The Missing and the Dead

55

Logan dripped on the Inspector’s carpet. The drops made little patting noises when they hit. ‘The hospital rushed through an X-ray of his head, and apparently there is a brain in there.’

‘Hmm …’ Inspector Fettes swivelled in the chair for a bit, setting his mop of ginger hair shoogling like a badly fitted wig. He’d cleared some space on the desk for a framed photo of a spaniel. Other than that, it was just the way Inspector McGregor left it when she headed off at the end of the dayshift. Well, except for the nippy smell of menthol coming from Fettes every time he opened his mouth. The words sounded as if they were squeezing themselves individually down his red nose. ‘And do we have any idea who did it?’

Right …

Logan stared at the wet patch, seeping into the carpet. What was he supposed to do, let Charles Anderson get away with two murders, assaulting two police officers, and the possible theft of a boat? Let him run free to punish child molesters? To get justice when the courts let them walk?

All those years, Liam Barden was doing the most horrific things to children, and the police never got anywhere near him. And if it wasn’t for Charles Anderson, he’d still be doing it.

‘Logan?’

Blink.

‘Sorry, Guv. It was dark. Whoever it was hit Tufty from behind then ran off. I went after them, but …’ It wasn’t too late to pull this back. Stop this right here. Cover for Anderson, and it’d be perverting the course of justice, and culpability in any other murders he committed.

Was that really such a great idea?

Of course it wasn’t. He shrugged and dripped some more. ‘It was Charles Anderson.’

The Inspector frowned. ‘But he’s dead.’

‘Not so much. I think the body they found in the boat is what’s left of Neil Wood.’

‘Wonderful.’ A sigh. ‘At least that would mean we could stop looking for Wood. Doubt there’s enough left to run DNA on, but we can give it a try. And get the IB up — let’s see if they can get some fingerprints off the chandler’s warehouse.’

‘I’ll set up a lookout request on the boat he was using.’

‘Might get lucky. Still-’

Logan’s Airwave gave its point-to-point bleeps. ‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

He pointed at it. ‘Is it OK if I …?’

The Inspector waved a hand. ‘No skin off mine.’

Logan pressed the button and talked into his shoulder. ‘Bash away.’

‘Aye, you wanted to know when Kirstin Rattray woke up? That’s her now.’

‘She say anything about who attacked her?’

‘Nah. I’ve seen headstones more talkative. You want to have a shot?’

He let go of the button. ‘Guv?’

‘Might as well. Not as if there’s anything else we can do tonight anyway.’

Logan abandoned the Big Car in someone’s reserved parking space and jogged back through the drizzle towards Accident and Emergency. Forty-five minutes: not bad from Banff to Elgin. Only had to use the blues-and-twos twice as well.

The town’s lights reflected back from the heavy lid of cloud, casting a sickly burnt-orange glow across the hospital’s bland grey façade. A handful of smokers choked the entrance to A amp; E, keeping out of the rain. Shuffling feet and fidgeting fingers, the streams of their cigarettes glowing in the harsh lighting.

He squeezed past into the depressing antiseptic blandness of the waiting area.

A nurse shuffled by in a pair of pink Crocs, clipboard clutched tightly to his chest as if it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Logan stepped in front of him. ‘I’m looking for Kirstin Rattray.’

The nurse blinked at him. Grey-purple skin filled the hollows beneath his eyes. A yawn shuddered its way through him, leaving him slumped around his clipboard. ‘Sorry. Been a long shift. Who?’

‘Kirstin Rattray, assaulted earlier today. Cracked skull, broken ribs, arms, leg …?’

‘Yes. Right. Let’s check the computer.’

The nurse stopped in the corridor and gave his clipboard another squeeze. ‘I can only give you a couple of minutes. She’s been through a lot.’

‘I’ll be quick.’ Logan pushed through the door into the ward.

The room was caught in the dim glow of a reading light in the far corner. Eight beds, four to a side, but only three were occupied. One by an obese teenager, flat on her back and snoring. One by the old lady in the corner reading what looked like a trashy crime novel. And one by Kirstin Rattray.

Her face was a mess of plasters and patches of gauze. One arm propped up on a stick and plastered from fingers to armpit, the other in a sling across her chest. A boxy contraption made a square hump in the blankets where her right knee should have been. Tubes going in from drips, others going out to bags dangling under the bedframe.

Logan drew in a breath. It tasted of disinfectant and pain and despair. ‘Is she …?’

The nurse dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘You wouldn’t believe how much morphine they gave her, and it barely touched the sides. No one wants to OD a patient by accident.’

Logan pulled up a chair, then slipped the elastic band off his BWV and set it recording. ‘Kirstin? Can you hear me?’

The fingers poking out from the full-length cast twitched. Then her head turned. One eye taped shut, the other a mess of burst blood vessels. Kirstin’s skin was an inkblot mess of darkening bruises. ‘Hrrrts.’ Her mouth barely moved.

