The Missing and the Dead

15

Logan pulled his epaulettes from his fleece pockets, huffed a breath over the chrome-plated sergeant’s bars, and polished them on the leg of his trousers. Clipped them into place on the shoulders of his police T-shirt. Stared at his computer screen.

The STORM system was full of actions from yesterday’s unsupervised backshift. A lot of which still needed updating. Tufty was the worst offender: from the look of things, he hadn’t actually done a single bit of work yesterday. Well today he was going to be busy, even if it was only trying to extract a size-nine boot from his backside.

The desk phone burst into its annoying electronic trill.

So much for the peace and quiet.

Logan had a sip of tea, then answered the phone. ‘Banff station.’

A woman’s voice, hesitant and slightly hushed. Faint hint of an Ayrshire accent The sound of a grumbling diesel engine in the background. ‘I need to speak to someone about the … the little girl’s body they found.’

He pulled out his notebook. ‘Do you have some information?’ Pen poised.

‘Can I … Can I see her?’

Great. Another nutter.

‘Police Scotland don’t do general viewings for people who want to look at murder victims. It’s considered insensitive. Thank you for calling.’

‘Wait! I …’ She cleared her throat. ‘I think she might be my daughter.’

‘OK.’ He peered at the phone’s display and jotted down the mobile number she was calling from. ‘Can I get your name please?’

‘It’s Helen. Helen Edwards. My daughter’s name is Natasha. Natasha Clara Edwards. She … She’d be six now. I haven’t seen her for three years.’

‘Can you hang on a second?’ He pinned the phone between his ear and shoulder, logged into the Missing Person system and hammered ‘NATASHA EDWARDS’ into the search box. Got back a raft of results for the surname Edwards, Edward, and Edwardson. Natasha Clara Edwards was halfway down the screen.

A click, and the summary appeared.

Abducted on the eve of her third birthday, three years ago, from the family home in Falkirk. Blah, blah, blah … Investigating officers were sure it was her father who snatched her — he disappeared at the same time, two weeks before financial irregularities surfaced at the firm of accountants he worked for. The assumption was that she’d been wheeched off to Spain where her dad had family. Enquiries with the Spanish authorities fizzled out and the case was shelved.

He opened a web browser and had a bash on Google. Lots of red-top tabloid outrage about wee kids getting snatched by their estranged dads and what were the police going to do about it?

The photo beneath the headlines was pretty standard across the newspapers and editions: a little girl sitting in a paddling pool. Ash-blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders, eyebrows so pale they almost weren’t there. Big grin. Spade in one hand. Ducks on her swimming costume.

Add three years and she could easily be the girl found in Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool.

‘OK, sorry about that.’ He underlined the name in his notebook. ‘Mrs Edwards, can you remember any distinguishing features your daughter has? Birthmarks? Scars? Did she break any bones when she was small? Moles? Anything like that?’ Dental records might help … assuming she’d had a lot of work done when she was tiny and those teeth hadn’t fallen out yet. But it wasn’t likely.

‘Do you need DNA, or something? I’ve got a lock of her hair.’

There was a knock on the door. ‘Logan?’ Inspector McGregor stepped into the room. ‘Are we all set for the raid on Klingon and Gerbil’s place?’

He pointed at the phone in his other hand. Mouthed the words, ‘Murdered girl.’

That got him a raised eyebrow.

‘Before we go down the DNA route, we need to see if there’s anything obvious to rule Natasha in or out.’ He scribbled the words ‘TARLAIR BODY — MIGHT BE HER MUM ON PHONE’ on a Post-it and held it out.

The Inspector took it, raised an eyebrow. Then perched on the edge of the desk.

‘Oh, I see …’

‘No point wasting your time coming all the way up here if it definitely isn’t her.’

‘Too late. I got the train to Aberdeen this afternoon. I’m on the bus to Banff now.’

‘Right … Well … When are you going to arrive?’

‘Quarter past five?’

Which gave them about two hours.

‘OK, I’ll get someone to meet you at the bus stop and we’ll see what we can do.’

‘Thanks.’ She hung up.

Logan put the phone back on the hook. Frowned at it.

The Inspector craned her neck to peer at the search results on his monitor. ‘Credible?’

