The Missing and the Dead

31

The siren drowned out the voice on the other end of the phone, then the ambulance engine roared and it was off, blue lights flashing.

Logan turned his back on the noise. ‘Sorry, I didn’t get that, Derek. Can you repeat?’

A sigh. ‘I said, there’s no sign of her. Border Agency have got no record of her passport being scanned on the way out of the country. Theoretically, she could have travelled to another EU country using her driving licence as photo ID and flown out from there, but there’s no record of an Electronic Travel Authority being issued to let her into Australia.’

Alex Williams stared out at him from the back of the Big Car, wearing a black eye and a pout. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, it’ll never happen again. We love each other.

‘So Kevin Spinney’s mother never went to Australia.’

‘Not unless she’s got forged papers, no. Now, I think I’ve fulfilled my obligation, don’t you?’

‘Thanks, Derek.’

‘Don’t mention it. Please. Don’t mention it to anyone.’ He hung up.

Steel grumbled her way out of the house, on the phone to someone. ‘No, it … She shouldn’t have been let out in the first place. The team here did everything they could.’ Steel looked up and scanned the road. Neighbours stood behind a cordon of ‘POLICE’ tape, all having a good gawp at the house and its uniformed comings and goings. Then Steel must’ve spotted Logan, because she waved and marched over. ‘Yes, sir. … I’m sure it will … Thank you, sir.’ She slid the phone into an inside pocket. Grimaced. Stood right next to him and lowered her voice to barely a murmur. ‘We are royally screwed soon as anyone finds out.’

Logan stared down at her. ‘What do you mean, “we”? “We” didn’t tell her to cut her partner’s balls off, that was all you.’

The murmur became a growl. ‘You remembering who alibied you to the Ginger Ninja?’

He nodded at the Big Car and Alex Williams in the back seat. ‘Not me you’ve got to worry about, it’s her. Probably well on the way to convincing herself that you made her do it.’

‘Well … At least …’ Steel frowned. ‘Looking on the bright side …’ She scuffed a toe along the pavement. Pulled out her e-cigarette. ‘No, I’ve got nothing.’

Singing echoed out through one of the closed cell doors, reverberating down the corridor. It was an old Elvis number about Mr Presley setting his soul on fire, only sung in a thick Northeast accent with the chorus changed to, ‘Viva, Pee-Ter-Heed’.

The Police Custody and Security Officer undid Alex Williams’s cuffs, then stepped back out of the cell as Alex rubbed at her wrists.

He closed the door with a solid, final thump. Then slid down the observation hatch. The female cellblock was old-fashioned compared to the new male wing. No science-fiction row of stainless steel with fancy fittings here, it was all dark blue and industrial.

The PCSO took out a whiteboard marker and printed the words, ‘VIOLENT ~ DO NOT TRUST!’ on the hatch. Knocked on the door. ‘If you need anything before your lawyer gets here, use the intercom button by the door.’

Alex stepped up close to the hatch and looked past the PCSO’s shoulder at Logan. ‘I do love him, you know?’ A little smile. ‘He just … annoys me sometimes.’

Logan reached forward and clicked the hatch shut. Turned and marched back out through the barred gate and into the custody suite. ‘Total utter nutjob.’

‘Tell me about it.’ The PCSO swung the gate shut with a clang and locked it. ‘Place is full of them after last night. Knocking lumps out of each other during the wedding, now they’re all taking turns to start a singsong. It’s going to be a long weekend.’

Away in the male cell wing, someone launched into, ‘Welcome to the Hotel Fraserburgh, such a lovely place …’ Soon joined by half a dozen other voices.

The PCSO shrugged. ‘Still, at least they’re in tune. And it’s better than the usual swearing.’

Logan followed him back to the booking desk with its posters and notices and leaflets. Stopped, one hand on the countertop. ‘When Kevin McEwan and Colin Spinney were in here, did they say anything about Spinney’s mum?’

‘Gerbil and Klingon?’ The PCSO scratched at one of his tattooed arms with the bunch of keys. ‘Hmm …’ One eye squeezed closed and the scratching intensified. Then stopped. ‘She’s gone to Australia? Sydney or Perth, something like that.’

No she sodding hadn’t.

‘Thanks.’

‘I can ask, if you like? Got a mate works as a Prison Officer in Craiginches.’

‘Keep it low key. Someone finds out I’m taking an interest, I’ll get my testicles handed to me.’ Speaking of which. ‘Sorry, got to make a call.’

He slipped out the side door and into the car park at the back of the building. A couple of patrol cars were parked next to the tradesman’s entrance. One Transit van sagging to the right with a flat front tyre. And a couple of everyday family saloons. No one about.

Logan pulled out his phone and called Nicholson’s mobile. Listened to it ring for a bit.

Then she was on the line. ‘Sarge? Why didn’t you use the Airwave?’

Because this way they wouldn’t be monitored or recorded.

‘How is he?’

‘Lost a lot of blood. Going to be in surgery for at least another two hours.’

Deep breath. ‘Listen, if anyone asks about what happened today-’

‘I didn’t hear anything. Not until someone screamed inside.’

