The Missing and the Dead

51

‘Interview suspended at sixteen hundred hours.’ Logan gathered his papers together and stood.

The guy on the other side of the table squinted back at him. The green overalls were gone, replaced by a white paper oversuit with bootee feet. The skin across his left cheek had darkened to a thundercloud of blue and purple, marbled with yellow. That’s what he got for doing a runner on Nicholson’s watch. He sniffed, rubbed at his nose with cuffed-together hands. ‘You’ll make sure McNee goes down for it, aye? Rest of us was only doing what we was told.’

The solicitor from the Scottish Legal Aid Board polished a pair of little round specs. ‘Albert, there’s no need for you to continue talking. The interview’s over.’

He pulled one shoulder up till it almost touched his ear. ‘Just want to make sure, like.’

Logan looked down at the dirty fingernails, the thick hands, the cuffs. ‘Why Broch Braw Buys?’

‘Eh?’

A sigh from Mr Solicitor. ‘Sergeant McRae, this interview has been terminated.’

‘I’m curious.’

‘Was McNee’s idea.’ Albert picked at the wart on the back of one thumb. ‘We was hungry, so we parked up to get a burger. McNee went into the shop for a paper. Said there was this wee blonde girl comes skipping in and the gadgie running the place is shouting and swearing and kicks her out. Tiny wee girl, all dressed in pink with a skateboard. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

Another sigh. ‘Albert, I really have to advise against this.’

‘So McNee comes back and he says, “We’re doing that miserable old git next.” Said it was payback for being cruel to kids and that.’

At least that was one mystery solved.

Logan shifted his Airwave to the other hand and had a slurp of tea. ‘I thought Billy was doing it.’

‘Can’t, he’s been summoned to Tulliallan to explain that firearms thing from two weeks ago.’ Inspector McGregor sounded as if she was in a wind tunnel. ‘Sorry.’

Creaks and groans came from outside the Sergeants’ Office door as someone stalked Fraserburgh station’s wonky corridors.

‘Gah …’ Logan folded forward and rested his forehead against the keyboard. ‘We’re supposed to be going out tonight to celebrate.’ And then home to celebrate some more with Helen. Hopefully twice.

‘It’s just for tonight. Billy will be back tomorrow evening, we’ll do it then.’

‘Chips and beer.’

‘I wouldn’t ask, but we need a duty sergeant.’

Logan groaned. Swore. Then hit the button. ‘OK, put me down for a green shift.’

‘And we need someone to fill in for Big Paul as well. He’s stood down tonight because he’s got court first thing tomorrow — that attempted murder in Peterhead three months ago.’

‘I’ll have a word with the team.’

‘Good. Now, where are we at?’

‘Finished the last interview half an hour ago. Soon as the other three heard the van driver had rolled over on them, they all changed their plea. According to them, he’s the mastermind behind the Cashline Ram-Raiders. It’s like a competition to see who can shaft him the hardest. I’m writing it up now.’

‘So they’re all pleading guilty?’

‘That’s the plan.’

‘Excellent. What else?’

There was a knock on the door and Nicholson stuck her head into the room. ‘You want a tea before we head off, Sarge? Nearly home time.’

‘Got one, thanks.’ He flipped over a couple of pages in his notepad. Keyed the talk button again. ‘Right, we’ve got two drink drivers and one driving while disqualified, a break-in at Peterhead Cinema, an aggravated assault in Gardenstown, and a mum of three’s gone missing from Aberchirder. Friends say she’s never done it before, but rumour has it she’s got a fancy man in Cullen. I’ve asked the Moray lot to keep an eye out for her.’

‘All pretty calm for a Monday.’

‘Don’t knock it.’

‘And we’ll do chips and beer tomorrow. Promise.’

Assuming nothing went wrong between now and then. And knowing his luck …

Logan finished off writing up the interview notes, then headed through to the canteen.

Nicholson sat in one of the purple couches in front of the TV, Syd Fraser in the other one. The pair of them froze, hands dipped into a box of Maltesers.

Then Nicholson grinned. ‘Sarge, frightened the life out of us.’ She nabbed a Malteser and popped it in her mouth and went straight back for another one. Munching. ‘Thought you were the owner.’

