The Missing and the Dead (11 page)

‘Some wee numptie in Tulliallan calls him up to give him a roasting: “What’s all these claims for flights? Did no one even
think
of taking the train?”’

Logan stared at him. ‘To
Orkney
?’

‘Exactly.’ More chickpeas. ‘The job is well and truly buggered.’ Another jab at the remote produced a repeat of
Chewin’ the Fat
– a pair of sailors chuntering out filth while their boat heaved through a storm. ‘Still, only eight paydays to go.’

‘Thanks. Rub it in. I’m stuck here till I’m sixty-five.’

On the TV, the seamen were replaced by Ford Kiernan buying a pie and a Paris bun.

‘Got a big farewell bash planned: thirty years of keeping Grampian Police on the straight and narrow.’

Logan sucked in a breath. ‘Better watch that kind of rebellious talk. There is no Grampian Police, there is only Police Scotland. All bow to our conquering overlords.’

‘Ah, screw them. What they going to do, fire me?’

There wasn’t much to see at Broch Braw Buys at five to midnight on a Monday night.

It was wedged between the Coral betting shop and a chip shop. Both closed for the evening. The Kenya Bar and Lounge on the corner had its door shut, the metal gate locked over the top. The sound of hoovering rattled out from somewhere inside.

Logan closed the pool car’s door and crunched his way through little cubes of broken glass.

They’d obviously used the same tactics to get into the place and steal its cash machine, because the shop’s front window was now boarded up with chipboard. Someone had stapled a poster right in the middle of the raw wood: ‘£1,000.00 REWARD F
OR
A
NY
I
NFORMATION
L
EADING
T
O
THE BASTARD’S W
HO
D
ID
T
HIS
G
ETTING
T
HEIR
LEGS BROKEN!!!’

Logan reached out and tore it down. While a nice sentiment, it wasn’t exactly legal. And besides, that misplaced apostrophe grated.

He stood on the pavement and did a slow three-sixty.

Fraserburgh was quiet: no sound but the far-off burr of the occasional vehicle cruising some distant street. Not cold, but not exactly warm either. The roads washed in anaemic sodium light.

When did the call to the Duty Inspector come through? Couldn’t have been much more than half three. So whoever it was going round nicking cash machines, they were either getting bolder, or stupider. Or maybe they simply had a schedule to keep?

Four cash machines in three days. If there wasn’t a Major Investigation Team set loose on the case already, there would be by tomorrow morning. Earnest-faced plainclothes officers stomping about the countryside with their hobnail boots and fighting suits. Getting on everyone’s nerves and lording it over the poor sods in uniform who’d have to clear up the mess they left behind.

Divisional policing, that’s where all the cool kids were …

The countryside swept past, dark and blurred, the road ahead picked out by the patrol car’s headlights. Glinting back from the cats’ eyes. A pulsing off-and-on glow as Logan tore down the dotted white line.

A sea of stars stretched from horizon to horizon. The water an expanse of slate grey to the left, bordered by cliffs. The distant glimmer of house lights.

Logan battered to the end of ‘Started Out With Nothin’’, drove in silence for a minute, then launched into ‘Living Is a Problem Because Everything Dies’. Making up half of the words as he went along.

Sooner the Big Car was back with its working radio, the better. Honestly, it—

His Airwave gave the point-to-point quadruple bleep.
‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

‘Go ahead, Deano.’

‘Got a couple of guys in Gardenstown who think they saw Charles Anderson, Sunday last. Said he was off his face with the drink and spewing his hoop over the side of his boat.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Been talking in the pub earlier about going up to Papa Bank or Foula Waters, hunting haddies.’

Better than nothing.

Logan tapped his fingertips against the stubbly hair above his ear. ‘So, maybe he’s not missing at all. Maybe he’s gone fishing?’

‘Still should be answering his radio, unless the power’s gone. Could be adrift, middle of the North Sea?’

‘Pretty certain the radio has to have batteries. Health and Safety.’

‘True.’

Round the next bend, and the bright lights of Macduff twinkled in the distance. ‘Tell Tufty to get the kettle on. I’ll be home in five.’

More dark fields. More cloudy silhouettes of trees. Then ‘W
ELCOME TO
MACDUFF’. Someone had hung a white sheet, with ‘H
APPY
40
TH
B
IRTHDAY
C
AZ
!!!!!’ splodged across it in black paint, under the limits sign. A couple of gaily coloured balloons were tied to the posts, sagging like a miserable clown’s testes.

