The Missing and the Dead

43

Detective Chief Inspector McInnes held out his arms. ‘Doesn’t she look good for a corpse?’

Klingon’s mum turned her considerable scowl on him. ‘Are you being funny?’

‘Not at all, Lesley. Would you mind telling Sergeant McRae where you’ve been for the last four months?’

‘And what happened to my house? It was just decorated before I left!’

‘Please.’ He patted her on the shoulder. ‘Tell the Sergeant where you were.’

‘I was in Perth, looking after my brother Sydney. Pancreatic cancer. We buried him, Wednesday.’

McInnes’s smile grew. ‘Not Perth, Australia, mind you, but Perth, Scotland. One hundred and thirty miles away, not nine thousand.’

No wonder Derek Stratman couldn’t find her visa application.

Logan shifted his feet. ‘I see.’

Not in Australia. And not dead.

How could she not be dead? The council records Maggie’s partner dug up yesterday showed Klingon’s mum hadn’t paid the rent for nearly a year. How could any sane human being put Colin Klingon Spinney in charge of keeping a roof over their heads?

‘But …’ He cleared his throat. ‘Why did you cancel your direct debit ten months ago? For the rent? Why did you let Colin take over?’

‘None of your damned business, that’s why.’ She thumped over and glowered at him. ‘Now what happened to my bloody house?’

Logan pulled his shoulders back. ‘I’m afraid it’s a crime scene.’

‘No it isn’t.’

‘Your son and Kevin McEwan were dealing drugs and-’

‘How dare you! No they were not!’

‘-attempted murder of Jack Simpson-’

‘My Colin’s a good boy! How dare you talk about him like that.’

Logan stared at her. ‘We recovered over a hundred thousand pounds’ worth of heroin from the attic, and Jack Simpson’s battered body.’

She shook her head. ‘No you didn’t. This is all lies.’

‘I was there. I saw it. I found it!’

‘No, you planted it. You’re a liar and I’m making a formal complaint.’ Klingon’s mum pulled herself up to her full height. ‘You won’t get away with this!’

And today had been going so well …

‘Well … I thought she was, OK?’ Logan leaned back against the garden fence.

‘Doesn’t look dead to me. Does she look dead to you?’ McInnes produced a packet of cigarettes, dug one out of the plain packaging and lit it. ‘Thought they might have covered the difference between a living person and a dead one when you were at police college. Did you skip that day?’

Drizzle crawled down from the gunmetal sky, cold and damp.

‘Everyone said she’d gone to Australia …’

There was a crash, and the Scenes Examination Branch tent lurched to one side. A white-suited figure emerged from the blue plastic edifice, carrying a metal pole. She dumped it on the ground with a clang. Her colleague cracked his knuckles, then went in to get his own pole. SOC-tent Jenga had begun.

McInnes took a long draw on his cigarette, then blew the resulting smoke in Logan’s face. ‘See, everyone’s going to be patting you on the back. “Well done, Sergeant McRae, you caught the drug-dealing scumbag who shot Constable Mary Ann Nasrallah.” Oh, the press are going to be shining your backside with their tongues for a bit, but you and I know different.’ Another puff. At least this one went off to the side. ‘You only lucked into that because you tried to screw me over.’

Logan shrugged a shoulder. ‘It was a legitimate-’

‘Don’t even try.’ McInnes stepped in close enough that the glowing end of his cigarette cast a warm glow against Logan’s cheek. ‘You think you’re the dog’s balls, don’t you, McRae? But you’re nothing but a jumped-up little squirt in an itchy uniform and a bad haircut. And you’re right at the top of my list.’

Silence.

Another clang, then the first SOC tech went in for the next pole.

McInnes took a step back. ‘Oh, I can’t touch you right now. But see when the dust settles, and everyone’s over Constable Nasrallah getting shot? I’m coming for you.’

Logan parked the Big Car outside the Sergeant’s Hoose. Slumped in his seat. Thumped his forehead off the steering wheel a couple of times.

Typical. It’d been going really well today, but they couldn’t let him have that, could they? No. Of course they couldn’t. One step forward, three steps sodding backward.

How could she not be dead? Syd’s dog found her body, for God’s sake.

He hissed out a long, slow breath. It was a dead family pet, or an old chicken carcass, wasn’t it? Or maybe Syd’s golden retriever was every bit as thick as every other retriever in the world.

