Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

God’s sake, was that what passed for romance these days? A quick shag in a graveyard in the middle of the night?

Logan reached for the button marked ‘RIGHT ALLEY’.

Then again, just because he was having a rotten night, it didn’t mean he had to spread the misery. Even if they were breaking the law.

The grunts and groans were getting quicker and louder.

Leave the poor sods in peace to enjoy their knee-trembler. Wasn’t as if anyone was going to see them at quarter to three on a Sunday morning, was it?

Besides, arresting them would mean more forms, more cautions, another trip to Fraserburgh and not getting home till after four.

He buzzed the window back up again.

Go back to the station, finish up the shift’s paperwork, then home.

A huge yawn cracked at his jaws and left him sagged in his seat as he powered down the computer.

All done. He pushed back his chair and hauled himself to his feet.

The station was like a mortuary. Devoid of life, but redolent with the weird smells that always came with the guys on nightshift. God alone knew what they’d had for their lunch, but the stench was all through the building.

Logan locked his notebook away, grabbed his stabproof vest and peaked cap. ‘Night, Hector.’ Then slouched out into the night.

The wind howled across the bay, pounding surf against the beach. At least the rain hadn’t come to much more than an intermittent drizzle.

He hurried across the car park, fumbled his keys out and let himself into the Sergeant’s Hoose. Stood there in the darkness.

The house was quiet, not so much as a creak or a thump. Which probably meant Cthulhu was in the lounge, sleeping with Helen again. Disloyal fuzzy little sod.

Logan scritched the Velcro fasteners off his stabproof then hung the whole thing over the back of a kitchen chair. Checked the fridge. A pair of thick rib-eye steaks sat on a plate, glistening, raw, and dark. One of Steel’s confiscated beers sat behind what looked like leftover macaroni cheese.

Wasn’t as if he didn’t deserve it, after a crappy day like today.

A creak.

Logan’s eyes flickered open. Sunlight licked at the chinks in the curtain, but the clock-radio glowed 04:40 in the gloom.

Another creak, right outside the room.

Then the door opened.

A whisper in the dark. ‘Logan? Are you awake?’

He sat up. ‘You need something?’

‘Can’t stay down there any more: paint fumes are killing me.’ The door closed again. Feet scuffed on the bare floorboards. Then she slid into bed. ‘Don’t say anything, OK?’ She wrapped her arm across his chest and rested her head against his shoulder. ‘This isn’t a big thing. I just … I just want to sleep.’

He cleared his throat. ‘OK. But I’m not actually wearing anything.’

Silence.

‘Helen?’

Her breathing was deep and regular. She was already gone.

The alarm-clock radio sprung into a spirited accordion-and-fiddles rendition of the Barenaked Ladies’ ‘One Week’.

Logan puffed out a breath. Groaned. Reached out and hit snooze.

Five more minutes.

He turned over and flinched. The world was full of dirty-blonde corkscrews. A breath pulled in a mouthful of hair.

‘Gnnn …’ Helen Edwards rolled over. Blinked at him. ‘Wht time ist?’

He flinched again. The words had oozed across the pillow in a wave of what could only be described as broken-drain stink. He angled his mouth away, in case his own morning breath was as bad. ‘Nine.’

‘Too early.’ She draped an arm across his chest again, hooked her leg around his. Closed her eyes. ‘Sleep.’ Then opened them again and stared at him. ‘What’s that?’

Warmth bloomed in his cheeks and ears. He scooted away until he was barely hanging on to the edge of the bed. ‘It’s a morning thing, OK? It … Look, I told you I was naked in here!’

‘Logan-’

‘Nothing’s going to happen. It’s just …’ He fumbled about on the floor for yesterday’s pants. ‘You’re not exactly a bag of spanners, and certain male bits have a mind of their own, and can you please stop staring at me like I’m a sex offender.’ He pointed at the far wall. ‘Look over there.’ Then hauled his pants on under the duvet. Half climbed, half fell out of bed. Turned his back so she wouldn’t see the awkward bulge. Struggled his way into his jeans.

Helen peered out at him, through a mask of curls. ‘What happened to your stomach?’

Logan ran a hand across the knotted scars, then pulled on a T-shirt. ‘I got stabbed. I died for a bit. I got better. No big deal.’ He grabbed a towel from the dresser. ‘Look, I’ve got to take a shower. Go back to sleep if you like. It’s OK.’

‘You’re blushing.’

He backed out of the room. Collided with the doorframe and came within an inch of falling on his backside.

Smooth, Logan. Really smooth …

‘What time do you call this?’ DCI Steel slouched against the doorframe of the Sergeants’ Office, fake cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. ‘Dayshift starts at seven.’

Logan went back to STORM, scrolling through the teams’ actions. ‘I was on till three. Technically I’m allowed eleven hours between ending one shift and starting the next, so sod off.’

A sniff. ‘At home to Mr Grumpy this morning, are we? Know what causes that? Not enough sex. Makes you irritable.’ She dug a hand down the front of her shirt and had a rummage. ‘That’s why I’m a picture of sweetness and light all the time.’

It looked as if Tufty had updated all of his actions for once. Wonders would never cease.

‘Thought you were missing Susan.’

‘Seriously, all that gunk in your junk will be backing up. Don’t get rid of it at some point and you’re going to burst like a big spermy pluke.’

‘OK, you can go away now.’ A couple of burglaries needed looking into. Some witness statements taken for a hit-and-run in Cornhill. An unlawful removal in New Pitsligo. The peeping tom was back in Macduff, and someone had set fire to a shed in Gardenstown. Hopefully it wouldn’t be an idiot with his own barbecue this time.

‘Don’t want that, do we? You, getting every woman in three hundred feet pregnant.’

He scribbled them all down in his new notepad. ‘Are you still here?’

‘Susan’s getting everything packed in the car now. Says she’s made a picnic lunch: chicken, beetroot, sausages, egg sarnies, and that weirdo potato salad with gherkins you like because you’re a freak.’

‘You’re the freak.’ He picked his Airwave off the desk. Punched in Janet’s number. ‘Safe to talk?’

‘Sarge: you’re awake! Feeling OK?’

‘No.’ Logan glowered at Steel for a moment. ‘Janet, I need you and-’ The desk phone rang. It was the Duty Inspector’s number on the screen. ‘Hold on.’ He grabbed the handset. ‘Guv?’

Inspector McGregor’s voice could have made it snow in July. ‘Sergeant McRae. My office. Now! ’

‘I didn’t say you could sit.’

Caught, halfway down into the chair, Logan stood again. Feet shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind his back. ‘Ma’am.’

The Inspector took off her glasses and sighed. ‘Do you know what I got when I arrived at work this morning, Sergeant? I got a bollocking from the Area Commander, because apparently I’m incapable of controlling my own staff.’

‘Guv, it wasn’t-’

‘Did I say you could talk?’

Logan closed his mouth.

McGregor swept a spare strand of greying hair from her face. Then let her shoulders droop, all the ice gone from her voice. ‘I was going to haul you over the coals, but to be honest, I’m more disappointed than angry.’ She shook her head. ‘What did I do wrong, Logan? What did I do that made you decide I wasn’t fit to be your commanding officer?’