Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

Logan swallowed down a groan. Stuffed it down into his ribcage where it could marinate in the spreading guilt.

Through the window behind her, the sky was a uniform lid of granite, flecked with wheeling herring gulls. Grey sky, grey sea, grey Sunday.

The only sound was the hum of her computer’s fan.

She pointed at herself. ‘Do you have problems taking orders from a woman, is that it? I thought we’d developed a rapport, Logan. That you had at least a sliver of respect for me.’

The guilt seeped out through his ribs, oozing down into his stomach, climbing up into his throat. Making his cheeks burn.

He let out a breath. ‘No, Guv. I mean, yes. I mean …’ This was going well. Why couldn’t she have yelled at him and had done with it? A straight-up rant would’ve been a lot easier to deal with. And she bloody well knew it. ‘I don’t have a problem taking orders from a woman, and I do respect you.’

More silence.

He cleared his throat. ‘I wanted to … When we talked about getting stuff under the radar, I thought this could be one of those things.’ God knew what colour his cheeks were by now, but his ears were probably going to burst into flame any minute.

Inspector McGregor sagged back in her seat. ‘Logan, I know you mean well on this one, I really do, but you have to stop. We’re officially on our final warning. DCI McInnes has taken over the scene at Fairholme Place. All digging stopped till further notice.’

Count to ten. Don’t say anything.

Sod it. ‘Ma’am, with all due respect to the Detective Chief Inspector, he’s an idiot. Klingon’s mum never made it to Australia. There’s no sign of her leaving the country. She’s buried in the back garden, and Klingon and Gerbil killed her.’

‘That’s as may be, but until McInnes says otherwise, no one’s digging her up. And yes, I think that’s wrong. And I think it’s wrong we’re not getting to prosecute for the serious assaults on Jack Simpson. But it doesn’t matter what I think, because we have no say in this. It’s over.’

A weight settled on Logan’s shoulders, dragging them down. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ The carpet was blue and tufted, he stared at it for a bit. Shuffled his feet. ‘Might be a bit of a problem there.’

Another sigh. ‘What did you do?’

‘I gave Sammy Wilson a tenner to sniff out information on the Candlestick Maker, AKA: Martyn Baker.’

A laugh burst its way free of the Inspector. She rocked back in her chair, all her teeth on display. Hooting.

What happened to the disappointed expression and we’re-all-doomed voice?

Then, when the fit passed, McGregor wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Classic. You trusted Stinky Sammy Wilson with ten pounds? I wouldn’t trust Stinky Sammy Wilson with a snotty hankie. A knitted condom would be more reliable than him.’ She waved a hand at the door. ‘Go on, you can take ten quid from the petty cash and I’ll sign for it. Worth it for the laugh.’

Logan dumped a teabag in his mug and put the kettle on to boil. From the Tupperware containers on the canteen table, it looked as if someone had brought in cakes that morning, but all that was left were crumbs and smears of icing.

Typical. Nothing left for Logan.

Steel’s whipping girl, DS McKenzie, lumbered in on her mobile. ‘Yeah … No, I don’t think so, but we’ll follow it up … OK. Thanks.’ She hung up and dug a mug out of the cupboard. Then nodded at Logan, setting the frizzy ponytail-bun thing wobbling. ‘Sergeant.’ All the warmth of yesterday’s vomit and just as bitter.

Logan nodded back. ‘Did you get some cake?’

The creases between her eyebrows deepened. ‘There was cake?’

‘Yeah, I didn’t get any either.’

‘How come no one said there was cake?’ She thumped her mug down next to Logan’s.

He dug the huge carton of semi-skimmed out of the fridge. ‘You want a bit of unsolicited advice?’

‘No.’

‘Tough. Detective Chief Inspector Roberta Steel can be a massive pain in the arse. I know, because for ten years it was my arse she was a pain in. Do this, do that, go here, go there-’

‘Fetch this, carry that.’ A small smile cracked itself on McKenzie’s face. ‘Do all my paperwork for me.’

‘Exactly. But she’s also-’

‘And all the swearing, and the blasphemy, and the innuendo, and the sexual comments, and the sarcasm, and the scratching !’ DS McKenzie threw her arms wide, hands curled into claws.

‘Yes, but-’

‘Forever digging at her bits and her boobs. And look at her! Like someone ran over Columbo with a lawnmower, how’s that supposed to command respect?’

‘You finished?’

A shrug. McKenzie dropped her arms by her sides. ‘You know what she’s like.’

‘Yes, and I also know she’s incredibly loyal. If you screw up, she’ll rip you a new one in private, but she’ll slap down anyone who has a go in public. She’s got your back and she trusts you to do a decent job, not like some bosses.’

Silence.

Then McKenzie stuck her chin out. Stared down her nose at him. ‘Yeah, maybe she trusts you . The sainted Logan McRae.’ Her voice took on a gravelly edge, not the best impression of Steel, but not bad either: ‘“Logan wouldn’t do that”, “When Logan was my DS everything was much better”, “Logan’s wonderful, Logan’s perfect, everything you can’t do, he’d be great at.”’

The kettle rattled to a halt.

‘Really?’

‘You’re the stick she beats me with every day.’

‘Then don’t rise to it. If she finds a crack she’ll dig and poke till the whole thing breaks, or it gets fixed. Fix it.’

Nicholson appeared in the canteen doorway. ‘There you are, Sarge. Been calling you.’

‘Airwave’s back in the office. What can I do for you, Janet.’

She pulled her mouth into a sad-frog frown. ‘Got another anonymous tip: our mate Frankie Ferris is at it again.’

So much for a nice cup of tea.

Nicholson took a right onto Rundle Avenue. Again. ‘You know, I’m beginning to think someone’s having a laugh.’

Logan slumped in the passenger seat, staring out of the window. ‘You ever wonder why we bother, Janet?’

‘We get, what, six calls a day about Frankie dealing from his house? So round we dutifully trot. And round and round we go. But do we ever catch anyone?’

The white harled houses gave way to the timber semi-shed ones.

‘I mean, this: right here, it’s the perfect metaphor for the job, isn’t it? We go round and round in circles, but what do we really achieve?’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘You know what I think? I think someone’s figured out that this is a really easy way to get us out of the way for an hour.’

‘End of the day, people still keep doing horrible things to each other, and we’re trying to keep everything together with string and old chewing gum.’

‘Yeah, I heard Inspector McGregor had a go at you this morning.’ Nicholson shifted her grip on the wheel. ‘What did you get: the full shouty savaging, or the guilt trip?’

‘Guilt trip.’

‘Urgh, I hate it when she does that. “I’m not angry with you, Janet, just disappointed .”’ Nicholson grimaced. ‘She’s even better at it than my mother, and that’s saying something. Last time, I had to go eat a whole tub of ice cream afterwards, and I still felt like an utter failure.’ Nicholson pulled the Big Car to the kerb, opposite Frankie’s place. Frowned through the windscreen. ‘What if he doesn’t deal from his own house any more? What if this is all make-work to keep us away from where the real action’s going down?’

Logan frowned at her. ‘Have you been watching old repeats of The Sweeney again?’