‘Gah …’

Come on. Finger out.

Logan flipped through his notebook, then pressed the talk button on his Airwave. ‘Shire Uniform Seven, I need a lookout request on a black removals van …’ He rattled off the description and the number plate. ‘Suspected involvement in the Cashline Ram-Raiders. Stop and search.’

‘Roger that.’

And with any luck, he wouldn’t end up looking like an idiot on that one as well.

He climbed out into the damp evening. Slammed the car door. Then hurried across the road and let himself into the house. The dark earthy smell of frying mushrooms met him at the door. ‘Hello?’

‘In here.’

He followed the scent into the kitchen. ‘Sorry — got caught up at work.’

‘Don’t worry. Timed it perfectly.’ Helen stood at the stove, wooden spatula in hand, poking away at the contents of the frying pan. Then nodded at the twin steaks sitting on their plate, raw and purple. ‘Rare, or medium rare? I don’t do well done.’

He settled at the kitchen table. ‘Rare. Thanks.’

She brushed a handful of tarnished-golden curls from her face. The bags under her eyes were smaller than yesterday, and the day before. ‘Chips will be ready in a minute.’ She hunched her shoulders, poured the mushrooms into a bowl. Turned up the heat under the frying pan. ‘Look, about last night-’

‘It’s OK. Really. Not a problem.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Sorry about the … you know. It …’ A small cough. Warmth tingled the tips of his ears. ‘Been a while since …’ Yeah, probably best not to bring up an awkward erection at the dinner table. Sniff. ‘Anyway. Steak and chips, eh? Been looking forward to this since yesterday.’

‘Only I didn’t want you to think that I’m some sort of tease and … I’m really …’

‘No, don’t worry about it.’

‘And it’s just so lonely, you know? The never knowing drives me insane.’

‘Yeah.’

The steaks hissed and crackled in the hot pan.

She cricked her neck to one side. ‘I know it’s difficult. With Samantha.’

Difficult.

‘It’s been four years since she went into a coma. Four years and seven days. That’s longer than we were together in the first place. I’ve known her longer like this than I did … It’s …’ A long slow breath took all the air from him. Made his back bend and his shoulders sag. ‘Yeah. Difficult’s a good word for it.’

Helen didn’t turn around. ‘And in all that time, did you never …?’

He stared at the back of her head. ‘Yes. A couple of times. An old girlfriend. She’s separated now.’

‘I see.’

Logan put a bit of steel in his voice. ‘I’m not proud of it.’

She lifted the steaks out of the pan. ‘I haven’t. And I’m not proud of that either.’

A timer bleeped, and she bent down and opened the oven door, letting out the enticing aroma of fake chips.

He rearranged the cutlery.

She put the oven tray on the stovetop.

He lined up the salt, pepper, mustard, and vinegar. Looked down at his hands. ‘I’m going to be late again tonight: probably half-two. Something like that.’

‘Oh. OK. I’ll probably read a book.’

‘Good. Right.’

The chips rattled onto both plates like finger bones.

‘Any unit in the vicinity of Bunthlaw, we’ve got a report of indecent assault at the caravan park …’

He turned down the volume on his handset. ‘Sorry.’

The steaks were thick and bloody. Glistening and rich. And they ate them in total silence.

Half-past eight and the rain had faded away to nothing, leaving the streets slick and dark. The sun had found the chink between the sea and the lowering clouds, spreading its golden rays across the fields and houses as it sank towards America.

Logan took the Big Car around onto Rundle Avenue again.

Never knew your luck.

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

‘Batter on.’

‘You’re on the update list for David and Catherine Bisset? We’ve got a sighting of them getting on the Megabus from Dundee to London.’

‘Someone stopping it?’

‘On their way.’

‘Thanks.’

No sign of anyone on Rundle Avenue. Frankie Ferris’s customers would all be indoors, eating their microwave dinners in front of the telly. Moaning about how there was never anything decent on.

Wasting his time here.

Well, except for the whole deterring trade thing. With any luck Frankie’s customers would shy off for a bit. Meaning all those lovely drugs would still be there when Logan battered his door down and raided the place.

Speaking of which: he keyed Sergeant Mitchell’s shoulder number into the Airwave handset. ‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

A crackle. A pause. Then Mitchell’s booming rumble sounded. ‘Sergeant McRae. Hear you’re to thank for catching the scummer who shot that undercover cop. Well done. The Operational Support Unit salutes you.’

