Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

And you wouldn’t want to swap vehicles, would you? Not before the raid. After : yes. But the less messing about beforehand the better. Which meant that, sooner or later, the stolen four-by-four would drift past the Pubwatch camera, only the people in it wouldn’t be wearing masks. They’d pull over, and someone would get out, walk into the shop, and find out what they were looking at. All caught on camera.

He reversed all the way back to the beginning of the recording, but there was no sign of the Mitsubishi Warrior.

Logan checked the paperwork again. The four-by-four wasn’t reported stolen until after the police turned up at the owner’s door to arrest him. The silly sod hadn’t even noticed the thing was missing until it was found two days after the raid, burned out in a field north of Woodhead.

Maybe they dropped their spotter off around the corner and let him walk?

Logan ran the footage again, but no one loitered about on the street looking shifty with a mobile phone.

OK, try the previous day.

He ejected the hard cartridge and slotted in Sunday’s instead.

Let it run while he punched Tufty’s shoulder number into the Airwave. ‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

‘They’re onto verse forty-six, Sarge. This Eskimo Nell sounds-’

‘What’s happening with Martyn Baker?’

‘SLAB have set him up with some lawyer down in Dundee.’

‘Dundee? That’s a lot of sodding use. Is he coming up?’

‘Verse forty-seven. You’d think she’d get tired of all the-’

‘Tufty!’

‘Sorry. Don’t know, Sarge. He’s still on the phone.’

‘OK, let me know soon as he’s done.’ Logan put the handset down. Frowned at the screen.

On it, a rainy Sunday morning in Fraserburgh drizzled along in silence. A handful of people hurried past in ones and twos, shoulders hunched, backs bent against the wind. None of them optimistic enough to sport an umbrella.

No point looking for the Mitsubishi Warrior. He checked the paperwork again. According to the owner, the last time he’d driven it was Friday night. They wouldn’t have stolen it then — not that long before the raid. As soon as it was reported stolen there’d be a lookout request, all the Automatic Number Plate Recognition cameras would flag it up. All they’d have to do is drive past a traffic car and they’d be nabbed.

So they must’ve used another vehicle to stake the place out.

He frowned his way through the day’s footage on six-times speed. No suspicious cars. And the only people loitering about looking shifty were the same pair of auld mannies outside the Kenyan Bar.

Mind you, just because the Ram-Raiders weren’t lurking on this camera, it didn’t mean they weren’t on one of the pub’s other two.

He reached for the eject button … Stopped. Pressed pause instead. Squinted at the screen. There — stepping out of Broch Braw Buys — a young man in a blue outdoor-hill-climby jacket, earphones on, carrier bag in one hand.

Play.

He walked towards the camera, features getting less distorted with every step, until he was clear in perfect focus.

Logan hit pause again. Fiddled with the controls to zoom in. Short dark hair, long-ish nose, a designer-stubble goatee. ‘Well, well, well.’

Print.

The machine whirred and clunked, then produced a full-colour printout of the man on the screen. Tony Wishart. History buff and burglar.

Play.

Wishart walked beneath the camera then off the screen.

Eject.

Logan slotted in the cartridge for the next camera and spooled it forward to the right time.

Tony Wishart walked into shot, under the camera. Stopped at the crossroads. Looked left, then right, then left again. Waited for a Fiat Panda to judder past, then crossed over Finlayson Street. Turned left … And disappeared behind a big black removal van with ‘MAGNUS HOGG amp; SON ~ MOVING FAMILIES HOME EST 1965’ down the side.

A red Fiat drove past. Then a blue Audi.

Still no sign of Tony Wishart.

A slouch of children zombie’d past, followed by their mums — leaning heavily on pushchairs.

Where the hell was he?

Four minutes and counting.

Either he’d got into the removal van, or he’d gone into one of the houses hidden behind it.

Logan tried camera number three, but it was the same.

So … was Wishart robbing the house, or laying low there?

Print.

Only one way to find out.

The Big Car slid along Gallowhill Road, making for the crossroads with Finlayson Street. Logan nodded at Tufty. ‘Go on then.’

A nod. ‘Right.’

Sitting in the back seat, Constables King Kong McMahon, and Dundee Bill eased forward. Dundee was big enough, but King Kong’s head scraped the car’s ceiling. His large square head was topped with a fine felt of hair, big sideburns, thick features and a beaming smile. Dundee, on the other hand, looked like someone had squeezed a coatrack into a police uniform. Large ears, long thin nose, enough creases on his face to put a linen suit to shame.

Tufty glanced at them in the rear-view mirror. ‘Tony Wishart. IC-One male, eighteen years old, wanted on eighteen counts of burglary. Likes to help himself to historic memorabilia along with the usual laptops, mobile phones, and jewellery. Not known to be violent, but there’s always a first time.’

A thick finger poked into Tufty’s shoulder. King Kong’s voice was a lot posher than it should have been. ‘So, are we looking at a dog here? Or a firearm?’

‘Sarge?’

Logan shook his head. ‘No dogs, no guns.’

‘Good. I hate getting bits of Rottweiler all over my uniform. Takes ages to wash out.’

Dundee Bill grinned. No two of his teeth seemed to be pointing in the same direction. ‘Remember yon time we were up that block of flats with Spooney Birch?’ Dundee stuck a hand on Tufty’s other shoulder. ‘I do the dunt, and Spooney’s the first in. Charges right in there, screaming, “POLICE, EVERYONE ON THE FLOOR NOW!”’

King Kong sighed. ‘Come on, it wasn’t Spooney’s fault.’

‘And then there’s this high-pitched yippy barking, and Spooney screams. And I mean a proper scream, a real dig-down-to-your-socks-and-bellow kind of noise. So we all swarm in, and there’s Spooney doing the highland fling in the middle of the living room.’

‘He had thirty-two stitches, I don’t think that’s very funny.’

‘Only instead of a sporran, it’s a Jack Russell terrier latched onto his bits. Growling and shaking away while he’s trying to batter the thing off with his extendable baton. Billy Smith recorded the whole thing on his phone.’ The grin got wider. ‘Haven’t laughed so much since Jimmy Deacon fell in the harbour.’

‘You’re not a very good friend, are you, Dundee?’

‘Nope.’

The little line of shops came up on the left-hand side.

Logan held up the printout from the Pubwatch camera as they neared the crossroads. A cluster of new-build houses sat all clean and shiny, opposite the Kenyan Bar. Only the closest one would’ve been blocked by the removal van. He pointed at it. ‘Here we go.’

‘Lights and music, Sarge?’

‘Knock yourself out.’

Tufty poked the 999 button on the central console, and put his foot down. The Big Car surged forward, screeched around the corner and slithered to a halt in front of the nearest new-build.

They piled out into the dull afternoon, Tufty and Dundee hopping the fence into the back garden while Logan and King Kong marched up the short path to the front door.

King Kong cricked his head to one side, then the other. ‘You want me to batter it in?’

‘Let’s try the old-fashioned way first, eh?’ Logan reached out and pressed the doorbell.