The Missing and the Dead

50

A uniformed officer hurried across the car park behind Fraserburgh station, an Asda carrier bag dangling from one hand, the other pinning his peaked cap to his head. Rain bounced off the shoulders of his high-vis jacket, dripping off the hem like a personal waterfall. He gave the Big Car a quick nod as he passed, then disappeared through the back door into the place.

Sitting in the driver’s seat, Nicholson raised an eyebrow, mouth contorted into a half-smile, half-frown. Little red lines scratched around the side of her cheeks, each bearing tiny dots of dried blood like jewels on a necklace. ‘The Cashline Ram-Raiders, and the scumbag who shot Constable Mary Ann Nasrallah. Not bad for an old man.’

A grin cracked across Logan’s face. ‘Shut up and drive.’ He poked the Duty Inspector’s number into his Airwave handset. ‘Bravo India from Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

‘Go ahead, Sergeant.’

So he was still ‘Sergeant’, was he? Time to change that.

‘We’ve caught the Cashline Ram-Raiders.’

Nothing.

Nicholson pulled away from Fraserburgh station, joining the steady stream of lunchtime traffic.

‘You still there, Guv?’

‘You caught them?’

‘And done the preliminary interviews. Three of the gang are no-commenting, but the guy who drives the removal van has dobbed the lot of them in. Get the feeling they’ll reciprocate soon as they find out he’s shafted them.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘Three hours ago, about a mile south of New Aberdour. Got backup from Mintlaw Traffic.’

The houses thinned, then disappeared in the rear-view mirror.

‘And it’s definitely them?’

‘They do the raid with a stolen car, race off to where they’ve got a big removal van waiting, down some quiet wee country road, and they load the four-by-four into the back using a pair of metal ramps. Strap the car down, close the door, and drive the van back the way they came. Any police pursuit wheechs right past them like a bunch of numpties with all lights blazing.’

Blue patches peeked through between the heavy clouds. A rainbow marked the death of the fallen rain.

‘Logan, that’s excellent. Really, excellent.’

And he was ‘Logan’ again. ‘Couldn’t have done it without Constables Nicholson, Scott, and Quirrel. Proper team effort.’

Sitting behind the wheel, Nicholson beamed.

‘Then we’re on for drinks tonight. I may even spring for chips.’

‘Thanks, Guv.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Heading back to Banff now. Late lunch, then off patrolling again.’

A shaft of sunlight made it through the lid of grey, making the fields glow.

Nicholson glanced at him. ‘Did they get a replacement for Sergeant Muir then?’

‘No idea.’

‘Well, how are you going to make chips and drinks if you’re pulling a green shift?’

Good point. He pressed the button again. ‘Guv, you still there? Anyone standing in for Davey Muir tonight?’

‘Damn.’ There was a pause. ‘No, not yet. Let me have a rake around. Must be someone who needs the overtime.’

‘Thanks, Guv.’ Beer and chips … The smile died on his face. What about Helen? Assuming, of course, she was still there when he got back. It wasn’t her daughter, why would she hang around a wee town on the north coast of Aberdeenshire? No, she’d be off to the next abduction scene. Chasing the hope. Goodbye, Banff. Goodbye, Logan.

Couldn’t really blame her.

But it had been nice to have someone there for a change. Even if it was only for a-

Nicholson poked him in the arm. ‘Sarge, you OK?’ She pointed at the Airwave in his hand.

‘Hello? Logan? You still there?’

‘Sorry, Guv, thought I saw something.’

‘Logan, when you’ve eaten, I need you back in the station. You’ve got an appointment.’

‘I do? OK.’ That was news. ‘Anyone in particular?’

‘Chief Superintendent Napier.’

Again?

Typical: couldn’t even enjoy half an hour of success without the ginger whinger swooping down and spoiling everything.

‘He say what it’s about?’

‘Operation Troposphere.’

Great. Just great.

Nicholson pulled up outside the Sergeant’s Hoose. Cleared her throat, and kept her eyes dead ahead. ‘Sarge, is it true you’re … Well, that you and the dead wee kid’s mum are … You know?’

‘No. Now go get yourself some lunch and I’ll see you back in the station at quarter to.’

A small sigh. ‘Sarge.’

He climbed out into the sun. Leaned back into the car. ‘And get some Savlon on those scratches.’ Then thunked the door closed and watched the Big Car drive away.

