Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

Nicholson’s stabproof was beginning to look as if she’d smeared it with camouflage paint — green grass stains mingling with the mud from their run-in with the escaped cow. It wasn’t a good look. She pointed at the security camera bolted to the wall behind the till. ‘You get it on CCTV?’

A blush swept across the puffy cheeks. ‘It’s plastic. I bought it off eBay for a fiver.’

Nicholson pointed. ‘Is that not Liam Barden?’

On the other side of the road, a chubby man in an Aberdeen Football Club shirt walked into the Co-op.

Logan frowned as the automatic door closed, hiding the man and his bright-red shiny shirt. ‘You sure?’

‘Certain.’ She parked outside the shop. ‘Well … eighty percent. You got the ID sheet?’

He dug into the glove compartment and came out with four creased sheets of A4, stapled together. Two photos on each sheet, along with names and details of when and where they went missing. Liam Barden was on the third page: grinning away at a Caley Thistle match, both thumbs up, and what looked like a gravy stain splodging the Orion Group logo on his blue-and-red football top. A wee gold thistle glinted on a golden chain around Liam’s neck. Very classy. A proper Ratners special.

Liam shared the printout with a picture of everyone’s favourite drug-dealing scumbag, Jack Simpson — jagged tribal tattoos on his neck, sunken cheeks, pierced nose and ears.

He’d also grown a Hitler moustache, a pair of glasses, Frankenstein’s Monster bolts, and a blacked-out tooth. There was even a speech balloon with ‘I HAS A SEXY!!!’ written in it.

‘For God’s sake.’ Logan held the sheet out. ‘How many times do I have to tell people not to draw things on missing persons photos?’

‘Don’t look at me: don’t even own a blue biro.’

‘How would you feel if one of your relatives went missing and someone scrawled all over their picture? Jack Simpson’s a nasty wee git, but he deserves the same treatment as everyone else.’

‘It wasn’t me!’

‘Like working with a bunch of three-year-olds …’

Still: had to admit that the photo of Liam Barden did look a bit like the guy who’d gone into the store. Heavyset, balding from the back, toothy smile. ‘Only problem is, what’s happened to his moustache?’

‘Maybe he shaved it off?’ Nicholson unbuckled and climbed out into the sunshine. Pulled her hat on. ‘You coming?’

‘And why’s he dumped Inverness Caley Thistle for AFC?’ Logan joined her on the pavement. Held out the sheet again. ‘See?’

She frowned at the picture. ‘Not illegal to support more than one club. Besides, think how stoked his wife and kids will be if we find him.’

Which was more than could be said for Jack Simpson. Missing for ten days already and not even his mum wanted him back. If he hadn’t owed his granny money, he probably wouldn’t even have been reported missing.

Logan turned the page. ‘And why does no one update these things?’ He rummaged through the zip-pockets on his stabproof vest. Frowned. Took out his notebook. Put it away again. ‘Sodding Hector.’ He held out a hand. ‘Lend me a pen?’

She handed one over and Logan drew a thick X over the face of a little boy on the bottom of page four. ‘We found Ian Dickinson four days ago.’

‘You take my word for it — next one you can score off is Liam Barden.’ Nicholson straightened her cap and marched into the Co-op.

Logan took a lick of his ice lolly, working his way through the raspberry coating to the cheap vanilla inside. Sun warm on the back of his neck. ‘Well, it was worth a go.’

‘Could have sworn it was him.’ Nicholson worked her left arm around in a circle — Cornetto making chocolaty dribbles in her other hand as they wandered down the hill.

‘How’s the shoulder?’

A shrug. ‘Still say we should’ve arrested the vandalizing wee sod.’

‘Then we’d have to take him all the way to Fraserburgh for processing, and that’s you and me off the streets for at least two hours. With Deano and Tufty still up the hospital, who’s going to look after the good people of Banff and Macduff?’

‘That’s not the point, he’s-’

‘All the kid did was draw a big willy on a billboard. Some people might think our prospective Conservative MSP looks much better with a big willy sprayed all over him. At least Citizen Geoffrey’s taking an interest in the political process.’

Four bleeps sounded from his Airwave handset. ‘Sergeant McRae?’

Another lick of lolly. ‘Go ahead, Maggie, safe to talk.’

‘Are you forgetting someone?’

They crossed over to the other side of the road. ‘Am I?’

The reply came back as a hiss. ‘Inspector McGregor! I told you, she needs to do your appraisal.’

Damn. ‘How pissed-off is she?’

A wee dog barked and barked and barked as they passed, pogoing up and down behind a little wrought-iron gate.

‘You said you’d be back here by twenty-to. And it’s nearly five.’

‘We’re …’ Another lick of lolly, catching an ice-cream tear. ‘We’re in the middle of something here, Maggie. Can’t we reschedule for tomorrow?’

Silence.

Around the corner and onto Low Street with its bars and shops and cafés.

‘Maggie?’

‘You want me to dignify that with an answer? And you’re supposed to put in a word for me — how are you going to do that if she’s in a foul mood?’

‘OK, OK. Tell her … half past five.’

Past the Cats Protection League and the whisky shop.

‘All right. I’ll try. But make sure you’re not late.’ Maggie signed off.

The gift shop next door had obviously started selling papers, because a little folding placard thing sat on the pavement outside it: ‘LIVERPOOL SHOOTING ~ PICTURES EXCLUSIVE’.

He’d barely got the Airwave back in its twisty holder when the handset bleeped again. ‘Sarge? Aye, it’s Dean. Safe to talk?’

‘Deano. You and Tufty finished at the hospital yet, or are you planning on skiving the whole shift?’

‘Still there, Sarge. Got a missing person for you.’

Another road led off to the right. Long, thin, dark, and claustrophobic. Rows of terraced buildings on either side, tall enough to block out the sunshine and leave the patchy tarmac blanketed in shadow. Raw grey walls and dark slate roofs. The occasional one painted with aging whitewash — standing out like a filled tooth in a broken mouth. ‘Do you mean you’ve found someone who’s missing? Or that someone else has disappeared?’

‘Aye. One Neil Wood, owns a B-and-B on the Shortgate Lane, Peterhead. His dad says Wood’s been gone for three, maybe four days.’

‘So take his details.’ A bite of lolly, before it collapsed off the stick, then Logan froze. Pointed with his other hand.

Up ahead, loitering in the doorway of a boarded-up shop was a stick-thin woman in a baggy T-shirt and pink tracksuit bottoms. Filthy Ugg boots on her feet. Roll-up cigarette cupped in her hand as if it was going to give away her position to snipers in the enemy trenches.

Nicholson squinted. ‘You jammy sod.’

‘Not jammy, Constable, skill.’

‘Sarge? You still there?’

‘Look, Deano, you’ve been doing this longer than I have. You know the drill — you take his details and fill out a misper form. And maybe we find him, and maybe we don’t. It’s not-’

‘The old boy who got a kicking in Whitehills is Neil Wood’s dad. Seems the guys did it because of who his son is. Turns out Neil Wood’s a stot. Did eight years for abusing kids in Tayside. Got out of Peterhead, couldn’t go home, settled here. Bought a B-and-B and moved his dad up from down south to live with him, ’cos the old guy’s got heart problems.’