The Missing and the Dead

39

Nicholson drifted the Big Car through the little side streets, keeping the speed under twenty. ‘What do you fancy doing for Sunday lunch?’

‘Nice big carvery. Rare roast beef; fluffy Yorkshire puddings; crispy roast potatoes done in goose fat; carrots and peas and gravy. All you can eat.’

‘Sounds cool. What are you actually having?’

‘Lentil soup.’

A billboard for home insurance slid by at the end of the road. A happy nuclear family, grinning away at a Plasticine dog. Someone had spray-painted a big purple willy right across the lot of them.

Nicholson pointed at it. ‘You know, I’m beginning to get the feeling our graffiting wee Marxist friend isn’t all that interested in the political process. I think he just likes painting willies on things.’

‘Think you’re right. Suppose that means we’ll have to pay Comrade Geoffrey a visit. There’s-’

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

‘Here we go.’ He pressed the button. ‘Hammer away.’

‘We’ve got reports of cows on the road: A947, between Keilhill and the farm shop.’

Nicholson slowed them to a stop, then curled forward and boinged her head off the steering wheel. ‘Not again.’

‘Roger that, show us responding.’ He reached out and poked her in the arm. ‘Come on, Calamity Janet, time to go play cowboys. Yehaw, ornery critters, circle the wagons, etcetera.’

‘Yeah, right here’s fine.’ The Big Car drifted to a halt outside the Sergeant’s Hoose, and Logan popped the door. ‘You going home, or you using the shower in the station?’

Nicholson scowled across from the driver’s side. ‘It’s sodding everywhere.’ Drying mud made pale beige streaks across her cheeks, clumped in her hair, stained the sleeves of her black Police T-shirt and the pale arms sticking out of it. More on her trousers and stabproof vest.

‘If you’re worried about Hector spying on you in the shower, go home. I think we can spot you an extra half-hour for lunch today, after your sterling efforts thwarting the Great Bovine Rebellion.’

‘Oh, you’re funny now, are you?’

Logan climbed out into the dreich afternoon. ‘I’ll be here all week. Try the fish.’ He clunked the door shut and waved as Nicholson bared her teeth for a bit, then pulled away from the kerb. Heading back to the station and a hot shower.

He crossed the road, dug out his keys and let himself into the house. No point carting soup about the whole time when home was a two-minute walk away.

The living-room door was open, showing off four nice cream walls and shiny white skirting boards. Next up — carpet.

Logan unVelcroed his stabproof and hung it over the bannister. ‘Helen?’ No reply. ‘Hello?’

Through to the kitchen. Not there.

Oh.

Cthulhu yawned from the windowsill — perched between the herbs — stretched, turned around to show Logan her bum, then settled down to sleep again.

So much for the big welcome.

He checked the fridge. Both steaks were still in residence. As was the leftover macaroni cheese. Lunch.

Logan pulled it out, popped a couple of holes in the clingfilm, and stuck it in the microwave. Put the kettle on.

A clunk from the front of the house. ‘Logan?’

He stuck his head out into the hall. ‘How does macaroni-cheese on toast sound?’

Helen dumped her bulging contingent of carrier bags on the bare floorboards and wiped a sheen of water from her face, hair hanging in frizzy brown-tinged coils. ‘Urgh … So much for summer.’ A shudder. Then she pointed at the bags. ‘Want to give me a hand?’

They unpacked them in the kitchen as the microwave droned. Salad. Pickles. Salmon fillets. Sausages. Potatoes. Onions. Chocolate. Wine.

Warmth bloomed in Logan’s cheeks. ‘You don’t have to, you know.’

She put a squeezy bottle of salad cream away in the cupboard. ‘Don’t have to what?’

‘This: buy loads of things. Cook for me.’

Her eyebrows drifted up an inch, the edges of her mouth going in the opposite direction.

Logan held out his hands. ‘No — it’s great, seriously, I’ve not eaten this well in months, but I don’t want you to think you have to. It’s not …’ He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t want to be taking advantage.’

She put a jar of mustard down on the counter. Looked at it. ‘You want me to go.’

‘No! No, I don’t, I’m only …’ He shrugged at the pile of food. ‘You’re doing all this for me, and I’m doing nothing in return.’

‘Yes you are.’ Helen stepped in so close that the scent of apricots coiled around him from her damp hair. Joined by the warmth of her body. ‘You’re finding my daughter.’

