Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

Joe sat back against the desk, arms folded. ‘Wife divorced him three years ago. Irreconcilable differences.’

‘They say what those differences were?’ The first bite of doughnut was yieldingly soft and sweet, with a wee squirt of raspberry jam in the middle. Mince and tatties, a burger, and a jammy doughnut, all in the same day. It was like having Christmas in May.

‘They had a son: Andrew. Went missing five years ago. Thinking was he’d been playing on the edge of the cliff by the family home and gone over the edge. Officers found a couple of toys up there, but no sign of the body — must’ve washed out to sea. Andrew was four.’

Poor wee sod.

A slurp of hot milky tea to wash the stodgy mouthful down. ‘No suggestion the father was involved?’

Joe shook his head. ‘Opposite. He was convinced someone had snatched his kid. Banged on about it to anyone who’d listen. Got bits in the paper, put up posters, but …’ A shrug. ‘Wee Andrew wasn’t that photogenic, so eventually everyone forgot about it.’

‘Except Charles “Craggie” Anderson.’

‘And there’s your irreconcilable differences. Ex-wife lives in Devon now. She wanted to up sticks and start over somewhere else. He wouldn’t budge.’

Another bite of squidgy doughnut. ‘If it was your kid, would you?’

A smile spread across Joe’s big square face. All teeth and menace. ‘If someone touched one of my kids, I’d rip their leg off and jam it up their backside like a lollypop stick.’ The smile faded. ‘You want to know the spooky coincidence? Andrew died five years ago, yesterday.’

The same day Charles Anderson set fire to the Copper-Tun Wanderer and gave himself a Viking’s funeral.

Did that make it more, or less likely that he’d been responsible for killing the little girl at Tarlair Swimming Pool? He might have been overcome with the grief of losing his son, or it might have been guilt …

Difficult to tell.

‘Sarge?’

Blink. Logan sooked the sugar off his fingertips. ‘Sorry, thinking. Thanks, Joe.’

‘No probs.’

Soon as he was alone, Logan read the last entry posted on Marlon Brodie’s exploration of kinky sex. Drummed his fingertips against the desktop. Frowned at the screen some more. Swore. Then logged into STORM.

A couple of clicks brought up the personnel working on the Major Investigation Team looking into Stephen Bisset’s death. Logan picked the DCI in charge from the list, poked her number into the phone and let it ring.

No answer. But then, it was nearly nine o’clock on a Saturday night. Have to find someone further down the pecking order who might actually still be working.

Logan dialled the next in line.

Luckily, the DI had a better work ethic than his boss.

He picked up on the fifth ring. ‘For God’s sake, what now ?’

‘Detective Inspector Jackson? Sergeant McRae, B Division. I need to talk to you about the guy you’ve got in custody for killing Stephen Bisset.’

The rustling of paper came down the line. ‘McRae, McRae, McRae … Ah, right. It’s you. Wondered when you’d come sniffing about.’ Pause. ‘If you’re looking to put your oar in: don’t. You’ve done quite enough.’

‘It’s important. Did-’

‘Case should have been airtight and you blew it. Now if there’s nothing else, I’ve got work to do.’

Logan stuck two fingers up at the phone. ‘No, you’re fine. Good luck with your miscarriage of justice.’ He thumped the handset down.

One, one-thousand.

Two, one-thousand.

Three, one-thousand.

Right on cue, the desk phone rang. He picked it up. ‘Banff station.’

‘What do you mean, “miscarriage of justice”?’

On the other end of the phone, Jackson groaned. Swore. Puffed out a sigh. ‘But we’ve got his DNA …’

‘Yeah, and I’ll bet you anything you like, if you get the IB to take surface swabs from the other coma patients, you’ll find traces of Marlon Brodie’s semen.’

More swearing.

‘It’s all there on his sexblog. He’s been trying his hand at pseudonecrophilia. Only he doesn’t have to pay someone to pretend to be dead, he’s got loads of them lying about in the hospital for free.’

‘Well …’ The faint sound of drumming filled the silence, as if DI Jackson was beating out a tattoo with his fingers. ‘Maybe he decided to take it all the way? No more “pseudo”. Holds a pillow over Stephen Bisset’s face so he’s got a real live dead body to have sex with?’

‘There’s no mention of murder on his blog. He writes about what he’s done and what he’d like to do. I think he saw an opportunity and he took it.’

‘But we’ve got his DNA, and … Bloody hell. It’s all circumstantial, isn’t it?’

‘He saying anything about why he did it?’

‘His solicitor’s told him to “no comment” everything.’ More drumming. ‘Could still be him. Gah … If it isn’t him, who is it?’

‘You think you’ve got it bad: my girlfriend was in a coma there for four years. Don’t know how many times he was in her room, unsupervised.’ Logan’s jaw tightened.

OK, so they couldn’t do Marlon Brodie for murder any more, but they could do him for sexually exploiting vulnerable people.

And with any luck, someone in prison would rip the damn thing off and make him eat it.

‘No, just wanted to see how you’re getting on.’ Logan drifted the Big Car along Rundle Avenue again. Still no sign of anyone coming or going from Frankie Ferris’s drug den.

On the other end of the phone, Helen coughed. ‘Sorry, paint fumes are getting to me a bit.’

‘Then stop. Put your feet up. Read a book.’ He slowed down and took a left into a small cul-de-sac. Did a three-point turn.

‘Is there any news?’

‘They’re still working on it.’ Logan turned off the engine and sat there, parked beneath a streetlight, with a perfect view of Frankie Ferris’s front door. ‘Helen, when you’ve been to crime scenes before, have they tried tracking down your ex-husband? Done tax searches, Land Registry, benefits office, pensions, things like that?’

‘And every mortuary, hospital, and graveyard. Brian’s disappeared.’

‘Got to be somewhere.’

An old man scuffed past on the pavement opposite, being taken for a walk by a tiny Staffordshire Bull Terrier puppy.

‘How was your tea?’

A sigh. ‘The MIT don’t have any leads, do they?’

Not a single one.

‘Early days yet.’

Silence.

The dog snuffled around a lamppost for a bit while its companion poked away at a mobile phone.

‘Helen?’

‘The living room’s nearly done. One more coat on the skirting boards to go.’

‘We’ll get there. I promise. We’ll find-’

‘Don’t.’ There was a catch in her voice, as if something had got stuck. ‘Don’t promise something you can’t. Please . I’ve been here too often.’

The line went quiet again. Only when Logan checked his mobile’s screen it showed the call was over. She’d hung up.

And she was right. He had no business promising anything, because there was sod all he could do.

‘… break-in at New Pitsligo. Anyone free to attend?’

He turned the key in the lock. It was a new shiny brass Yale job, set into a bog-standard blank UPVC door that opened on the stinking hovel Colin ‘Klingon’ Spinney called home.

Logan stepped over the threshold into the enveloping reek of rotting garbage, stale body odour, and greasy filth. Closed the door behind him. Clicked on the lights.