The Missing and the Dead (29 page)

Logan stared at her. ‘They found semen on the body? Do a DNA match!’

‘Aye, thank you, Hercule Poirot, we had actually thought of that. No hit from the database. Tell you, the press will go ape when it comes out.’ She blew out a sigh, slurped down some more coffee. ‘Was bad enough when they only had Graham Stirling to batter us with, but this? This piles on extra baboons. Wee sod might be keeping his head down right now, but you can bet your itchy police trousers he’ll be back with a massive law suit, and it’ll all flange up again. See if I was you? I’d be sucking up to anyone in a position to deflect a bit of the crap away from me.’

‘I told you: I’m not joining your MIT. I
can’t
.’

She held up her hands. ‘Just saying.’

‘Well, just don’t. It’s bad enough—’

Three quick knocks on the door, and Steel’s right-hand woman stuck her head into the Sergeants’ Office. ‘Boss?’

Steel didn’t even look at her. ‘For the last time, Becky, you’re no’ escaping back to Aberdeen till Dawson gets out of hospital. You’re no’ much, but you’re all I’ve got to keep these bunnets in line.’

DS McKenzie’s neck darkened and the creases around the bottom of her mouth deepened. ‘It’s about the CCTV footage from the hospital. There’s no one on it that isn’t meant to be, right? I mean we’ve got doctors, nurses, volunteers, that consultant urologist …’ She left a dramatic pause. ‘And Bisset’s kids.’

Steel rested her elbows on the desk, head dangling over the coffee cup. ‘You seriously suggesting it was his kids?’

McKenzie stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. ‘I know it’s a long shot, but think about it. They—’

‘Laz, I’m too knackered. You do it.’

Logan pointed at the spare seat. ‘You want to sit?’

She didn’t. Instead she leaned on Steel’s side of the desk. ‘Come on, Boss, no one’s ever going to suspect them, are they?’

He bit down on his lips. Be nice. ‘Well …’ Frown. No point making her look stupid, but it wouldn’t be easy. ‘I can see where you’re coming from, DS McKenzie, but it doesn’t really tally with the semen they found on Stephen Bisset’s body.’

Silence. Then McKenzie’s face creased in around her nose. ‘Sod.’

Steel must have decided that she could be bothered after all, because she sat up. Pointed. ‘They’re brother and sister, Becky. They’re no’ likely to murder their dear old dad then crack one off over his still-warm corpse, are they? It’s Aberdeen, no’
Game of Sodding Thrones
.’

The flush on DS McKenzie’s neck deepened. She forced a smile that looked painful as a whole-pineapple suppository. ‘I see …’ Deep breath. Her chin came up. ‘Anything else?’

Steel waved a hand in the vague direction of the door. ‘Away and see if anyone’s spotted Neil Wood yet. Nonces don’t vanish into thin air.’

A curt nod. ‘Boss.’ Then daggers at Logan, as if somehow it was his fault. ‘
Sergeant
.’ And she was off, slamming the door on the way.

The blast of air ruffled the Post-its stuck to Logan’s desk.

He blew out a breath. ‘That went well.’

‘Told you – one poke away from an aneurism.’

‘So stop poking her.’ He skiffed his fingertips back and forth on the desktop a couple of times. Looked out of the window as the guilt twisted a little knife into his chest. ‘DS Dawson’s still in hospital then?’

‘Serves him right. Never trust a kebab, that’s my motto.’ She slurped at her coffee again, then frowned. ‘Sure you’ve no’ got any biscuits?’

The familiar, depressing sounds of a hospital ticking over, hummed and buzzed and clanked and murmured down the corridor. Logan stuck his back to the wall and his finger in his other ear. ‘Say again, Deano?’

‘Aye, that’s us going round and round Rundle Avenue again. Got a call your mate Frankie Ferris was getting a lot of visitors.’

Logan checked his watch. ‘At twenty past eight on a Saturday morning? Only way he’s awake this early is if he didn’t go to bed last night.’

‘My thoughts exactly. But we got the call, so we diverted from Pennan to drive round and round in circles looking for early-riser druggies who don’t exist.’

The door at the end of the corridor opened and a young woman in pale blue scrubs stepped out. Stack of folders pinned under one arm. Short brown hair, twin scars reaching from beneath her nose and through her top lip.

‘OK: give it another couple of laps then call it. With Klingon and Gerbil out of the way, someone’s got to be picking up the slack. Might as well be Frankie Ferris.’ Logan stuck his Airwave back on his shoulder and walked over. ‘Doctor?’

