The Missing and the Dead (9 page)

‘Who’s SIO?’

‘Officially, our beloved Detective Superintendent Young is the all-powerful Senior Investigating Officer. But it’ll be Finnie’s face on the TV. Dead wee girl. Paedo on the run. Got to bring out the big guns for something like that.’ A sniff. Then she poked herself in the chest a couple of times with her thumb. ‘No prizes for guessing who’ll be doing all the work though.’

‘I’d put my money on whatever poor sod you’ve got running around after you.’

‘Damn straight.’ She blew out a breath. Pulled her shoulders back. ‘Right.’ Picked up the sheet of paper from her lap. Paused. Then thrust it at Logan. ‘I can’t. You read it.’

He smoothed out the crumpled sheet. ‘“Dear Mrs Wallace-Steel, I write to inform you of the combined test results from your first-trimester nuchal translucency scan and bloodwork, taken on the”—’

‘Get to the point!’

‘Fine.’ Logan skimmed the page with his finger. ‘Blah, blah, blah … HCG is normal, but the PAPP-dash-A is elevated. Given Susan’s age, they’re going for a one in five hundred chance of the foetus having Down’s syndrome.’

‘Oh thank God.’ Steel let her head fall back and covered her face with her hands. Then sat up again, frowning. ‘One in five hundred. That’s good, isn’t it?’

No idea.

He manufactured a smile. ‘Course it is.’

‘Ha!’ She slapped him on the back. ‘You’re going to be a daddy again!’ The smile froze and Steel checked over her shoulder, as if someone might be lurking in the long grass. Her voice dropped to a raspy whisper. ‘But if your mum asks, it wasn’t you, OK? Someone else did the squirt-in-a-cup thing. Don’t want her going all stalkery over this one like she did with Jasmine. I’ve had verrucas easier to shake off than that woman.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Logan stood. ‘Look, any monkey in uniform could guard the cordon. And you’ve got heaps of bodies here.’

‘Want me to release you from your servitude?’

‘The whole team. Got a division to look after.’

The tip of Steel’s artificial cigarette glowed. ‘One in five hundred.’ She grinned. ‘Ah, go on then. I’m feeling generous.’

He marched back up the road. Tapped Nicholson on the shoulder. Lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Looks like tenses are on again.’

Logan swivelled his chair left and right, phone in one hand, mouse in the other. Scrolling through his team’s actions on STORM. Waiting for the Sergeant at Fraserburgh station to pick up.

The sound of telephones and stomping feet came from overhead. Like elephants in cheap machine-washable suits. A pair of them thundered past the open door to the Sergeants’ Office, trumpeting about getting a HOLMES suite set up and which of the bunnets was going to have to make the tea.

Logan stretched the phone cord to its full length and reached out with his leg. Caught the edge of the door with his foot and shoved. It banged shut.

A not-quite big enough room: two cupboards locked away behind white panelled doors; a pair of desks, back to back so the occupants could face each other over creaky black computers; some metal cabinets and overflowing in-trays. A line of body-worn video units winking their green lights at him as the mouse moved onto the next set of action.

Click.

Deano was all up to date. As was Nicholson. But Tufty …

God’s sake. It was like having a five-year-old. Three assaults, two burglaries, and a purse-snatching, all needing following up.

He clicked on the first assault, wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder, and battered a remark into the system, fingers sparking across the keyboard.

Follow this up ASAP – this action has been open too long. I want it updated!

Finally, someone picked up in Fraserburgh and a rough male voice echoed out of the phone:
‘Billy Broch’s House of Horrors, how may I direct your call?’

‘Sergeant Smith, is that any way to answer the station telephone?’

‘Knew it was you by the number. What’s this I hear about you and your numpties turning up a body?’

‘Dead child.’

‘Aw, no … Sorry. No one said.’

‘What are you and your hired thugs up to the night?’

‘They inflict you with an MIT yet?’

More footsteps, stomping overhead. ‘They’ve commandeered most of upstairs.
And
the night shift. Can you get a couple of bodies down Fraserburgh harbour? I need a door-to-door on the boats – looking for any intel you can get on Charles “Craggie” Anderson. Went missing a week ago. No sign of him or the
Copper-Tun Wanderer
.’

‘You coming to see our cashline-machine-shaped hole later?’

‘Planning on it. Anything else?’