She placed her hand on the small of his back.

Ding. The microwave came to a halt.

Logan swallowed. Took hold of her shoulders.

Helen looked up, lips parted.

OK.

Deep breath. And-

‘LAZ?’ The word barged in from the front of the house, wearing smoky hobnail boots. ‘YOU IN THERE?’

‘Gah …’ He flinched. Stared at the kitchen door. Not now.

Helen shrank back a step. Bit her top lip. Blushed.

Logan dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Maybe if we’re really quiet, she’ll give up and go away?’

The kitchen door battered open, and a whirlwind in pink top and blue jeans charged into the room, ash-blonde hair streaming out behind her. ‘Daddy!’ She grabbed Logan’s waist for a quick hug then ran over to the windowsill. ‘Cthulhu!’

Stroking and petting and rubbing of ears and purring.

Upstaged by the cat. As usual.

Helen crossed her arms. Pulled back against the working surface. ‘Yes. Right. Sorry.’

‘Gah, what a day.’ Susan lurched into the room and dumped a cool-bag on the table. She’d pulled her blonde hair back into a ponytail, and when she smiled, dimples appeared in her round cheeks. Little wrinkles deepened around her eyes. ‘Logan. How are you? We haven’t seen you in ages. Jasmine was so disappointed you couldn’t make the dance competition.’ Susan marched over and gave him a kiss. Then turned and clapped her hands. ‘Come on, Little Monkey, wash up, time for lunch.’

‘But, Mu-um-’

‘No buts. Upstairs. Wash. Don’t make your dad arrest you.’ Susan peeled off her jacket as Jasmine skipped out of the room. Her belly was a little swollen, but not that much more than usual. ‘Honestly, I love her to bits, but I swear to God: sometimes …’ She turned to Helen and rolled her eyes. ‘Sorry, I’m all over the place today. Two hours in a car with the loudest six-year-old on the planet.’ Stuck her hand out. ‘Susan.’

A pause. ‘Helen.’

‘Helen. I love your hair, all mine ever does is hang there like mince. With Jasmine, soon as I hit the third trimester it was like I was channelling Tina Turner, so there’s that to look forward to.’ She unzipped the cool-bag. ‘Do you like roast chicken and watermelon salad? I’ve made about enough for twenty.’

‘It … I should probably …’

Susan turned and took a deep breath. ‘ROBERTA! DON’T FORGET THE DRINKS!’

Steel’s voice boomed through from the hall. ‘I’M ON THE PHONE!’

‘Of course you are.’ Susan pulled a stack of Tupperware from her cool-bag. ‘You’re always on the phone.’

The sound of the toilet flushing came from upstairs. Then Steel lurched into the room, carrying a big plastic box. Fake cigarette sticking out of the corner of her mouth. Phone pinned between her shoulder and her ear. ‘I’m no’ telling you again, Becky — get those lazy sods out there door-to-dooring with Neil Wood’s picture. … I don’t care if it’s raining, snowing, or …’ She stopped. Stared at Helen. Stood there for a bit, bottom lip hanging open. Then, ‘Just sort it. Gotta go.’

Helen wrung her fingers into a knot. ‘Has something happened? Have they got the test results back?’

Steel dumped the plastic box on the kitchen floor. Stuffed her phone in a pocket. ‘Mrs Edwards?’ Then she had a raised-eyebrow ogle at Logan. ‘OK …’ Then back to Helen. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Edwards, it’s going to take a bit of time. Everyone watches these stupid detective TV things and thinks you can get it done in fifteen minutes, but it’s no’ that easy in real life.’

‘Oh.’ She stared at her feet for a moment. ‘Of course. I’m being stupid.’

‘No problem. Didn’t know you were here.’

Susan put a hand against her stomach, fingers splayed over the bump. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I thought you were a friend of Logan’s. And here’s me rabbiting on.’ She creased her eyes up. ‘If you’d like to join us for lunch, that’d be-’

‘Why don’t you lay the table, Sooz?’ Steel pointed over Helen’s shoulder. ‘I need to borrow Sergeant McRae for a wee minute.’

Logan grabbed a glance at Helen, then followed Steel down the hall and out into the gloomy afternoon. The slate-grey sea mirrored the granite sky. ‘You could have called!’