‘No idea. Maybe.’ He pointed at the wee girl grinning out from the front page of the Daily Mail on his computer screen. ‘Looks a bit like her. After three years …?’ A shrug.

‘Well, make sure you let the MIT know.’ Inspector McGregor folded her arms. ‘Anything I need to worry about today?’

‘Should be fine, Guv. We’ve got Syd Fraser coming over with his dogs and a four-person team from the Operational Support Unit. Plan is to go in soon as everyone’s here.’

‘I see. Well, make sure you keep an eye on Constable Quirrel — you know how excitable he gets.’ She dumped an ID sheet on Logan’s desk. Pointed at the lined face glowering out of the photograph. Skin tanned to an oaky brown, a mop of curly blond hair. ‘Divisional Intelligence Unit says Stevie Moran’s back in the country. Chances are he’ll put in an appearance on our patch sooner or later, visiting his mum. Be nice if we could make his stay a bit more permanent this time. Say, six to eight years.’

Logan added the sheet to his in-tray. ‘I’ll tell the teams to keep an eye out.’

‘Good. There’s cakes and-slash-or pastries for whoever arrests him.’ She slipped her glasses off, huffed a breath onto the lenses, and polished them. Kept her voice nonchalant. ‘Now, do you want to tell me about what happened yesterday?’

Not really.

Deep breath. ‘Hissing Sid made it look as if I was on a mission to stitch-up Graham Stirling. I’m too arrogant to follow procedure, but too incompetent to make my lies stick. So unless Stephen Bisset wakes up and dobs Stirling in, there’s nothing we can do.’

A bit more chewing. Then, ‘There are going to be repercussions, you know that, don’t you? The vultures will be circling, looking for a scapegoat, and you’re the most goat-like thing we’ve got right now.’

He slumped in his seat. Rubbed a hand over his face. ‘What was I supposed to do, let Stephen Bisset die?’

Inspector McGregor stood. ‘I’ll have a word with a few people. See if there’s any wiggle room.’ She marched for the door, then stopped on the threshold. ‘Meantime, it might be a good idea to get yourself a result at Klingon and Gerbil’s. Bigger the better.’

Logan waited till the door clunked shut behind her before rolling his eyes. ‘Yeah, thanks for that.’ Then he punched the internal number for the MIT’s incident room on the top floor.

It rang for a while, then a while longer, then finally: ‘DS McKenzie.’

‘Took your time.’

‘We’re short-staffed today. What do you want?’

‘I got a call from someone who thinks they might be your victim’s mother.’ Logan passed on Helen Edwards’s details. ‘She gets into Banff at quarter past five. Bus stop on Low Street.’

‘I’ll let the Boss know.’

Clunk — she hung up on him.

‘You’re very sodding welcome.’ He popped the handset back in its cradle, grabbing his briefing notes, and headed out into the main office.

The usual newspapers were draped over the side of Maggie’s cubicle: an Evening Express and an Aberdeen Examiner, joined by a Scottish Sun. ‘CASE AGAINST GRAHAM STIRLING SET TO COLLAPSE’, ‘POLICE “BUNGLED” INVESTIGATION’, and ‘LEFT-FEET FOUND IN CLYDESIDE SHOCK’.

Logan grabbed the Evening Express and the AberdeenExaminer and dumped them in the nearest bin. In for a penny … The Sun joined them.

Maggie meerkatted her head over the parapet. ‘You want me to make you a nice cup of tea?’

‘I appreciate the thought, but I’m OK. Really.’

Her eyebrows peaked in the middle. ‘Are you sure? You didn’t collect your messages when you came in. And … well …’ She held up a small stack of Post-its. ‘Maybe I should dig out some biscuits?’

‘Oh God. Is it that bad?’

She handed the notes over and he thumbed through them. Two from the Area Commander. Three from Steel. One from Detective Chief Superintendent Finnie. All pretty much the same thing: how had he managed to screw up the Graham Stirling trial? And, right at the bottom, one from Professional Standards. A mobile number was printed across the top in Maggie’s perfect handwriting, followed by ‘CALL CHIEF SUPT. NAPIER. HE SAYS “YOU KNOW WHY.”’

Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant.

Well, couldn’t say Biohazard hadn’t warned him.

