The Missing and the Dead

24

‘… every single time: rats in her bed. And she hates the police.’ Nicholson clicked the mouse, sending the morning briefing PowerPoint onto the next slide. A grainy CCTV image of what looked like a mosh pit outside a pub. ‘OK, so there was a mass altercation outside the Fish and Futrit, in Peterhead, last night — wedding reception got a bit out of hand.’

She looked at Logan.

He took a sip of tea. ‘As a result, the Peterhead cells are full and the overspill’s in Fraserburgh. Which means …?’ He thumped a hand down on Tufty’s shoulder, making him flinch.

‘Er … They’ve got to have two people manning the cell blocks, because it’s the law?’

‘And when do the courts open again?’

‘Monday?’

‘So?’

‘So …’ Frown. Think. Think. Think. ‘They’re going to be short-staffed all weekend?’

‘Correct. You win a Crackerjack pencil.’ That got him a confused look. ‘We’re close to minimum staffing levels everywhere, so losing two officers in Peterhead and Fraserburgh means we’re going to have to pick up the slack.’

Groans.

‘Yes, I know. Take it up with the bride and groom’s families.’

Tufty stuck his hand up. ‘Can’t we get some bodies from the Tarlair MIT?’

‘They’ve scaled back the team. Going to run the bulk of it out of Aberdeen instead, to — and I quote — “maximize operational efficiencies”. AKA: so they don’t have to pay overnights or accommodation.’

Deano twiddled his CS gas canister in its holder. ‘Meaning: they’ve achieved sod all, and now they’re running away home.’

‘Couldn’t possibly comment.’ Logan nodded at Nicholson. ‘Janet?’

‘Luckily it’s pretty q …’ She cleared her throat. ‘We’re not anticipating much happening on a Saturday morning.’

Deano hissed a breath in through his teeth. ‘Ooh, so close to jinxing the whole shift.’

‘Shut up.’ Back to the slides. ‘Anyway. Other things last night: house fire in Rosehearty — one of the cottages on North Street went up. Not being treated as suspicious at this point. Four break-ins at Pennan during the wee small hours — variety of electrical goods, books, knick-knacks, and some jewellery reported missing.’

Logan put his mug down. ‘Deano, you and Tufty go past and do the CSI thing. Photos and fingerprints. Fly the flag.’

‘Sarge.’

‘Four break-ins is a lot for somewhere that wee. Door-to-door the whole village. I want to get a result on this one.’

Nicholson moved on. ‘Two drink drivers taken — one outside Strichen, the other on the A947 north of Keilhill. Silly sod left the road and ended up on his roof in a field. And last, but not least, our boy the peeper’s prowling Melrose Crescent again. We now have a description.’ Click, and the screen changed to a hazy identikit picture of a man. ‘Vague and blurry and sod all use.’

She sat back in her seat. ‘Sarge?’

‘Good. Right, first off: I understand congratulations are in order for Deano’s barbecue on Thursday night …’

Nicholson and Tufty clapped while Deano did a slow three-sixty spin on his office chair, both hands in the air as if he’d just run a marathon, or been asked to hand over his wallet at gunpoint. ‘Thank you, thank you.’

A grin from Tufty. ‘Should’ve been there, Sarge. We had a bouncy castle!’

‘Seriously?’

Nicholson nodded. ‘My uncle’s got one. Says we can have it for the station open day in June, if we want.’

‘Done.’ Logan pulled out his notebook and scribbled it down. ‘Secondly: Klingon and Gerbil have been remanded without bail. Pair of them are going to be banged up in Craiginches till it’s time to try them. Word from Queen Street is that our involvement will be restricted to giving evidence in court, they’ve set up an MIT to handle everything else.’

Deano puffed out his cheeks. ‘Big of them.’

‘And thirdly: I don’t care if the Tarlair MIT is slinking off back to Aberdeen with its tail between its legs, it doesn’t mean we’re giving up. Keep your eyes open when you’re out there, OK? Neil Wood didn’t vanish off the face of the earth, he went to ground. He has to come out sometime.’ Logan thumped his notebook closed. ‘And when he does, we’re going to be there to nab him.’

There was a knock on the Sergeants’ Office door, and Tufty stuck his head in. ‘Sarge? Did you know there’s a tramp sleeping in the canteen?’

