Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

‘When did we last arrest someone coming out of Frankie Ferris’s Den of Dodgy Drugs?’

True.

‘Not as if we can ignore the tip-off though, is it? Soon as we do, something horrible will happen: Sod’s Law. Give it one more pass, then back to the station.’ He dug out his mobile and called Steel. ‘Anything back from the labs yet?’

‘What? No, I won’t come into the office. I told you, my wife’s more important to me than any job.’

Brilliant. Logan closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. ‘Susan’s there, listening, isn’t she?’

‘Get DS McKenzie to do it. I’m spending time with my family for a change.’

‘Yes or no: have the labs done the DNA match with Helen Edwards yet?’

‘Damn it, sir, I’m no’ a miracle worker. These things take time.’

‘For God’s sake, you were supposed to chase them up! Do I have to do everything?’

‘Thank you, sir. I’ll see you when I get back to the station.’

Unbelievable. Logan hung up, unhooked his Airwave and got Control to put him through to the Dundee Lab as Nicholson took them on another tour of the back streets.

‘Come on, answer the sodding- Hello? I need to speak to whoever’s processing the Tarlair MIT samples. Can you …’ He held the handset out. ‘I’m on hold.’

Nicholson tapped her two index fingers on the steering wheel, like searching antenna. ‘Or maybe it’s someone who likes screwing with the police? Calls us up, gets his giggles watching us driving about like idiots …’ A frown. ‘What if it’s Frankie doing the tipping-off?’

‘About his own dealing? Nah.’

A one-eyed smile spread across her face. ‘Yeah, think about it: he calls us with these bogus tip-offs when he knows there’s no one there buying his product. Waste our time often enough, and we stop taking tip-offs seriously.’

A thick Glaswegian accent curled out of the Airwave’s speaker. ‘Yellow?’

Logan pressed the talk button. ‘Sergeant McRae: B Division. Where are you with the DNA comparison on the wee girl and Helen Edwards?’

‘Ah …’ A sooking noise — getting ready to break the bad news. ‘Between you and me: going to have to be Tuesday or Wednesday. Can’t get to it any sooner than that.’

‘You’ve had it for nearly a week!’

‘Aye, well, there’s a load on in the labs right now. Everyone’s upgrading their kit but us, so we’re getting nine divisions’ worth of stuff. And Renfrewshire-and-Inverclyde are going mental with all these feet washing up in-’

‘No.’ Logan jabbed a finger against the dashboard. ‘Trust me on this, there is nothing you’ve got on that’s more important than identifying our victim. Other people might tell you there is, but they’re not going to turn up on your doorstep at four in the morning and knee your testicles out through your ears. Are we clear?’

‘But the severed feet-’

‘Would you rather have severed testicles?’

A cough. A pause. ‘Look, this isn’t my choice, OK? I have to do what I’m-’

‘And can you imagine how many people will be lining up to lend a knee when it gets out you’ve been dragging your heels? When that gets splashed across the front pages?’ Logan shook his head. ‘Dear, oh dear. Here’s us trying to catch a little girl’s killer, and you’re messing about with feet? Think your bosses are going to stand behind you on that one? Or are they going to tie sausages round your neck and throw you to the sharks?’

Nothing.

‘Take your time.’

The voice dropped to a whisper. ‘OK. OK. I’ll bump it up the list. But … I’m only doing my job, here.’

‘Then do it faster. I want that result on my desk by close of play.’ Logan ended the call and twisted his Airwave back on its holder. Looked up to find Nicholson grinning at him. ‘What?’

‘Oh, Sergeant McRae: you’re so masterful !’

Nicholson drifted the Big Car through the little side streets, keeping the speed under twenty. ‘What do you fancy doing for Sunday lunch?’

‘Nice big carvery. Rare roast beef; fluffy Yorkshire puddings; crispy roast potatoes done in goose fat; carrots and peas and gravy. All you can eat.’

‘Sounds cool. What are you actually having?’

‘Lentil soup.’

A billboard for home insurance slid by at the end of the road. A happy nuclear family, grinning away at a Plasticine dog. Someone had spray-painted a big purple willy right across the lot of them.

Nicholson pointed at it. ‘You know, I’m beginning to get the feeling our graffiting wee Marxist friend isn’t all that interested in the political process. I think he just likes painting willies on things.’

‘Think you’re right. Suppose that means we’ll have to pay Comrade Geoffrey a visit. There’s-’

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

‘Here we go.’ He pressed the button. ‘Hammer away.’

‘We’ve got reports of cows on the road: A947, between Keilhill and the farm shop.’

Nicholson slowed them to a stop, then curled forward and boinged her head off the steering wheel. ‘Not again.’

‘Roger that, show us responding.’ He reached out and poked her in the arm. ‘Come on, Calamity Janet, time to go play cowboys. Yehaw, ornery critters, circle the wagons, etcetera.’

‘Yeah, right here’s fine.’ The Big Car drifted to a halt outside the Sergeant’s Hoose, and Logan popped the door. ‘You going home, or you using the shower in the station?’

Nicholson scowled across from the driver’s side. ‘It’s sodding everywhere .’ Drying mud made pale beige streaks across her cheeks, clumped in her hair, stained the sleeves of her black Police T-shirt and the pale arms sticking out of it. More on her trousers and stabproof vest.

‘If you’re worried about Hector spying on you in the shower, go home. I think we can spot you an extra half-hour for lunch today, after your sterling efforts thwarting the Great Bovine Rebellion.’

‘Oh, you’re funny now, are you?’

Logan climbed out into the dreich afternoon. ‘I’ll be here all week. Try the fish.’ He clunked the door shut and waved as Nicholson bared her teeth for a bit, then pulled away from the kerb. Heading back to the station and a hot shower.

He crossed the road, dug out his keys and let himself into the house. No point carting soup about the whole time when home was a two-minute walk away.

The living-room door was open, showing off four nice cream walls and shiny white skirting boards. Next up — carpet.

Logan unVelcroed his stabproof and hung it over the bannister. ‘Helen?’ No reply. ‘Hello?’

Through to the kitchen. Not there.

Oh.

Cthulhu yawned from the windowsill — perched between the herbs — stretched, turned around to show Logan her bum, then settled down to sleep again.

So much for the big welcome.

He checked the fridge. Both steaks were still in residence. As was the leftover macaroni cheese. Lunch.

Logan pulled it out, popped a couple of holes in the clingfilm, and stuck it in the microwave. Put the kettle on.

A clunk from the front of the house. ‘Logan?’

He stuck his head out into the hall. ‘How does macaroni-cheese on toast sound?’

Helen dumped her bulging contingent of carrier bags on the bare floorboards and wiped a sheen of water from her face, hair hanging in frizzy brown-tinged coils. ‘Urgh … So much for summer.’ A shudder. Then she pointed at the bags. ‘Want to give me a hand?’

They unpacked them in the kitchen as the microwave droned. Salad. Pickles. Salmon fillets. Sausages. Potatoes. Onions. Chocolate. Wine.