The sound of air being sucked between teeth.
‘Let’s see. New today: two potential bail violations, three domestics, couple of complaints about that traveller camp outside Rosehearty, handful of break-ins, and we’re looking for a druggie who’s been snatching handbags. Otherwise it’s same old, same old. What about your drugs raid? You still needing Constable King-Kong McMahon?’

‘On hold. Going to try again Wednesday, if they let me.’

A knock on the door. A muffled voice: ‘Sarge?’

‘Come in, Tufty. Got to go, Bill. Try and behave till I get there, OK?’

‘No promises.’

Logan hung up as Constable Quirrel sidled into the room. ‘Well?’

He glanced back over his shoulder like a really bad sneak thief. Dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Tenses in the cellblock.’

‘Old one or the new one?’

‘Ah …’ A grimace. ‘Forgot to ask.’

‘… and don’t get me started on that
prick
Dawson!’ Nicholson paced the scuffed grey floor, her hands jabbing out at random angles as she went. She marched straight through one of the two open, thick, blue metal doors and into the darkened cell beyond. Turned and stamped back into the room again. ‘Do you know what he said to me? Do you?’

The new cellblock was a low-ceilinged room that smelled of lemon-scented cleaner and flaky pastry. The cells empty and immaculate, barely used since they were installed a decade ago, but still kitted out with their thin plastic mattresses and stainless-steel toilets. Waiting for the day when they had enough staff to open it up again. As if that was ever going to happen.

Logan leaned against the door through to the garage, Deano the one through to the older part of the building while Tufty handed out the pastries. ‘No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell us.’

‘He said—’

‘On second thoughts, don’t.’ Logan pointed at the office chair behind the custody desk. ‘Sit. Deep breaths. And calm down.’

‘But, Sarge, he—’

‘Down. Arse in chair. Now.’

Whatever she said under her breath, it probably wasn’t polite, but she thumped down in the chair and folded her arms.

‘Thank you.’ Logan helped himself to a bite of maple pecan twist. Talking with his mouth full. ‘For better, or worse, we’re lumbered with these guys. Some of them will be tossers, some of them won’t. But I don’t want
any
of you lowering yourselves to that level, am I understood?’

Pink bloomed across Nicholson’s cheeks. She stared at her boots.

Deano sighed. ‘She’s only letting off steam.’

‘I don’t care. And that goes for
all
of you. We are a professional modern police force. I will
not
have you letting B Division down by acting like sulky children.’

The response was a barely audible, ‘Yes, Sarge,’ from Nicholson. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

Logan nodded. Had a sip of tea. Hot and milky. ‘Now that we’re all calm and grown-up again, what did he say?’

‘Sexist scumbag thought I was going to make the tea for them!’ Nicholson ripped a bite out of her apple turnover, getting flakes of pastry all down the front of her black T-shirt.

Tufty handed her a mug. ‘What did you do?’

‘Smiled sweetly and said, “Yes, Guv.”’ Her shoulders dipped. ‘What was I supposed to do? Kick off in the canteen?’

Logan nodded back towards the older part of the building, where the main office was. ‘You want me to have a word?’

She grimaced. ‘Think that’s going to help me get into CID? Constable Janet Nicholson, chippy feminist?’

‘Maybe not.’ But that didn’t mean they were going to get away with it. Logan took another bite of pastry. ‘I’m off to Fraserburgh after. Might do Peterhead too, depends if anything comes up.’ He pointed at Deano. ‘You and Tufty keep hitting the harbours. Janet, take the other car and drift by Alex Williams’s place every half-hour. Can’t stop the two of them getting back together, but we
can
let Alex know we’re watching.’

A nod. ‘Sarge.’

‘When you’re not there, do a general sweep of the area. Everyone needs to remember that
we’re
the ones keeping the peace here, not some MIT bunch of bum-weasels.’

The patrol car slid into New Pitsligo, the grey buildings and grey streets washed with amber streetlight. Going the long way round to Fraserburgh. Taking a detour through the wee town’s side streets. Peering into front and back gardens. Doing exactly the same thing he’d told Nicholson to do. Being seen. Flying the flag for community policing. Letting people know he was out there.

Singing along to whatever tune popped into his head as the car radio crackled and bleeped with snippets from the investigation going on at Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool. Fingertip search of a cliff, by torchlight. Someone was off their rocker.