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

‘Oiiiwwnt mmey Ammgheee …’

Oiiiwwnt mmey Ammgheee …? Then it dawned. ‘You want Amy? Your daughter? I think they’d like you to get a bit better before they bring her to see you.’ Logan forced a smile. ‘Don’t want to scare her.’

A little shake of the head. Then a wince. ‘Dnnnnt lt thmmm tk hrrrrr awwwweyyyy.’

‘Do you know who did it?’

‘Hrrrts.’

No wonder.

Logan’s hand went into one of the zippy pockets on his stabproof vest. The one where the tiny plastic baggie he’d confiscated from her was. A single wrap of heroin, concealed in an inside-out blue nitrile glove. That’d make a dent in Kirstin’s pain.

Of course it could react really badly with whatever else they’d given her. And then she wouldn’t hurt any more, she’d be dead.

Stupid idea.

Logan let go of the glove, left it where it was.

‘I’ll let your mum and dad know you’re in here. They can arrange for Amy to come visit.’

The bloodshot eye squeezed shut, forcing out a couple of tears. She pulled her lips back, but there weren’t any teeth to bare, just swollen gums spidered with stitches.

‘I’m sorry.’ Logan put a hand on Kirstin’s shoulder. ‘Who did this to you?’

The nurse’s Crocs squeaked on the ward floor. ‘Look, I think she’s probably had enough. She’s tired. She needs to-’

‘Frrnnnnkeee Frrrrs.’

Logan frowned. ‘Who?’

‘Look, I’m really going to have to insist.’

Her whole face clenched with the effort. ‘Frrnnkeee Frrrrrrrrrrrs!’

Logan took out his notebook and … Sodding Hector. He turned to the nurse. ‘Can I borrow a pen?’

‘This isn’t-’

‘She wants to ID the person who tried to kill her with a crowbar, OK? Now give me your pen.’

A pause, then a chewed blue biro was produced.

Logan held it out to Kirstin and she reached for it with the fingers of her other hand — the one poking out of the sling. Clutched it against the strip of fibreglass cast across her palm. Then picked out the name in painful wobbling capitals: ‘FRANKIE FERRIS’ and underlined it twice, before slumping back into the pillows, panting.

Logan held the notepad up so the BWV could capture what she’d written. ‘You’re saying Frankie Ferris attacked you?’

A nod. A gulping breath.

‘And you’re sure it was him?’

A pause. Then another nod.

Which meant Frankie Ferris was about to get his door battered in.

And if he resisted arrest and fell down the stairs a couple of times, that would be a bonus.

Dark fields flickered past the Big Car’s windows, caught for a brief moment in the flashing lights, then disappearing into the night again.

Logan changed up and kept his foot down.

The headlights made glittering streaks on the wet road as the windscreen wipers thunk-wonked back and forth across the glass.

Logan pressed the talk button on the steering wheel. ‘I’m about fifteen minutes away. No one moves till I get there, understood?’

Penny’s voice crackled out of the speaker. ‘Yup — we block both ends of the street and we wait for you. What about a warrant?’

‘Next on my list.’

The Big Car swept around a long bend, engine roaring.

He hit the button again. ‘Shire Uniform Seven to Bravo India, safe to talk?’

‘Go ahead.’ Inspector Fettes paused for a sneeze. ‘Urgh … Sorry about that. How’s Kirstin Rattray?’

‘Lucky to be alive. She’s ID’d Frankie Ferris as the assailant. I’m on my way back to Banff now. I applied for a warrant to search his place yesterday, any chance you can light a fire under Sheriff Harding? He’s dragging his heels and I need to-’

‘Ah. Actually …’ A cough. ‘Logan, there’s a reason Harding’s not issued your warrant. He already gave a search-and-arrest one to DI Porter.’

‘Porter?’

‘Operation Troposphere dunted Frankie Ferris’s door in half an hour ago.’

‘Are you kidding me!’

‘They’ve netted about eighty grand’s worth of heroin, and another sixty of cocaine. Three bricks of resin, a big box of temazepam, and about thirty thousand in cash.’

‘He was my suspect! I’ve been after him for months.’

‘Well, yes, but look on the bright side: that’s a substantial amount of drugs that are never going to hit our streets. You’ve got to be pleased about that.’

‘Sodding months!’

Brilliant. Thank you DI Porter, DCI McInnes, and Operation Bloody Troposphere. Bunch of scumbag MIT tossers. Frankie Ferris was his. His pet project. His drug dealer. And McInnes waltzes in and wheechs him away, right from under Logan’s nose. Not so much as a thank you.

It was his case in the first place, too.

Logan jabbed his thumb against the ‘BLUES’ button on the central console and the strobing lights flickered out. No point hurrying now.

Rundle Avenue was blocked off. Three patrol cars, two unmarked CID Vauxhalls, Syd Fraser’s dog van, and an OMU Transit with its riot grille up and its side door open. Logan parked in front of the cordon of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape.

His dunt. His arrest. His bloody suspect.

Half the houses in the street had their lights on. Probably standing there with their mobile phones out, filming everything for posterity and YouTube.

