The Missing and the Dead

48

The Inspector swivelled her chair from side to side. Behind her, the North Sea raged beneath a sky of clay. A spattering of raindrops killed themselves against the window. ‘I’m not sure if I should congratulate you, or give you the bollocking of your life.’

Logan didn’t try sinking into one of the visitors’ chairs. ‘Guv?’

‘They did an overnight on Martyn Baker’s phone. Even if he changes his mind about the confession, there’s enough text messages on there to tie him to the shooting. Telling him to go to the scene and put the fear of the righteous man into the other gang. Others telling him to sod off to the back-end of nowhere and lie low afterwards. A couple panicking when they found out she was an undercover cop.’

‘Good. Does that mean they can tie whoever sent the messages to this as well?’

The chair swivelled left and right. Left and right.

‘The Chief Constable’s been on the phone, congratulating B Division for catching Mary Ann Nasrallah’s killer. Here’s us, a wee police station on the northernmost edge of the northeast of Scotland, and we’re solving the biggest crime on the national news. Police Scotland saves the day.’

OK … As far as bollockings went, this one was surprisingly painless.

‘There’s going to be a letter of commendation going into your file, maybe even an award. How does that sound?’

He smiled. ‘That’s sounds-’

She slammed a hand down on the desk, rattling the keyboard. ‘Now, what the hell were you thinking?’

Not so painless after all. ‘Well, it-’

‘I gave you a direct order to stay away from Operation Troposphere, and you went ahead and arrested Martyn Baker. And don’t tell me he wasn’t connected with it, you thought he was and you arrested him anyway!’

Logan shut his mouth and kept it that way.

‘For God’s sake, Sergeant, did I not make myself perfectly clear?’ She jabbed a finger at him. ‘Someone goes into a nightclub and tells people he’s selling them Ecstasy when it’s really Smarties, we still do him for selling Ecstasy. The intention is what counts. And you thought he was the Candleman!’

She glowered at him for a bit. ‘Well?’

‘Sorry.’

‘If you can’t be arsed obeying orders, how are the rest of the team supposed to? You’re the Duty Sergeant, and you’re acting like a bloody probationer. No, you know what? That’s not being fair on probationers. Tufty has more professionalism in his hairy wee backside than you just showed!’

Rain hammered against the glass behind her.

The Inspector drummed her fingers against the desk. ‘Are you finding the role too demanding, Sergeant McRae? Would you be more comfortable if I had you transferred somewhere else?’

‘No, Guv. It wasn’t meant to …’ Deep breath. ‘I apologize.’

‘Damn right you do.’ More staring. Then she sat back. Folded her arms. Swivelled her chair around to face the window. ‘There’s going to be celebratory drinks after work tonight. The Chief Constable’s personally put cash in for the kitty. It would be a good idea for you to stay out of my sight till then.’

Logan let himself out.

His footsteps rung like funeral bells, all the way down the stairs, echoing back at him.

You’d think catching a cop-killer would be all parades and champagne. Not threats of demotion and reassignment.

What a great sodding day this was turning out to be.

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Pulled his shoulders back and his chin up.

Hissed out a breath.

Onward ever downwards.

Logan opened the door and marched through into the main office. Right: quick squint at the papers, cup of coffee, check the computer for actions, then get the hell out of here before something else went wrong.

An Aberdeen Examiner hung over the partition of Maggie’s cubicle. ‘HUNT CONTINUES FOR BISSET CHILDREN’ and a photo of the pair of them taken outside the High Court. Thin faces, identical shoulder-length black hair. Matching expressions of grief and loss and shock.

The article beneath the picture was a rehash of the stories published over the last couple of days, no real detail, enquiries are continuing, sightings coming in from all over the country. And a completely pointless account from one of the passengers on the Megabus that didn’t have David and Catherine on it.

The Scottish Sun, on the other hand, had gone for ‘MORE SEVERED FEET FOUND IN CLYDE ~ “NOT A SERIAL KILLER” SAYS TOP COP.’ Yeah, good luck with that.

Maggie struggled in from the corridor, carrying a large cardboard box. ‘Sergeant McRae?’

‘I’m hanging by a thread here, Maggie. Is it good news?’

‘There’s a woman at the front desk for you.’

So probably not then.

Chin up, shoulders back. He slipped behind the partition with all its notices and posters, and up to the desk.

An old woman sat on one of the plastic seats in the hallway on the other side of the opening. Her big heavy coat glistened with water, a pair of rubbery ankle boots poking out from her tweed skirt on chicken-bone legs. What looked like a Tupperware box nestled in her lap.

Great. There was going to be something dead in there. Something dead and very smelly.

Lovely.

Logan’s shoulders dipped a bit. ‘Can I help you?’

She looked up and smiled with all her dentures. ‘I wanted to say thank you.’ It took a bit of effort, but she levered herself upright and squeaked her rubber over-boots across the damp tiled floor. ‘You killed them all. It’s wonderful.’

He shrank back from the hatch. ‘I did?’

‘All the rats. You beat them to death with your truncheon and they’ve never come back.’

OK …

But at least now he knew who she was. ‘Mrs Ellis. It was my pleasure.’

‘I’ve slept like a baby these last two nights and I wanted to say thank you.’ She held out the box in her trembling claws. ‘For you.’

There was a dead rat inside, wasn’t there? A big, stinky, dead rat.

Logan forced a smile. ‘Thank you. You shouldn’t have.’ Really.

‘Nonsense! I’ve won prizes with these — my mother’s secret recipe.’ A wink rearranged the lines on her face.

