENT ~ DO NOT TRUST!’ on the hatch. Knocked on the door. ‘If you need anything before your lawyer gets here, use the intercom button by the door.’

Alex stepped up close to the hatch and looked past the PCSO’s shoulder at Logan. ‘I do love him, you know?’ A little smile. ‘He just … annoys me sometimes.’

Logan reached forward and clicked the hatch shut. Turned and marched back out through the barred gate and into the custody suite. ‘Total utter nutjob.’

‘Tell me about it.’ The PCSO swung the gate shut with a clang and locked it. ‘Place is full of them after last night. Knocking lumps out of each other during the wedding, now they’re all taking turns to start a singsong. It’s going to be a long weekend.’

Away in the male cell wing, someone launched into, ‘Welcome to the Hotel Fraserburgh, such a lovely place …’ Soon joined by half a dozen other voices.

The PCSO shrugged. ‘Still, at least they’re in tune. And it’s better than the usual swearing.’

Logan followed him back to the booking desk with its posters and notices and leaflets. Stopped, one hand on the countertop. ‘When Kevin McEwan and Colin Spinney were in here, did they say anything about Spinney’s mum?’

‘Gerbil and Klingon?’ The PCSO scratched at one of his tattooed arms with the bunch of keys. ‘Hmm …’ One eye squeezed closed and the scratching intensified. Then stopped. ‘She’s gone to Australia? Sydney or Perth, something like that.’

No she sodding hadn’t.

‘Thanks.’

‘I can ask, if you like? Got a mate works as a Prison Officer in Craiginches.’

‘Keep it low key. Someone finds out I’m taking an interest, I’ll get my testicles handed to me.’ Speaking of which. ‘Sorry, got to make a call.’

He slipped out the side door and into the car park at the back of the building. A couple of patrol cars were parked next to the tradesman’s entrance. One Transit van sagging to the right with a flat front tyre. And a couple of everyday family saloons. No one about.

Logan pulled out his phone and called Nicholson’s mobile. Listened to it ring for a bit.

Then she was on the line. ‘Sarge? Why didn’t you use the Airwave?’

Because this way they wouldn’t be monitored or recorded.

‘How is he?’

‘Lost a lot of blood. Going to be in surgery for at least another two hours.’

Deep breath. ‘Listen, if anyone asks about what happened today-’

‘I didn’t hear anything. Not until someone screamed inside.’

‘Janet, DCI Steel-’

‘Think there must’ve been something coming over my handset at the time, because I didn’t hear her say anything.’

‘Janet. You tell the truth: no mitigation, no spin. A cock-up’s OK — a cover-up isn’t. We don’t synchronize our stories, that’s when the rot sets in.’

Nothing from the other end.

‘Janet, you with me?’

‘Yes, Sarge.’

‘Good.’ He hung up. Pushed back into the detention suite.

His Airwave bleeped.

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

Can’t even get two minutes … Logan pressed the button and talked into his shoulder. ‘Hammer on, Maggie.’

‘Sergeant McRae, I’m afraid we’ve got a problem with this evening’s lateshift. Sergeant Muir’s broken his leg.’

The Fraserburgh Cellblock Choir must’ve reached a difficult bit in their song, because the words were replaced by lots of ‘la, la, la,’ until they hit the chorus again.

Logan closed his eyes. ‘What happened?’

‘Unfortunate encounter with a springer spaniel. He fell off his mountain bike.’

‘Let me guess: Inspector McGregor wants someone to fill in for Muir. No one else free?’

‘Sorry.’

Of course there wasn’t.

So much for helping Helen paint the living room tonight. Still, at least it meant overtime. ‘Yeah, OK. Put me down for a green shift.’

Logan swivelled his chair left and right, and back again. Every movement coming with a free squeak, like the whole mechanism was resting on top of an angry mouse. ‘No, I’m going to be stuck at work. Just wanted to check in and see if the new antibiotics were working.’

On the other end of the phone, Louise from Sunny Glen Care Home made a little humming noise. ‘It’ll take a couple of days, but I think we’ve finally got Sam’s chest infection under control. And I’ve spoken to the consultant at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary — the next free surgical slot is in three months’ time. You could go private, but it’d cost a fortune, and it’ll be the same people doing it, so …?’

‘Does it make any difference to whether she gets better or not, if we do it now or later?’

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

The Fraserburgh Sergeants’ Office was a lot more modern than the one back at Banff station. No architraves, panelled doors, or high corniced ceilings here. Instead it was all ceiling tiles, yellow walls, minimalist furniture, creaky computers, and creakier floors. A lot bigger too — at least three times the size, with desks all the way around the outside and a clothes rail hung with high-vis jackets and stabproof vests.

‘Hello? You still there?’

‘Logan, I know it’s difficult, but we’ve talked about this. The chances of Sam making a full recovery are …’ A sigh. ‘Why don’t we take it one day at a time?’

His stabproof hung from the rail like all the others, but some days its crushing grip on his chest never went away.

‘You think we should go with the later surgical slot.’

‘I really do. Anyway, look, I’d better run.’ She paused. ‘Take care of yourself, Logan.’

‘OK.’

He slid his phone back into his pocket. Stared out of the window at the hulking Victorian pile on the other side of the street.

We’ve talked about this .

Yeah. Didn’t make it any easier, though.

A sigh pulled the air out of him, leaving him slumped.

Better give Helen a call. Let her know she was on her own tonight.

Her mobile rang twice, then she was on, breathless, voice a quarter octave higher than normal. ‘Hello, yes?’

‘Helen, it’s Logan, I’ve-’

‘Have they run the DNA? Is it Natasha?’

‘They’re still working on it. Look, I’m going to be stuck at work tonight — the Duty Sergeant who usually does backshift broke his leg.’