‘What the hell are you playing at?’ Steel punched him on the upper arm. ‘I can’t believe you’re shagging our dead kid’s mum! Are you insane?’

‘Ow!’ He rubbed at the spot. ‘Nothing happened, OK? Not that it’s any of your business.’ He pulled the front door shut.

‘Aye, and my bum’s the Queen of Sheba. You were at it, weren’t you?’

‘She wouldn’t have to crash at mine if you’d got your finger out and organized somewhere for her in the first place.’

‘Oh my God, it’s you, isn’t it? The “friend” she’s staying with. I knew it.’

‘She thinks it’s her daughter lying in the mortuary, OK? She just wants someone to talk to.’

‘Shouldn’t even be anywhere near her.’ She hit him again. ‘What’s wrong with you? You-’

‘Ow! Cut it out, or-’

‘-when you’re investigating the damn case! It’s unethical.’

Logan marched off a couple of paces. Then back again, hands jabbing the air for emphasis. ‘Nothing happened! And I’m not on the case, I’m barely case-adjacent. You can hardly see the case from where I am.’

Steel crossed her arms, hoicking up her bosom. ‘Nothing happened? Really?’

‘Nothing happened!’

She hissed out a breath. ‘Well, no wonder you had a face like an unemptied scrotum this morning. See — told you. Sexual frustration.’

He rubbed a hand across his face. ‘We were eating lunch. That’s all.’

‘Fine.’ Steel poked him in the chest. ‘And make sure you keep your hands where I can see them.’

Tufty indicated left, then sniffed. ‘Why can I smell chicken?’

The Big Car drifted back onto Rundle Avenue, making its third pass in fifteen minutes.

Still no sign of anyone that looked even vaguely like the descriptions Maggie had shouted through.

Logan shifted in his seat. The equipment belt was digging into his stomach’s full load of chicken and sausage rolls and potato salad. Every burp burned. Should really loosen it. But if he did, the damn thing would fall off if they had to chase anyone. ‘So, come on then: what did you do?’

The tips of Tufty’s ears turned pink. ‘Maybe I wanted to learn from the master for a bit?’

‘What did you do?’

A breath of drizzle fogged the windscreen. The windscreen wipers squealed it away, but it was back a couple of beats later. The tips of Tufty’s ears darkened.

‘Well?’

He shrugged one shoulder. ‘Deano just gets a bit grumpy sometimes.’

‘Tufty!’

‘All I said was, Einstein states that as an object’s velocity approaches the speed of light, its inertial mass tends towards infinity, right? Well, what about photons? They travel at the speed of light, because they are light.’

‘There,’ Logan pointed, ‘woman in the tracksuit.’

She was trudging along through the drizzle, head down, woolly hat pulled low over her ears.

Tufty shook his head. ‘Should be wearing a green hoodie. Anyway: light’s both a wave and a particle, right? And it’s travelling at the speed of light, so the particle bit of it should have near-infinite mass, even if the wave bit doesn’t. So maybe that’s what dark matter is? All that excess inertial mass?’

‘You think dark matter is light?’

‘Well, it’s not gerbils, is it? Stands to reason …’

‘Janet’s right — we should’ve had you tested.’ Logan dug out his phone, found Helen’s number, and thumbed in a text.

Sorry about lunch — didn’t know they were coming.

They can be a bit much at times.

He frowned at the screen. Say something about the almost-kiss, or not? What if she didn’t mean it? What if it was a misunderstanding? He’d end up looking like a right idiot. Or a pervert. Or a massive dickhead.

Gah, it was like being a spotty teenager again.

Play it cool.

If I can get free we could try grabbing dinner?

His finger hovered over ‘SEND’.

Nah. That last bit looked desperate.

He deleted the line, then sent the text off into the digital void.

All nice and bland and unembarrassing.

The phone went back into his trouser pocket.

Outside the car windows, the damp streets glistened.

Tufty sucked on his teeth for a bit. Then, ‘You ever wonder about the origins of the universe, Sarge?’

Logan hit the button on his Airwave and talked into his shoulder. ‘Maggie, any more sightings?’

‘Aye, we’ve got an IC-One female wearing Ugg boots, blue jogging bottoms, and an orange sweatshirt.’

Tufty stuck on the brakes. Then reversed downhill. ‘Got her.’ He swung the Big Car right, onto Ardanes Brae.

