The Missing and the Dead

29

Logan peered at the screen. What the hell was he supposed to … ‘The guy in the long coat? Must be sweltering: Aberdeen Royal Infirmary keeps the heating cranked up to stifling.’

‘Nurses didn’t think anything was unusual, because this bloke’s been volunteering at the hospital for years. Talks to coma patients, plays their favourite music, reads them their favourite books. That kind of thing. Been visiting Stephen Bisset almost every day for the last month and a half.’

Exactly what Logan had spent nearly four years doing with Sam. ‘How do you know it’s him?’

A fire-hazard smile burned across her face. ‘Elementary, my dear Logan: he’s a pervert. Marlon Brodie. Got one of those websites where he writes about bizarre fetishes and freaky kinks. What do they call it, sexblogging?’ The smile crackled brighter. ‘Rennie spotted him, and you didn’t. Beaten by Rennie, how rubbish can you be?’

He scowled at her. ‘How about the fact I haven’t seen the footage till now, and I don’t visit sexbloggers’ websites.’ He poked at the keyboard, zooming in on the figure in the long overcoat. An unremarkable man: average height, average build, features slightly blurred and pixelated. ‘And the DNA …?’

‘Course it does. Finnie got Ding-Dong to drag him in, test him, and one rush-job later: bingo. It’s Marlon Brodie’s semen on Stephen Bisset’s dead body.’ She sank back into her chair, swivelled it left and right a couple of times. ‘Course, Finnie’s trying to claim credit for it, but I’ll figure something out.’

Logan closed the laptop. ‘You got a one-hour test? What about Helen Edwards? She’s been waiting since Wednesday.’

‘Yeah, well, if you hadn’t been such a damp blouse and let me leak it to the papers we could’ve had it by now. But no, Mr Morals knows best.’ She spun the laptop back around to face her. ‘Happy?’

‘Oh, don’t start. You know I’m right, or you’d have gone ahead and done it anyway.’ He turned to look up at the board with its index cards and paedophiles. ‘Does the family know? About Marlon Brodie?’

‘So much for Detective Sergeant Barmy Becky’s theory. The kids did it. Moron.’

‘You should go easy on her. Keep treating her like the village idiot and she’ll turn into one. More carrot, less stick.’

‘Blah, blah, blah.’ Steel waved a hand, as if wafting away a foul smell. ‘Marlon Brodie denies suffocating Stephen Bisset, but what do you expect? And what kind of sadist calls their kid “Marlon” anyway? Asking for trouble. No wonder he turned into a killer. And a pervert. You seen his website? Got stuff on there that’d make me blush.’

‘Well … at least it’s-’

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

‘God’s sake.’ Logan slumped, ‘Aaargh …’ caught himself before he tipped over the back of the broken chair, and sat upright again. Scowled at Steel. ‘You trying to get me killed?’ Clicked the button on his Airwave. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Sergeant McRae? It’s Maggie. I’ve got a tip-off from your friend about dealing on Rundle Avenue again. Says there’s been three of them in and out in the last fifteen minutes.’

‘Thanks, Maggie. Is Nicholson back yet?’

‘Just walked in.’

‘Good. Tell her to get the Big Car fired up, we’re going trawling for druggies.’ Though knowing the way his luck was going these days …

Steel stood. Grabbed her suit jacket. ‘What we waiting for?’

He backed towards the door. ‘It’s some local thing. Not important. You’ve got a dead wee girl’s killer to catch, remember?’

‘Oh no you don’t. Every time I let you out of my sight, you get in trouble. And I call shotgun.’

Of course she did.

‘Pfffff …’ Steel wriggled further down into her seat, shoulders barely clearing the car windowsill. ‘Is this it? Is this all you do?’

Nicholson took them round the corner, onto Rundle Avenue again. Grey harled semidetacheds on one side, a Morse code of short wood-panelled terraces on the other. Like oversized garden sheds, painted Cuprinol Brown. Knee-high garden walls holding back an onslaught of gravel, lawns, and associated shrubbery, depending on the property.

The speedo barely nudged fifteen miles an hour.

Sitting in the back, Logan peered up and down the road. No sign of anyone. ‘You didn’t have to come.’

Steel puffed out another sigh. ‘I’m bored.’

‘We can’t kick the door in, because we don’t have a warrant. So we cruise round and pick up anyone we see coming out of the place, and search them.’