‘Bit short notice, but are you and your Singalong Troupe free tomorrow for another dunt? Well, assuming I can get the Sheriff to stop being a pain in the hoop long enough to cough up my warrant.’

‘Love to, but we’re booked tomorrow. Could do the day after though, we’ll be up your neck of the woods anyway. First thing Tuesday morning?’

‘Deal.’

‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance we’ll get to use the chainsaw …?’

‘I think we can swing that.’

‘Then it’s a date!’

And maybe this time they’d actually get Frankie Ferris for something more impressive than possession of a Class A.

Logan turned the car around and headed back towards the town centre.

‘All units be on the lookout for a grey Volvo estate, driving erratically on the A98 east of Blakeshouse …’

He drifted through the rain-slicked streets — all nice and quiet — then over the bridge to Macduff.

The harbour was dead, and so was High Shore. No one hanging about outside the pubs, hotels, or chip shop.

Maybe it was the rain that had chased everyone inside? Sent them off to batten down the hatches and weather the storm. A little slice of December in May.

He stopped at the top of the hill, looking down the curling sweep of the road to where Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool nestled at the base of the cliffs. The cordons of police tape were gone, the place abandoned to the ghosts of bathers past, and a murdered little girl.

Yeah … this was getting a bit morbid.

So what if McInnes wanted to come after him, what was the baldy wee sod going to do? All mouth and shiny trousers, that’s what he was. He wasn’t the one who’d solved a murder from the other end of the country, was he? No. That was Logan, thank you very much.

Even if it had been a complete accident.

Long blue shadows reached across the weed-slicked water of the two swimming pools, then swallowed them entirely.

One dead little girl, head caved in with a metal pipe. Two missing men.

‘All units: reports of a domestic disturbance on Fair Isle Crescent, Peterhead. Urgent response required.’

‘Sierra Two Four, roger that. We are en route.’

No sign of Neil Wood — probably not even in the area any more. He’d have jumped the first bus out of there, set up shop in Edinburgh or Dundee. Somewhere big enough to blend in. Get himself a bit of anonymity. Difficult not to stick out in wee communities like the ones around here.

And then there was Charles ‘Craggie’ Anderson, burned to death on the bridge of his own boat …

Logan narrowed his eyes, blurring the swimming pool. Drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

What if they were in it together? What if Neil Wood didn’t hop a bus? What if he hopped on Anderson’s boat instead? The pair of them make a run for it. There’s a fight when they get to Orkney, and Neil Wood wins. Kills Anderson. Burns the boat to hide any evidence. Then disappears.

Mind you, if it was difficult to blend into the scenery in Aberdeenshire, it’d be almost impossible on Orkney …

Logan pulled a three-point turn and headed back to the main road.

If Wood and Anderson were working together, there’d be a trail, wouldn’t there? Something more tangible to connect the pair of them than a photograph on a dead paedophile’s wall.

Steel and her team would’ve been all over Neil Wood’s bed-and-breakfast, but no one had given Charles Anderson’s house more than a quick once-over — making sure he really was missing and not lying dead in the bath.

Time to change that.

Anderson’s house was all on one level, with a grey slate roof. Chimney stacks at both gable ends, the pots cracked. Twig fingers reaching out of the tops, where the rooks had set up home. Warm light washed the cottage walls, made the white paint glow beneath the heavy black and blue clouds. Like the sky was one big bruise.

Dockens and thistles rampaged through the garden. Dandelion seeds stuck to nearly every surface — a plague of gossamer spiders in the long grass and overgrown borders.

Logan locked the Big Car and crunched across the gravel driveway to the front door.

The house sat all on its own, halfway between Macduff and Gardenstown. Isolated from its nearest neighbours by fields of neon rapeseed, down the end of a rutted track, about fifty feet from the edge of the cliff.

No prying eyes to see Anderson getting up to anything.

Front door was locked, so Logan tried around the side, wading through the knee-high grass, getting his itchy black trousers clarted with willowherb tufts.

Back door was locked too.

Logan’s mobile launched into ‘The Imperial March’. He paused. Swore. Dug the thing out of his pocket. ‘What?’

‘Laz, that’s no way to talk to a superior officer. Bit of respect, eh?’

‘I’m busy. Leave me alone.’

There was probably a key, in a file, in a police station somewhere, but that wasn’t much use right now. He tried above the back door.