And there she was, hurrying along the pavement, bent into the wind, a carrier bag dangling from one hand.

‘OK, wait till she’s level with the white Passat … Go.’

Tufty slid alongside, then pulled into the kerb. Grabbed his peaked cap and jumped out into the drizzle.

Logan went the other way, around the back of the Passat, cutting off the retreat.

She looked up, just in time to avoid walking straight into Tufty. Stopped. Took a step back. Turned. Saw Logan. Swore.

Kirstin Rattray screwed her bony face into a fist, then slumped. Licked her thin, pale lips. ‘Was … out for a walk.’

‘Afternoon, Kirstin.’

No one moved.

She wrapped one bony arm around herself, the skeletal hand gripping her other arm. ‘Going to see Amy.’ She jiggled the carrier bag. ‘Got her some toys and a pretty dress. ’Cos … ’Cos it’s her birthday.’

Logan pointed over her shoulder. ‘Kirstin Rattray, I have reason to believe that you’re in possession of a controlled substance, so I’m detaining you in terms of Section Twenty-Three of the Misuse of Drugs Act 1971 for the purpose of a search.’

She curled in on herself, folding at the knees and wrapping her arms around her head. ‘Noo …’

‘We are unable to search you here, as I don’t have a female officer to do it. So we’re going to take you to the station until one becomes available. You’re not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say-’

‘Please …’ Her voice came out muffled and strangled. ‘Please, if they put me away I’ll never get to see my wee Amy again. Please …’

Tufty shifted from foot to foot. ‘Sarge?’

‘She’s only three!’

The same age Helen’s daughter was when she disappeared.

‘Sarge, maybe we could … I don’t know. Something?’

Kirstin stayed where she was, rocking back and forward slightly. Crying.

Logan stared up at the lid of grey that loomed over the town. The drizzle caressed his face with its cold clammy hands. Three years old.

Ah, sod it. It wasn’t always about banging people up. ‘Kirstin.’

‘Please …’

‘Kirstin, come on: stand up, I’m not going to arrest you.’

She peered up at him with bloodshot eyes. ‘My Amy’s only-’

‘I know. I’m not arresting you. Up.’

She stood, sniffling and gulping. Wiped the snot off her top lip with a skeletal hand. ‘I can go?’

‘Not yet.’ He snapped on a single blue nitrile glove. ‘What did Frankie Ferris give you?’

The skeletal hand scrubbed at her eyes. ‘I didn’t-’

‘You were seen, Kirstin. What did he give you? You can give it to me, or you can come down the station and wait to be searched. And when we find it, we arrest you and confiscate it anyway. Your choice.’

She nodded. Sniffed. Then dug into the front pocket of her joggy bottoms. Came out with a small plastic baggie with brown powder in it. Rubbed the thing between her fingertips, like the world’s tiniest violin. Licked her lips again. Cleared her throat.

He held out his gloved hand. ‘Kirstin?’

A hatchback went past, the sound of music turned up too loud grinding out through the rolled-up windows.

‘Come on, Kirstin. What’s more important: getting high, or your daughter?’

The drizzle fell.

Tufty shifted his feet again.

And finally Kirstin dropped the little packet on Logan’s palm. Her fingertips hovered over it for a moment, then she snatched her hand away and pressed them against her throat. ‘It … Sometimes it’s …’ She looked away. ‘I found it.’

‘Of course you did. Does Frankie have a big stash? Is it worth my while paying him a visit?’

She hauled one shoulder up to her ear. ‘Didn’t see anything. He was, you know, working the hall, never got to see anywhere else.’

‘OK.’ Logan pointed. ‘Can I see inside the carrier bag?’

She held it out and open.

Inside was a little pink princess dress, a set of pink fairy wings, and a pink magic wand.

He stepped back. ‘Thanks. You tell Amy the nice policemen said hello, OK?’

A nod. Then she scuffed her Ugg boots on the pavement. ‘She’s all I’ve got.’

‘Off you go then.’

She scurried away, carrier bag clutched to her chest. Getting smaller and smaller, until the hill and the drizzle swallowed her up.

Tufty grinned. ‘Catch-and-release. Like it.’

‘Right. Back to work.’

