The Missing and the Dead

— Friday: Rest Day -
23

‘… going to be with us for the next hour, but first here’s Carol with all your lunchtime news, travel, and weather. Carol.’

‘Thanks, Justin. Greater Glasgow Police are refusing to confirm or deny rumours that three severed feet found in the Clyde yesterday are part of a sectarian feud …’

Logan pulled his rattly Clio into the kerb, opposite the Sergeant’s Hoose. Dug out his phone and checked his messages.

Voicemail from his mother. That got deleted.

A text from Rennie about a dead tramp he’d had to peel out of a wheelie bin back in Aberdeen. Delete.

‘… confirmed that sex-attack-victim Stephen Bisset’s death in Aberdeen Royal Infirmary on Wednesday night is being treated as suspicious. After the collapse of the trial against-’

Logan killed the engine.

Sat in the silence.

Went back to his phone.

A text from Steel was next — moaning about him not going to Jasmine’s dance competition tomorrow. Delete. And another from her about chasing up on Neil Wood’s connections in the sex-offender underground.

And one from Biohazard Bob.

Napier was round here 2day asking loads of questions about U.

Kept asking if U gone mental on this case. Obsessed amp; that.

Watch Ur back: knives R out!

‘Great.’ He thumbed out a response and sent it off. Sat there, staring at the glittering expanse of the North Sea.

Could do a Reginald Perrin. Strip off at the water’s edge and walk out into the waves. Sod off somewhere else …

Then what would Samantha do? Who’d pay her bills?

Yeah. Exactly.

Logan put his phone away and climbed out into the sunshine.

A knot of scruffy blokes and well-dressed women were gathered outside the front of Banff station. Some doing pieces to camera, others smoking and drinking from Styrofoam cups.

What the hell was wrong with Steel? She’d blabbed to the press, even though he’d told her not to.

Idiot.

Out with the phone again.

She picked up on the fourth ring. ‘I’m no’ telling you again: I’m no’ giving you any more money!’

‘What?’

‘What?’ She cleared her throat. ‘Oh … Thought you were someone else. Why are-’

‘What did I tell you last night?’ He stomped across the road to the Sergeant’s Hoose. ‘You leak it, they’re going to trace it right back to you! How could you be so stupid?’

‘Who are you calling stupid? I should-’

‘Telling the media — you really think that’s not going to blow up in your-’

‘Hold your sodding horses right there, Tonto. I didn’t tip anyone off about anything.’

He stuck his head around the corner. The pack of journalists were still there. ‘Then why am I looking at a bunch of idiots from the national press and TV hanging about outside Banff station?’

Silence.

Yeah, she didn’t have an answer to that, did she.

He let himself into the house. ‘What were you thinking?’

Still nothing.

Inside, the sound of tuneless whistling came from the open kitchen door, floating on an air of rich meaty scents.

‘Hello? You still there?’

Helen’s mess of explosive curls poked out of the kitchen. ‘Logan. Hi. Thought I heard something. You’re right on time.’ Her face glowed, the skin pink and shiny.

He closed the front door. ‘Hi. Sorry.’ He pointed at the phone in his other hand.

‘Ah, right. Sorry.’ She backed into the kitchen.

Back to the phone. ‘OK, I’m hanging up. You have-’

‘I didn’t leak sod all to anyone. For your information, Chuckles, the press mosh-pit outside the front door isn’t there for the Tarlair case. It’s no’ there because of me, it’s there because of you.’

Sand and gravel filled Logan’s mouth. ‘Me?’

‘Aye, you. Who’s the idiot now?’

He cleared his throat. Peered through the open kitchen door and out through the window. There had to be at least a dozen of them out there, with their cameras and their microphones and their notepads. ‘Why are they after me?’

‘Why do you think? You screwed up the Graham Stirling case and now Stephen Bisset’s dead.’

Oh God …

Logan stepped away from the door. ‘I’m off duty. Tell them to go away.’

‘Free country. They can hang about if they like, long as they don’t cause a disturbance.’

He rested his head back against the wall. Closed his eyes. ‘It’s not my fault.’

‘Aye, well remember that next time you try calling me an idiot.’

The line went dead.