Logan pulled out his phone and selected Steel ~ Mob from his contacts. Above his head, clouds chased each other across the dark-grey sky, wind whipping the weeds growing in the Sergeant’s Hoose gutters. Have to do something about that.

A plastic bag went tumbling by.

Then, ‘Aye, this is Steel. No’ answering the phone right now, but you can blah, blah, blah …’ Beeeeep.

‘It’s Logan. Listen, Napier’s turned up at Banff station wanting to give me another bollocking about Operation Troposphere. Call me back, OK?’

He put his phone away, then let himself in through the front door. ‘Helen? You there?’

Silence.

Of course she wasn’t. She was on her way back to Edinburgh, looking for the next lead on her missing daughter.

His shoulders dipped a little.

Then thump, thump, thump, as Cthulhu pooked her way down the stairs. She wound herself around his ankles, purring and meeping.

‘Still got each other, haven’t we?’ He bent and scooped her up, turning her upside down and rubbing her tummy as she stretched out her arms and legs, rumbling like ball bearings in a tumble drier. ‘Who’s Daddy’s best kitten?’ He carried her down the hall towards the kitchen. ‘You are. Yes you are. You’re my pretty little girl.’

He pushed the door open and stopped.

Helen sat at the little table, with a mug of what probably used to be tea and a bottle of supermarket brandy. When she looked up her eyes were red, her nose too. She sniffed, wiped the back of a hand across her eyes. ‘Sorry.’

‘What happened?’

‘She’s not dead.’

Logan turned Cthulhu the right way up and lowered her onto the table. ‘I thought that was a good thing this morning?’

The cat stood where she was for a moment, then butted her head against Helen’s shoulder and thumped down to the floor. Wandered off with her tail in the air and her bumhole on display.

‘It is. It isn’t.’ She poured a slug of brandy into her mug, then took a sip. ‘Like being beaten up, every time.’

He sank into the chair opposite. ‘I’m sorry it’s not her. And I’m glad she’s not dead.’

‘I didn’t even make anything for lunch.’

‘Don’t worry about it. There’s still some leftover mince and tatties, I could microwave that? Or we could tart it up with baked beans and make Mexican mince? Be like the Seventies all over again.’

She stared at the bitten fingernails resting against the brandy bottle. ‘Logan …’

‘I know.’ He stood. Fought his way out of his protective gear. ‘You have to go.’ He took the bowl of mince out of the fridge and topped it up with a tin of own-brand beans. Chucked in some chilli powder and stirred the lot into a gloopy mush. Kept his eyes on the lumpy surface, not looking at her. ‘But you don’t have to go right now, do you? You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.’ It went in the microwave, at full power. ‘Why not stay till your next lead comes up? It’s … nice having you here.’

Lunch buzzed around in its slow pirouette.

Behind him: the sound of a chair scraping backwards. Then her arms wrapped around his chest, squeezing. He put a hand on hers.

She kissed the back of his neck. ‘Your poor head’s all bruised.’

‘Helen, I-’

‘Shh … No talking.’

By the time the microwave went ping, they were already upstairs.

Nicholson frowned at him. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing happened.’ Logan chucked his teabag in the bin. ‘I smile like this all the time.’

‘No you don’t. Your cheeks are all rosy too.’

‘Had a good lunch.’ Milk. Stir. Let the spoon clang and clatter in the stainless-steel sink. ‘You seen Tufty? I popped past the Spotty Bag Shop and made him a badge.’

‘Out patrolling with Deano.’

Logan dug into his pocket and produced the paper bag the badge came in. Held it out.

Nicholson peered inside. ‘Oh. Erm …’ Wrinkles appeared between her eyebrows. She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. ‘Not to be funny, Sarge, but that’s not how you spell “genius”.’

‘I know. How long do you think it’ll take him to notice?’

‘Fiver says Wednesday.’

‘I bet he’s still wearing it when we start back on nights, Friday.’ Logan took a sip of tea. Glanced up at the ceiling. Two floors up, Napier was waiting. Ah well. ‘Right, I’ve got a meeting. Take the Big Car and drift about on Rundle for a bit, then head over to Macduff and see if you can find something out about that peeping tom. Look for patterns — are there specific days he likes to peep? What about times?’

‘Sarge.’

Logan took his tea through to the Sergeants’ Office. Someone had dumped a big box of stolen garden gnomes on his desk, so he shifted them to the other side. Then stood, staring out of the window.

