The Missing and the Dead

36

Logan lowered the baton and stepped back. Chest heaving. Air searing in his throat and lungs. Arm aching. Tingling numbness stretching from his fingertips to his elbow. Face burning. Sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades.

He looked up, puffing and panting. ‘Wh … What?’

Mrs Ellis stood on the threshold, one hand covering her mouth, eyes wide.

Penny was on the landing behind her, looking much the same. ‘Sarge?’

Took a bit of time for the air to stop wheezing in and out. He pointed at the bed. ‘There … there you … go. No … no more … rats.’

The old lady doddered forwards, reached out a hand, and pulled the covers back.

Dents covered the sagging mattress.

She looked up at him and a smile spread across her face. ‘They’re gone!’ Then she climbed into bed, pulled the blankets up around her chin, closed her eyes, and within five or six seconds was breathing slow and deep.

OK …

Logan backed out of the room and switched off the light.

They let themselves out.

‘… reports of a white Volvo estate driving erratically on the A950 between Longside and Mintlaw …’

Logan watched in the rear-view mirror as Penny and Big Paul’s patrol car pulled away from the kerb and disappeared into the streets of Macduff. Off to do licensed premises checks on the small handful of places still open at half-one on a Sunday morning.

Mrs Ellis’s house lay all locked up and dark. Just the old woman and her collection of creepy porcelain, now that all the rats were dead.

‘Anyone free to attend an attempted mugging on King Street, Peterhead?’

He stuck the Big Car into gear and headed down Market Street. Past the rows of little houses. Past the Plough Inn — all quiet. More little houses. The wind was picking up, gusts shoving at the bodywork. Past the wee fish shop and that was it: he’d run out of town.

Macduff aquarium was the only thing between him and the rolling black mass of the North Sea. Half of the car park’s lights were out, leaving most of the bays in darkness.

The caravan parked outside the line of temporary fencing rocked in a gust of wind. Its plasticky white walls sparkled with amber beads.

And a manky skeletal figure in a mankier tracksuit sat on the top step. Sammy Wilson.

‘Not again.’

Logan pulled into the car park and drove over. Buzzed down the window. ‘Sammy?’

He was sitting with his head thrown back, face to the dark sky. One arm limp in his lap, the other dangling by his side. Legs bent and splayed.

‘Sammy? You OK?’

Nothing.

So much for staying in the car where it was dry and warm.

Logan stuck his hat on his head and climbed out into the wind.

Wet drizzled against his face. Not rain, but spray from the pounding sea. The waves growled and boomed against the rocks, hissed back through the shingle.

The smell of rotting meat and onions surrounded Sammy Wilson like a protective blanket.

Still no movement.

Silly sod had probably overdosed. Again. Time for yet another wheech up to hospital and a dose of Narcan to spoil his high. Well, unless it was already too late?

‘Sammy?’ Logan reached out and poked him.

‘Gaaaaaaah!’ Sammy’s arms flailed up and out, feet and legs thrashing like a dying frog against the car park’s tarmac. Eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

The smell went up by fifty percent.

BOOM — another wave hit the rocky shore.

Logan backed away a couple of steps. ‘What the hell are you doing out here? You trying to catch your death?’

A puff. A pant. A sickly hissing sound. Then he wiped a bony hand across his grubby face. ‘Thought you were …’ He cleared his throat. ‘Yeah. Right. No.’

‘Looked like you’d overdosed.’

Sammy blew out a breath. Closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the caravan again. ‘Nah. You know, enjoying the night air in sunny Macduff. S’lovely.’

Aye right. Found somewhere quiet to shoot up was more like it. Still, there had to be somewhere drier and warmer to do it than the aquarium car park.

Logan nudged his leg with a boot. ‘Thought I told you not to hang about here.’

‘Hanging about? Not me, no, no, no. Sammy’s not hanging about, he’s James Bond waiting for his contact, yeah? Finding out about the Candleman-Maker-Man for twenty quid. Cash for questions.’

BOOM.

Another batter of spray rattled the caravan, nipping at Logan’s ear like a thousand midge bites. ‘You couldn’t find somewhere drier to do it?’

‘You got my other ten quid? Ten quid down, ten for questions. Twenty quid.’ A filthy hand came out, fingers trembling. ‘No win no fee.’

‘Come on then: who is he? Who’s Klingon and Gerbil’s supplier?’

The hand wavered for a moment, then slowly went back to its filthy owner with a sigh. ‘Still asking.’

