Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

‘Thanks, Guv.’

Logan took his tea and pilfered biscuit back through to the Sergeants’ Office, in time to see the progress bar hit 100 percent. Half of the screen filled with a static view of the car park outside Banff police station. The other half was a list of time-stamps — each one representing a block of data when the camera was activated.

He scrolled through it, and clicked on the one for half-nine yesterday morning.

The screen jumped to an image of a winding road, trees and bushes reduced to a green blur by the speeding car as its siren wailed out of the computer’s nasty little speakers. A readout in the corner of the picture put Nicholson’s speed at eighty-five. The ‘WELCOME TO PORTSOY’ sign flashed past. Houses. Cars. Then onto the main street.

Bottles and cartons and tins covered the road in a slick outside the Co-op with its ruptured window. The car screeched to a halt. Some clunking. Then Logan appeared on the screen, pulling on his peaked cap.

‘You! Which way did they go? What are they driving?’

The young woman with the pushchair pointed, mouth moving, but she was too far away for the microphone to pick up any words.

Logan jumped back in. There was a thump . Then, ‘Go!’

And they were off again, tearing along the street, past houses and cars and stunned pedestrians.

‘Shire Uniform Seven to Control, perpetrators have fled the scene. Witness says they took the Cullen road. We’re in pursuit.’

Whatever Control said in reply, it got reduced to a tinny burr.

His own voice again: ‘Negative.’

A caravan blocked the left side of the road, ignoring the flashing lights and screaming siren. Cars coming the other way … There.

Logan hit pause. Three cars. A bus. A removal van. And a milk tanker. All pulling into the side of the road to let them past. The van was big and black, with ‘MAGNUS HOGG amp; SON ~ MOVING FAMILIES HOME EST 1965’ down the side in curly red lettering.

Same one that was sitting outside the Kenyan Bar in Fraserburgh the day before Broch Braw Buys got ram-raided. Only this time the number plate was clearly visible. He copied it down into his notebook and called up the PNC interface.

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

Logan grabbed his Airwave and checked the screen. No idea whose shoulder number that was, but it was a low one, so maybe a boss. He pressed the button. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Ah, Sergeant McRae, it’s DCI McInnes.’

Oh joy. Here it came — McInnes’s revenge.

Logan typed the registration in one-handed. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘You can join me at thirty-six Fairholme Place, that’s what you can do. Right now, would be good.’

Brilliant. ‘Sir.’

The screen filled with ownership details for the removal van — a firm down in Bristol. The next page had the insurance details, and who was insured to drive the thing. None of the names seemed familiar.

Mind you, there was no guarantee there was actually anything dodgy about the thing. So it had turned up near two ram-raids, so what? Coincidences happened all the time.

Still …

But it’d have to wait. No point winding McInnes up any more than he already was.

Logan grabbed his hat and his keys.

Logan pulled the Big Car into the kerb, behind the Scene Examination Branch’s manky white Transit van. Someone had finger-painted ‘IF YOUR MUM WAS THIS DIRTY I WOULDN’T NEED PORN!’ in the grime covering the back doors.

OK. Might as well get this over with.

He climbed out into the drizzle. The tips of his ears burned in the cold. So much for May, felt more like December.

His phone launched into its generic tune. He pulled it out as he walked along the pavement towards Klingon’s mum’s house. ‘Hello?’

‘Sergeant McRae? It’s Stacey from Portsoy. I’ve looked through the CCTV like you asked.’

He ducked under the cordon of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape. ‘And?’

‘Why did you want me to look for a removal van?’

‘We …’ Good question. ‘We think they might have witnessed a crime, we’re trying to track them down so we can get a statement.’ OK, so it was a lie, but she didn’t know that.

There wasn’t an officer on the front door, so Logan let himself in.

‘OK. Well, I found one. Had to go back to Wednesday to do it, but there’s a removal van parked opposite the shop for a couple of hours in the morning.’

The smell of burst bin-bags and rotting filth was like a wall across the porch.

‘Let me guess: blue, with Duncan Smith Movers down the side?’

‘Oh … No. It’s black. Magnus Hogg amp; Son.’

Bingo.

There was a thump from somewhere inside, followed by a shrill woman’s voice, ‘NO I WILL NOT CALM DOWN! LOOK AT IT!’

Logan paused. ‘Forgot to ask earlier: when do they refill your cash machine?’

‘Friday evening. Usually. Sometimes Saturday if there’s a problem at the bank, or they’re busy.’

‘LOOK AT IT!’

‘OK, thanks. I’ll let you know if anything comes up.’ He hung up. Took a deep breath. Regretted it. The air tasted of mank. He coughed a couple of times. Then stepped into the hall.

The shouting was coming through the open kitchen door.

He walked over and knocked on the frame.

McInnes leaned back against the work surface, arms folded, while a PC tried to placate a battleship of a woman in stonewashed jeans and a Burberry coat.

HMS Angry jabbed a finger at the kitchen window. ‘AND WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING TO MY GARDEN?’

McInnes turned his head in Logan’s direction and pulled on a cold smile. ‘Ah, Sergeant, good. So glad you could join us. Have you two met?’ He pointed at the quivering mound of irate woman. ‘This is Lesley Spinney. Colin Spinney’s mother.’

Ah … So maybe she wasn’t dead and buried after all.

Detective Chief Inspector McInnes held out his arms. ‘Doesn’t she look good for a corpse?’

Klingon’s mum turned her considerable scowl on him. ‘Are you being funny?’

‘Not at all, Lesley. Would you mind telling Sergeant McRae where you’ve been for the last four months?’

‘And what happened to my house? It was just decorated before I left!’

‘Please.’ He patted her on the shoulder. ‘Tell the Sergeant where you were.’

‘I was in Perth, looking after my brother Sydney. Pancreatic cancer. We buried him, Wednesday.’

McInnes’s smile grew. ‘Not Perth, Australia, mind you, but Perth, Scotland. One hundred and thirty miles away, not nine thousand .’

No wonder Derek Stratman couldn’t find her visa application.

Logan shifted his feet. ‘I see.’

Not in Australia. And not dead.

How could she not be dead? The council records Maggie’s partner dug up yesterday showed Klingon’s mum hadn’t paid the rent for nearly a year. How could any sane human being put Colin Klingon Spinney in charge of keeping a roof over their heads?

‘But …’ He cleared his throat. ‘Why did you cancel your direct debit ten months ago? For the rent? Why did you let Colin take over?’

‘None of your damned business, that’s why.’ She thumped over and glowered at him. ‘Now what happened to my bloody house?’

Logan pulled his shoulders back. ‘I’m afraid it’s a crime scene.’

‘No it isn’t.’

‘Your son and Kevin McEwan were dealing drugs and-’

‘How dare you! No they were not!’

‘-attempted murder of Jack Simpson-’

‘My Colin’s a good boy! How dare you talk about him like that.’

Logan stared at her. ‘We recovered over a hundred thousand pounds’ worth of heroin from the attic, and Jack Simpson’s battered body.’