Septic-tank hot tub time.

Logan scrunched the notes up and stuffed them in his pocket. ‘If Napier calls again, I’m out running an operation. You don’t know when I’ll get back.’ The phone rang on the desk facing Maggie’s, but there was no one there to answer it. ‘Where is everyone? Shouldn’t the MIT be doing something?’

‘Didn’t you hear?’ Maggie lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘DS Dawson had to be hospitalized.’

Ah …

‘Apparently his insides are all outside now. And-’

‘Right, well, I’d better get on with it.’ Logan backed towards the door. ‘Got a … house to raid.’ And escape.

Through in the Constables’ Office, Deano poked at his keyboard with two fingers. Nicholson hunched over a stack of evidence bags, cross-referencing their labels with the official log. Tufty was slumped in his seat — arms dangling, head back. Swivelling left, then right again.

Logan thumped the door shut.

Tufty almost collapsed off his chair. ‘Careful, Sarge, frightened the life out of me.’

‘Tell me, Constable Quirrel, are you up to date with all your actions on STORM? Because last time I checked — which was, ooh …’ Logan popped his arm out, flashing his watch, ‘five minutes ago — there were ten you haven’t touched for a week.’

‘Ah …’

Logan loomed over him. ‘Now I don’t normally approve of workplace bullying, but I’m going to start giving you a clip round the ear for every action you’ve done sod all about.’

‘But-’

‘No. No buts.’ He jabbed a finger at Tufty’s monitor. ‘Get your backside in gear before I skelp the ears right off you!’

‘Yes, Sarge. Sorry, Sarge.’ Tufty spun the chair around and logged in. Fingers clattering across the keyboard.

‘Better.’ Logan pinned the ID sheet for Stevie Moran up on the corkboard by the radiator, adding his ugly face to the collection of druggies, dealers, burglars, and other dodgy sods currently at liberty in Banff and Macduff. ‘Inspector McGregor says Stevie Moran’s back in the area. Keep your eyes peeled: there’s a fancy piece for whoever nabs him.’

Nicholson stared at the photograph for a bit. Then held up a biscuit tin. ‘We doing presumptive testing, or just sending it off?’

A frown. Biscuit tin …? Ah, OK: the one hidden under a sofa seat cushion in Kirstin Rattray’s fleapit flat. ‘Do me a favour and mark it as “pending” till we’re done with Klingon and Gerbil. Might want to put her on the books if the dunt goes well.’

Janet put the tin to one side. ‘Sarge, about yesterday,’ she glanced at Deano and Tufty, ‘we want you to know that we’re behind you. If there’s anything you need us to do? You know, like-’

The door opened and she clicked her mouth shut.

But it wasn’t Steel, or one of DS Dawson’s team of tossers, it was PC Syd Fraser. Leather dog leads draped around his neck and fastened behind his back. Fleece all tatty and worn. Checked ‘POLICE’ baseball cap on his head. ‘Afternoon, strange people. We knocking on someone’s door today, then?’

‘Waiting for the OSU.’

‘They’re outside, in the van, having a singsong.’ Syd clapped his hands together. ‘Time for a cup of tea?’

Nicholson jumped to her feet. ‘I’ll get it, Syd. Sarge? Deano? Tufty?’

OK … No way that was suspicious.

Logan shook his head. ‘I’m good, thanks. And Constable Quirrel is far too busy to drink tea. Aren’t you, Constable Quirrel?’

‘Yes, Sarge.’

‘Right.’ She squeezed past Syd and out of the room.

Deano’s Airwave bleeped. ‘All units be on the lookout for a blue BMW — driving erratically on the A97 near Aberchirder. Possible drink driver …’ He turned it down. Pointed at his screen. ‘Sarge, got another misper. Linda Andrews, eighty-two, dementia sufferer. Gardenstown. Husband says he got back from the shops half an hour ago and she was gone.’

Logan drummed his fingers on the worktop. Couldn’t cancel the drugs bust twice. No way they’d let him have the extra bodies again. Not after yesterday. And he needed this.

So what was he supposed to do, ignore a vulnerable adult wandering lost somewhere on his patch? No thanks.

