Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

‘Got enough on my plate as it is. Why?’

‘Looking for a link with one Charles “Craggie” Anderson. Tell Glen happy birthday from me, OK?’

‘You sticking around for a bit?’

‘Depends what comes up.’ Logan put the phone down, grabbed the remaining slice of cake, and headed for the Sergeants’ Office.

It wasn’t that much different to the one back at Banff — high ceilings, cornices and moulded architraves being slowly buried under layers of white gloss. Two desks, back to back, and computers almost powerful enough to pull the skin off a cold cup of coffee.

He settled into the seat, slurped, munched, and logged on to the system.

Didn’t take long to catch up with the day’s actions. Everyone was up to date, even Tufty.

A dull ache seeped around Logan’s skull, starting at the back of his head and ending up right behind his eyes. The paramedic’s paracetamol was wearing off.

Paracetamol for a cracked skull — how was that supposed to help? Whatever happened to cocodamol, voltarol, naproxen, or oxycodone? Ah, the good old days.

He went rummaging through the desk till he turned up a battered packet of aspirin. Better than nothing, but not much. Two got washed down with a swig of cold tea.

Of course, Steel was right — if they’d wanted him dead, they’d have left him to burn with the house. Still …

He checked the clock on the computer. Gone half eleven. Far too late to be calling civilians. But … He pulled out his phone and dialled.

Ringing. Ringing. Then an Aberdonian accent trying very hard to sound posh came on the line. ‘ Aberdeen Examiner , news desk, how can I help you?’

‘Is Colin Miller there? Tell him it’s an old friend.’

‘One moment, I’ll put you through …’ Click.

Ravel’s ‘Bolero’ droned out of the handset, sounding as if it was being played in an elevator by drunken monkeys.

Logan finished off his tea.

More ‘Bolero’.

He pulled over a sheet of paper and drew a rectangular box in the middle. Wrote ‘LIVESTOCK MART’ in it. Next came the names: Gilcomston, Brussels, Wood, Barden, and what was the woman called? The one living in the big Victorian house with twinset, pearls, and death threats. Ah, right: Mrs Bartholomew. What else? Who else was on the board?

He tapped his pen against the desk. Steel was right: should’ve taken a photograph. Be easier than trying to piece it together from memory, after a thump to the head.

Who else was-

Click . And on came an unabashed Glaswegian accent. ‘Logie? That you? Long time no hear, man. How’s life in the sticks? You hear anything about this Martyn Baker joker?’

‘You’re still in the office, Colin? Don’t you have a wife and three kids to get home to?’

‘Alfie’s teething, so I’ve come down with a nasty dose of “stuff what needs written for Monday’s edition”. Longer I stay out of the house, the better. What you after?’

‘Did you write that piece on Charles Anderson in the Examiner today?’

‘You kidding? The day I use that many adverbs in one story, you’ve got my permission to shoot us. It was that neep, Finnegan.’

‘I need to speak to Anderson’s ex-wife. Any chance you can dig out her details for me?’

A small hungry pause. ‘Something juicy on the go?’

‘Nah, standard follow-up stuff.’

‘Cause if something juicy comes up, you’re no’ gonnae forget your old pal Colin, are you?’

‘When have I ever?’

‘Aye, right.’

Somewhere in the distance church bells gave twelve sonorous cries of doom, while the canteen microwave droned.

The sound of scuffing feet. Then someone cleared their throat. ‘Sarge.’

Bleeep .

Logan glanced over his shoulder. ‘Hi.’

The wee loon couldn’t have been much over twenty. Spots clung to the sides of his forehead, disappearing into the felt-style haircut. A full-moon face with chubby child cheeks. Quick peek at the shoulder numbers on his epaulettes showed he was one of this year’s gaggle of newbies. He produced something between a smile and a wince. ‘PC Matthews. Ted.’

‘Right. Ted.’ Logan made a half-arsed set of oven gloves out of a tea towel and liberated his bowl of lentil soup from the microwave. ‘How’s it hanging, Ted?’

The smile got more wincey. ‘Yeah. Great. Thanks.’

‘Good.’ He carried his soup through to the sit-down part of the canteen, then went back for his toast.

‘Anyone free to attend? Got complaints about a man urinating in the Iceland shop doorway, Fraserburgh.’

‘Sarge?’

‘What can I do for you, Ted?’

Constable Matthews sank into the chair opposite. ‘How do you … If … I mean …’ Pink bloomed on his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

Surely he wasn’t asking for a talk on the birds and the bees.

He cleared his throat. ‘I found a body today. Old man, hadn’t been seen for a week and his neighbours were worried.’

Logan put down his spoon. ‘It happens a lot more often than people think.’

‘He’d hung himself, on the stairs. Wrapped a belt round the bannister and his neck.’ Matthews puffed out his cheeks. ‘Place was a tip. I mean, really, really horrible. Everything sticky and filthy and the smell was unbelievable.’

A bite of toast. ‘I know it sounds daft, but you get used to it. Never gets any better, but you do get used to it.’

‘He had the heating up full pelt, and he’d been hanging there for seven days … Face all black and crawling with flies …’ A shudder.

‘Update on the piddler: turns out there’s a woman with him and she’s having a wee there too. Can someone attend, please? ’

Should really have had a squint through the cupboard first — found out if anyone had any hot sauce. Couldn’t do it with Matthews here. Not with all those signs about not nicking other people’s food glaring down from the fridge door.

‘You know what I spent the morning doing, Sarge? Getting spat at. Sworn at. Shouted at. Someone threw up on my shoes.’ He slumped inside his stabproof vest, making it look as if he’d shrunk. ‘Don’t know if I can do this any more.’

Have to buy something different next time. No more lentil soup. Maybe cream of tomato? Pff … Who was he kidding. The decent stuff cost more than the budget would allow. Tattie and leek?

‘And it’s the same people, day after day, shift after shift. All the time, the same manky minks, with their filthy houses and smelly clothes and drug habits. Or drink. Or both. Never mind the nutters …’

Of course, the ideal thing would be to go buy a bunch of vegetables and make soup. But then he’d have to trust it to the canteen fridge, and everyone knew what a bunch of thieving sods police officers were when it came to food. Oh, you could leave cash and jewellery and electronics lying about for weeks and no one would touch it. But see if you put a custard cream down and turned your back for five seconds? Gone.

‘Joined the police to help people, and all I’m doing is babysitting scumbags who hate me.’

That was the thing about tins, you could hide them. Didn’t need refrigerating.

‘And the pension’s a joke now, isn’t it? Get to work till I’m sixty, for a pittance. Can you see us as a bunch of sixty-year-olds, dunting in some druggie’s door and fighting off his Rottweiler?’ He shrank a little more. ‘Got a friend who works on the rigs.’

‘I know.’ Logan dipped a chunk of toast in his soup. ‘The pay here’s rubbish, the shifts are rubbish, and the pension’s rubbish. Job’s well and truly screwed.’ He popped the soggy morsel in his mouth and chewed. ‘But we get to change people’s lives. We get to keep them safe. And when something horrible happens, and they end up dead or damaged, we get them justice. Try doing that on an oilrig.’