‘Then you’re getting sod all. And stop hanging around the aquarium. Go find somewhere warm to sleep instead.’ Logan turned back to the car. ‘Don’t make me tell you again.’

Wind rattled the lampposts, making the pools of yellow light dance and writhe as the Big Car drifted through the quiet streets.

Macduff slept. No cars, no taxis; nothing but tarmac and stone and wind and darkness.

Up to the monument. Around past the golf course. Through the middle of town. Then one more check on the aquarium — no sign of Sammy Wilson — and on to the harbour. Then Macduff disappeared in the rear-view mirror. Over the bridge and into Banff, quartering the town, checking on all the little streets where the drug dealers played. Only none of them were daft enough to be out this late in this weather.

Three circuits of Rundle Avenue turned up nothing.

Ah well. There was always tomorrow.

He headed back towards the station, cutting down the Strait Path, between the Royal Bank and the M amp;Co. Past boarded-up windows and shops for let. Driving down the middle of the steep lane.

‘Bravo India from Control, reports of a car fire in a field off the A981 north of Strichen.’

The Duty Inspector’s voice crackled out of the handset after it, all bunged up and nasal. ‘And I care because?’

‘It’s ared Isuzu Trooper. Could be the one that ram-raided the Copey in Strichen.’

‘Gah … They couldn’t have waited another twenty minutes? Shift’s nearly over.’ A sigh. ‘Fine. OK, I’ll be there soon as I can.’

Down to the bottom, and left. Not a living soul to be seen.

A speck of rain snapped against his cheek. Then another one.

Perfect.

Round the corner and left onto High Shore, with its ancient buildings. Past the other end of the old cemetery … Logan stopped. Put the Big Car in reverse and backed up a couple of feet. A pink Stetson was poked up between the old headstones, rising and falling.

He buzzed down the window, letting in the moaning wind and a duet of grunts and groans, keeping time with the Stetson’s motion.

God’s sake, was that what passed for romance these days? A quick shag in a graveyard in the middle of the night?

Logan reached for the button marked ‘RIGHT ALLEY’.

Then again, just because he was having a rotten night, it didn’t mean he had to spread the misery. Even if they were breaking the law.

The grunts and groans were getting quicker and louder.

Leave the poor sods in peace to enjoy their knee-trembler. Wasn’t as if anyone was going to see them at quarter to three on a Sunday morning, was it?

Besides, arresting them would mean more forms, more cautions, another trip to Fraserburgh and not getting home till after four.

He buzzed the window back up again.

Go back to the station, finish up the shift’s paperwork, then home.

A huge yawn cracked at his jaws and left him sagged in his seat as he powered down the computer.

All done. He pushed back his chair and hauled himself to his feet.

The station was like a mortuary. Devoid of life, but redolent with the weird smells that always came with the guys on nightshift. God alone knew what they’d had for their lunch, but the stench was all through the building.

Logan locked his notebook away, grabbed his stabproof vest and peaked cap. ‘Night, Hector.’ Then slouched out into the night.

The wind howled across the bay, pounding surf against the beach. At least the rain hadn’t come to much more than an intermittent drizzle.

He hurried across the car park, fumbled his keys out and let himself into the Sergeant’s Hoose. Stood there in the darkness.

The house was quiet, not so much as a creak or a thump. Which probably meant Cthulhu was in the lounge, sleeping with Helen again. Disloyal fuzzy little sod.

Logan scritched the Velcro fasteners off his stabproof then hung the whole thing over the back of a kitchen chair. Checked the fridge. A pair of thick rib-eye steaks sat on a plate, glistening, raw, and dark. One of Steel’s confiscated beers sat behind what looked like leftover macaroni cheese.

Wasn’t as if he didn’t deserve it, after a crappy day like today.

A creak.

Logan’s eyes flickered open. Sunlight licked at the chinks in the curtain, but the clock-radio glowed 04:40 in the gloom.

Another creak, right outside the room.

Then the door opened.

A whisper in the dark. ‘Logan? Are you awake?’

He sat up. ‘You need something?’

‘Can’t stay down there any more: paint fumes are killing me.’ The door closed again. Feet scuffed on the bare floorboards. Then she slid into bed. ‘Don’t say anything, OK?’ She wrapped her arm across his chest and rested her head against his shoulder. ‘This isn’t a big thing. I just … I just want to sleep.’

He cleared his throat. ‘OK. But I’m not actually wearing anything.’

Silence.

‘Helen?’

Her breathing was deep and regular. She was already gone.