He stood, thumped a hand down on Tufty’s shoulder, making the little sod flinch. ‘Constable Quirrel. You are hereby granted a temporary reprieve. Get out there and find Mrs Andrews before something happens to her.’

Tufty scrambled out of his seat. ‘But, Sarge, I want to go on the dunt, can’t someone else …’ He must have finally recognized the look on Logan’s face, because he swallowed. Cleared his throat. ‘I mean, “Yes, Sarge.”’

‘Damn right you do. And soon as you’ve found her, I want those actions completed.’

‘Right, Sarge.’ He grabbed his peaked cap and his equipment belt and legged it, nearly colliding with Nicholson on her way back in.

‘Hoy, watch it!’ She jerked to a halt, Syd’s tea swinging in one hand, the milky contents tidal-waving from one side of the mug to the other as he scrambled past. ‘Idiot.’ She handed it to Syd as a barrage of ‘excuse me’s came from the corridor behind her.

The Operational Support Unit lumbered into the room. Four of them, all dressed in black, all looking as if they’d been carved from granite. One even had to stoop to get through the door.

He peered at Logan for a beat then stuck his paw out. ‘You’ll be McRae, then?’

It was like shaking a bench vice — the thick fingers dwarfed Logan’s hand, crushing it. ‘Sergeant Mitchell?’

‘Rob.’ He nodded at his fellow mountains. ‘Baz, Davy, and Carole.’ They waved. ‘Sorry we’re late — “Bohemian Rhapsody” came on as we were pulling up. Can’t pass up something like that, can you?’

Logan pulled the briefing sheets from the folder and handed them out. Front page: a photo of Gerbil and one of Klingon, along with a potted bio of each. Gerbil’s red hair was cut in some weird 1920s throwback style — a number one at the sides, bowl haircut with extra fringe on top. Wide face. Little eyes. Klingon’s dirty blond mop of curly hair hung in spaniel curls around thin, suspicious features. A wet, pouty mouth. Thick-rimmed glasses. ‘We have a warrant to enter and search the residence of one Colin Spinney. He and his associate, Kevin McEwan, have a lot of form for dealing. You’ll find the list of recent intel on page two.’

Everyone dutifully turned the page.

‘Property is number thirty-six Fairholme Place. Page three has a photo of the house and a map. Any comments, questions, or concerns?’

Silence. Then Carole put her hand up. ‘What kind of door we looking at?’

Logan went back into his folder and came out with the Method of Entry form. ‘Brown UPVC with glazed panels.’ He passed it over.

She skimmed the form, a crease between her eyebrows. Then nodded. ‘You want to snap the lock, Rob, or pop the whole thing in with the Big Red Door Key?’

‘Hmm …’ A frown creased Sergeant Mitchell’s slab of a face. ‘Any chance they’ve barricaded the door?’

Logan shook his head. ‘Doubt it. It’s Spinney’s mum’s house.’

‘Oh.’ Those huge shoulders dipped a bit. ‘Shame. Been ages since we’ve used the chainsaw. OK, we go with popping.’

Carole’s hand was up again. ‘What about dogs? Kids? Firearms?’

‘None that we know of.’

‘Sweet.’

Logan produced the last bit of paperwork. ‘Now, I need everyone to read the warrant and sign it on the back. Then we’ll go do this dunt.’

‘Right, stop here.’ Logan hauled a baggy red hoodie on over his stabproof vest. The bulky padding made it look as if he’d put on two stone. Like the cuddly chunky-monkey Steel claimed to miss so much. A green baseball cap completed the look.

The OSU van pulled in to the side of the road. The thing was all big and white, with ‘POLICE’ down the side in reflective lettering. Riot grille raised. Not exactly subtle.

Sitting opposite, Deano buttoned up an oversized checked shirt. Then pulled a pair of grey joggy bottoms on over his black trousers.

Nicholson sniffed. ‘You both look ridiculous.’

‘Thanks.’ Logan hauled the van’s side door open and hopped out onto the pavement. His fold-down seat snapped back up like a shot going off. ‘OK, I need everyone to set their Airwaves channel to Shire Event Two. No chatter on open comms. Soon as we know someone’s home, we’ll give you the shout.’

Deano climbed out after him, then thumped the door shut and waved as the van pulled away. He followed Logan up the narrow alley joining Harvey Place and Victoria Place. ‘Sarge?’