Logan took a quick detour down Moray Street, with its blocky grey buildings. Then stopped at the bottom – the junction with High Shore. Two choices. Right: back to the station, or left: towards the Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool?

The dashboard clock glowed ‘00:30’ at him.

Wasn’t as if he could contribute anything. Much more likely he’d get roped into doing something that could probably be accomplished by half a dozen traffic cones.

Right it was. Past the quaint wee houses, following the curving road, their dormer windows staring out across the sea as it hissed against the pebble beach.

Bleep.
‘Anyone in the vicinity of Rosehearty? We’ve got a report of an assault ongoing outside the traveller camp …’

Pause. Two. Three …

Then someone caved.
‘Sergeant Smith to Control, on my way. Tell McMahon and Barrow to get their fingers out and join me there.’

Past the aquarium – closed for refurbishment. A caravan sat in front of the temporary mesh fence encircling the oversized barnacle-shaped building, surrounded by orange traffic cones. A scruffy scarecrow in a filthy tracksuit sat on the caravan’s top step, smoking. Hand cupped around the cigarette, trying to hide its light from snipers.

As if anyone would waste a bullet on Sammy Wilson.

Logan pulled into the entrance, drifting slowly past the big red buoy that decorated the middle of the car park.

His Airwave gave its point-to-point bleeps again, and DCI Steel’s voice growled out into the car.
‘How come you’ve no’ called me back yet?’

‘I’m busy.’ Logan slowed. Poked the button marked ‘LEFT ALLEY’ and a spotlight lanced out and caught Sammy Wilson full in the face.

All bones and angles and taut sallow skin. Flecked with stubble, dirt and bruises.

Sammy shrank back against the caravan, one arm up, covering his eyes.

Logan wound down the window. ‘Evening, Sammy.’

A wince. Then a sniff. And Sammy Wilson peered out from behind his grim sleeve. ‘Not doing nothing.’

‘Sure you’re not.’

‘Hoy! You still there?’

‘No. This is a recording. Leave a message after the beep.’ He let go of the talk button and pointed at the temporary fencing with its warning notices. ‘You’re not planning on doing something I’d disapprove of, are you, Sammy? Bit of breaking and entering, maybe? Wheeching bits of kit off the building site?’

‘Nah, I’d never. Nope. Not me. Not a thief and that.’

Logan stared at him.

He shrugged one shoulder. Stared down at his feet. ‘Suppose I could sod off.’

‘Probably for the best. Don’t want someone getting the wrong idea.’

He hauled himself to his feet and scuffed away up Market Street, leaving a coil of cigarette smoke behind.

‘You can be a right dick, you know that, don’t you?’
Steel cleared her throat.
‘Anyway, it’s no’ like I’m asking for much: a wee hand to talk to your local sex offenders, that’s all.’

‘I’m not the one being a dick.’ He put the car in gear again, heading down Laing Street and along the front. ‘You’ve got the biggest team in the division. Use it.’

‘You want the murdering pervert who did this to get away? That what you want?’

To the left, a hodgepodge of old-fashioned Scottish buildings faced out over the railing to the harbour walls and the still, grey mass of the North Sea. Some of them wore grey harling, some dressed granite, some painted white.

‘Shift finishes in half an hour.’

‘You’re no’ telling me that sodding off home for a Pot Noodle and a spot of onanism is more important than catching a wee girl’s murderer, are you?’

‘
And
I’m in court tomorrow.’

Past the Macduff Arms, all shuttered and quiet.

‘Oh, don’t be such a big Jessie. It’s just a couple of sex offenders. No’ like we’ll be that long at it.’

The Bayview Hotel had some sort of wedding reception going on – a knot of wobbly blokes in kilts smoking cigarettes and laughing on the pavement in front.

‘You’re authorizing the overtime, are you?’

‘Ah …’

No one outside Bert’s. A couple of women getting money from the Bank of Scotland cash machine. Nothing doing at the Highland Haven Hotel.

Nice and peaceful. Quiet. Like his Airwave’s speaker.

Then the harbour gave way to industrial units and the bus depot.

He thumbed the button again. ‘Well,
are
you?’

‘It’s no’ as easy as—’

‘This isn’t CID. We get sod all for the first half-hour of unplanned overtime, after that it’s on the clock. I’m not running a charity here.’

The buildings faded in the pool car’s rear-view mirror. Banff twinkled on the other side of the bay.