‘As if anyone’s going to be daft enough to go buy drugs when they see you circling in a dirty big patrol car.’

The shed-style terraces gave way to white harled ones.

Nicholson took a left, across Tannery Street and onto Alberta Place. ‘Oh, you’d be surprised.’

Off in the distance, a small wedge of North Sea peeked out between two houses in another street. Crystal blue beneath a shining sky.

Logan tapped a finger against the back of Nicholson’s seat. ‘When they were interviewing Klingon, do we know if he said anything about his mother? Where she was, when she’d be back, anything like that?’

‘No idea. Last time I spoke to the Custody Sergeant up there he said it was like something off a spy thriller. Everyone stomping about in sunglasses and suits. No talking to the prisoners. Top hush secret.’ She stuck the car in reverse and did a three-point turn, going back the way they’d come.

Logan leaned forward and tried Steel instead. ‘You must have heard something. You and all your MIT buddies.’

A sniff. ‘You’re kidding, right? Only way you get info out of another team is if you use a lead pipe and pliers.’

‘Do me a favour then — ask about. See if it came up.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Why? What are you up to?’

Shrug. ‘Just a hunch.’

Left, onto Tannery Street, then a quick right. No houses here: a line of about thirty garages, with identical blue up-and-over doors, lined either side of a short dead-end road. No sign of anyone.

Steel puffed out a breath. ‘I’m still bored. And hungry. Time for lunch.’

Another three-point turn.

Logan twisted his Airwave from its clip. ‘We’re working.’

‘Lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch!’

‘Shire Uniform Seven, you there, Maggie?’

‘Safe to talk.’

‘We got any more descriptions?’

‘Last one was an IC-one female, wearing grey joggies and an orange hoodie. Ugg boots.’

Now there was a fashion statement.

The street slipped past the window. Quiet suburbia. Manicured gardens and pedicured cars — their owners out giving them their Saturday once-over with sponge and shammy.

‘Lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch!’

Logan closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘If we stop at the baker’s, will you promise to shut up?’

The smell of chicken curry pies filled the Big Car with earthy notes of cardamom and cumin, playing off against Scotland’s real national dish: chips. Steel stuffed a couple into her mouth, chewing through the words, ‘Told you.’

Sitting in the driver’s seat, Nicholson ripped a bite out of her pie. Then made ooking monkey noises, mouth open in a little circle. ‘Hot …’

Logan sat in the back, stomach grumbling. ‘Ten minutes, then we’re back looking for druggies to spin.’

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

‘Thump away, Maggie.’

‘Tayside have been through the CCTV from the Dundee Waterstones. It wasn’t Liam Barden. Sorry.’

‘Ah well, it was worth a go.’

‘And Traffic say they’ve got a burned-out Toyota Hilux in a field outside New Pitsligo. The vehicle matches one stolen from a farm north of Strichen three days ago, but apparently now the back end’s all bashed in.’

Probably where it reversed, at speed, through the front window of the Portsoy Co-op.

‘Cashline Ram-Raiders.’

‘Inspector McGregor’s out there now.’

‘OK, let me know if we need to do anything.’ He ended the call as a roll of thunder growled out from the depths of his innards, loud enough to make Steel and Nicholson turn and stare at him.

‘Sure you don’t want some chips?’ Steel wiggled the polystyrene carton.

Pause. Then he helped himself to a small handful.

She snatched the carton away. ‘Hoy! I said, “some”, not “all”.’

He climbed out into the sunshine with his pilfered chips. Popped one in his mouth and twisted his Airwave free from its clip. Picked Deano’s shoulder number into the keypad with a greasy fingertip. ‘Deano, safe to talk?’

‘Give us a minute, Sarge.’

Tiny Scottish cottages lined one side of the curving road, but the other was a line of grass and gorse that died at the edge of the cliff. Beyond that, it was all sea and sky. Tiny fishing boats bobbed in the water, their brightly coloured hulls glowing like neon against the rich blue.

Logan munched the last couple of chips. Not as nice as the plate of mince and tatties he’d left congealing on the kitchen table back home, but better than a kick in the knee.

Then Deano was back. ‘Batter on.’

‘You run a PNC check on those burglaries in Pennan? Find us any suspects?’ Logan sooked the last smear of salt and grease from his fingertips.

