Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

‘Good. I want you copping a feel of everyone who comes out of that place. You get me one solid bit intel and I’ll get you a warrant.’ There was a bit of rustling at her end. Then, ‘I’ve no spare bodies for a dunt today. Have to be tomorrow or Tuesday.’

Might all be gone by tomorrow or Tuesday. But it was better than nothing. ‘Thanks, Guv.’

Tufty took them out the end of the street and onto Golden Knowes Road. It was the Westernmost edge of town, no houses on the left side of the road, from here on it was fields and cattle all the way to Whitehills. ‘If we hadn’t let Kirstin Rattray off with a caution, you’d have got your warrant.’

‘And make sure she never saw her kid again? Thought you were all in favour of catch-and-release.’

‘Yeah, but …’ A small frown and a little chewing on the inside of his cheek. Then whatever ethical dilemma was raging inside that misshapen little head of his must have passed. ‘Anyway, so we know that the universe goes from nothing to everything: boom, in teeny wee fraction of a second.’ He took his hands off the steering wheel and mimed an explosion.

‘Anyone in the vicinity of St Fergus, got reports of a campervan with German plates acting suspiciously. MOD staff want them picked up …’

A right, onto Windy Brae, making another long loop.

‘So there’s nothing, then there’s inflation, then there’s expansion, then there’s everything, right?’

‘I’m beginning to know how Deano felt.’

Little houses, terraced bungalows, all darkening in the rain.

‘All units be on the lookout for an IC-Two female, suspected of robbing a Big Issue vendor in Peterhead, Back Street …’

‘So, in that first trillionth of a trillionth of a trillionth of a second, all this primordial quantum foam is accelerating faster than the speed of light-’

‘How about him?’ Logan pointed through the windscreen at a man in a scuffed bomber jacket with a hoodie underneath, marching on through the rain.

‘Should be green cargo pants, not stonewashed jeans. But it’s the same thing, isn’t it? Closer you get to the speed of light, the greater your inertial mass, so if it wasn’t for that tiny fraction of a second wheeching everything up to uber-fast speeds, there wouldn’t be any mass in the universe. We’re made of speed, not stuff.’

Logan stared at him.

‘What?’

‘I swear to God, Tufty, I was this close to being nice to you today.’ He held one hand up, thumb and forefinger less than an inch apart.

Right, onto Meavie Place, then another quick right onto Ardanes Brae again.

‘Only trying to get a bit of intelligent debate going.’

There was blissful silence all the way back to Rundle Avenue. Well, except for the rhythmic squeak-and-groan of the windscreen wipers.

Tufty heaved a big sigh. ‘Must be weird, living in one of the wood-clad houses. Think it’s a bit like moving into a two-storey shed?’

‘Don’t know what’s worse, your cosmology, or your social commentary …’ Logan sat forward in his seat. Peered out through the rain-smeared windscreen. ‘Up there. Is that not our good friend, Martyn Baker?’ And he was going into Frankie Ferris’s delightful little drug den too. Logan grinned. Rubbed his hands together. ‘Right, park the car around the corner. Soon as he comes out, we’ve got ourselves a winner.’

And best of all, he had plausible deniability. The Duty Inspector gave the order to stop-and-search everyone who comes out of Frankie’s place. Everyone . And that included Martyn Baker.

Yes, DCI McInnes would blow a vein, but sod him.

About time these MIT scumbags learned what a real police officer looked like.

‘Mr Baker, what a nice surprise.’ Logan stepped out from behind the mouldy Transit van. Rain pattered on the brim of his peaked cap, bounced off the shoulders of his fluorescent yellow jacket. Not exactly subtle, but Martyn-with-a-‘Y’ still hadn’t seen him.

A narrowing of the eyes. Probably weighing up the odds of doing a runner, but then Tufty stepped onto the pavement behind him.

‘Sarge?’

Baker took his hands out of his pockets, curled them into fists. The tendons on his neck tightened, stretching the skin. Rain soaked into his bomber jacket, slicking the red fabric. ‘What?’ Those thick eyebrows glowered like storm clouds.

‘I see you’ve been visiting with Frankie Ferris.’

‘Nothing illegal, is it? Visiting someone?’ His Brummie accent thickened with every word. ‘Youse jocks are harassing us.’

Logan smiled at him. Smiled at the gel-spiked hair drooping in the rain. Smiled at the nuclear-furnace plooks ready to blow along his jaw. Then slipped the elastic band off the body-worn video unit and set it recording. ‘Martyn Baker, I have reason to believe that you’re in possession of a controlled substance-’

‘Don’t.’ He bared his teeth. ‘Don’t you bloody don’t.’

‘-under Section Twenty-Three of the Misuse of Drugs-’

‘You’ve already got my phone, that not enough for you!’

‘-detained for the purposes of search-’

All the air vanished from Logan’s lungs, as a fist smashed into his stomach hard enough to skid him back a couple of inches on the pavement. Yeah, a stabproof vest might be a pain to lug about all day, but if it didn’t let a kitchen knife through, a fist wasn’t going to have much luck.

He snapped his hand up and out, palm forward, fingers splayed, channelling his weight through his hip. The heel of his hand slammed into the underside of Baker’s chin. ‘Back!’

Baker’s head jerked up, and his feet went out from underneath him. Windmilling arms and a gurgling moan, all the way down to the pavement. He hit like a sack of tatties, and lay there, blinking up at the rain.

Tufty lunged, whipping out the cuffs and snapping them on one wrist, before hauling him over onto his front and flicking the other one into place. He looked up at Logan. ‘You OK, Sarge?’

‘Never better, Officer Quirrel. Never better.’

They stood him in the middle of the custody suite and searched him.

The Fraserburgh Cellblock Choir did a round-robin of ‘Soft Kitty’ as Tufty worked his way along Martyn Baker’s limbs, then through his turn-ups and pockets.

The PCSO puffed out his cheeks and stirred his tea. ‘You’re lucky you weren’t here this morning: we got the Spice Girls’ greatest hits. Can you imagine spending your honeymoon in the cells, waiting for the courts to open Monday morning? Singing about wanting a zigazig-ah?’

Logan leaned back against the custody desk and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I want Baker processed ASAFP, but keep it low key, OK?’

The Police Custody and Security Officer folded his thick, thistle-tattooed arms. ‘You hiding him from anyone in particular?’

‘Not hiding him, I’m ensuring his safety. In case someone decides to throw a fit.’

‘So …?’

‘I want to be done before anyone from Operation Troposphere, or some MIT numptie comes sniffing about. Baker calls his lawyer, then we get him in an interview room. And make sure you give me a shout, soon as he’s ready. We burst him, we throw a party, then everyone gets medals.’

Tufty came to the end of his search, then held out his gloved hand to Logan. A ziplock plastic bag of dried green herbs sat in the middle of the palm. Not a huge bag, not even big enough for a charge of possession with intent.

Logan walked over and picked it out of Tufty’s hand. ‘This it?’

A shrug. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

He walked around to face Martyn Baker. ‘Well, Mr Baker? Anything else on, or in, your person I should know about?’