Logan looked up from his keyboard. Frowned. ‘Tramp?’

‘Half sprawled across the table. Snoring and farting.’

He sat back in his seat. Narrowed his eyes. ‘Male or female?’

‘Woman. Hair all Albert Einstein meets semtex.’

Of course it was.

‘Better put the kettle on, Tufty. One coffee: milk and two. I’ll have a tea.’

‘Sarge.’

‘And give your tramp a poke. Send her through.’

Logan went back to his screen, checking the other Banff station teams were up to date with their actions. Adding comments. Flagging a couple to follow up.

Next up: Crimefile.

‘Gnnnph …’ Steel slumped against the doorframe, looking as if she’d hired a drunken gorilla as a personal stylist. Her mouth cracked wide in a long shuddering yawn that ended with a little burp. Then some blinking.

He checked his watch. ‘It’s not even eight yet. To what do we owe this honour?’

‘I hate dayshift.’ Another yawn.

Tufty reappeared with a mug in either hand. Put one down on Logan’s desk, then looked from him to the scruffy monster slouched on the threshold and back again. ‘Sarge?’

Steel stuck out both hands. ‘Coffee. Coffee, now. Coffee make feel better.’

Logan logged into Crimefile. ‘Constable Stewart Quirrel, meet Detective Chief Inspector Roberta Steel. Tarlair Major Investigation Team.’

‘Ah. OK. Here you go, Boss.’ He passed her the other mug.

She buried her face in it, making slurping noises.

Tufty pulled his eyebrows up and his mouth down at the edges, doing a fair impression of a startled frog. Then jerked his head at Steel a couple of times. Creased his nose, as if he’d caught a whiff of something stinky. Steel still hadn’t looked up from her coffee.

‘All right, Tufty, that’s enough. Go find something useful to do.’

‘You want me and Deano to hit Pennan?’

‘Have you finished updating your actions?’

Pink bloomed across Tufty’s cheeks. ‘Sarge.’

Soon as he was gone, Steel scuffed her way over to the desk that backed onto Logan’s and collapsed into the chair. Cracked another huge juddering yawn. ‘Pfff … Your bed’s a lot comfier than that manky hotel.’

‘You look like you climbed out of a skip.’

‘I hate you …’ More slurping at the mug. ‘Why haven’t I got any biscuits?’

‘Ask your boyfriend, DS Dawson.’ Logan checked his Crimefile in-tray. Three requests to put a tweet out about a serious assault in Mintlaw. The face of modern policing.

‘Do you a swap: your hovel for my nice luxurious hotel room. Wee bottles of shampoo and all the fresh towels you can eat.’

‘Nope. What’s happening with your Tarlair case?’

‘You get breakfast too. Sausage, egg, and tattie scones. You’d like that. Put a bit of meat on your bones.’

‘Did you come in here to moan, or are you planning on doing some actual work today?’

She hunched forward in her seat, both hands wrapped around her mug as if it was the only thing keeping her from freezing to death. ‘They’re winding us back again. Four days and we’ve no’ got a single sodding clue about who the wee girl is, or who killed her.’

‘I heard.’ He popped onto Twitter and hammered in the requested appeal for witnesses. Fighting crime 140 characters at a time. ‘So you’re heading back to Aberdeen then.’

At least that meant they’d get their station back. Could throw open a few windows and get rid of the stink of desperation, failure, and the aftermath of too many laxatives.

‘You should be so lucky.’ She stretched out her arms, twisted her head to one side and arched her back. Grunted. Yawned. Shuddered. ‘Skeleton staff are staying behind to direct B Division in its enquiries.’

Of course they were.

‘So, basically, the MIT couldn’t find its own backside in a sleeping bag, and now it’s our problem.’ He closed his eyes, folded forward and dunked his forehead off the desk. ‘Oh, lucky us.’

‘You’re in no position to be sarcastic. Stephen Bisset’s dead, remember?’

As if he could forget, with it being all over the papers for the last two days. At least they’d given up hanging about outside the station.