Nothing.

‘Ungrateful wee sod. There was me phoning up to congratulate you on catching the guy who shot Constable Nasrallah, and what do I get?’

‘Yeah, that was all you were calling about.’ Nothing under the pot plants either side of the door either.

‘But now you come to mention it — you might be getting a call from Susan about a big family dinner to celebrate the test results. I need you to tell her she can’t invite her mother. Or yours.’

‘She’s your wife, you tell her.’ There was a garage, built onto the far side of the house. A bit ramshackle. Made of nailed-together boards. The paint peeling, exposing the wood beneath. Wasps had been at that, leaving the surface fuzzy and grey. No windows, but it probably wouldn’t be too hard to lever a couple of boards free and squeeze inside.

Be easier to break one of the panes of glass in the back door though.

He snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves.

‘Don’t want to upset Susan, do I? Tell her … I don’t know, your mum’s giving you a hard time and if she finds out Susan’s mum was there and she wasn’t, she’ll jump off a bridge or something.’

‘I should be so lucky.’ Logan grabbed a book-sized rock from the weeds by the door. ‘Anyway, it’s not my job to keep you safe from your mother-in-law.’

The back door had nine small glass panes set into the top half. The rock smashed through the bottom right one, sending shards of glass crashing to the kitchen floor.

‘Why can I hear breaking glass?’

‘Grow a pair and tell Susan how you feel. Stop weaselling, and do something about it.’ He unsheathed his extendable baton and jabbed it into the hole. Raked it round the edges to clear off any jagged remnants.

‘Laz, you’re no’ doing something you shouldn’t, are you?’

‘I’m busy.’

He stuck his gloved hand through the hole and felt about … Door knob. Down a bit. There — the key was still in the lock.

Logan turned it, then did the same with the knob. Pushed the door open and stepped inside. ‘Got to go.’

‘Oh no you don’t. If you think I’m alibiing you again, you’re off your head. Whatever you’re doing: stop.’

The kitchen felt cold and damp, as if no one had lived there for years. A crust of moss clung to the inside corners of the window frames. Everything smelled of mould and dust. Not dirty, just neglected.

‘Laz, I’m warning you — they’ve got GPS in the Airwave handsets. It works even when they’re turned off. If you’re up to something, they’ll know where you are.’

Through the kitchen and into the long, narrow hall. Three other doors off the sides, one at either end.

‘No one’s going to complain, OK? The homeowner’s dead. No one else lives here.’

Door number one opened on a living room that must have died years ago. Ancient wallpaper, a sagging couch, a frayed rug on scuffed floorboards.

Steel’s voice dropped to a hard whisper. ‘Why are you breaking into a dead man’s house?’

‘I’m not breaking in. Who said anything about breaking in?’

Door number two opened on a bathroom — white tiles on the walls, white enamel bath, white sink. All the warmth of a fridge.

‘Laz, don’t be a dick! This isn’t-’

‘I got here and I noticed there was a broken pane of glass in the back door. I went inside to make sure no one had stolen anything. All perfectly above board.’

Door number three opened on a bedroom. Double bed, sagging mattress, no pictures or paintings on the walls. The closed net curtains gave it a funeral parlour air.

‘God’s sake … Where are you?’

He tried the bedside cabinet nearest the door. ‘Why?’

Socks. Pants. Hankies. Assorted junk.

‘Because I’m coming over there and kicking your backside for you!’

The other cabinet was much the same, only with a small bundle of well-thumbed porn mags in the bottom drawer.

‘Some of us have work to do, OK?’

Logan flicked through them with his gloved fingers. Nothing too extreme, nothing too kinky, and definitely no kids.

‘We’re supposed to be a team! You, me: the two musketeers, remember?’

The clothes in the wardrobe were grey and dated, sagging on their hangers as if they didn’t want to face another day.

Back into the hall.

‘I’m at Charles Anderson’s house.’

Door number four opened on a child’s bedroom. Blue football wallpaper; posters of bands and film stars; a row of picture books, fading on the windowsill. Bart Simpson duvet cover.

A little shrine to a boy who died five years ago.

His photo sat in a big silver frame on the bedside cabinet. Bright-red hair. Dimpled cheeks. Big grin and a threadbare teddy bear.

‘Who the hell’s Charles Anderson when he’s deid?’

Door number five, at the far end of the corridor, opened on the wooden garage. With no windows, the only light was what filtered through from the hallway behind Logan.