Syd scooped up a clicking palmful of little chocolate balls. ‘They were planked in the back of the cupboard. Dig in before whoever bought them finds out.’

Logan helped himself. All malty and chocolaty and melty and crunchy. ‘Did you hear Klingon’s mum’s not dead?’

A shrug. More Maltesers. ‘To be fair, I did say Lusso’s not been a cadaver dog for years. They lose the nose for it if they don’t practise.’

‘Yeah.’ Crunch. Munch. Sook. ‘Would’ve been nice though.’

Syd rubbed a hand across his shiny bald head. Frowned. ‘OK, so it’s not Klingon’s mum buried in the back garden. So what? That doesn’t mean someone else isn’t. You got any missing druggies on the books?’

Nicholson grabbed another couple. ‘Always. And no one ever tells us if they turn up again.’

Syd took one more palmful, leaving the box virtually empty.

‘Pair of you are like vultures.’ Logan grabbed the last Malteser before anyone else could. ‘Still, it’s sod all to do with us now. DCI McInnes won’t let us anywhere near Klingon’s place.’

Syd squished the empty box flat. Folded it in half. Then dumped it in the bin and covered it with yesterday’s colour supplement. Burying the evidence. ‘Shame. Otherwise we could nip round there with a couple of shovels and do a bit of grave-robbing. Don’t think they’ll be letting Klingon’s mum move back in any time soon.’

True.

Logan hooked a finger at Nicholson. ‘Come on, Calamity, time to get you back to the station.’

Syd raised a chocolaty hand in salute. ‘Give us a call if you fancy playing Burke and Hare.’

Nicholson followed Logan out into the hallway. ‘Calamity?’

‘Calamity Janet rides again. You’re the one who wanted a nickname.’

They clumped down the stairs.

‘Yeah, but-’

‘No buts. You said people weren’t allowed to pick for themselves. So as of now, you’re Calamity.’

‘All units, we’ve got a fatal RTC on the A90 between Boddam and the Cruden Bay turn-off. Anyone free to attend?’

Out into the car park at the back of the station.

Drizzle greyed the breezeblock and tarmac, misted the windscreens.

A couple of CID types leaned against a pool car, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. They looked up as Nicholson plipped the locks on the Big Car.

One seemed to think a Kevin Keegan perm was a good idea, the other looked as if the Ugly Fairy had paid him a visit and never left. Keegan jerked his chin up. ‘You McRae?’

‘Yes. You?’

‘Brogan, MIT. You got the Ram-Raiders?’

‘One removal van, one four-by-four, one boosted cash machine, and four guys in boiler suits.’

Ugly pinged the butt of his cigarette away into the drizzle. ‘Yeah, we’re going to take it from here.’

‘Be my guest.’ Logan swept an arm towards the cellblock door. ‘Mind you, there’s not far to take it. The other thing we got was four confessions. Job’s done.’ He climbed into the passenger seat. ‘You have fun though.’

Nicholson started the engine, drowning out whatever Brogan’s reply was.

She chewed on the inside of her cheek as she steered the Big Car out onto the street. ‘Curlytop didn’t look too happy.’

‘Poor wee soul probably thought he could swoop down at the last minute and take all the credit. Only to find the bunnets had got there first. Boo hoo. Nobody loves him. Etcetera.’

‘My heart bleeds.’ She took them out past the fish-processing plants, slowing down to peer into the car parks. ‘Shout if you see an old red BMW Z4. Driver’s disqualified.’

Grey hatchbacks and saloons: all sitting in ordered little rows, waiting for their fishy owners to do the five o’clock dash.

No BMW.

Logan adjusted his equipment belt, so the extendable baton wasn’t poking into his leg. ‘Fancy a green shift? Big Paul’s got court in the morning.’

‘Thought we were hitting the town for beer and chips.’

‘Can’t. Got to fill in for Davey Muir again.’

‘Yeah, well my mates are heading off to Ellon to see that new Johnny Depp where everyone’s zombies except him and Bill Bailey. If there’s no beer and chips, I’m joining them.’

Just have to ask Deano then.

Logan pointed through the windscreen at the glowering sky beyond. ‘Home, Calamity, and don’t spare the horses.’