Steel was out there, marching up and down in the courtyard behind the building, phone pressed to her ear.

‘Sergeant McRae?’

He turned.

Maggie stood in the doorway holding a short stack of Post-it notes. ‘Got some messages.’

‘Let me guess: I’ve won the lottery?’

‘Sorry.’ She peered at Post-it number one. ‘A Lesley Spinney’s been in three times, demanding to know when she can get back in her house. Klingon’s mother?’

‘No idea. She’ll have to ask DCI McInnes — I’m not allowed to interfere.’ A point that Napier was no doubt about to ram home with a tiny size-six boot.

Post-it number two. ‘We’ve had a complaint about an … ahem, “aroused” male dancing naked down Harbour Road in Gardenstown?’

‘Tell Deano and Tufty to take a swing by, see if anyone recognizes this fine upstanding member of the community.’

Post-it number three. ‘Sean MacLauchlan called — he’s running the investigation into the fire last night. Says it was definitely deliberate. Apparently something about the burn patterns means the place was doused with petrol first, then torched.’

Not exactly a huge surprise, but at least they were doing something.

‘Thanks, Maggie.’

He took his tea through to the main office. Deano appeared in the doorway, head down, shoulders back, face like a Rottweiler eating nettles, storming by on his way to the Constables’ Office. Thirty seconds later, Tufty lumbered by, straining under the weight of a large plastic crate.

Logan pointed. ‘What did you do to Deano?’

‘Wasn’t me, Sarge.’ Tufty shuffled into the room and lowered his crate down onto an empty desk. ‘God, these weigh a ton.’

‘Come on: he looked like he was about to murder someone.’

Tufty reached into the crate and produced a garden gnome. ‘Found them planked in the graveyard, posed like they were having a wee orgy.’ He pulled another one out and made them kiss. ‘Oh yeah, you’re so sexy Mr Fishy Gnome. I love you too Mr Diggy Gnome.’ He puckered his lips and made kissy-kissy noises. Looked up. ‘What?’

‘Never mind, I know what you did.’

The gnomes went back in the crate. ‘I went digging, like you asked, Sarge.’ Tufty produced his notepad. ‘Helen Edwards’s ex-husband, Brian Menendez Edwards: thirty-eight, IC-Two male, born in Kilmarnock. Went to Stirling University studying-’

‘Skip to the relevant bit, while we’re all still young enough to enjoy it.’

‘Oh. Right.’ He flipped forward a couple of pages. ‘Here we go: Brian Edwards did a runner from the accountants he worked at not long before a massive fraud turned up. Firm says he got away with quarter of a million. Went out to lunch, picked up his daughter from school — middle of a PE lesson — and got the next flight to Spain from Edinburgh airport.’

‘He pack bags and things?’

‘Yup. Bought his tickets in advance as well. Looks like he’d been planning it for weeks. Far as local plod could tell, he got met at the airport by a cousin from Vilar.’ Tufty waved his other hand from side to side. ‘Sort of in the west of the country, not that touristy. His mum’s family have a farm in the hills around there.’

‘Extradition?’

‘No joy. Sounds like a pretty half-arsed investigation to be honest. I checked births, marriages, and death records online, but nothing for Brian Edwards. So I tried the family name, Guerra, in case he changed his, you know, to blend in? A Brian Menendez Guerra got married in the Iglesia Catedral de San Martín, Ourense.’ Tufty put on a Spanish accent for the place names. ‘That was three months after Brian Menendez Edwards got off the plane with his kidnapped wee girl. So technically he’d still be married to Helen Edwards at the time.’

Three months after he snatched his daughter — exactly the time he sent that postcard from Ourense, telling Helen she was a useless ugly cow and no one would ever love her. Did he post it before, or after the wedding ceremony?

Yeah, Brian Edwards just got lovelier and lovelier.

A nod. ‘Thanks Tufty.’

That got a beaming smile. ‘I did good?’

‘You did good. Now have a dig around for Brian Menendez Guerra — did he ever come to the UK? Where is he now, are there photos of him on Facebook, that kind of thing.’

‘Will do, Sarge.’ Tufty put his snogging gnomes in their box again and humped the lot off to the Constables’ Office.

Logan checked his watch. Napier would be waiting. Sharpening his knives.

Need to do something first, though.

