Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

Tufty opened his mouth to say something, so Logan kicked him under the table.

‘Ow!’

A warning finger.

Tufty shut his mouth again.

Baker’s head fell. ‘I didn’t mean to shoot her. Had to go lie low for a bit, far, far away from civilization and that.’ His shoulders rose and fell. ‘Told Elsie to chuck some stuff in a bag while I fetched Mandy from her nan’s. We piled in the car and just drove. Got the hell out of it.’ A sniff. ‘Then the telly said she was an undercover cop.’

Logan let out a long, slow breath. ‘You shot the undercover officer in Liverpool, and you ran away to Banff to hide.’

‘I didn’t mean to. I didn’t. It was an accident .’

Holy mother of fish. ‘Where’s the gun?’

‘Was meant to be a couple of shots in the air, you know, to scare them.’

‘Martyn, what did you do with the gun? We-’

A knock on the interview-room door.

Oh for …

Logan’s head dipped. Whoever was out there, they couldn’t have timed it worse if they’d tried. He curled his hand into a fist and pressed it against his leg. Kept his voice calm. ‘Constable Quirrel: go see who it is.’

Tufty scraped his chair back and scurried off to the door. A clunk. Some murmuring. Then he was back, lips an inch from Logan’s ear, voice low. ‘Sarge, it’s a DCI McInnes and he looks like someone’s taped his bits to an angry Rottweiler.’

Logan kept his eyes on Martyn Baker. ‘Tell him I’m busy.’

‘Yeah … He’s kinda insistent. And really, really angry.’

‘Fine. Interview is suspended at eighteen-hundred. Sergeant McRae leaving the room.’ He stood. Pushed a blank notepad across the table. ‘Maybe you’d like to write it down, Martyn. Get it all on paper. Might make you feel better.’ Logan stepped out into the corridor, closed the interview-room door behind him.

McInnes took up as much space as possible, arms raised, hands curled into claws. The creases either side of his mouth looked as if they’d been carved with a chainsaw, his features dark and flushed, teeth bared in a vicious smile. But his voice was remarkably calm. ‘What, exactly, do you think you’re doing, Sergeant?’

‘I’m interviewing my suspect, so-’

‘Did I, or did I not, tell you to stay away from Operation Troposphere? Because I’m pretty certain I did.’

Logan pulled his shoulders back. ‘I carried out a routine stop-and-search and found Class B drugs. I was doing my job.’

‘No, you were trying to screw with me and my operation.’ He stepped closer. ‘You arrested that man, dragged him over here from Banff, and told everyone to keep it a secret from me. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?’ The smile got even less pleasant. ‘You’ve got no idea what you’re doing, have you?’

‘What, because I got the Candleman before you? Sounds like I know exactly what I’m doing.’

One eyebrow went up. ‘Candleman? What the hell is a “Candleman”?’

‘The guy who supplied Kevin McEwan and Colin Spinney?’

McInnes laughed. A proper full-on belly laugh that left him panting and wiping his eyes. ‘Not Candleman, you idiot, Candy Man. The supplier’s called the Candy Man. And that isn’t him.’

Oh … Logan stared at the ceiling. ‘The Candy Man.’ So he’d spent the last day and a half chasing a ghost that didn’t even exist. Thank you, Jack Simpson.

Idiot.

‘You thought you were screwing with Operation Troposphere. I told you to stay the hell away from every one and every thing to do with it, and you went ahead and arrested Martyn Baker anyway.’

Logan shook his head. ‘You just said he didn’t have anything to do with Klingon or Gerbil, so-’

‘Yeah, but you thought he did .’ McInnes took another step. Now he was close enough that his breath was warm against Logan’s cheek. It stank of cigarettes and extra-strong mints. ‘You thought he did and you picked him up anyway, even though you knew I’d told you not to. You did your best to screw me and my operation over.’ The creases either side of McInnes’s mouth deepened. ‘You really think I’m going to let that go, Sergeant?’

Of course he sodding wasn’t.

‘It had nothing to do with your case.’

‘You screwed up.’ The Detective Chief Inspector poked him in the chest. ‘And you know what? I wouldn’t have found out if you hadn’t tried to cover it up.’ McInnes turned on his heel, and sauntered away down the corridor. ‘I told you, you were on your last warning, McRae. What happens now: you’ve only got yourself to blame.’

Great.

Logan sank back in his chair and put a hand over his eyes. For some reason, the temporary viewing suite had developed a distinctly cheesy smell. Like a big block of Stilton, abandoned in a small car on a hot day. ‘Well, how was I supposed to know Jack Simpson got it wrong?’

On the other end of the phone, the backshift Duty Inspector puffed out a sigh. Still sounding as if he had a bag of marbles stuffed up each nostril. ‘He was off his face on heroin and getting battered to death at the time. How accurate would you be?’

Yeah, that wasn’t helping.

‘But, on the bright side, we’ve solved the murder of an undercover police officer. Be some brownie points for you there, Logan. Not sure if it’ll be enough to stop McInnes from shafting you, though.’

Still not helping. ‘We’ve got a signed confession and he’s rolling on two of his gang mates, so-’

A knock on the door.

‘Sarge?’ When Logan uncovered his eyes, there was Tufty, with two steaming mugs and a copy of the Sunday Post . He popped a tea down in front of Logan and mouthed the words, ‘I’m hunting biscuits.’

He was retreating when Logan waved him over and muffled the mouthpiece with a hand. ‘Watch: and see if you can spot anything weird.’ Logan scooted his chair back out of the way and pointed at the screen. The view from camera number three flickered on pause — looking out across the street at the removal van and the zombie children. Logan uncovered the mouthpiece. ‘Sorry about that, Inspector, someone came in.’

‘I’ll get onto Merseyside Police. They’ll probably want to send a car up to get him, but I’m pretty certain the Chief Constable’s not letting Martyn Baker go anywhere till we’ve done a joint press conference. We’re not having a bunch of Scousers taking all the credit.’ The grin was audible in his voice. ‘That’s my job.’

Tufty squatted down in front of the viewer and fiddled with the controls, sending the picture streaking into fast-forward.

‘Trouble is, we’ve still got no idea who supplied Klingon and Gerbil with their gear.’

‘Yeah, well, I’m sure DCI McInnes will tell us when he deems fit. And not before. Meantime, what are you and the rest of my sticky minions up to in B Division the night?’

Logan ran through the duty roster and the open caseload while Tufty wheeched back and forth through time. Logan clunked his notepad shut. ‘Guv, don’t suppose there’s any news about my warrant to dunt Frankie Ferris’s door in, is there?’

‘I’ll check. When you going in?’

‘Tomorrow, if I can get the bodies. Might try the OSU.’

‘OK — do that. But make sure the cellblock know Martyn Baker’s going nowhere and talking to no one until I say so.’

‘Yes, Guv.’

‘And Logan? Good work.’

Good grief: praise. For once.

‘But please, for the love of God, stay the hell away from DCI McInnes!’