Steel poked him in the shoulder. ‘And do you know what they found when they went through the CCTV from the hospital? Sod all. Ran all the faces through the system and not one of them’s got anything to do with Stirling. So your “accomplice” theory’s about as much use as DS Rennie.’ She cricked her head from side to side. Rubbed at the base of her neck. ‘Still can’t believe no one saw anything.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want to head back to Aberdeen with the rest of them? Maybe leave someone less annoying behind instead?’

‘You’d think they’d notice a bloke going in, having a wank over Stephen Bisset, and suffocating him, wouldn’t you? Got to be a wee bit conspicuous, standing there with your sausage d’amour in one hand and a pillow in the other.’

Logan stared at her. ‘They found semen on the body? Do a DNA match!’

‘Aye, thank you, Hercule Poirot, we had actually thought of that. No hit from the database. Tell you, the press will go ape when it comes out.’ She blew out a sigh, slurped down some more coffee. ‘Was bad enough when they only had Graham Stirling to batter us with, but this? This piles on extra baboons. Wee sod might be keeping his head down right now, but you can bet your itchy police trousers he’ll be back with a massive law suit, and it’ll all flange up again. See if I was you? I’d be sucking up to anyone in a position to deflect a bit of the crap away from me.’

‘I told you: I’m not joining your MIT. I can’t.’

She held up her hands. ‘Just saying.’

‘Well, just don’t. It’s bad enough-’

Three quick knocks on the door, and Steel’s right-hand woman stuck her head into the Sergeants’ Office. ‘Boss?’

Steel didn’t even look at her. ‘For the last time, Becky, you’re no’ escaping back to Aberdeen till Dawson gets out of hospital. You’re no’ much, but you’re all I’ve got to keep these bunnets in line.’

DS McKenzie’s neck darkened and the creases around the bottom of her mouth deepened. ‘It’s about the CCTV footage from the hospital. There’s no one on it that isn’t meant to be, right? I mean we’ve got doctors, nurses, volunteers, that consultant urologist …’ She left a dramatic pause. ‘And Bisset’s kids.’

Steel rested her elbows on the desk, head dangling over the coffee cup. ‘You seriously suggesting it was his kids?’

McKenzie stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. ‘I know it’s a long shot, but think about it. They-’

‘Laz, I’m too knackered. You do it.’

Logan pointed at the spare seat. ‘You want to sit?’

She didn’t. Instead she leaned on Steel’s side of the desk. ‘Come on, Boss, no one’s ever going to suspect them, are they?’

He bit down on his lips. Be nice. ‘Well …’ Frown. No point making her look stupid, but it wouldn’t be easy. ‘I can see where you’re coming from, DS McKenzie, but it doesn’t really tally with the semen they found on Stephen Bisset’s body.’

Silence. Then McKenzie’s face creased in around her nose. ‘Sod.’

Steel must have decided that she could be bothered after all, because she sat up. Pointed. ‘They’re brother and sister, Becky. They’re no’ likely to murder their dear old dad then crack one off over his still-warm corpse, are they? It’s Aberdeen, no’ Game of Sodding Thrones.’

The flush on DS McKenzie’s neck deepened. She forced a smile that looked painful as a whole-pineapple suppository. ‘I see …’ Deep breath. Her chin came up. ‘Anything else?’

Steel waved a hand in the vague direction of the door. ‘Away and see if anyone’s spotted Neil Wood yet. Nonces don’t vanish into thin air.’

A curt nod. ‘Boss.’ Then daggers at Logan, as if somehow it was his fault. ‘Sergeant.’ And she was off, slamming the door on the way.

The blast of air ruffled the Post-its stuck to Logan’s desk.

He blew out a breath. ‘That went well.’

‘Told you — one poke away from an aneurism.’

‘So stop poking her.’ He skiffed his fingertips back and forth on the desktop a couple of times. Looked out of the window as the guilt twisted a little knife into his chest. ‘DS Dawson’s still in hospital then?’

‘Serves him right. Never trust a kebab, that’s my motto.’ She slurped at her coffee again, then frowned. ‘Sure you’ve no’ got any biscuits?’

The familiar, depressing sounds of a hospital ticking over, hummed and buzzed and clanked and murmured down the corridor. Logan stuck his back to the wall and his finger in his other ear. ‘Say again, Deano?’

‘Aye, that’s us going round and round Rundle Avenue again. Got a call your mate Frankie Ferris was getting a lot of visitors.’