‘Janet, DCI Steel-’

‘Think there must’ve been something coming over my handset at the time, because I didn’t hear her say anything.’

‘Janet. You tell the truth: no mitigation, no spin. A cock-up’s OK — a cover-up isn’t. We don’t synchronize our stories, that’s when the rot sets in.’

Nothing from the other end.

‘Janet, you with me?’

‘Yes, Sarge.’

‘Good.’ He hung up. Pushed back into the detention suite.

His Airwave bleeped.

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

Can’t even get two minutes … Logan pressed the button and talked into his shoulder. ‘Hammer on, Maggie.’

‘Sergeant McRae, I’m afraid we’ve got a problem with this evening’s lateshift. Sergeant Muir’s broken his leg.’

The Fraserburgh Cellblock Choir must’ve reached a difficult bit in their song, because the words were replaced by lots of ‘la, la, la,’ until they hit the chorus again.

Logan closed his eyes. ‘What happened?’

‘Unfortunate encounter with a springer spaniel. He fell off his mountain bike.’

‘Let me guess: Inspector McGregor wants someone to fill in for Muir. No one else free?’

‘Sorry.’

Of course there wasn’t.

So much for helping Helen paint the living room tonight. Still, at least it meant overtime. ‘Yeah, OK. Put me down for a green shift.’

Logan swivelled his chair left and right, and back again. Every movement coming with a free squeak, like the whole mechanism was resting on top of an angry mouse. ‘No, I’m going to be stuck at work. Just wanted to check in and see if the new antibiotics were working.’

On the other end of the phone, Louise from Sunny Glen Care Home made a little humming noise. ‘It’ll take a couple of days, but I think we’ve finally got Sam’s chest infection under control. And I’ve spoken to the consultant at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary — the next free surgical slot is in three months’ time. You could go private, but it’d cost a fortune, and it’ll be the same people doing it, so …?’

‘Does it make any difference to whether she gets better or not, if we do it now or later?’

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

The Fraserburgh Sergeants’ Office was a lot more modern than the one back at Banff station. No architraves, panelled doors, or high corniced ceilings here. Instead it was all ceiling tiles, yellow walls, minimalist furniture, creaky computers, and creakier floors. A lot bigger too — at least three times the size, with desks all the way around the outside and a clothes rail hung with high-vis jackets and stabproof vests.

‘Hello? You still there?’

‘Logan, I know it’s difficult, but we’ve talked about this. The chances of Sam making a full recovery are …’ A sigh. ‘Why don’t we take it one day at a time?’

His stabproof hung from the rail like all the others, but some days its crushing grip on his chest never went away.

‘You think we should go with the later surgical slot.’

‘I really do. Anyway, look, I’d better run.’ She paused. ‘Take care of yourself, Logan.’

‘OK.’

He slid his phone back into his pocket. Stared out of the window at the hulking Victorian pile on the other side of the street.

We’ve talked about this.

Yeah. Didn’t make it any easier, though.

A sigh pulled the air out of him, leaving him slumped.

Better give Helen a call. Let her know she was on her own tonight.

Her mobile rang twice, then she was on, breathless, voice a quarter octave higher than normal. ‘Hello, yes?’

‘Helen, it’s Logan, I’ve-’

‘Have they run the DNA? Is it Natasha?’

‘They’re still working on it. Look, I’m going to be stuck at work tonight — the Duty Sergeant who usually does backshift broke his leg.’

‘Oh … But I got steak for tea.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’ He picked at a scar in the desktop, working his nail under the laminate. ‘How did you get on with the living room?’

‘We were going to have chips and mushrooms and onion rings.’

‘You’re talking to a man who’s lived on lentil soup for the last four weeks. Believe me: I’m really, really sorry.’

The Sergeants’ Office door opened and a scowling Steel slumped in and pulled a face like a dying fish. Then shuffled over and collapsed into the chair on the other side of the desk in an avalanche of grunts and groans. ‘Knackered.’

Helen’s voice took on a brittle cheerfulness. ‘Well, not to worry: we’ll have steak tomorrow. I’ll make something else.’

Steel had a dig at an armpit. ‘Haven’t got any crisps, have you?’

Logan swivelled his chair around till his back was to her. ‘OK, well, I’ll talk to you later. Bye.’

‘Suppose I’ll go back to the painting then …’

He hung up and slipped the phone back in his pocket.

A sniff. ‘Come on then, who was that?’

‘Just a … witness to a case. Fly-tipping. Nothing serious.’ He swivelled round again. ‘How did it go?’

The dying fish finally gave up the ghost. ‘Lucky for me, Napier’s already up here, isn’t it? Saved me having to go all the way down to Aberdeen for my bollocking.’ She drooped even further, head back, staring up at the fluorescent lights. ‘If I’d known she was Alex instead of him …’

Hindsight. Got to love it.

‘You might want to get a lift back to Banff with Deano. I’m going to be here for a bit.’ Logan logged on to the computer.