She flashed him a smile that looked as if it needed another eight hours’ sleep. ‘Can I help you?’

Logan pointed at the door she’d come out of. ‘Jack Simpson.’

‘Ah, right.’ One of the folders came out and she rummaged inside it. Produced a sheet of paper and squinted at it. ‘Concussion, ruptured spleen, fractured skull, broken ribs, left femur, right tibula and fibula, left humerus and—’

‘That’s the one. He awake yet?’

She pursed her lips for a moment. Sniffed. Probably not used to being cut off mid-flow. ‘Mr Simpson regained consciousness this morning. The swelling’s gone down, so we’re confident he’ll make a complete recovery. Though, obviously, he’s going to need a
lot
of physiotherapy.’

‘Can I talk to him?’

‘I’ve got to warn you, he’s a bit … fractious.’

No surprise there – Jack Simpson probably hadn’t had a day off the heroin in years. Still, at least he’d have been sedated through the worst of the withdrawal symptoms.

Logan slipped into the room.

The blinds were half open, throwing bars of light across the floor and bed. A TV set was mounted to the wall, the picture flickering in time with some far-off machinery. A reporter in a suit was doing a piece to camera, microphone held like a knuckleduster in one hand.
‘… Prime Minister announced today that Detective Constable Mary Ann Nasrallah of Merseyside Police would be posthumously awarded the Queen’s Police Medal for Gallantry. We’re over live to Westminster …’

Jack Simpson lay spread out on top of the sheets: both arms and both legs in plaster, a neck brace squeezing his chin up, bandages around his head. Face a dark swathe of purple and yellow. Lips swollen and lined with scabs.

‘… dedicated undercover officer whose tragic shooting last Sunday only goes to demonstrate—’

Logan killed the TV with the remote. Gave Jack Simpson a smile. ‘Klingon and Gerbil really did a number on you, didn’t they, Jack?’

Two bloodshot eyes blinked back at him. ‘Gntt sttfffd.’

‘Now, now, is that any way to talk to the guy who saved your life?’ He carried the plastic chair from the corner to the bedside. Settled into it. ‘Sorry, didn’t bring you any grapes.’

‘Mm nntt saynn nthnn.’

‘OK, how about you listen for a bit instead? When I found you in Klingon’s attic, you were half dead. Between the internal bleeding, toxic shock, and dehydration, the doctors say you’d have lasted maybe another day. Maybe two. Max.’

Simpson lay there, scowling at the ceiling.

‘They tried to kill you, Jack. They nearly battered you to death, then they stuck you in the attic. If I hadn’t looked up there, that would’ve been it. No more Jack Simpson.’

Not that anyone would really have mourned
that
loss. There wasn’t a single ‘G
ET
W
ELL
S
OON
’ card in the room; no teddy bears, Mylar balloons, or bunches of flowers. The only things decorating the unit by the bed were a sippy cup and a box of tissues.

But then who was going to wish a drug dealer a speedy recovery? By now his customers would have found someone else to sell their favourite poison. Not even his mum and dad cared about poor old Jack Simpson.

Logan leaned forward and knocked on the cast encasing Simpson’s right arm. ‘Do you want Klingon and Gerbil to get away with it? Let bygones be bygones?’

A breath hissed out between the cracked lips. ‘Klll thmmm.’

‘How you going to do that, Jack?’ He pointed at the bag hanging on a stand beneath the level of the bed, connected to a tube that disappeared under Simpson’s hospital gown. ‘You can’t even pee on your own.’

Logan sat forward. Lowered his voice. ‘Right now, they’ll be cutting a deal. Ratting out whoever sold them the drugs in exchange for a reduced sentence. Who knows, if the intel’s good enough, they might even walk. That what you want?’

A cough. Then another one. Spittle flying from his lips. Eyes squeezed shut, chipped teeth bared with every convulsion. Till it was over and he slumped back into his pillow. Dragging in rattly breaths. Face nearly scarlet between the bruises. ‘Watrr …’

Logan took the sippy cup from the beside unit and held it to Simpson’s lips. ‘Slow and steady. That’s it. Don’t choke yourself.’

The breathing slowed, his face returning to its normal unhealthy pallor.

‘Better?’

‘Am I under arrest?’ The words came out with a slight lisp.

‘Nope. You’re the victim here, Jack. All we want is to make sure the guys who did this to you don’t get away with it.’

He frowned at the ceiling for a bit.

A trolley clattered by in the corridor outside.

Voices faded in the distance.

Then Simpson nodded – not much, just a small bob of the chin, restrained by the neck brace. ‘A scummer from down south supplied the stuff.’

