The Missing and the Dead

27

Logan folded his arms and leaned against the alley wall. ‘Really?’

Sammy Wilson blinked a couple of times with his good eye — the other swollen and darkened, the skin turned purple-blue and green. Looked down at the paper bag in his grubby skeletal hand. Licked his thin lips with a pale tongue. Then sniffed. ‘Yeah … I wasn’t … This …’ He looked over his shoulder where Nicholson blocked his escape route.

A cough.

Another sniff.

Then Sammy’s working eye raked the ground around his manky trainers. ‘Found it.’

‘Did you now?’

He rubbed his other hand along the grass-stain streaks on his tracksuit top. ‘Bag was kinda lying there.’

‘I’ll bet it was.’

Nicholson stepped up close. Opened her mouth to say something. Wrinkled her nose. Then stepped back and tried again from a safer distance. ‘Why’d you run then, Sammy?’

‘Had to catch a bus. Yeah, a bus, can’t be late for the bus or they drive off, don’t they? Like, you know, the Ninky Nonk …’ He peeled open the paper bag. ‘Wow, look at that, got rowies in it, rowies, yeah, not that big a deal is it? Bagarowies? Found them.’

She pointed. ‘Where’d you get the black eye, Sammy?’

‘Found it.’ Sammy swayed from side to side. ‘You don’t need me, right? I’m not, like, on your radar or nothing and I was just nipping past the baker’s … to get something for Jack Simpson. Yeah, a present, cause of him being in hospital with the beatings and that.’ Sammy’s smile was a graveyard of yellow and brown. ‘Cause of Klingon and Gerbil. Bad stuff, eh? Bad stuff. You don’t need me, right?’

‘Thought you said you’d found it?’

Logan took a deep breath. Regretted it. The air tasted of rotting meat and onions. ‘Normal people bring flowers and grapes, Sammy. Not rowies.’

‘Yeah. Right. Forgot. Flowers not rowies.’ Another brown gap-toothed smile. ‘Get them confused. You should see my mum’s grave, like.’

‘Sammy, you ever heard of a drug dealer from down south, calls himself the Candleman? Maybe Candlestick Man, something like that? Wee tough nut from Newcastle or Liverpool?’

‘Yeah, nah, I don’t know no drug dealers. Don’t do drugs. Nah, used to, but I’m clean as a … you know, these days? Clean, clean, clean.’

Logan kept his mouth shut and stared.

One set of filthy fingers beat a tattoo on his pigeon chest.

Dirty trainers shuffled on the pavement.

‘Nope. No drug dealers. Never.’ Sammy cleared his throat. Looked down at his scabby arms. ‘Couldn’t lend us a tenner, could you? You know, for a cuppa tea and that? To go with me rowies …’

Silence.

‘Twenty gets me the name of the guy Klingon and Gerbil got their stuff from. His real name. And where I can find him.’

Sammy swallowed. Upped the tattoo on his chest. Bit his bottom lip. Then his hand trembled out, palm open, fingers spread.

Logan took out his wallet. Produced the last two fivers from the thing. Leaving nothing but lint till the end of the month. Held the notes up. ‘I’m warning you, Sammy — you get me that name, or I come after you. We clear?’

That single bloodshot eye sparkled like a rat’s. Hand reaching. ‘Yeah, yeah, his name and where you can find him.’

‘Half now, half later.’

‘Promise on my mother’s grave and that …’ Fingers twitching.

Logan dropped the cash and he snatched the falling notes from the air like a cat taking a pair of birds.

‘Now, get out of here and find me that name.’

‘Yeah, right, right, got to go and see Jack Simpson. And find the name. Name, name, name.’ He jammed the money in a tracksuit pocket and lurched off, legs stiff, like a wind-up automaton with heroin as the cranking key.

Nicholson joined Logan by the wall. Frowning as Sammy disappeared around the corner onto Kingswell Lane. ‘You sure that’s a good idea?’

‘Nope.’ Logan put his empty wallet away. ‘I’m skint now.’

‘Well, that’s one tenner you’re never going to see again.’ She waved a hand back and forth. ‘Think he’s ever seen a bar of soap in his life?’

‘You never know, maybe he’ll come up with something.’ Logan headed back towards Big Car — parked half on the pavement where they’d abandoned it to give chase.

Nicholson shook her head. ‘Why are you bothering anyway? Klingon and Gerbil have the backbone of an earthworm. They’ll have sold out their supplier quicker than you can say “wriggle”.’

Because the Inspector was right — sometimes you had to slip something in under the radar.

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

Logan pressed the button. ‘Batter on, Maggie.’

‘Got another misper sighting for you. Liam Barden — spotted in the Dundee Waterstones this morning.’