‘And because that’s not enough: Susan can’t get here till tomorrow. She’s got her lump of a mum visiting. I swear, soon as I leave the house that woman swoops in like a frumpy vulture. Digging her beak in.’ Steel grimaced at the ceiling tiles. Silence. ‘You know what we should do, Laz? We should hit the town. Get some pints, then a curry, then more pints. And to hell with Napier, and Alex Williams, and Susan’s horrible mum, and everyone else.’

‘Can’t: got a division to run.’

She waved a hand at him. ‘You used to be more fun …’ Then blew a wet raspberry. ‘On second thoughts, you’ve always been a miserable git.’

‘Feel free to sod off any time you like.’ He pulled up the shift roster for Saturday’s lateshift and wrote everyone’s name and shoulder number down in the A4 hardback notepad he’d lifted from the stationery cupboard, listing each of them by operational area. It was nearly half four now, so they’d start drifting into their various stations in fifteen minutes, ready to start another fun Saturday evening arresting drunks, breaking up fights, and stopping people from peeing in doorways.

Yeah, divisional policing was where all the cool kids were.

Steel pulled out her fake cigarette and poked it in her mouth. ‘You hear about DS “Squirty” Dawson?’

Logan cleared his throat, kept his eyes on the notepad. ‘Still in hospital.’

They had four PCs in Banff and another two in Mintlaw. Should be six in Peterhead, and four in Fraserburgh, but that included the two officers needed to watch each cellblock, so really only four and two. For a Saturday night.

If anyone had any idea how few police officers they had to look after huge tracts of Scotland, there’d be panic in the streets.

Steel dug a hand into her armpit and had a rummage. ‘Picture him up there, getting sponge-baths from all those lovely nurses. Lucky sod.’

‘Believe it or not, a stay in hospital isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’

So, two officers from Banff to Fraserburgh? Or one to Fraserburgh and one to Peterhead?

‘The doctors did that palpitating thing to his stomach when he wouldn’t stop exploding. Found a lump.’

Maybe one from Mintlaw to Peterhead, and one from Banff to Fraserburgh instead? Bit more fair. Everyone would be one body down, and it wasn’t as if Mintlaw was a hotbed of … Wait a minute. ‘They found a lump?’

‘Cancer. Caught it just in time to do something about it.’ She nodded, took a long draw on her e-cigarette. ‘Tell you, Laz, never mock a dodgy kebab, it could save your life.’

Silence.

Steel squinted at him. ‘You feeling OK? Only you look like someone’s stuffed a Kinder Surprise up your bum.’

He closed his mouth with a click. Blinked. Smiled. ‘Yes. Good. Well, that’s great news, isn’t it? Dose of the squits saved his life. Excellent.’

At least now Nicholson could stop feeling guilty.

Steel laced her hands behind her head. ‘OK, so if you knew you could get away with it, how would you kill Napier the Ginger Whinger?’

Logan went back to his notepad. ‘Thought you had a little girl’s murder to solve?’

‘I think I’d go for a claw-hammer. I know, I know: it’s a trope of the genre, but would you no’ get a load more satisfaction battering his brains out than stabbing him?’

‘You’ve got no idea what you’re doing on that case, do you?’

‘Stabbing’s for wee boys and tossers. Claw-hammer, that’s a real woman’s weapon.’ She raised her arm above her head and mimed raining hammer blows down on an imaginary Napier. ‘Bang, thunk, thud, crack, splinter, squish, squelch-’

‘You know Helen … Mrs Edwards is probably sitting somewhere, eating her nails down to the elbow, while you’re here playing silly buggers?’

Steel sighed, then placed her invisible hammer on the desk. ‘What are we supposed to do?’ She counted each thing off on her fingers. ‘There’s no trace, there’s no DNA, there’s no witnesses, and we don’t know who she is. If we can find the murder weapon they can probably match flakes of metal to the wound in her scalp, but that’s sod all use if we’ve no idea where it is.’

‘But-’

‘The only suspect we’ve got is Neil Wood, and he’s vanished. You’re right, other than tramping round the stots and nonces again and rattling their teeth till someone talks, I’ve no’ a sodding clue.’ She folded her arms and hoicked up her bosom. ‘Come on then, Angela Lansbury, tell us what you’d do.’

Silence.

Logan bit his bottom lip. Stared down at the point of his pen. ‘Well …’

‘Aye, no’ so easy, is it?’

‘National appeal for-’

‘Done it. Got the nutters out in force, that one.’ She jerked her chin up. ‘Anything else?’

‘How about tidal patterns? You could predict where the body-’

‘Already got a team of marine biologists from Aberdeen University doing it. Next?’

Logan tapped his pen against his pad. Looked out of the window. Then down at the carpet. ‘Someone has to know where Neil Wood is.’

‘And we’re back to rattling sex offenders again.’ Steel huffed out a breath. ‘Face it, we’re going round in circles till we get a break. God knows where it’s going to come from, though.’

‘All units, be on the lookout for a stolen poodle taken from outside the Lidl in Peterhead. Answers to the name of “Knitted Doug”.’

She checked her watch. ‘All this achieving sod all is making me hungry. When’s dinner?’

‘There has to be something we can do.’

‘Soon as you think what it is, let me know and I’ll take the credit.’