Logan checked his watch. ‘At twenty past eight on a Saturday morning? Only way he’s awake this early is if he didn’t go to bed last night.’

‘My thoughts exactly. But we got the call, so we diverted from Pennan to drive round and round in circles looking for early-riser druggies who don’t exist.’

The door at the end of the corridor opened and a young woman in pale blue scrubs stepped out. Stack of folders pinned under one arm. Short brown hair, twin scars reaching from beneath her nose and through her top lip.

‘OK: give it another couple of laps then call it. With Klingon and Gerbil out of the way, someone’s got to be picking up the slack. Might as well be Frankie Ferris.’ Logan stuck his Airwave back on his shoulder and walked over. ‘Doctor?’

She flashed him a smile that looked as if it needed another eight hours’ sleep. ‘Can I help you?’

Logan pointed at the door she’d come out of. ‘Jack Simpson.’

‘Ah, right.’ One of the folders came out and she rummaged inside it. Produced a sheet of paper and squinted at it. ‘Concussion, ruptured spleen, fractured skull, broken ribs, left femur, right tibula and fibula, left humerus and-’

‘That’s the one. He awake yet?’

She pursed her lips for a moment. Sniffed. Probably not used to being cut off mid-flow. ‘Mr Simpson regained consciousness this morning. The swelling’s gone down, so we’re confident he’ll make a complete recovery. Though, obviously, he’s going to need a lot of physiotherapy.’

‘Can I talk to him?’

‘I’ve got to warn you, he’s a bit … fractious.’

No surprise there — Jack Simpson probably hadn’t had a day off the heroin in years. Still, at least he’d have been sedated through the worst of the withdrawal symptoms.

Logan slipped into the room.

The blinds were half open, throwing bars of light across the floor and bed. A TV set was mounted to the wall, the picture flickering in time with some far-off machinery. A reporter in a suit was doing a piece to camera, microphone held like a knuckleduster in one hand. ‘… Prime Minister announced today that Detective Constable Mary Ann Nasrallah of Merseyside Police would be posthumously awarded the Queen’s Police Medal for Gallantry. We’re over live to Westminster …’

Jack Simpson lay spread out on top of the sheets: both arms and both legs in plaster, a neck brace squeezing his chin up, bandages around his head. Face a dark swathe of purple and yellow. Lips swollen and lined with scabs.

‘… dedicated undercover officer whose tragic shooting last Sunday only goes to demonstrate-’

Logan killed the TV with the remote. Gave Jack Simpson a smile. ‘Klingon and Gerbil really did a number on you, didn’t they, Jack?’

Two bloodshot eyes blinked back at him. ‘Gntt sttfffd.’

‘Now, now, is that any way to talk to the guy who saved your life?’ He carried the plastic chair from the corner to the bedside. Settled into it. ‘Sorry, didn’t bring you any grapes.’

‘Mm nntt saynn nthnn.’

‘OK, how about you listen for a bit instead? When I found you in Klingon’s attic, you were half dead. Between the internal bleeding, toxic shock, and dehydration, the doctors say you’d have lasted maybe another day. Maybe two. Max.’

Simpson lay there, scowling at the ceiling.

‘They tried to kill you, Jack. They nearly battered you to death, then they stuck you in the attic. If I hadn’t looked up there, that would’ve been it. No more Jack Simpson.’

Not that anyone would really have mourned that loss. There wasn’t a single ‘GET WELL SOON’ card in the room; no teddy bears, Mylar balloons, or bunches of flowers. The only things decorating the unit by the bed were a sippy cup and a box of tissues.

But then who was going to wish a drug dealer a speedy recovery? By now his customers would have found someone else to sell their favourite poison. Not even his mum and dad cared about poor old Jack Simpson.

Logan leaned forward and knocked on the cast encasing Simpson’s right arm. ‘Do you want Klingon and Gerbil to get away with it? Let bygones be bygones?’

A breath hissed out between the cracked lips. ‘Klll thmmm.’

‘How you going to do that, Jack?’ He pointed at the bag hanging on a stand beneath the level of the bed, connected to a tube that disappeared under Simpson’s hospital gown. ‘You can’t even pee on your own.’