‘All the historical stuff? Yeah. Came back with a couple of hits. One guy’s doing a sixer in Barlinnie — so it’s not him. The other’s called Tony Wishart. Bit of a history freak, according to his social worker. Outstanding apprehension warrant for doing over that wee Aberdeenshire Heritage place in Mintlaw. So we’re already looking for him.’

At least that was something.

‘We’re going to be another twenty or so. If you’ve got a chance, swing past Alex Williams’s for a safe-and-well check. And make sure Tufty stays in the car. Don’t want a repeat of last time.’

The Big Car looped around onto Tannery Street again. Going the long way around. Steel lolled in the passenger seat, head on the window. Her breathing deepened, then little snuffling noises burrowed their way out of her open mouth.

Nicholson sniffed from the back seat. ‘What do we do if she starts to snore?’

Logan poked the car radio, bringing it to life. Not an anodyne boy-band this time, but an insipid all-girl outfit, close-harmonying their way through another beige tune. ‘Think we’re probably onto a loser here. Might as well go back to the station and try again tomorrow.’

The song limped to its bland conclusion, replaced by whatever idiot was manning the microphone. ‘I swear that gets better every time I hear it. Don’t forget: we’ll be going live to Liverpool Cathedral for the memorial service of Detective Constable Mary Ann Nasrallah, tragically shot on Sunday. So stay tuned for that. Now though, it’s time to catch a bit of Bieber Fever!’

Nicholson poked Logan in the shoulder. ‘Noooo!’

‘Gah!’ He jabbed the button just in time, and classical music filled the speakers. Logan let out the breath he’d been holding. Thank God for that … ‘One last drift past Frankie’s place and we’re done.’

She stuck her head forward, between the two front seats. ‘You know what hacks me off about this undercover officer getting shot? How come you only ever get politicians lining up to say what a great job we do when one of us dies? What about the rest of the time?’

‘I know.’

‘Oh yeah, we do a spectacular job when we’re dead, but other than that, nothing.’

‘Preaching to the choir, Janet.’ He took them back onto Rundle Avenue with its dot-dot-dash of terraced shed-like houses. Grass. Grass. Gravel. More Grass.

Another poke in the shoulder. ‘Sarge? Back there — shiny new blue Ford Fiesta. Does that not belong to the ugly bloke we stopped Monday for being on his mobile phone?’ A small pause, then the delicate crackle of flipping paper. ‘Here we go: Martyn Baker. AKA Paul Butcher, AKA Dave Brooks. Possession. Possession with intent …’

OK, so Martyn-with-a-‘Y’’s car wasn’t parked right outside Frankie Ferris’s house, but it wasn’t exactly a million miles to walk. ‘Think he’s buying or supplying?’

‘Yes.’

‘Me too.’ Logan pulled in to the kerb. Killed the engine and the music.

Steel sat up. ‘What? I was listening to that.’ A yawn. ‘Where are we?’

Nicholson pointed at the blue Fiesta. ‘Belongs to a dealer from down south.’

‘Good for him.’ She dug a hand in under her left breast and had a scratch. ‘Why’s there no coffee? Thought you bunnets were all about the coffee and doughnuts.’

Logan climbed out into the sunshine. Pulled his peaked cap on. Then turned and opened Nicholson’s door for her.

She joined him on the pavement, wedging her bowler down so far it bent the top of her ears. ‘We got a plan?’

Rundle Avenue didn’t exactly have a lot of places to lay low. No alleys to lurk in and keep an eye on Frankie’s place. No convenient trees or hulking rhododendron bushes. ‘Right, you go that way,’ he pointed back towards the Fiesta, ‘back onto Tannery, left, down to the end, round onto Golden Knowes, and come from the other direction. Find something to hide behind. I’ll watch from this end. We catch him coming out and we search him.’

And please, dear God, let him be carrying enough Class A drugs to put him away for a long, long time.

Logan crossed the road as Nicholson headed off. Staying on the same side of the street as Frankie Ferris’s house. He ducked behind a Transit with ‘BIG JEEMIE’S BUG CONTROL ~ WHO YOU GONNA CALL?’ stencilled down the side, complete with rip-off Ghostbusters logo.

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

‘Bang away, Maggie.’

‘Bill says the rent on thirty-six Fairholme Place got paid every four weeks by direct debit from a Mrs Lesley Spinney’s TSB account until ten months ago. Then there was a couple of months paying cash.’

Overhead the herring gulls soared. An ice-cream van chimed in the distance.

