Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

‘Tufty!’

‘All I said was, Einstein states that as an object’s velocity approaches the speed of light, its inertial mass tends towards infinity, right? Well, what about photons? They travel at the speed of light, because they are light.’

‘There,’ Logan pointed, ‘woman in the tracksuit.’

She was trudging along through the drizzle, head down, woolly hat pulled low over her ears.

Tufty shook his head. ‘Should be wearing a green hoodie. Anyway: light’s both a wave and a particle, right? And it’s travelling at the speed of light, so the particle bit of it should have near-infinite mass, even if the wave bit doesn’t. So maybe that’s what dark matter is? All that excess inertial mass?’

‘You think dark matter is light?’

‘Well, it’s not gerbils, is it? Stands to reason …’

‘Janet’s right — we should’ve had you tested.’ Logan dug out his phone, found Helen’s number, and thumbed in a text.

Sorry about lunch — didn’t know they were coming.

They can be a bit much at times.

He frowned at the screen. Say something about the almost-kiss, or not? What if she didn’t mean it? What if it was a misunderstanding? He’d end up looking like a right idiot. Or a pervert. Or a massive dickhead.

Gah, it was like being a spotty teenager again.

Play it cool.

If I can get free we could try grabbing dinner?

His finger hovered over ‘SEND’.

Nah. That last bit looked desperate.

He deleted the line, then sent the text off into the digital void.

All nice and bland and unembarrassing.

The phone went back into his trouser pocket.

Outside the car windows, the damp streets glistened.

Tufty sucked on his teeth for a bit. Then, ‘You ever wonder about the origins of the universe, Sarge?’

Logan hit the button on his Airwave and talked into his shoulder. ‘Maggie, any more sightings?’

‘Aye, we’ve got an IC-One female wearing Ugg boots, blue jogging bottoms, and an orange sweatshirt.’

Tufty stuck on the brakes. Then reversed downhill. ‘Got her.’ He swung the Big Car right, onto Ardanes Brae.

And there she was, hurrying along the pavement, bent into the wind, a carrier bag dangling from one hand.

‘OK, wait till she’s level with the white Passat … Go.’

Tufty slid alongside, then pulled into the kerb. Grabbed his peaked cap and jumped out into the drizzle.

Logan went the other way, around the back of the Passat, cutting off the retreat.

She looked up, just in time to avoid walking straight into Tufty. Stopped. Took a step back. Turned. Saw Logan. Swore.

Kirstin Rattray screwed her bony face into a fist, then slumped. Licked her thin, pale lips. ‘Was … out for a walk.’

‘Afternoon, Kirstin.’

No one moved.

She wrapped one bony arm around herself, the skeletal hand gripping her other arm. ‘Going to see Amy.’ She jiggled the carrier bag. ‘Got her some toys and a pretty dress. ’Cos … ’Cos it’s her birthday.’

Logan pointed over her shoulder. ‘Kirstin Rattray, I have reason to believe that you’re in possession of a controlled substance, so I’m detaining you in terms of Section Twenty-Three of the Misuse of Drugs Act 1971 for the purpose of a search.’

She curled in on herself, folding at the knees and wrapping her arms around her head. ‘Noo …’

‘We are unable to search you here, as I don’t have a female officer to do it. So we’re going to take you to the station until one becomes available. You’re not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say-’

‘Please …’ Her voice came out muffled and strangled. ‘Please, if they put me away I’ll never get to see my wee Amy again. Please …’

Tufty shifted from foot to foot. ‘Sarge?’

‘She’s only three !’

The same age Helen’s daughter was when she disappeared.

‘Sarge, maybe we could … I don’t know. Something?’

Kirstin stayed where she was, rocking back and forward slightly. Crying.

Logan stared up at the lid of grey that loomed over the town. The drizzle caressed his face with its cold clammy hands. Three years old.

Ah, sod it. It wasn’t always about banging people up. ‘Kirstin.’

‘Please …’

‘Kirstin, come on: stand up, I’m not going to arrest you.’

She peered up at him with bloodshot eyes. ‘My Amy’s only-’

‘I know. I’m not arresting you. Up.’

She stood, sniffling and gulping. Wiped the snot off her top lip with a skeletal hand. ‘I can go?’

‘Not yet.’ He snapped on a single blue nitrile glove. ‘What did Frankie Ferris give you?’

The skeletal hand scrubbed at her eyes. ‘I didn’t-’

‘You were seen, Kirstin. What did he give you? You can give it to me, or you can come down the station and wait to be searched. And when we find it, we arrest you and confiscate it anyway. Your choice.’

She nodded. Sniffed. Then dug into the front pocket of her joggy bottoms. Came out with a small plastic baggie with brown powder in it. Rubbed the thing between her fingertips, like the world’s tiniest violin. Licked her lips again. Cleared her throat.

He held out his gloved hand. ‘Kirstin?’

A hatchback went past, the sound of music turned up too loud grinding out through the rolled-up windows.

‘Come on, Kirstin. What’s more important: getting high, or your daughter?’

The drizzle fell.

Tufty shifted his feet again.

And finally Kirstin dropped the little packet on Logan’s palm. Her fingertips hovered over it for a moment, then she snatched her hand away and pressed them against her throat. ‘It … Sometimes it’s …’ She looked away. ‘I found it.’

‘Of course you did. Does Frankie have a big stash? Is it worth my while paying him a visit?’

She hauled one shoulder up to her ear. ‘Didn’t see anything. He was, you know, working the hall, never got to see anywhere else.’

‘OK.’ Logan pointed. ‘Can I see inside the carrier bag?’

She held it out and open.

Inside was a little pink princess dress, a set of pink fairy wings, and a pink magic wand.

He stepped back. ‘Thanks. You tell Amy the nice policemen said hello, OK?’

A nod. Then she scuffed her Ugg boots on the pavement. ‘She’s all I’ve got.’

‘Off you go then.’

She scurried away, carrier bag clutched to her chest. Getting smaller and smaller, until the hill and the drizzle swallowed her up.

Tufty grinned. ‘Catch-and-release. Like it.’

‘Right. Back to work.’

While Tufty got in behind the wheel, Logan closed his fist around the little package of heroin, then pulled the glove inside out, trapping it inside. Slipped it into one of his stabproof vest’s zippy pockets. Couldn’t sign it into evidence without implicating Kirstin. Just have to lose it down a drain somewhere.

The drizzle thickened, the drops turning heavier and wetter.

He climbed into the passenger seat. Clunked the door shut. ‘Right, a couple more goes, then we’re off to Gardenstown to see about that shed fire.’ He pulled his Airwave free as Tufty crossed Tannery Street and started yet another long slow loop of Rundle Avenue.

‘Sarge?’

‘Is this about Einstein again?’ He thumbed the Duty Inspector’s shoulder number into his Airwave. ‘Bravo India from Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

‘You know the Big Bang?’

‘Go ahead, Logan.’

‘Any chance I can get a warrant to dunt in Frankie Ferris’s door? We’re getting a lot of tip-offs about him dealing today. Sounds as if he’s got a new batch of heroin in.’

‘You doing stop-and-searches?’

‘On it now.’