He grabbed his peaked cap and climbed out into the rain.

Sergeant Mitchell waved from the open door of the Operational Support Unit van. Then held up a thermos. ‘Dear God, do they issue every bunnet up here with tea-detecting radar? Haven’t even opened it yet.’

Logan stood outside, water drumming on his high-vis shoulders, bouncing off his black-and-white cap. ‘This is the thing you were doing, isn’t it? Why you couldn’t come on my dunt.’

‘Bit of a result. Found heaps of gear under the floorboards in the bedroom. Like an Aladdin’s cave for druggies.’ He screwed the top off the thermos and poured a measure into a mug with ‘WORLD’S BEST DOOR-KICKER-IN’ on it. ‘Shame you missed the dunt, though.’ A grin. ‘They let us use the chainsaw.’

‘Glad someone’s having a good night.’ Logan turned his back and marched up the path to Frankie Ferris’s house.

A uniformed PC slouched on the threshold, sheltering from the rain. He stood up straight. ‘Sergeant.’ Wasn’t a local lad — definitely not from B Division. Probably a big-city boy up from Aberdeen. Big ears, small forehead, thick furry hair.

The outer edges of the door framed him like a particularly unattractive picture, its UPVC ragged where the chainsaw had ripped through it.

Logan gave him a nod. ‘Your guvnor about?’

‘DI Porter? Yeah.’ He didn’t move. Then it must have dawned on him. ‘Oh, right. I’ll shout her.’ He turned, still blocking the entrance, and bellowed back into the house. ‘Boss? There’s a sergeant here to see you. Want me to let him in?’

Rain soaked through the collar of Logan’s high-vis jacket.

PC Ugly pulled a face. ‘Maybe she’s in the bog?’

Then feet thumped down the stairs and a short woman in a grey suit appeared. Carefully manicured haircut. Shiny boots.

PC Ugly scrambled out of the way, without being asked, and Porter took his place. Looked Logan up and down. ‘Well, you’ve saved me a phone call at least. Come to confess, have we?’

Logan tightened his hands into fists. ‘You arrested Frankie Ferris.’

‘Did you come all this way to stand in the rain and tell me things I already know? Or, let me guess, are you here to stick your nose into my investigation instead?’

‘He assaulted Kirstin Rattray earlier today, tried to batter her to death with a crowbar and left her for dead in a lay-by.’

‘I know. You phoned me, remember?’ Porter raised an eyebrow. ‘Has your Kirstin Rattray ID’d him?’

Logan tapped his BWV unit. ‘Did it on camera.’

‘Well, we’ll follow it up.’ The rain continued to fall. ‘Now, are you deaf, Sergeant, or just stupid? You were told time and time again to stay the hell away from Operation Troposphere, but you couldn’t do it, could you?’

‘I stayed away. I’ve been staying away.’

‘Really? Then tell me, Sergeant McRae, when I dunted in Frankie Ferris’s door, why did I find this?’ She turned and nodded at PC Ugly. ‘Bring the smelly one out.’

Smelly one?

PC Ugly reappeared with a dishevelled stick-figure in a manky tracksuit. Both hands were cuffed together in front. Stinky Sammy Wilson. Oh God …

Sammy sniffed, wiped his nose on a grimy sleeve. ‘See? I told you, yeah? Told you. I’m like, on police business. Totally official.’

Porter’s smile didn’t look all that genuine. ‘Well, Sergeant? Care to enlighten us how getting drug addicts to poke about in my investigation is “staying away”?’

‘I told him not to! I told him it was over. Sammy, tell her — I told you to drop it.’

Sammy shook his head, setting his greasy hair swishing. ‘I’m here undercover, yeah? Doing my bit. Asking questions for ten quid, questions for ten quid, questions, questions, questions.’ Another sniff. Then he stared at Logan. ‘You got my three seventy-seven, yeah? I found out for you — I found out who the Candleman is.’

‘THERE ISN’T ANY CANDLEMAN!’ Two steps away, then back again. Staring at DI Porter, but jabbing a finger at Sammy Wilson. ‘I told him to quit it! He was outside the station and I told him to stay the hell away from this thing.’

‘And yet, here we are.’ She folded her arms. ‘Anything else?’

He bit the inside of his cheek. Calm it down. Unclenched his fists. ‘Do you know if your team’s finished at Klingon’s house yet?’

‘Let me guess: his mum’s been moaning about not being allowed home yet?’

‘Something like that.’

A shrug. ‘She can have it back any time she wants. Not a crime scene any more — we’re focusing our efforts here on Rundle Avenue now.’

‘Good.’ He turned to go.

‘Sergeant?’

Logan stopped. What now, more gloating?

DI Porter’s voice softened. ‘We’re charging Colin Spinney and Kevin McEwan with the attempted murder of Jack Simpson. They’re not getting away with anything. Thought you’d like to know.’

Probably wouldn’t make much difference to Klingon and Gerbil’s sentences, but at least it was something.

And the day had started so well …