Nicholson took the Big Car along the waterfront. Macduff harbour shone sapphire blue, a couple of small fishing boats tied up against the walls. The wheeling shriek of herring gulls. Windows down, letting in the crisp tang of seaweed and ozone.

Logan reached out and poked her in the shoulder. ‘See? Told you he’s not visiting the Co-op on the High Street.’ Back to the Airwave. ‘Maggie, can you get onto Tayside and ask them to check the bookshop CCTV? Might not be him, but it’d be nice if we can let his family know he’s OK.’

‘Will do. And I spoke to Bill, he’s asking round his fishing buddies for you about who’s paying Klingon and Gerbil’s rent.’

‘Thanks, Maggie.’

Out the window, the streets of Macduff gave way to the A98, skirting the bay.

Logan twisted his Airwave back onto its holder. ‘So … Liam Barden’s in Dundee.’

Nicholson stuck her chin up. ‘Can’t help it if I’m thorough.’

He grinned. ‘Deluded, more like.’

‘I’m not the one who gave Stinky Sammy Wilson my last ten quid.’

Ah … True.

Up and over the bridge into Banff.

A billboard sat at the side of the road, not far from the football ground. The horrible little old lady was right — someone had drawn a huge willy over the local SNP candidate’s campaign poster. A big purple willy. Geoffrey Lovejoy strikes again.

Still, at least it looked as if their one-man Marxist revolution was being even-handed in his coverage of the issue. And the candidates.

‘All units, be on the lookout for an IC-One female, five two, slim build, ginger hair, in the Peterhead area. Wanted in connection with an assault on a Salvation Army volunteer.’

‘Sorry.’ Logan turned the volume down, until the Airwave’s babble was barely audible.

Steam fogged the kitchen window, the air full of the rich meaty scent of mince and earthy mashed tatties. He dug his fork into his plateful again. ‘Very good.’

Sitting opposite, Helen smiled. ‘Natasha wouldn’t have mince and tatties without peas and carrots in it. Wouldn’t touch either on their own, but soon as you cooked them with mince: best thing ever.’

‘Much better than lentil soup for lunch.’

She cracked some black pepper over hers. ‘Are you heading up to see Samantha later?’

‘When the shift’s finished. Shouldn’t be too late.’

‘Good. You can give me a hand finishing the living room. Going to look nice when it’s done. Then, I was thinking, maybe steak for tea?’

‘Steak?’ More mince. More mashed potato. Logan swallowed. Had a sip of water. ‘Don’t know when I last-’

His Airwave gave its four point-to-point beeps.

God’s sake. ‘Can I not get five minutes?’ He picked it up, turned up the volume. ‘Sorry.’ Pressed the button. ‘Shire Uniform Seven.’

Inspector McGregor’s voice crackled into the room. ‘Logan? Are you safe to talk?’

‘Give me a minute, Guv.’ He scraped his chair back. ‘I have to take this. Only be a minute.’

Then out of the kitchen and through into the lounge.

The sofa lurked in the middle of the room, along with the bookcase and the TV, their shapes making tell-tale humps in the dustsheet draped over them. Above, the ceiling was a perfect field of white. Must’ve taken Helen at least three coats to get it looking that clean.

Logan eased the door shut and pressed the button. ‘Bang away.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Lunch. Nicholson’s got some shopping to do, so we’re getting together at quarter-to and heading over to Macduff again. Canvas Melrose Crescent and see if we can dig anything up on our peeping tom.’

‘You’ll have to leave that till later: you’ve got a visitor.’

No doubt another fine upstanding Banff citizen in to complain about wheelie bins going out on the wrong day, or their neighbour’s dog, or Martians stealing their tins of Tartan Special and getting the cat pregnant. God bless Care in the Community. ‘Can Deano deal with it?’

‘Logan, you-’

‘Oh, and while you’re on: can you do me a favour, Guv? Can you ask whoever’s running the Klingon and Gerbil investigation if they’ve got a name for their supplier yet? I’m hearing rumours.’

‘It’s not our case any more. You know that.’

‘Yes, but if more drugs are on their way up here, it’d help if we knew what we were dealing with before it hits the streets. And who’s dealing it.’

‘Well, I suppose that’s valid. Now, before I return to my rapidly chilling baked potato, your visitor-’

‘Genuinely: Deano would be best. I’m up to my ears with nutters as it is today.’

‘Have you fallen on your head, Logan?’ Her voice dropped to a dramatic stage whisper. ‘You do not let anyone hear you calling him a “nutter”. What if he found out? God knows, he’s scary enough as it is.’

Logan cleared his throat. ‘Guv?’

‘Chief Superintendent Napier’s come all the way up from Aberdeen, just for you. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen him looking so happy in my life.’

Napier was happy?

Why did that sound like a very, very bad thing?