Logan pressed the talk button. ‘Are you trying to build up dramatic tension here, Maggie? Only I’m dying of old age.’

‘Sorry, someone’s at the front desk. The rent now gets direct-debited from a Mr Colin Spinney’s account — Bank of Scotland.’

So Klingon’s mum stopped paying rent nearly a year ago and trusted her wee boy to look after it instead. Really? Why would anyone put a drug-dealing wee scruff like Klingon in charge of the rent? Pretty much guaranteed to wake up one morning to an eviction notice.

What if she didn’t stop? What if her direct debit stopped because her account was emptied?

‘Sergeant McRae, are you still there, only the front desk-’

‘Yes, thanks, Maggie. Tell Bill he’s a star from me.’

What if she never went to Australia after all?

Logan settled his bum down on the kerb and peered around the van.

It’d probably take Nicholson five minutes to get around to the other end of the street. Then all they had to do was wait till Martyn-with-a-‘Y’ finished his business with Frankie, find out what happened to Klingon’s mum, catch whoever killed the little girl out at Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool, arrest the Cashline Ram-Raiders, solve all the burglaries in Pennan, find Neil Wood before he molested any more children, and all would be right with the world.

How hard could it be?

A wheeze sounded at Logan’s shoulder. ‘I’m bored.’

He closed his eyes, rested his forehead against the bug van’s painted side. ‘So go back to the station and do your job instead of moaning about mine.’ He turned and pointed back along the road. ‘Go. That way. Down to the bottom of the hill, cross the road, and follow the signs for the harbour. It’ll take you ten, fifteen minutes, tops.’

Steel pursed her lips around the e-cigarette that poked from her lips. ‘Give us a lift.’

‘We’re trying to catch a drug dealer. That OK with you?’

‘You lowly Sergeant, me Detective Chief Inspector. Me want lift, you give lift.’

‘No.’ He turned back to the house. ‘You’re meant to be catching whoever killed that little girl. Go do it.’

‘Tell you what: why don’t I wave my magic wand and summon up the killer? Of course! Why’d I no’ think of that before? Hang on …’ Steel swooped her fake cigarette through the air. Then frowned. ‘Nope. That’s strange, it was working this morning.’

Still no sign of movement inside.

‘Well, what about your stable isotope analysis?’

Steel popped her magic wand back in her gob and gave it a sook. ‘Good job I outsourced it. Nothing like a bottle of eighteen-year-old Macallan to well-oil the wheels. My Dundee guru ran hair samples from the body last night — according to him, our wee girl spent the last four months dotting round the northeast, year before that in Glasgow, and the rest of the time’s split between the south coast of Wales and north London.’

Logan scribbled it down in his notebook. ‘What about further back?’

‘Can’t say without a bone sample, or one of her teeth. Got a request in with the Procurator Fiscal.’

‘So why are you sodding about here instead of chasing him up? You know what the Fiscal’s like!’ Logan turned and stared at her. ‘This is what happens when there’s no one running around after you, isn’t it? Everything goes to crap.’

A scowl. Then a smile greased its way across her face and her voice went all sing-song. ‘Give us a lift, or I won’t tell you what DI Porter said.’

Not so much as a hint of remorse or guilt. Typical.

Deep breath. Sigh. Back to watching the house.

Maybe Frankie and Martyn-with-a-‘Y’ had settled down in front of the football? Couple of beers and some crisps. Jammy sod.

Steel poked Logan. ‘Aren’t you going to ask?’

‘Fine: who the hell is DI Porter?’

‘No lift, no intel.’

His shoulders dipped. ‘Look, this is what we do, OK? This is us working.’

Steel tugged at his sleeve. ‘But I’m bored.’

‘You know what I haven’t missed? This. Babysitting you, like a small whiny child.’ He pulled his arm out of her grasp. ‘If you want to go: go. I’m staying here, till Martyn Baker comes out.’

‘Be like that, then.’

The sound of her boots scuffed away into the distance.

Finally.

He peered around the other side of the van. Nicholson was crouched down behind a Fiat Punto about a hundred yards down the road. She was using her bowler hat as a fan, wafting air over her shiny face. Not surprising. Day like today, with the sun hammering down? Not exactly the best time to be dressed all in black with a stabproof corset on.

A trickle of sweat made its way down Logan’s spine and into his underwear.

‘Come on, Martyn, where the hell are you?’