‘You should have gone before we left the station.’

The sun pounded the tarmac and the houses all around. The smell of freshly cut grass sharp and green on the warm air.

‘No, Sarge. We need to talk about Tufty.’

Out onto Victoria. Quick check left and right, then across the road. ‘What’s he done now?’

‘The STORM actions. He’s done the actual work, he’s just a bit … lackadaisical when it comes to updating the system.’

‘“Lackadaisical”? Hark at you with your big words.’

They headed right, keeping on up the hill. The wee traditional houses on the other side of the road petered out, exposing a straight run of grass down to the cliffs and the sea beyond. This side of the road, a shoulder-high wall kept a swathe of raised lawns in place. Big Eighties-style bungalows sitting well above street level.

‘Maybe, you could cut him a little slack? I know you’re pissed off about the Graham Stirling case, but that’s not Tufty’s fault.’

True. But still …

The 35A bus grumbled past, heading for the hedonistic delights of Elgin.

Logan tucked his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. ‘A boss once told me, there are two kinds of people in this world — carrot people, and stick people.’ To the left, a set of steps were cut into the wall between two of the properties. He took them. ‘You and Janet are carrot people. Tufty couldn’t be more of a stick if he tried.’

‘Probably …’ Up the stairs, along the path, up another set of stairs. Deano was beginning to look a bit puffed. Not surprising. It was baking hot, and the silly sod was wearing two pairs of trousers. ‘But try slipping Tufty the carrot every now and then, eh? If all he ever gets is stick, he’ll end up one big lump of gristle and bruises.’

‘Thought you were his tutor, not his mum.’

‘You want him thinking, “Sod this, I could go work offshore instead”?’

Fair point.

Another set of steps.

‘OK — next time he does something right, I’ll give it a go.’ The stairs came to an end and they emerged onto Provost Gordon Terrace. ‘Talking of carrots, Janet wants to know why she’s not got a nickname. Thinks it’s because she’s a girl.’

This bit of the street was a line of semidetached houses down one side, and the strange front/back gardens of the houses with the raised lawns they’d walked past on Victoria Place. Parking areas and garages and caravans and wheelie bins.

A nice area. Blighted by the presence of two drug-dealing tossers in the next street.

Down to the end of the road, then through a little alley and onto Fairholme Place.

Deano tipped his head at one of the semidetacheds. ‘That it?’

‘Yup.’ To be honest, they all looked alike: two storeys of grey harling with grey pantile roofs. Two windows upstairs. Two down — one belonging to a built-out porch. The only distinguishing feature being that Klingon’s mum had painted her garage door a revolting day-glo purple.

Logan and Deano wandered down the street, hands in pockets. Not a care in the world. Two mates out for an afternoon stroll. Nothing to see here. All nice and innocent.

Deano sniffed. ‘Janet say what kind of nickname she wanted?’

‘I think it’s meant to be up to us.’

‘Clock the car parked outside Klingon’s house. That not Gerbil’s?’

A shabby Honda Civic hatchback with alloy wheels and a red go-faster stripe running across the white paintwork. The passenger door had obviously come from another car — it was a rusty orange colour. A buckled bumper on the rear driver’s side.

‘Yup. We’ve got movement inside too. Top floor, left.’

‘What about … “Killer”? Or, we could go sarcastic with “Cuddles”?’

‘Given the way she makes a cup of tea, we should call her Crippen.’ Logan slipped the Airwave out of his hoodie pocket. Knelt as if he was about to tie his shoelace. Pressed the button. ‘Operation Schofield is go. Silent approach.’

Sergeant Mitchell’s voice crackled out of the handset. ‘And there’s me with “Ride of the Valkyries” all ready to pound out the PA speakers.’ Deep breath. ‘Spartans, tonight we dine in Banff!’

Logan put his Airwave away and looked up at the house. The only way into the back garden was through, or over, the six-foot-high gate. And going by the big yellow padlock on it, through wasn’t really an option. ‘You want front or back?’

‘Rock, paper, scissors?’

Logan held out his fist next to Deano’s. ‘Three, two, one.’