Perfect. As if Napier’s witch-hunt wasn’t bad enough, without the press banging the drum for a full-on crusade.

‘Logan? You OK?’

Excellent. Couldn’t be better.

He opened his eyes and Helen was standing in the doorway again.

Little wrinkles appeared between her eyebrows. ‘Did something happen at the care home? Is Samantha OK?’

‘Everything’s fine. Just … work.’ He put his phone away. ‘You know what it’s like. Always something.’

‘Anyway, I couldn’t find anything in the kitchen for lunch except tins of lentil soup.’ She turned and headed back into the kitchen. ‘And I know it must be a favourite, otherwise you wouldn’t buy so much of it, but there’s only so much lentil I can take.’

He followed her through. Forced a smile. ‘Smells good, whatever it is.’

‘Mince and tatties. I’m a carrots and peas kind of girl. You didn’t have any Bisto.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Or carrots. Or peas. Or mince. Or onions. You did have potatoes though.’ She produced a pair of plates. ‘Mash, or boiled?’

‘Mash.’

‘Good choice.’ She poured the tatties, then put them back on the stove with milk and a wodge of butter. Stood mashing away with her back to him. ‘It’s Natasha’s favourite.’ Helen fidgeted with her fingers. Looked away. ‘Well, it was when she was wee. “Mint an’ tatties.” I always make too much.’ She pointed at the table, set for two — complete with napkins and glasses of water. ‘Ready to serve up if you are.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Mint an’ tatties. Markanory cheese an’ chibs. She used to love anything you could gloop about with a fork …’ Helen dug the potato masher out of the drawer. ‘Of course Brian always wanted her to eat paella and chorizo and all the rest of it. She told him pale ella tastes of worms. And it’d all kick off again. How I was disrespecting his Spanish heritage. And I’d point out he wasn’t actually Spanish, he was born in Dalkeith. Didn’t even visit Spain till he was three.’ Helen’s head dipped. ‘Same age Natasha was when he abducted her.’

She battered the potatoes into submission. ‘So I’d shut up and make his stupid paella and maybe he wouldn’t scream at me. Or maybe he would. And this, children, is how we play happy families.’

More potato battering.

‘Why didn’t you leave him?’

‘Right, I think we’re about ready.’ She glopped tatties and mince onto two plates. Then sank into the chair opposite.

Logan dug a fork into the mash, scooped up a glob of mince — dark brown, flecked with glistening slivers of onion and emerald green peas.

She rubbed her fingertips across her stomach. Mouth pinched into a circular scar, eyebrows pinched. ‘Is it OK?’

He swallowed. Dug out another forkful. ‘Thanks. It’s lovely.’

‘Are you sure it’s OK? I know lentil soup’s your favourite, but …?’

‘Honestly, it’s great. I’ve got loads of lentil soup because it’s cheap. And you can sling it in a carrier bag and not worry about it going off if you’ve left it in the car, in the sun, for four hours. Every station’s got a microwave and a toaster.’

She watched him shovel down another forkful. ‘So you live on cheap soup and pound-shop bread?’

‘A whole pound? Are you kidding? It’s nowhere near as expensive as that.’

Helen swirled her fork through her mashed potatoes, leaving it raked like a Zen garden. ‘Logan, the thing with work: it wasn’t about Natasha, was it?’

‘No. It’s another case. The labs are still trying to push through the DNA sample you gave us, but …’ A shrug. ‘Not supposed to talk about it, but those severed feet turning up in the Clyde are probably a serial killer. So it’s all hands to the pumps on that before he kills someone else. Or the media find out it’s not some Protestant sectarian gang thing.’

‘I see.’

‘They swear blind our samples will be ready Monday.’

She kept her eyes on her plate. ‘Right.’

They ate in silence for a bit.

Logan tried for a laugh. Didn’t quite make it. ‘Suppose that means you’re stuck with me for the weekend.’

The clock on the wall ticked.

Helen had a sip of water. ‘I was thinking, if we finish painting the bedroom today, I could get cracking on the lounge tomorrow while you’re at work. If that’s all right?’

He reached across the table and took her hand. ‘If I could get them to go any faster, I would. I promise.’

‘I know.’