‘Hold on.’ Logan slipped the elastic band off his body-worn video and set it recording. ‘Sergeant Logan McRae, eight thirty-two a.m., twenty-fourth of May, Chalmers Hospital. Interview with Jack Simpson.’ Pulled out his notebook. ‘OK, back to the beginning. Who supplied the heroin in Colin Spinney’s mum’s house?’

That got him a look. ‘His mum’s house? You mental? She’s been gone for, like, years.’

‘Years? I know she’s in Australia, but—’

‘Guy who supplied the drugs was a Geordie, or a Scouser. Somewhere like that with the accent, you know?’

Logan scribbled it down. ‘What’s his name?’ Probably a waste of time: Klingon and Gerbil would have spilled their guts to whoever was running the investigation in five minutes flat. By now, their supplier would be under arrest, or on the run. Either way, he wouldn’t be hanging around Banff. But still …

‘Nah.’ Simpson looked as if he was trying to frown, but his battered face wasn’t cooperating. ‘Called him some stupid nickname, like … Candleman? Or Candlestick Man? Something like that. Only met him once: short, and broad, you know? Like a wee rugby player, or a boxer. Hard man.’

‘Age? Hair colour? Distinguishing features?’

‘Vicious bastard stood there, egging Gerbil and Klingon on while they took turns with the baseball bat …’ Tears glistened Simpson’s eyes. Spilled over onto his bruised cheeks. ‘Told them they had to … had to keep …’ He pulled his head back an inch, fighting against the neck brace, pushing himself into the pillows. Blinking it back. ‘I’m lying there on the garage floor, screaming and trying to cover my head, and they’re hammering away at me, and everything’s … God it hurt so bad.’ The tears were flowing freely now, a line of silver bubbling out of one nostril as he shook. ‘And they
laughed
! They laughed as they battered the crap out of me.’ A shudder ran up his body, setting the casts twitching. Deep breaths, wheezing on the way in, hissing on the way out.

Logan put his pen down. ‘You want a break?’

‘Want a sodding hit. The morphine here’s pish …’

It took a couple of minutes, but the shudders passed, and Simpson’s breathing returned to normal.

Logan pulled two tissues from the unit by the bed. Stood and dabbed at Simpson’s face with them. Cleared up the tears and the worst of the snot. ‘What did you do, Jack? Why did the …’ He sat down again and checked his notes. ‘Why did this Candlestick Man want Kevin McEwan and Colin Spinney to kill you?’

‘Kill us? Naw, that was just day one.’ What was probably meant to be a laugh crowbarred its way out of Jack Simpson’s ruined mouth. ‘Scummers hauled me out the attic next day and did it again. And the day after. I
begged
them to kill me.’

‘But they wouldn’t.’

‘Candleboy told them this was how they built a rep. A week of … of breaking every bone in my body, then turf me out on the street. And when word got round no one would ever screw with them again.’ He bared the jagged stumps of his teeth. ‘Wasn’t personal, it was business.’

‘So why’d they pick you?’

A tiny little smile curled one side of Simpson’s mouth. ‘Turns out they don’t like it when you help yourself to free samples …’

Logan stood on the pavement outside the hospital, flicking back through his notebook to last Monday. Found Kirstin Rattray’s number and keyed it into his mobile. Listened to it ring. And ring. And ring. And—

‘Pmmmmph …’
A thick, muggy yawn came from the other end. The words sticky and malformed.
‘Whtmisit?’

‘Kirstin? It’s Sergeant McRae.’

A small whimper. Then a man’s voice in the background.
‘Who the hell’s that?’

‘It’s … my mum. Something’s up with Amy. Dunno … school stuff.’
Back to the phone.
‘Mum, hold on, I’ll go make a cuppa and we can chat.’

‘And close the bloody door.’

Clunk.
Then she was back, voice a low whisper.
‘Are you
mental
? You can’t call me at home!’

‘Better put the kettle on. Don’t want whoever it is to wonder why they can’t hear it boiling.’

‘If Klingon and Gerbil find out I talked to the cops they’ll kill me!’

‘After what we found in their house? No chance. The pair of them are going away for at least sixteen years.’

‘And what about the guy supplied them? You think he’ll be happy all his gear’s been thieved by the plod?’

‘Well, we’ll just have to do something about him, won’t we? My boss wants you registered as a Covert Human Intelligence Source, so we can—’

‘You told your
boss
? God’s sake …’
Some rattling and thumping, then the click-rumble-rattle of a kettle.
‘You want me dead, that what you want? You want my wee Amy to end up an orphan?’