Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

‘Bit short notice, but are you and your Singalong Troupe free tomorrow for another dunt? Well, assuming I can get the Sheriff to stop being a pain in the hoop long enough to cough up my warrant.’

‘Love to, but we’re booked tomorrow. Could do the day after though, we’ll be up your neck of the woods anyway. First thing Tuesday morning?’

‘Deal.’

‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance we’ll get to use the chainsaw …?’

‘I think we can swing that.’

‘Then it’s a date!’

And maybe this time they’d actually get Frankie Ferris for something more impressive than possession of a Class A.

Logan turned the car around and headed back towards the town centre.

‘All units be on the lookout for a grey Volvo estate, driving erratically on the A98 east of Blakeshouse …’

He drifted through the rain-slicked streets — all nice and quiet — then over the bridge to Macduff.

The harbour was dead, and so was High Shore. No one hanging about outside the pubs, hotels, or chip shop.

Maybe it was the rain that had chased everyone inside? Sent them off to batten down the hatches and weather the storm. A little slice of December in May.

He stopped at the top of the hill, looking down the curling sweep of the road to where Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool nestled at the base of the cliffs. The cordons of police tape were gone, the place abandoned to the ghosts of bathers past, and a murdered little girl.

Yeah … this was getting a bit morbid.

So what if McInnes wanted to come after him, what was the baldy wee sod going to do? All mouth and shiny trousers, that’s what he was. He wasn’t the one who’d solved a murder from the other end of the country, was he? No. That was Logan, thank you very much.

Even if it had been a complete accident.

Long blue shadows reached across the weed-slicked water of the two swimming pools, then swallowed them entirely.

One dead little girl, head caved in with a metal pipe. Two missing men.

‘All units: reports of a domestic disturbance on Fair Isle Crescent, Peterhead. Urgent response required.’

‘Sierra Two Four, roger that. We are en route.’

No sign of Neil Wood — probably not even in the area any more. He’d have jumped the first bus out of there, set up shop in Edinburgh or Dundee. Somewhere big enough to blend in. Get himself a bit of anonymity. Difficult not to stick out in wee communities like the ones around here.

And then there was Charles ‘Craggie’ Anderson, burned to death on the bridge of his own boat …

Logan narrowed his eyes, blurring the swimming pool. Drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

What if they were in it together? What if Neil Wood didn’t hop a bus? What if he hopped on Anderson’s boat instead? The pair of them make a run for it. There’s a fight when they get to Orkney, and Neil Wood wins. Kills Anderson. Burns the boat to hide any evidence. Then disappears.

Mind you, if it was difficult to blend into the scenery in Aberdeenshire, it’d be almost impossible on Orkney …

Logan pulled a three-point turn and headed back to the main road.

If Wood and Anderson were working together, there’d be a trail, wouldn’t there? Something more tangible to connect the pair of them than a photograph on a dead paedophile’s wall.

Steel and her team would’ve been all over Neil Wood’s bed-and-breakfast, but no one had given Charles Anderson’s house more than a quick once-over — making sure he really was missing and not lying dead in the bath.

Time to change that.

Anderson’s house was all on one level, with a grey slate roof. Chimney stacks at both gable ends, the pots cracked. Twig fingers reaching out of the tops, where the rooks had set up home. Warm light washed the cottage walls, made the white paint glow beneath the heavy black and blue clouds. Like the sky was one big bruise.

Dockens and thistles rampaged through the garden. Dandelion seeds stuck to nearly every surface — a plague of gossamer spiders in the long grass and overgrown borders.

Logan locked the Big Car and crunched across the gravel driveway to the front door.

The house sat all on its own, halfway between Macduff and Gardenstown. Isolated from its nearest neighbours by fields of neon rapeseed, down the end of a rutted track, about fifty feet from the edge of the cliff.

No prying eyes to see Anderson getting up to anything.

Front door was locked, so Logan tried around the side, wading through the knee-high grass, getting his itchy black trousers clarted with willowherb tufts.

Back door was locked too.

Logan’s mobile launched into ‘The Imperial March’. He paused. Swore. Dug the thing out of his pocket. ‘What?’

‘Laz, that’s no way to talk to a superior officer. Bit of respect, eh?’

‘I’m busy. Leave me alone.’

There was probably a key, in a file, in a police station somewhere, but that wasn’t much use right now. He tried above the back door.

Nothing.

‘Ungrateful wee sod. There was me phoning up to congratulate you on catching the guy who shot Constable Nasrallah, and what do I get?’

‘Yeah, that was all you were calling about.’ Nothing under the pot plants either side of the door either.

‘But now you come to mention it — you might be getting a call from Susan about a big family dinner to celebrate the test results. I need you to tell her she can’t invite her mother. Or yours.’

‘She’s your wife, you tell her.’ There was a garage, built onto the far side of the house. A bit ramshackle. Made of nailed-together boards. The paint peeling, exposing the wood beneath. Wasps had been at that, leaving the surface fuzzy and grey. No windows, but it probably wouldn’t be too hard to lever a couple of boards free and squeeze inside.

Be easier to break one of the panes of glass in the back door though.

He snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves.

‘Don’t want to upset Susan, do I? Tell her … I don’t know, your mum’s giving you a hard time and if she finds out Susan’s mum was there and she wasn’t, she’ll jump off a bridge or something.’

‘I should be so lucky.’ Logan grabbed a book-sized rock from the weeds by the door. ‘Anyway, it’s not my job to keep you safe from your mother-in-law.’

The back door had nine small glass panes set into the top half. The rock smashed through the bottom right one, sending shards of glass crashing to the kitchen floor.

‘Why can I hear breaking glass?’

‘Grow a pair and tell Susan how you feel. Stop weaselling, and do something about it.’ He unsheathed his extendable baton and jabbed it into the hole. Raked it round the edges to clear off any jagged remnants.

‘Laz, you’re no’ doing something you shouldn’t, are you?’

‘I’m busy.’

He stuck his gloved hand through the hole and felt about … Door knob. Down a bit. There — the key was still in the lock.

Logan turned it, then did the same with the knob. Pushed the door open and stepped inside. ‘Got to go.’

‘Oh no you don’t. If you think I’m alibiing you again, you’re off your head. Whatever you’re doing: stop.’

The kitchen felt cold and damp, as if no one had lived there for years. A crust of moss clung to the inside corners of the window frames. Everything smelled of mould and dust. Not dirty, just neglected.

‘Laz, I’m warning you — they’ve got GPS in the Airwave handsets. It works even when they’re turned off. If you’re up to something, they’ll know where you are.’

Through the kitchen and into the long, narrow hall. Three other doors off the sides, one at either end.