And still no sign of anything turning up.

Back onto the A950. Then a left onto the Strichen road. Blackened fields. Clumps of trees looming from the shadows. Stars like tiny LEDs sprinkled across treacle. The moon a ball of darkness with a faint sliver of white on one edge. A flock of sheep, their eyes shining like vampires’ in the headlights.

His Airwave bleeped, cutting off a spirited rendition of the Birds Eye Steakhouse Grills advert: ‘Hope it’s chips, it’s chips …’ He took one hand off the wheel and clicked the button. ‘Go ahead, safe to talk.’

‘Sarge, it’s Janet. Been past Alex Williams’s – they’re both sitting in the lounge, watching the TV. You’d think butter wouldn’t melt. I mean, after what Williams did …’

‘I know. Keep an eye out. I’m winning that bet – no one dies.’

‘See if someone tried to do that to me? I’d have their kneecaps off.’

‘No one gets crippled either.’

A pause.

‘Sarge?’

‘What?’

‘Why haven’t I got a nickname? I mean Stewart’s Tufty, Dean’s Deano. Even
you’ve
got one. I’m just Janet. Or Nicholson. Is it because I’m a woman?’

‘You’re kidding, right?’ Frown. ‘Well … what do you want to be called?’

‘Oh no you don’t – only tosspots pick their own nickname.’

‘We could call you Constable Pain-in-the-Hoop?’

‘Funny.’
Voice flat.
‘Good job I’m wearing my stabproof vest, razor-sharp wit like that. Ha. Ha. Etc.’

‘Listen, do me a favour: have a bit of a drive round on Rundle Avenue. I want Frankie Ferris to know we’re watching him. Keep him on edge.’

‘God: a cow on the road, a bit of standing about behind a cordon, and the chance to kerb-crawl past a druggie scumbag’s house for the rest of the shift? All in one day? You’re right, why would anyone want to abandon
that
for a life in CID?’

Strichen was as small as it was quiet. But Logan gave it the same treatment – up and down the side streets. Look at me, I’m a police officer. Your taxes at work. The only thing even vaguely noteworthy was the naked man duct-taped to the ‘S
TOP
’ sign outside the town hall on the corner of Bridge Street and the High Street.

Well … he was
probably
naked. It was difficult to tell under all the treacle and feathers. And they hadn’t exactly skimped on the duct tape either.

Logan buzzed down the pool car’s passenger window. Leaned across the seats. ‘You OK?’

Mr Tar-And-Feathers blinked back at him, then released a lazy grin. ‘I’m … I’m getting mar … married!’ The words all slurred and wobbly.

‘Congratulations.’ He buzzed the window back up again and headed off northwest towards Fraserburgh.

‘Control to Shire Uniform Seven.’

Logan looked left and right. No one else in the aisle. All alone with the rows and rows of soup tins. He pressed the button on his handset. ‘Safe to talk.’

‘You’re in Fraserburgh tonight? Anywhere near Arran Court?’

‘No idea. I’m in that Tesco on South Harbour Road.’ The tattie and leek was cheap. But not as cheap as the lentil.

‘Neighbours are worried about a Mrs Bairden at number twenty-six. Not been seen since yesterday morning. History of heart problems. Not answering the door or the phone.’

Lentil it is. Three tins went in the basket, joining the multipack of generic salt-and-vinegar and a bog-standard loaf of white.

‘Give me five minutes.’

‘Will do.’

Quick march, round the corner and a few aisles down, where the medicines and toothpaste lurked. Condoms, pile cream, antacids, eyedrops … Ah. There they were. Laxatives.

It’d break the weekly budget, but what the hell. Sometimes you had to live a little.

He picked two different brands at random and flipped them over to read the instructions.

A tap on his shoulder.

Logan turned to see a young woman in the standard blue-short-sleeved-shirt-and-black-trouser uniform. An ‘A
SK
M
E
A
BOUT
C
AR
I
NSURANCE
’ badge pinned above the one with her name on it: ‘A
MANDA
’. She smiled up at him. ‘Are you looking for something specific?’

‘Do you have anything really strong and quick-acting?’

She picked a green-and-yellow packet from the shelf. ‘My nan uses these – gentle, predictable relief.’

‘Nah. I’m looking for something a bit more aggressive. Wire-brush and Dettol time. Got anything that fits the bill?’