Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

Logan stepped up. ‘Dr Gilcomston, do you know a man called Charles Anderson? Also goes by the nickname, “Craggie”?’

‘… go live to Aberdeenshire. Kim, have Police Scotland released any details about the individual involved?’

Gilcomston pursed his lips. ‘I believe he’s some sort of dead fisherman. There was an article in the paper about him setting fire to his boat.’

‘Yes, but did you know him before that? Before he went missing?’

‘No. Now please go.’

‘… as Martyn Baker, a twenty-one-year-old man from Birmingham.’

Steel pulled her foot back. ‘OK, play hard-to-get if you like, Billyboy, but we’ll no’ be far away.’ She winked at him. ‘Stay out of trouble, eh?’ Then turned and marched down the path toward her little sports car.

‘… plead guilty or not guilty, when Mr Baker comes up before the Sheriff Court at nine a.m. tomorrow morning.’

The tendons in Gilcomston’s neck tightened for a beat, then he turned his blue eyes on Logan. ‘I’ll be making a complaint about your superior. This is harassment.’

Logan stared back in silence.

‘Thank you, Kim. And we’ll have more on that later, when the Police Scotland press conference starts.’

A herring gull cawed and shrieked somewhere in the darkness.

‘This, of course, ends a week-long manhunt for the person or people who shot and killed Mary Ann Nasrallah …’

A car rumbled past.

‘… to Liverpool now, where Constable Nasrallah’s family have been holding a prayer vigil …’

Gilcomston cleared his throat. Looked away. ‘I have nothing further to say to you.’

‘Charles Anderson thought you were involved in the death of the little girl we found at Tarlair. What would give him that idea?’

‘I’m sorry, I have to go.’ Gilcomston closed the door. Then the sound of bolts and locks shooting home clicked and clacked out through the wood.

Logan gave it a count of ten, then turned and joined Steel on the pavement.

She was leaning back against her MX-5, arms folded, e-cigarette sticking out the corner of her mouth. ‘He’s a slimy git.’

‘Anderson must’ve seen her. The picture on the board: it wasn’t from a newspaper or off the internet, it was a photograph. He took it. So he must have seen her when she was alive.’

‘And he probably saw her with Dr Kidfiddler.’ Steel blew a stream of steam at the heavy clouds. ‘Laz, could you no’ have saved the evidence, instead of swooning like a Victorian heroine?’

‘Thanks. Yes, it was all my fault someone tried to bash my brains in, how very careless of me.’ He dug his hands deep into his pockets. ‘Could’ve died. Bit of sympathy might not go amiss.’

‘Wah, wah, wah. Don’t be so melodramatic. If they wanted you dead, they would’ve left you in the house when they set fire to it.’

Logan drove the Big Car up the kerb, over the pavement, and onto the half-moon of blockwork opposite the Threadneedle Street Car Park. Well, it was easier than messing about with the automatic gate that secured the loading area at the back of Peterhead police station.

Nearly half-past eleven, and the place was dead. The occasional car drifted past — with horrible music bmmmtshhh, bmmmtshhh, bmmmtshhh ing out through the windows — but other than that, the Blue Toon was as quiet as it ever got.

Logan locked up and stepped out.

The surrounding wall of terraced houses cut the wind down to a dull roar, leaving the drizzle to sway down from the burnt-orange sky in clammy waves. He tucked his notepad under his arm, rammed his hat on his head-

‘Ow …’ Knives and needles jabbed through the skin and into his skull, radiating out from the brand-new lump. ‘Sodding hell.’

He tucked his hat under his arm instead and hurried up the street. From the front, Peterhead station looked like a bank — all granite and tall windows, an imposing frontage with pillars and a portico — but the other three sides were knobbly red sandstone, stitched together with thick lines of grey mortar.

‘All units, be on the lookout for a brown Ford Ranger, number plate unknown, but the back end’s all dented. Just ram-raided the Co-op in Strichen. Last seen battering away down the New Deer road.’

He dug out his key and let himself into the blue side door.

It opened on a manky magnolia hall, with temporary lockers and building works on one side. Singing came through the bars separating the cellblock from the rest of the building. It sounded as if all the talented members of the wedding party had ended up in Fraserburgh’s cells, leaving only the tone deaf behind.

Logan nipped up the wee flight of stairs, past the three banks of Airwave lockers, and into the stairwell. Stood at the bottom and stared up into the darkness. ‘SHOP!’

The only answer was the echo. Shop … Shop … Shop …

OK. Up three flights to the first floor.

‘Anyone in the vicinity of New Aberdour? Mrs Tobias has gone walkabout again.’

Where the hell was everyone?

The canteen had the same collection of chipped Formica, cheap kitchen units, and unwashed mugs as every other station in the northeast. It was separated into two bits with a wee archway in the middle. One half held the vending machine and a handful of tables and chairs. Posters on the walls about integrity, fairness, and respect. One about dialling 101 if it wasn’t an emergency, and another about being on the lookout for suicidal colleagues. The other half had the kitchen: worktops; fridge — covered with notices and dire warnings about not stealing other people’s food; toaster; cooker; and not one but two microwaves. Fancy.

He helped himself to a mug and a teabag, then filled it from the special boiling-water tap mounted on the wall. Must’ve been someone’s birthday, because the last two slices of a chocolate cake sat on the kitchen table. He helped himself to one of those too.

Then picked up the wall phone and pressed the button for the cellblock. Listened to it ring.

‘Aye, aye?’

‘Stubby? It’s Logan. Whose birthday was it?’

‘Well, as I live and breathe — our very own B Division Duty Sergeant! To what do we lowly peasants owe the honour?’

‘Don’t be like that, I was here last night, wasn’t I?’

‘No.’

Fair enough. ‘Anything going on I should know about?’

‘Aye, Glen’s forty the day. Doesn’t look out of nappies yet, does he?’

‘I got hit on the head, so I’m stealing a slice of his cake.’

‘Other than that, we’ve still got a full set after Friday night’s wedding. Can’t wait for the courts to open tomorrow, it’s smelling a bit ripe down here.’

He took a bite of cake, chewing around the words. ‘Anything new?’

‘Domestic earlier: bloke’s off to Fraserburgh for the night. She’s off to the hospital. Picked up a guy for getting hot and heavy with, and I kid you not, a Shetland pony. Silly sod filmed it on his own phone. And there’s a couple of unlawful removals we’re looking into. Found one up at the Flaggie earlier. Other than that, it’s been pretty Q-word.’

‘Wish I could say the same.’ He washed the cake down with a mouthful of tea. ‘Stubby, did you ever deal with Neil Wood?’

‘Our missing paedo? Yeah, couple of times when I was in the Offender Management Unit. He wasn’t mine, but I had to fill in now and then. Sniffly, runny, sticky kind of bloke. You know the type people always think of when someone says “child molester”? That.’

‘You been to his B-and-B since he went missing?’ The last of the cake disappeared.