Furniture and boxes lurked in the gloom. Things on the walls.

A light switch was mounted on the wall by the door. He clicked it on and a strip light buzzed, clicked, and pinged its way slowly awake.

‘Laz? Hello? You still there?’

A soft whistle escaped from his lips.

The things on the walls were corkboards, like the one in Steel’s commandeered office at Banff station. And like Steel’s they were covered in photographs and densely scribbled index cards, all linked together with grey string and red ribbons.

A single card sat at the centre of the web, with ‘LIVESTOCK MART?’ printed on it in marker pen and underlined three times.

He blinked a couple of times. The Livestock Mart. Oh, you wee beauty …

‘Logan! What the hell’s going on?’

He stepped in close. Ran his fingers across one of the photos. It was Neil Wood, caught somewhere on a long-lens, paparazzi style. That one over there was Mark Brussels, with the patchwork scars he got in Peterhead Prison. And Dr William Gilcomston, with his grey hair and high forehead, caught in the supermarket. Mrs Bartholomew, the owner of the big Victorian pile on Church Street, putting her wheelie bin out.

There were others too — about two dozen of them, all snapped from a distance. Some familiar faces, some not. All connected to each other with bits of string. All connected to the Livestock Mart.

‘LOGAN!’

He blinked. ‘They’re all paedophiles. Paedophiles and sex offenders.’

The red ribbons led to pictures cut from newspapers and magazines, or printed off the internet. Pictures of children. Each one was connected to at least one grown-up. One little girl to three of them. But one kid was out on his own: a wee red-haired boy, standing on a local beach in shorts and a Bart Simpson T-shirt, playing with a bucket and spade. His grin made puncture-mark dimples in both cheeks. The picture surrounded by a band of black ribbon.

It was the boy from the shrine in the other room.

‘Who’re all …? Have you been drinking?’

Only one other child looked familiar. A young girl, no more than six years old. She’d looked … different when she was alive. Without the big dent in her forehead where someone had smashed her brains in with a metal pipe. Without the sea-bleached tone to her skin.

Her picture wasn’t a cut-out, it was a telephoto snap like the grown-ups. Caught outside somewhere — leaves in the foreground, something black, out of focus behind her. Big, rectangular. A door? Maybe a van? And her red ribbon didn’t go to Neil Wood, it went to Dr William Gilcomston.

‘Charles Anderson was mapping out a paedophile ring.’

Because he was blackmailing it? Because he was part of it?

‘All right, that’s it, I’m getting in the car. Don’t touch anything!’

The corkboard on the opposite wall had children’s drawings and little bits of jewellery pinned to it. Ear rings, a bracelet, a couple of watches, and some necklaces. One was a gold chain with a thistle on it. It glittered in Logan’s palm.

Gold chain with a thistle …

He went back to the photo board. Scanned the faces.

A heavyset balding bloke with a smile full of teeth and a third-world moustache looked out of one picture with shining eyes. It must’ve been taken in a pub somewhere, the pumps on the bar pin-sharp in the background. He was halfway out of his seat, arms coming up, celebrating a goal. Wearing the same blue-and-red Caley Thistle replica shirt and gold chain he had on in his missing person’s pic.

It was Liam Barden, the father of two Nicholson seemed obsessed with spotting on Castle Street.

But Barden wasn’t on the Sex Offenders’ Register — it would’ve come up when they put together the misper file on him. So why was he on Charles Anderson’s pinboard?

Logan turned the necklace over in his hands. The metal was cool through the nitrile gloves. Tiny flecks of dark red clung to the inside of the links either side of the thistle.

Dried blood.

There was more, clinging to the indentations of the inscription on the back. ‘TO LIAM ~ LOVE KATHY ~ FOR EVER!!!’

He cleared his throat. ‘You still there?’

Huffing and puffing came from the earpiece. ‘No.’

‘Yeah, neither am I. Think we’d better get a warrant and come back and discover this officially.’ He slipped Liam Barden’s necklace back onto its pin. Backed out of the room and switched off the light.

As long as Logan was one of the first in when they got the warrant, no one would wonder why his DNA was all over the room. All above board. No breaking and entering and contaminating the crime scene here, thank you very much.

Yes, there’d be the broken pane of glass in the back door, but that’d be easy enough to blame on someone else. Nothing for Napier to complain about …

And all Logan had to do was-