Stuart MacBride - The Missing and the Dead

Matthews raised his eyebrows. ‘Yeah …’ Then lowered them again. Curled his top lip ‘Suppose.’

‘It’s nothing but milky tea and porn out there anyway.’

Logan scuffed in through the door to Banff station. ‘Pff …’

Joe emerged from the canteen. ‘Sarge, how’s the head?’

‘Like a bowling ball full of angry mice.’

A nod. ‘You want a coffee? I’m doing the rounds.’

‘You’re a star.’

Big Paul and Penny were in the Constables’ Office. The pair of them sitting with their backs to the open door, thumping away at their keyboards. Getting everything tidied away for the two o’clock end of business.

No sign of the nightshift.

Logan slouched through the main office and into the Sergeants’ room. Peeled off his stabproof vest and dumped it behind his desk, then followed it with the equipment belt. A whole stone lighter, just like that. He collapsed into his chair. Stared at the high ceiling for a bit. Then sighed and pulled the keyboard over and logged in.

Joe knocked, then let himself in. Mug in one hand, packet of Ginger Snaps in the other. ‘You get your fax?’

A frown. Logan took the mug of coffee. ‘What fax?’

‘Should be in your pigeonhole — came in about five-ish.’

‘Oh. No.’

‘We’re planning on writing everything up, then work up some targets for next week before home-time. Thought we’d have a bash at antisocial behaviour and car thefts.’

Logan had a dig into his desk drawer and came out with a packet of aspirin. ‘Do me a favour and stick drugs on your list? I’m declaring war.’

‘Will do.’

Joe wandered off and Logan threw back four tablets. Washed them down with a slurp of hot coffee.

Someone had given the angry mice chainsaws, and the little sods were on a mission to cut their way out of his skull.

‘Fax.’ He pulled himself out of his seat and through into the main office. The pigeonholes weren’t really pigeonholes, they were a collection of red plastic in-and-out-trays, stacked four-high in a recess by the door through to the front of the building. Logan’s was stuffed with sponsorship forms, takeaway menus, a couple of leaflets for local businesses, and a newspaper clipping about a dirty wee scumbag climbing up onto someone’s roof to have a crap down their chimney pot. There was even a photo.

But right at the bottom was an internal mail envelope.

He opened it and took out the three sheets of A4 from inside.

DNA RESULT ON TARLAIR REMAINS.

According to the fax’s time-stamp, it arrived at 16:58 — the guy from the labs had managed to get it done by close of play after all.

Logan skimmed over the intro paragraphs and procedural bits, the graphs and diagrams on page two, and went straight to the results at the back.

Puffed out his cheeks.

Leaned against the wall and stared at the sheet. No match with Helen’s DNA.

It wasn’t her daughter.

‘Night, Sarge. Night, Hector.’ Penny gave him a wave. Then followed Joe and Big Paul out into the night. Bang on two in the morning.

The door clunked shut, leaving Logan alone with his ghosts.

A dozen names now featured on the sheet of paper he’d started in Peterhead — trying to recreate Charles Anderson’s paedophile wall chart. Some had question marks next to them, others were underlined. Like Dr William Gilcomston, AKA: Dr Kidfiddler, connected by a thick red line to ‘TARLAIR WEE GIRL’.

Didn’t get them any closer to catching her killer though, did it? Not when Gilcomston could simply deny everything. They needed some evidence. Some information. Something to justify getting a warrant from the Sheriff and ransacking the place.

But that was a job for tomorrow.

Logan logged off. Pushed the keyboard away. Yawned. Then sagged in his seat.

No point hanging about, putting it off any longer. Time to go home.

More mice had joined the throng, and these ones were armed with sledgehammers. Battering away at his brain in time to the thump of his pulse. Need more pills. And something stronger than aspirin.

He scrubbed his hands across his face.

Come on. Home. Bed.

Yeah … But what if Helen was there again — in his bed?

Wear pants. No more embarrassing early-morning protuberances.

Not much of a plan, but it was better than nothing.

He slouched out of the station, leaving it to Hector and the darkness. Crossed the car park.

The moon was a heavy crescent, glowing down through a gap between the clouds, reflecting back from the churned steel surface of the bay. Waves roared and hissed against the beach.

A smatter of rain needled out of the darkness, hurrying him inside.

He eased the door closed again. Locked it.

The living-room door was closed too. No light seeping out from the cracks around it, or the big gap left by the absent carpet below.

Logan crept up the stairs, keeping to the outside of the steps to minimize the creaking.

She’d made a great job of painting the hall — a hell of a lot better than he’d made of the kitchen. Place looked ready for getting some flooring down. Maybe he could nick the police van for a couple of hours and pick a load up from the B amp;Q in Elgin?

Yeah, Napier would love that if he found out.

Have to wait till Wednesday instead, when this block of double-shifts finished. See how much laminate they could fit in his manky old Clio.

Up to the landing.

Rain rattled the skylight.

Teeth. Quick wash. Two Nurofen. Then through into the bedroom.

Pale orange oozed in through the window from the streetlight outside. It caught the mound in the middle of the bed. Glinted off the corkscrew curls. She shifted in her sleep, murmured, smacked her lips together a couple of times, then settled down again.

OK.

You can do this.

Wake her up and tell her what the DNA results said. Tell her it’s not her daughter.

Helen’s face was soft and smooth, the creases around her eyes and between her eyebrows almost gone. At least now, wherever she was in her dreams, she’d found a moment of peace with herself.

Why ruin it? Why wake her up and get her worrying all over again?

It still wouldn’t be her daughter in the morning.

Let her dream.

Logan stripped off and slipped in beside her.

But he kept his pants on.

‘… after the news. But right now it’s over to Tim. Tim?’

‘Thanks, Bill. Police in Banff, Aberdeenshire, announced last night that they’d arrested a Birmingham man for the murder of undercover police officer, Constable Mary Ann Nasrallah. The man, Martyn Baker-’

Logan thumped the snooze button. Looked across the pillow.

Helen turned onto her side. ‘Fv mr mnnt …’

He slipped out of bed and headed for the shower.

Froze at the top of the stairs.

Noises, coming from the living room. Was that the TV?

Back into the bedroom. A quick struggle into a pair of jeans and some slippers. He unclipped the extendable baton from the equipment belt in the corner.

Then gave Helen’s shoulder a shoogle.

Her eyes creaked open, then her mouth.

‘Shh …’ He put a hand over it. Her lips were warm and moist against his palm. Logan dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘I need you to stay up here. No sound. OK?’

Blink. Blink. Blink. Then a nod.

‘OK.’

Out onto the landing again. Then down the stairs, keeping to the outsides of the treads.

It was definitely the TV. ‘… and that’s a lovely shot, straight down the fairway and onto the green …’

‘She’s having a great game.’

‘She is indeed.’

A floorboard groaned behind the living-room door. Then another one. Whoever it was, they were moving around.