Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

She shook her head. ‘No you didn’t. This is all lies .’

‘I was there. I saw it. I found it!’

‘No, you planted it. You’re a liar and I’m making a formal complaint.’ Klingon’s mum pulled herself up to her full height. ‘You won’t get away with this!’

And today had been going so well …

‘Well … I thought she was , OK?’ Logan leaned back against the garden fence.

‘Doesn’t look dead to me. Does she look dead to you?’ McInnes produced a packet of cigarettes, dug one out of the plain packaging and lit it. ‘Thought they might have covered the difference between a living person and a dead one when you were at police college. Did you skip that day?’

Drizzle crawled down from the gunmetal sky, cold and damp.

‘Everyone said she’d gone to Australia …’

There was a crash , and the Scenes Examination Branch tent lurched to one side. A white-suited figure emerged from the blue plastic edifice, carrying a metal pole. She dumped it on the ground with a clang. Her colleague cracked his knuckles, then went in to get his own pole. SOC-tent Jenga had begun.

McInnes took a long draw on his cigarette, then blew the resulting smoke in Logan’s face. ‘See, everyone’s going to be patting you on the back. “Well done, Sergeant McRae, you caught the drug-dealing scumbag who shot Constable Mary Ann Nasrallah.” Oh, the press are going to be shining your backside with their tongues for a bit, but you and I know different.’ Another puff. At least this one went off to the side. ‘You only lucked into that because you tried to screw me over.’

Logan shrugged a shoulder. ‘It was a legitimate-’

‘Don’t even try.’ McInnes stepped in close enough that the glowing end of his cigarette cast a warm glow against Logan’s cheek. ‘You think you’re the dog’s balls, don’t you, McRae? But you’re nothing but a jumped-up little squirt in an itchy uniform and a bad haircut. And you’re right at the top of my list.’

Silence.

Another clang, then the first SOC tech went in for the next pole.

McInnes took a step back. ‘Oh, I can’t touch you right now. But see when the dust settles, and everyone’s over Constable Nasrallah getting shot? I’m coming for you.’

Logan parked the Big Car outside the Sergeant’s Hoose. Slumped in his seat. Thumped his forehead off the steering wheel a couple of times.

Typical. It’d been going really well today, but they couldn’t let him have that, could they? No. Of course they couldn’t. One step forward, three steps sodding backward.

How could she not be dead? Syd’s dog found her body, for God’s sake.

He hissed out a long, slow breath. It was a dead family pet, or an old chicken carcass, wasn’t it? Or maybe Syd’s golden retriever was every bit as thick as every other retriever in the world.

‘Gah …’

Come on. Finger out.

Logan flipped through his notebook, then pressed the talk button on his Airwave. ‘Shire Uniform Seven, I need a lookout request on a black removals van …’ He rattled off the description and the number plate. ‘Suspected involvement in the Cashline Ram-Raiders. Stop and search.’

‘Roger that.’

And with any luck, he wouldn’t end up looking like an idiot on that one as well.

He climbed out into the damp evening. Slammed the car door. Then hurried across the road and let himself into the house. The dark earthy smell of frying mushrooms met him at the door. ‘Hello?’

‘In here.’

He followed the scent into the kitchen. ‘Sorry — got caught up at work.’

‘Don’t worry. Timed it perfectly.’ Helen stood at the stove, wooden spatula in hand, poking away at the contents of the frying pan. Then nodded at the twin steaks sitting on their plate, raw and purple. ‘Rare, or medium rare? I don’t do well done.’

He settled at the kitchen table. ‘Rare. Thanks.’

She brushed a handful of tarnished-golden curls from her face. The bags under her eyes were smaller than yesterday, and the day before. ‘Chips will be ready in a minute.’ She hunched her shoulders, poured the mushrooms into a bowl. Turned up the heat under the frying pan. ‘Look, about last night-’

‘It’s OK. Really. Not a problem.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Sorry about the … you know. It …’ A small cough. Warmth tingled the tips of his ears. ‘Been a while since …’ Yeah, probably best not to bring up an awkward erection at the dinner table. Sniff. ‘Anyway. Steak and chips, eh? Been looking forward to this since yesterday.’

‘Only I didn’t want you to think that I’m some sort of tease and … I’m really …’

‘No, don’t worry about it.’

‘And it’s just so lonely , you know? The never knowing drives me insane.’

‘Yeah.’

The steaks hissed and crackled in the hot pan.

She cricked her neck to one side. ‘I know it’s difficult. With Samantha.’

Difficult.

‘It’s been four years since she went into a coma. Four years and seven days. That’s longer than we were together in the first place. I’ve known her longer like this than I did … It’s …’ A long slow breath took all the air from him. Made his back bend and his shoulders sag. ‘Yeah. Difficult’s a good word for it.’

Helen didn’t turn around. ‘And in all that time, did you never …?’

He stared at the back of her head. ‘Yes. A couple of times. An old girlfriend. She’s separated now.’

‘I see.’

Logan put a bit of steel in his voice. ‘I’m not proud of it.’

She lifted the steaks out of the pan. ‘I haven’t. And I’m not proud of that either.’

A timer bleeped, and she bent down and opened the oven door, letting out the enticing aroma of fake chips.

He rearranged the cutlery.

She put the oven tray on the stovetop.

He lined up the salt, pepper, mustard, and vinegar. Looked down at his hands. ‘I’m going to be late again tonight: probably half-two. Something like that.’

‘Oh. OK. I’ll probably read a book.’

‘Good. Right.’

The chips rattled onto both plates like finger bones.

‘Any unit in the vicinity of Bunthlaw, we’ve got a report of indecent assault at the caravan park …’

He turned down the volume on his handset. ‘Sorry.’

The steaks were thick and bloody. Glistening and rich. And they ate them in total silence.

Half-past eight and the rain had faded away to nothing, leaving the streets slick and dark. The sun had found the chink between the sea and the lowering clouds, spreading its golden rays across the fields and houses as it sank towards America.

Logan took the Big Car around onto Rundle Avenue again.

Never knew your luck.

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

‘Batter on.’

‘You’re on the update list for David and Catherine Bisset? We’ve got a sighting of them getting on the Megabus from Dundee to London.’

‘Someone stopping it?’

‘On their way.’

‘Thanks.’

No sign of anyone on Rundle Avenue. Frankie Ferris’s customers would all be indoors, eating their microwave dinners in front of the telly. Moaning about how there was never anything decent on.

Wasting his time here.

Well, except for the whole deterring trade thing. With any luck Frankie’s customers would shy off for a bit. Meaning all those lovely drugs would still be there when Logan battered his door down and raided the place.

Speaking of which: he keyed Sergeant Mitchell’s shoulder number into the Airwave handset. ‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

A crackle. A pause. Then Mitchell’s booming rumble sounded. ‘Sergeant McRae. Hear you’re to thank for catching the scummer who shot that undercover cop. Well done. The Operational Support Unit salutes you.’