Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

‘Yeah, attempted suicide. Not much of an attempt, mind: made a right hash of slashing his wrists. Wasn’t hard to stop the bleeding.’

Logan rested his elbows on the windowsill. ‘OK, thanks Penny. Soon as the ambulance gets there, can you and Joe do another licensed premises check? Want to keep a tight lid on things tonight.’

‘No room at the inn?’

‘Think we’ve got about four cells free in Fraserburgh. After that we’ll have to open up the Banff ones, or start shipping people to Elgin. And you know how that’s going to go.’

‘Do my best, Sarge.’

A pair of headlights worked their way up the street. Then Syd’s police Transit van parked outside Klingon’s mum’s house.

Logan twisted his handset back into place before heading downstairs and opening the front door.

A minute later, Syd came lumbering up the path, being towed by a large golden retriever. He’d changed into his dog handler outfit — webbing waistcoat over a black fleece, black cargo pants, and DM boots. That tatty, ragged old police cap on his head. ‘Evening all.’

‘Thought you were off duty?’

‘Special dispensation from the wife and the Duty Inspector. In that order. Long as I don’t put in for overtime, we’re fine.’

‘Right.’ Logan backed into the hall. ‘There’s a-’

‘Nope.’ Syd held up a hand. ‘Don’t tell me. Don’t want to prejudice Lusso. If you tell me where you think the cadaver is she’ll pick it up from my body language.’

‘OK. Then you can get cracking.’

Syd stepped inside and froze, nose wrinkling. ‘ Stinks in here.’

‘You get used to it.’ He removed the elastic band holding his body-worn video shut and set it recording. ‘Ten forty p.m., Saturday the twenty-fourth of May. Present: Sergeant Logan McRae and Police Dog Handler Syd Fraser.’ A nod. ‘Off you go, Syd.’

He let the dog off its lead. ‘Come on then, Lusso. Find the body.’

The golden retriever bounded up and down the hall a couple of times, then settled into a sniffing routine. Trotting around the outside edges of the room, nose down, tail up.

‘So …’ Logan laced his hands behind his back. ‘ The Wrong Trousers ?’

‘What’s wrong with The Wrong Trousers ?’

Through into the living room. Lusso did the same tour of the skirting boards.

‘Never said a word.’

‘It’s a film about a man and his faithful canine companion, solving a crime and catching the bad guy. What’s not to like?’

‘Speaks to your inner dog handler, does it?’

‘Damn right.’ The golden retriever sniffed back and forth across the floor. Circled the tatty sofa a couple of times. ‘Anyone who doesn’t like Wallace and Gromit needs a boot up the backside. There’s nothing in here, by the way.’ Syd stepped back out into the hall. ‘Come on, Lusso, kitchen.’

Logan’s Airwave bleeped at him. He hung back while Syd directed his own personal Gromit around the filthy room. ‘Safe to talk.’

‘Sergeant McRae? It’s DI Jackson. We sent a car to Stephen Bisset’s house. There’s no sign of David or Catherine. Their mother says she’s not seen them since Wednesday evening.’

That would be just before they put their dear old dad out of his misery.

‘They didn’t take anything with them. No toothbrushes, clothes, makeup, or toiletries. The only thing missing is Catherine’s favourite teddy bear. So it doesn’t look as if it was premeditated.’

‘They went missing Wednesday evening, and the mother didn’t bother telling us?’

‘Don’t think she’s seen the outside of a gin bottle for about a week. I’m getting an apprehension warrant and a lookout request circulated.’

Well, with any luck, someone would find them before the guilt and grief caught up and made them do something stupid — like Lusso’s former owner. ‘Thanks for keeping me in the loop, I appreciate it. If you find them …?’

‘Will do.’ And DI Jackson was gone.

Syd emerged from the kitchen. ‘Got a positive off the bin, but there’s God knows what mouldering away in there, so it’s not surprising he picked up a bit of cadaverine. Going to try the garage next.’

Logan twisted his Airwave back into its holder. ‘Dried blood on the concrete floor.’

‘OK.’

He followed Syd and Lusso into the dusty space. Leaned back against the wall as the golden retriever sniffed and snuffled around the outside, then lay down in the middle of the floor on top of the blood spatter. Which was to be expected.

‘Good boy.’ Syd swept an arm towards the door. ‘Upstairs next.’

‘All units, be on the lookout for a David and Catherine Bisset. IC-One male: seventeen years old. And IC-One female: fourteen. Both with shoulder-length black hair. Apprehension warrant is pending.’

Not exactly a happy ending, but at least the whole sorry mess would be over soon.

He followed Syd up to the landing, filming as Lusso went from room to room.

They’d probably cop a plea. No Procurator Fiscal was going to want to do two grieving kids for the murder of their coma-stricken dad. The media would whip the country into a frenzy.

Then again …

A frown.

Graham Stirling: missing, kitchen full of broken chairs and dishes, blood on the floor and the fridge.

You don’t batter your crippled dad to death, do you? No, you smother him gently with a pillow. The guy who mutilated him, on the other hand — the guy who abducted him and smeared filth across his memory; you take your time caving his head in with a claw-hammer.

No way they’d let Graham Stirling live. Not after what he’d done to their father.

And if they’d made it quick, his body would still be there, mashed and bloody in the kitchen. Whatever they had planned, it was going to take a while and hurt a lot .

Good.

But that didn’t mean they should get away with it.

Logan unhooked his Airwave and dialled DI Jackson again. ‘I think I know what David and Catherine Bisset were doing on Friday night.’

‘If you’re about to say, “Abducting Graham Stirling,” you’re five minutes too late. I’ve told the labs to try matching their DNA with trace found at the scene.’

Oh. OK.

‘Don’t mean to be rude, Sergeant, but I’ve got a manhunt to organize. Anything else?’

‘No, sorry. Thought you’d want to know.’

He put his Airwave back on its holder. So much for that.

Syd puffed out his cheeks as Lusso emerged from the cholera-cesspit toilet. ‘Looks like we’re a corpse free zone.’

‘Yeah. Well, while you’re here, we might as well try the front and back gardens too.’ Keeping it nice and light. No hints or tips. All nonchalant.

They thumped downstairs, and out through the kitchen door.

The wind’s cold fingers pinched at Logan’s ears as the golden retriever sniffed his way around the garden fence. Straight over the top of the patch of healthy weeds. Not so much as a twitch.

Sodding hell.

Logan leaned against the doorframe. ‘When he was a cadaver dog, any idea if he was any good?’

‘Not a clue.’

Lusso snuffled his way across the lawn and back again.

Still nothing.

Syd took off his cap and had a scratch at the shiny scalp beneath. ‘No overtime, middle of the night, wandering about in a druggie’s back garden.’ A smile. ‘We must be off our rockers doing this for a living.’

‘True.’ Logan stuck his hands in his pockets. Nodded at the dog. ‘This isn’t working, is it?’

‘Nope.’

‘Sorry I dragged you out.’

‘Meh, worth a go.’ He unclipped the lead from behind his back. ‘Come on, Lusso, time for home.’