While Tufty got in behind the wheel, Logan closed his fist around the little package of heroin, then pulled the glove inside out, trapping it inside. Slipped it into one of his stabproof vest’s zippy pockets. Couldn’t sign it into evidence without implicating Kirstin. Just have to lose it down a drain somewhere.

The drizzle thickened, the drops turning heavier and wetter.

He climbed into the passenger seat. Clunked the door shut. ‘Right, a couple more goes, then we’re off to Gardenstown to see about that shed fire.’ He pulled his Airwave free as Tufty crossed Tannery Street and started yet another long slow loop of Rundle Avenue.

‘Sarge?’

‘Is this about Einstein again?’ He thumbed the Duty Inspector’s shoulder number into his Airwave. ‘Bravo India from Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

‘You know the Big Bang?’

‘Go ahead, Logan.’

‘Any chance I can get a warrant to dunt in Frankie Ferris’s door? We’re getting a lot of tip-offs about him dealing today. Sounds as if he’s got a new batch of heroin in.’

‘You doing stop-and-searches?’

‘On it now.’

‘Good. I want you copping a feel of everyone who comes out of that place. You get me one solid bit intel and I’ll get you a warrant.’ There was a bit of rustling at her end. Then, ‘I’ve no spare bodies for a dunt today. Have to be tomorrow or Tuesday.’

Might all be gone by tomorrow or Tuesday. But it was better than nothing. ‘Thanks, Guv.’

Tufty took them out the end of the street and onto Golden Knowes Road. It was the Westernmost edge of town, no houses on the left side of the road, from here on it was fields and cattle all the way to Whitehills. ‘If we hadn’t let Kirstin Rattray off with a caution, you’d have got your warrant.’

‘And make sure she never saw her kid again? Thought you were all in favour of catch-and-release.’

‘Yeah, but …’ A small frown and a little chewing on the inside of his cheek. Then whatever ethical dilemma was raging inside that misshapen little head of his must have passed. ‘Anyway, so we know that the universe goes from nothing to everything: boom, in teeny wee fraction of a second.’ He took his hands off the steering wheel and mimed an explosion.

‘Anyone in the vicinity of St Fergus, got reports of a campervan with German plates acting suspiciously. MOD staff want them picked up …’

A right, onto Windy Brae, making another long loop.

‘So there’s nothing, then there’s inflation, then there’s expansion, then there’s everything, right?’

‘I’m beginning to know how Deano felt.’

Little houses, terraced bungalows, all darkening in the rain.

‘All units be on the lookout for an IC-Two female, suspected of robbing a Big Issue vendor in Peterhead, Back Street …’

‘So, in that first trillionth of a trillionth of a trillionth of a second, all this primordial quantum foam is accelerating faster than the speed of light-’

‘How about him?’ Logan pointed through the windscreen at a man in a scuffed bomber jacket with a hoodie underneath, marching on through the rain.

‘Should be green cargo pants, not stonewashed jeans. But it’s the same thing, isn’t it? Closer you get to the speed of light, the greater your inertial mass, so if it wasn’t for that tiny fraction of a second wheeching everything up to uber-fast speeds, there wouldn’t be any mass in the universe. We’re made of speed, not stuff.’

Logan stared at him.

‘What?’

‘I swear to God, Tufty, I was this close to being nice to you today.’ He held one hand up, thumb and forefinger less than an inch apart.

Right, onto Meavie Place, then another quick right onto Ardanes Brae again.

‘Only trying to get a bit of intelligent debate going.’

There was blissful silence all the way back to Rundle Avenue. Well, except for the rhythmic squeak-and-groan of the windscreen wipers.

Tufty heaved a big sigh. ‘Must be weird, living in one of the wood-clad houses. Think it’s a bit like moving into a two-storey shed?’

‘Don’t know what’s worse, your cosmology, or your social commentary …’ Logan sat forward in his seat. Peered out through the rain-smeared windscreen. ‘Up there. Is that not our good friend, Martyn Baker?’ And he was going into Frankie Ferris’s delightful little drug den too. Logan grinned. Rubbed his hands together. ‘Right, park the car around the corner. Soon as he comes out, we’ve got ourselves a winner.’

And best of all, he had plausible deniability. The Duty Inspector gave the order to stop-and-search everyone who comes out of Frankie’s place. Everyone. And that included Martyn Baker.

Yes, DCI McInnes would blow a vein, but sod him.

About time these MIT scumbags learned what a real police officer looked like.