The Missing and the Dead

56

‘You woke me up to tell me that?’ A cough rattled down the phone. ‘Urgh …’

Logan stepped out into the rain and clunked the station door shut behind him. ‘Thought you’d still be up watching porn.’

The streetlights made sickly yellow spheres in the downpour as he hurried across the street.

‘What you want me to do, pat you on the head and say, “There, there, poor Logan. Aunty Roberta kiss it all better”?’

Down the steps to the car park — taking the quickest route to the Sergeant’s Hoose. ‘It was my case.’

‘You’re no’ six, Laz. For God’s sake, grow a pair. If you flounce off in a huff every time some Major Investigation Team swoops in and takes over your case, you think anyone’s going to care? This is how it works now.’

He dragged in a deep breath, then huffed it out again. Hurrying between the puddles. ‘I’ve been working on nailing Frankie Ferris for months.’

‘I’m going back to sleep now.’

‘Thanks for the sympathy.’

‘Laz, if you don’t like MITs nicking your cases, come back and work for me. Be the nicker, not the nickee. Either way, stop whingeing.’

‘I’m not “whingeing”, I’m getting screwed over. How is that “whingeing”?’

Nothing.

‘Hello?’

She’d hung up on him. Lovely.

Across the road, around the corner. Water overflowed the weed-blocked gutters, cascading down the side of the house. Yet another thing to stick on the to-do list.

He let himself in.

Darkness. No sound of television. No creak of floorboards.

Not really surprising at quarter to two on a Tuesday morning — Helen would be asleep — but it would’ve been nice.

A pair of eyes glittered at the top of the stairs, then thump-poc, thump-poc, thump-poc, and Cthulhu worked her way down. Wound herself around his ankles, purring. He bent down and picked her up. Soft and warm and fuzzy.

‘Daddy’s had a crappy day.’

He carried her back upstairs. Popped her down on the landing. Eased open the bedroom door. ‘Helen?’

Grimy orange light spilled in through the window and onto the bed. Curtains weren’t closed. And the bed was empty, still made from that morning.

Maybe she wanted to sleep on her own tonight?

Had he done something?

Back downstairs.

His knuckles made a dull thunk on the living-room door. ‘Helen?’

Idiot. What was the point of whispering?

Knock again. Louder. ‘Helen, you awake?’

Silence.

Maybe she’d been drinking again and passed out on the couch?

He opened the door. But there was no one there.

Kitchen.

Empty.

An envelope sat in the middle of the table, birthday-card sized, with ‘LOGAN’ written on the front. He tore the flap open.

Wasn’t a birthday card after all, it was a thank-you one. A photo of a kitten wearing a jumper and John Lennon glasses looked out at him. The message inside was written in neat blue biro:

Dear Logan,

They’ve arrested a traveller family in Gwent and taken a little girl into care. They’re all dark haired, but she’s blonde. She’s six. It might be Natasha.

Thank you so much for letting me stay with you. It’s been a long time since I’ve let anyone get that close. And I’m sorry about the washing up.

Love,

Helen x

Brilliant. That was really sodding brilliant.

He pulled out his phone. Glared at the card.

Not even a goodbye.

Logan scrolled through his contacts. Found her number …

No.

He swiped down to Syd Fraser’s details instead. Hit dial.