Hang around like this much longer and someone was going to get suspicious. Assuming Logan and Nicholson didn’t keel over with heat-exhaustion first.

A sharp crump of shattering plastic broke the stillness. Then did it again.

Nicholson stepped out onto the pavement, staring past where Logan was lurking.

The booming clang of dented metal was swiftly followed by the discordant, outraged wail of a car alarm.

He turned and there was Steel, standing on the pavement, hands behind her back. She grinned at Logan, e-cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. ‘What?’

Martyn Baker’s shiny new Ford Fiesta had two broken headlights and a big dent in the passenger door. Its indicators flashed, horn blaring.

Steel shrugged. Raised her voice over the skirl of the alarm. ‘What, this?’ Nodding at the car. ‘Was like that when I found it.’

Great — and Logan was the one Professional Standards wanted to shaft.

‘Are you insane?’

A door banged open and there was Martyn-with-a-‘Y’, face flushed, teeth bared. ‘MY CAR!’ His Birmingham accent stretched the last word out, like a small scream. Only it wasn’t Frankie’s drug-dealing hovel he’d come out of, it was the house opposite his blinking wailing Fiesta. The one with the rose bushes, water feature, and plastic Wendy house.

He lurched down the path and onto the pavement, mouth moving as if trying to chew out the words, eyes bugging. Presumably taking in the fresh dents and shattered plastic. Then he turned on Steel. ‘DID YOU-’

‘A big boy did it and ran away.’ She flashed her warrant card. ‘One of my colleagues is in hot pursuit. Mr …?’

He laid his palms flat on the roof of the Fiesta, as if he could summon the Power of the Lord to heal the afflicted. ‘My car!’

‘This your vehicle, Mr Mycar? Any chance you could turn off the alarm, only it’s doing my head in.’

His lips made a creased snarl. Then he stepped back, pulled out his keys and pressed the fob.

Silence.

‘Much better.’ Steel dug a finger into her ear and wiggled it. ‘You staying in the area, Mr Mycar?’

Martyn-with-a-‘Y’ narrowed his eyes, jaw muscles knotting the line of spots along his chin. ‘See if I get my hands on the little-’

‘Aye probably best no’.’ She took the fake fag from her mouth and waved it up the street towards Frankie Ferris’s house. ‘You been visiting across the road there? Number fifteen? Manky house with the lime-green door and funky smell?’

Logan stepped up behind him, blocking any escape. ‘Is there a problem, Mr Baker?’

‘Look at what those little bas-’

‘Baker? Hang on,’ Steel popped the e-cigarette back in, ‘he told me his name was Mycar. Don’t you know it’s an offence to give a false name to the police, Mr Baker?’ She flashed a smile at Logan. ‘I think that’s just cause for a stop-and-search, don’t you, Sergeant?’

Logan snapped on a pair of blue nitriles. ‘If you can put your arms out for me, Mr Baker.’

Steel took a long slow drag as Logan patted Baker down. ‘Didn’t answer my question, by the way. Have you been visiting your friendly neighbourhood drug dealer? Maybe picking something up, or dropping it off?’

If that jaw clenched any tighter, one of those spotty Vesuviuses was going to blow. ‘You arresting me?’

‘Depends what my Sergeant finds, doesn’t it?’

Logan finished running his hands down Martyn-with-a-‘Y’’s legs. ‘Have you got anything in your pockets I should know about? Anything sharp — knives, needles, blades?’

He bared his teeth. ‘This is harassment.’

‘Paul?’ A woman appeared from the same doorway, with a Brummie accent thick as a breezeblock. Cut-off jeans and a ‘BARNEY MUST DIE’ T-shirt. Her bare toes made little feet fists as she stepped out onto the path. ‘Everything OK?’ A toddler wobbled up behind her and stood clinging to her leg, thumb firmly planted in mouth.

The scowl faded, and Baker turned his head to her, face stretched in a smile. ‘It’s OK, Elsie. You and Mandy go back inside and stick the kettle on, yeah?’

‘Paul?’

The fake smile slipped a bit. ‘I said it’s OK. Someone vandalized the car and these … officers are being a bit jobsworth. Go back inside.’

A little nod, then she disappeared back into the house. The toddler froze on the top step, looking back at them. Then Martyn-with-a-‘Y’ gave her a little wave and she followed her mum. The door swung shut.

Martyn Baker assumed the position again. ‘Let’s get this over with.’