More silence from Steel. Then, finally,
‘OK, OK, overtime. You’re a greedy—’

‘I’m not greedy, I’m skint. You got any idea how much of a pay-cut came with the “development opportunity” you lumbered me with? I’m living on bargain-basement soup and pappy sliced white.’

‘That’s no’ my fault! How was I supposed to know Big Tony Campbell would stick you in a bunnet in the arse-end of nowhere?’
Her voice dropped to what was probably meant to be a sultry purr.
‘Come on: you and me, questioning sex offenders like the good old days.’

‘Yeah, well … Too late to do anything about it tonight anyway.’ Up and over the bridge into Banff.

‘Laz, Laz, Laz. Did you learn
nothing
from our time together? It’s never too late to rattle a nonce.’

Nicholson leaned forward from the back seat. ‘I want to say thank you, again, for the opportunity to work on the Tarlair Major Investigation Team.’

Sitting in the passenger seat, Steel took a long draw on her e-cigarette, setting the tip glowing blue. ‘Calm down, eh? No one likes a brown-noser.’ Then poked Logan in the shoulder. ‘Are we there yet?’

‘For the last time: we’ll get there when we get there.’

A shrug. ‘No’ my fault you drive like an old lady, Laz.’

Nicholson tapped Steel on the arm. ‘Erm … Why do you call him “Laz”?’

‘Short for Lazarus. You remember the Mastrick Monster? Laz here caught him. Got into a knife fight on top of a tower block.’

‘It
wasn’t
a knife fight.’

‘Who’s telling this story, you or me?’ Another puff. ‘Knife fight.’

Nicholson frowned. ‘But why Lazarus?’

‘Cause our wee boy here got himself killed stone dead.’

Her eyes went wide in the rear-view mirror. ‘What happened?’

Logan shifted his grip on the steering wheel. Took the turning onto Duff Street. ‘I got better.’

Steel sniffed. ‘Are we there yet?’

‘Shut up.’

The short man blinked back at them from behind thick-framed spectacles. ‘I’m sorry?’ He clutched his dressing gown tight shut across his chest, hiding the patchwork of scars and shiny cigarette burns. Ran his other hand across the shiny top of his shiny head.

Steel scooted forward, until she was sitting right on the edge of the armchair. ‘No’ a difficult question, is it, Markyboy? Where were you?’

He puffed out his cheeks. Shrugged. ‘Here, probably. I don’t really like to go out much. After …’ Mark Brussels cleared his throat. ‘Well, it’s probably for the best. Probably. I mean, you hear stories, don’t you? People on the register getting beaten up.’ He flapped a hand at the outside world. Then pressed his knees together. ‘People on the register going missing.’

She pulled out her e-cigarette and gave it a sook. ‘Missing like Neil Wood?’

‘Been a lot of that kind of thing going on. Kickings. Disappearings. Concerned citizens taking it out on poor sods like us.’

‘Poor sods?’ She hauled out her list. ‘Says here you abused girls as young as seven over a twelve-year period.’

Logan rocked back and forwards on the balls of his feet. ‘When’d you last get a supervisory visit, Mr Brussels?’

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked into the silence. A small smelly terrier snored on its back in a tartan beanbag in the corner. A radio in another room, played saccharine boy-band pop. The floorboard creaked overhead as Nicholson crept about, pretending she was off to the toilet. Have to have a word with her about not sounding like an elephant in tap shoes.

Steel puffed out her cheeks. ‘Come on, Markyboy, it’s like pulling teeth here. When’d you last get a visit from the Perv Patrol?’

‘Well …’ His eyes slid towards the zombie-grey gaze of the off television. ‘They said I wasn’t really a risk any more, so I could go to once every six weeks. To be honest, I miss the company.’ He stood. ‘Can I get anyone a cup of tea?’

‘Sounds like a load of old bollocks to me, Billyboy.’ Steel stuck her feet up on the low coffee table. Had a squint about. ‘Someone like you, passing up a sweet young thing in a school uniform? Nah, that’s no’ your style.’

The man in the beige cardigan stared at her with striking blue eyes that lurked beneath heavy white eyebrows. ‘It’s
William
, not “Billyboy”, and I’ll thank you to get your feet
off
my furniture.’ Spine ironing-board stiff, grey hair swept back from a high forehead. ‘It’s bad enough you turn up at this ungodly hour, the least you can do is have the civility not to treat my home like whatever kind of pigsty you live in.’