‘Aw … pants.’ Deano pulled up his joggy bottoms and marched across the drive, past the garage and jumped for the top of the fence. Struggled and wriggled over it as the OSU’s van roared around the corner.

It screeched to a halt right in front of Klingon’s mum’s house, the doors sprang open, and Sergeant Mitchell’s team piled out. All done up in their riot gear — crash helmets, elbow and hand pads. Shin guards. Faces obscured behind visors and scarves.

They swarmed over the low garden wall. One of them had the hoolie bar — like a three-foot long metal ice-axe with two prongs on the other end. Another clutched the small red battering ram by its carrying handles. That had to be Mitchell: he was nearly six inches taller than everyone else.

Mitchell swung the Big Red Door Key back and up, then hammered it forwards, right into the middle of the UPVC door — right above the letterbox, between the glass panels. It went right through, collapsing the whole middle of the door, leaving nothing but the outer frame behind.

Then Mitchell flattened himself to the wall and the other three bundled inside.

‘POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!’

He dropped the Big Red Door Key and charged in after them.

Nicholson stepped down from the van. ‘Beautiful sight, isn’t it, Sarge?’

‘Few better.’ Logan pulled the hoodie over his head and chucked it into the van. ‘Listen, about the … The round of teas and coffees we did on Monday night …’

‘Ah.’ She bared her teeth for a second. ‘Yes.’

‘I think it’d probably be best if you and I never talked about it to anyone. Ever. Just in case.’

‘Is it true Dawson’s ended up in hospital?’

‘We’ll keep it as our little secret. OK?’ He cleared his throat. ‘So, what did you and the rest of the Wombles get up to last night? Anything I should know about?’

‘The usual. Spun a few druggies, dealt with a drink driver, two housebreakings, two counts of piddling in doorways. Thrilling stuff.’

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

Logan pressed the button, talking into his shoulder. ‘Spank away, Maggie.’

‘We’ve had a call. Someone spotted Ian Dickinson getting off the bus, with a woman, in Cullen. You’ve got a lookout request for-’

‘Ian Dickinson? Five years old, brown hair, blue eyes? The same Ian Dickinson we found last Thursday? Has he gone missing again, or have they forgotten to take down the posters?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Was he with a big woman with curly hair and a walking stick?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s his mum. Maggie, do me a favour — get onto someone and make sure they cancel the lookout properly this time. And tell them to take down those damn posters.’

A second Transit van rumbled down the road. Parked behind the OSU’s sing-along wagon. Constable Syd Fraser waved at them from behind the wheel, then creaked open the van’s door. ‘Place secure yet?’

‘Working on it.’ He turned back to Nicholson. ‘Anything else?’

Nicholson shrugged. ‘Well, Deano and Tufty stopped a fight outside the Seafield Hotel. There was a break-in at the Spotty Bag Shop. Someone set fire to a bin on Castle Street. I investigated reports of a peeping tom on Melrose Crescent — no joy. And I picked up that old woman wandering up and down Market Street again. That’s two nights in a row. Said she couldn’t sleep in her bed because it was full of rats.’

Syd wandered over to a soundtrack of dogs barking in the back of his Transit. ‘What’s full of rats?’

‘Auld wifie thinks her bed is. Every night they crawl out of the walls and under her duvet. Says it’s driving her mad. I get her back inside and she gives me an earful of abuse about how nobody cares and we’re all bastards. Again.’

A sigh. ‘What idiot thought “Care in the Community” was a good thing?’ Syd leaned back against the OSU van. ‘What are we on for here: heroin? Bit of coke? Weed?’

Logan nodded. ‘Probably.’

‘Good. As long as it isn’t Valium. Enzo’s not been trained to find Valium.’

Nicholson smiled. ‘Aye, aye, getting the excuses in early, are we?’

Logan’s Airwave bleeped.

‘Operation Schofield sont arrivé. Deux hommes dans des handcuffs.’

He smiled. Pressed the talk button. ‘Couldn’t remember the French for handcuffs then?’

‘Everyone’s a critic. Rejoice, sinner, for thy crime scene is secured.’

He fixed the Airwave to the clip on his stabproof vest. Picked his peaked cap from the van and settled it on his head. ‘Right, Syd, time for the hairy boys to shine.’

And please, dear God, let them find something.