Crispy rat. Great.

Try to look pleased. ‘Thank you.’

‘You deserve them.’

The Big Car drifted around back onto Rundle Avenue, windscreen wipers screech-and-groaning their way across the glass. Nicholson sniffed. ‘Nothing doing the day.’

‘Probably too early.’ Logan shook his head. ‘But thing is: it wasn’t full of dead rats, it was a big box of cheese scones. Can you believe that?’

‘Well …’ A frown worked its way across Nicholson’s face. ‘I once caught the guy who assaulted a mother of three, and she baked me a cake.’

‘Sometimes, people are lovely.’

‘All units, be on the lookout for a Julian Martin, IC-One female, thirty-two. Apprehension warrant for making indecent images of a child.’

Not all of them, obviously.

They made a left onto Tannery Street again.

‘You sure you’re all right, Sarge? Back of your head looks like a hairy aubergine.’

Logan’s fingers reached up and stroked the bruised lump. A line of scabs marked the path of whatever it was he’d been brained with. Still stung like a hundred tiny wasps. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Come on: if it was me or Tufty who got thumped, you wouldn’t let us back to work for a week.’

A shrug. ‘Yeah, well, maybe your commanding officer is nicer than mine.’

Nicholson hunched over the steering wheel, peering left and right. ‘Rain’s not helping, is it? Not even druggies want to be trudging about in this.’

‘Probably not. Call it quits: we’ll try again later.’

She turned the car around. Back onto Rundle Avenue. Up to the end of the road.

The lights were off in the house Martyn Baker had been staying in. The curtains drawn. Would his girlfriend hang around for a bit, or take the kid and head back down the road to Birmingham? Assuming the opposing gang didn’t go after her as retribution for what Baker had done.

That was the trouble with drug wars, no one fighting them ever gave a toss about the collateral damage.

Right onto Golden Knowes Road.

Nicholson slammed on the brakes. ‘Not again!’

A billboard stood in the field, on the other side of the fence: ‘BANFF HEIGHTS ~ EXCLUSIVE DEVELOPMENT OF EXECUTIVE VILLAS ~ COMING SOON.’ A happy family stood in front of an architect’s drawing of a boxy house. Only someone had spray-painted a big purple willy over the whole thing.

Logan reached forward and pressed the ‘999’ button, setting the siren and flashing lights going. ‘Foot down, Janet, we’ve got a master criminal to confront.’

They left the Big Car’s blues on, spinning their accusatory light outside the Lovejoy household. That’d get the neighbours’ curtains twitching.

Rain peppered the living-room window, the drops gathering together and running like tears. Inside, the fake-gas fire was hot enough to make toast. The place was laden with doilies and lace thingies, porcelain clowns and glass vases full of silk flowers. Plates decorated with painted teddy bears on the walls.

Classy.

‘Well?’ Logan folded his arms and did his best loom. ‘Is that what you want, Geoffrey? Because that’s what’s going to happen.’

The wee sod sat in the middle of the couch, knees together, fingers coiled into the strings of his hoodie. Head down. Shoulders hunched. Sniffing. Biting his bottom lip. Tears running down his freckled cheeks. One trainered foot jerked and twitched on the Turkish rug. Not so much as a peep out of him about class struggle or the workers controlling the means of anything.

Apparently it was only OK to be a Marxist when his mum wasn’t watching.

A bit more looming. ‘Is — that — what — you — want?’

Geoffrey shook his head, setting the mop of red curls bobbing. He made a choked mumbly noise, but if there were words in there they were inaudible.

His mum thwacked him on the back of the head. ‘Don’t sit there snivelling; answer the nice policeman!’

‘I’m … I’m … I’m sor- sorry.’ So now it was hiccups as well.

One last loom. ‘No more painting willies on things, or we’re going to come back here and you’re off to prison.’

‘Plea- please don- please, I’m- sorry …’

‘Right.’ He hooked a finger at Nicholson. ‘We’re off, but we’ll be watching you.’

Geoffrey’s mum hit him again. ‘Say thank you to the nice policeman for not sending you to the jail.’

‘Than- thank — you …’

Nicholson stopped and looked back at the house. ‘You know, if my parents called me “Geoffrey Lovejoy” I’d probably spray-paint willies all over the place too.’

‘Will you get your finger out and unlock the doors? It’s bucketing.’

They ducked into the Big Car and thumped the doors shut.

Rain drummed on the roof, bounced off the bonnet.

She started the engine. ‘Sarge, these-’

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

Logan pressed the button. ‘Stab away.’

‘It’s Tango Bravo One Two, guess what we found?’

Nicholson pointed at the handset, raised an eyebrow. ‘Who’re they?’

‘Traffic car, out of Mintlaw.’ He pressed the button again. ‘What have you got?’

‘One large black removal van, with “Magnus Hogg and Son, Moving Families Home Est 1965” down the side. Parked on the High Street in New Aberdour.’

The rain picked up pace. Thumped on the roof. Spattered against the windscreen. Danced back from the pavement.

An old man trudged past, wrestling with an unruly umbrella.

Logan gave it a count of ten, then: ‘Are you actually going to tell me, or am I supposed to be psychic now?’

‘Psychic?’

God’s sake …

‘What happened when you searched it?’

‘We didn’t. It’s still parked there. We’re waiting for the driver to appear. So if you hurry …?’

A grin cracked across Logan’s face. ‘Thanks.’ He biffed Nicholson on the shoulder. ‘Blues-and-twos — and put your foot down, we’re going to New Aberdour.’