Logan sat forward. Lowered his voice. ‘Right now, they’ll be cutting a deal. Ratting out whoever sold them the drugs in exchange for a reduced sentence. Who knows, if the intel’s good enough, they might even walk. That what you want?’

A cough. Then another one. Spittle flying from his lips. Eyes squeezed shut, chipped teeth bared with every convulsion. Till it was over and he slumped back into his pillow. Dragging in rattly breaths. Face nearly scarlet between the bruises. ‘Watrr …’

Logan took the sippy cup from the beside unit and held it to Simpson’s lips. ‘Slow and steady. That’s it. Don’t choke yourself.’

The breathing slowed, his face returning to its normal unhealthy pallor.

‘Better?’

‘Am I under arrest?’ The words came out with a slight lisp.

‘Nope. You’re the victim here, Jack. All we want is to make sure the guys who did this to you don’t get away with it.’

He frowned at the ceiling for a bit.

A trolley clattered by in the corridor outside.

Voices faded in the distance.

Then Simpson nodded — not much, just a small bob of the chin, restrained by the neck brace. ‘A scummer from down south supplied the stuff.’

‘Hold on.’ Logan slipped the elastic band off his body-worn video and set it recording. ‘Sergeant Logan McRae, eight thirty-two a.m., twenty-fourth of May, Chalmers Hospital. Interview with Jack Simpson.’ Pulled out his notebook. ‘OK, back to the beginning. Who supplied the heroin in Colin Spinney’s mum’s house?’

That got him a look. ‘His mum’s house? You mental? She’s been gone for, like, years.’

‘Years? I know she’s in Australia, but-’

‘Guy who supplied the drugs was a Geordie, or a Scouser. Somewhere like that with the accent, you know?’

Logan scribbled it down. ‘What’s his name?’ Probably a waste of time: Klingon and Gerbil would have spilled their guts to whoever was running the investigation in five minutes flat. By now, their supplier would be under arrest, or on the run. Either way, he wouldn’t be hanging around Banff. But still …

‘Nah.’ Simpson looked as if he was trying to frown, but his battered face wasn’t cooperating. ‘Called him some stupid nickname, like … Candleman? Or Candlestick Man? Something like that. Only met him once: short, and broad, you know? Like a wee rugby player, or a boxer. Hard man.’

‘Age? Hair colour? Distinguishing features?’

‘Vicious bastard stood there, egging Gerbil and Klingon on while they took turns with the baseball bat …’ Tears glistened Simpson’s eyes. Spilled over onto his bruised cheeks. ‘Told them they had to … had to keep …’ He pulled his head back an inch, fighting against the neck brace, pushing himself into the pillows. Blinking it back. ‘I’m lying there on the garage floor, screaming and trying to cover my head, and they’re hammering away at me, and everything’s … God it hurt so bad.’ The tears were flowing freely now, a line of silver bubbling out of one nostril as he shook. ‘And they laughed! They laughed as they battered the crap out of me.’ A shudder ran up his body, setting the casts twitching. Deep breaths, wheezing on the way in, hissing on the way out.

Logan put his pen down. ‘You want a break?’

‘Want a sodding hit. The morphine here’s pish …’

It took a couple of minutes, but the shudders passed, and Simpson’s breathing returned to normal.

Logan pulled two tissues from the unit by the bed. Stood and dabbed at Simpson’s face with them. Cleared up the tears and the worst of the snot. ‘What did you do, Jack? Why did the …’ He sat down again and checked his notes. ‘Why did this Candlestick Man want Kevin McEwan and Colin Spinney to kill you?’

‘Kill us? Naw, that was just day one.’ What was probably meant to be a laugh crowbarred its way out of Jack Simpson’s ruined mouth. ‘Scummers hauled me out the attic next day and did it again. And the day after. I begged them to kill me.’

‘But they wouldn’t.’

‘Candleboy told them this was how they built a rep. A week of … of breaking every bone in my body, then turf me out on the street. And when word got round no one would ever screw with them again.’ He bared the jagged stumps of his teeth. ‘Wasn’t personal, it was business.’

‘So why’d they pick you?’

A tiny little smile curled one side of Simpson’s mouth. ‘Turns out they don’t like it when you help yourself to free samples …’