Steel was still wandering back and forth in the courtyard behind the station, so Logan went through the door by the reception hatch, into the hall, past the stairwell, left at the interview rooms, and finally out of the old cellblock door.

The building acted as a windbreak on three sides, with its plain stone walls and barred windows. Cracks broke the concrete courtyard into a chessboard patchwork, and the only thing winning was the moss. All of it bathed in a spotlight of sunshine.

Steel got to the far end, then turned and marched back towards him. ‘… I’ve no idea, Susan, I really don’t. … I know. I’ve tried, but he says he really can’t stand your mother. Says if she comes to the dinner, he won’t. … I know, he’s a complete …’ Her head came up. She blinked at Logan a couple of times. ‘I’ll call you back.’ The phone went in an inside pocket. ‘Well, well, if it’s no’ Mr Grumpy.’

‘Did you get my message?’

She crossed the last couple of feet between them and plucked the mug of tea from his fingers. ‘Ta.’ Took a slurp. ‘What happened to the sugar?’

‘It’s not your sodding tea.’

‘Is now.’ The fake cigarette came out, and got plugged into the side of her mouth. ‘Got any biscuits?’

‘Napier’s upstairs waiting for me.’

‘Again? He must fancy you something rotten.’

‘Wants to shout at me for interfering with Operation Troposphere.’

‘Serves you right.’ She had a couple of puffs, then dribbled steam out of her nose. ‘You know where I spent most of the morning? Peterhead, rummaging through Neil Wood’s bed and breakfast. There’s three hours I’m never getting back. And his taste in soft furnishings is abysmal. Worse than your mum’s.’

‘Hard to believe.’ Logan stared at the cracked concrete around his feet. ‘Look, if you wanted to interrupt my interview and drag me away again, I’d be OK with that. I don’t know, we could traipse round all the sex offenders again, if you like?’

Another slurp of tea, then she turned and pointed at an old granite stone, mounted above the Constables’ Office window. All the stone bricks were the colour of slate, but this one was an ancient grey, sitting next to a coat of arms above the lintel. The words carved into it were still chisel sharp:

‘That no’ a strange thing to put on a police station?’

‘Wasn’t always a police station. Used to be a bank at one point. And they cannibalized something else to make that. Probably a merchant’s house. It basically says, “Don’t bear false witness”.’

‘No it doesn’t, it says, “Nobody likes a clype”.’

‘Speaking of which: Napier.’

‘Can’t. I’ve got a conference call with Finnie in two. You’ll have to take your medicine like a big boy …’ She narrowed her eyes. Tilted her head to one side. ‘You’ve been up to something, haven’t you? You’re all rosy and glowing.’

‘Not you as well.’ Logan folded his arms. ‘I haven’t been up to anything. Now, if you’ll-’

‘You have. What is it? What did you do?’

Don’t flinch. Don’t let her know about Helen. ‘I caught the Cashline Ram-Raiders. They had a whole MIT on that for a fortnight, and who solved it? Me.’

‘Aye, well done, Inspector Morse.’ She took the e-cigarette from her mouth. ‘Don’t suppose your little grey cells have come up with anything about our wee dead girl, have they?’

‘Grey cells are Poirot, not Morse.’ He dug into his pocket and produced the sheet of paper with its boxes and lines and paedophiles’ names. Unfolded it and handed it over. ‘That’s all I can remember from Charles Anderson’s garage. The ones with question marks, I’m not sure of.’

A sniff. ‘Better than nothing, I suppose.’

He turned and marched back inside. Stopped at the door. ‘You sure you can’t interrupt Napier?’

‘You want a bit of advice about dealing with the Ginger Ninja?’

‘If it’ll help.’

Steel grinned. ‘Grope his bum when he’s not looking. Gives him the willies.’

Rain clattered against the Major Incident Room’s window. At the head of the table, Napier steepled his fingers. Again. ‘And you’re certain of that?’

‘Yes.’

The camera’s dead eye stared at Logan, little red light glowing like an ember. Sitting next to it, Inspector Gibb made a note in her pad.

‘So, to be clear, you’re categorically certain, on the record, that you haven’t seen Graham Stirling since the trial collapsed.’

‘No. I haven’t seen him since Tuesday morning. Before the trial was called off.’

Napier’s smile widened. ‘We’re still looking for him, by the way. It may take a while, but we’ll find him.’

The camcorder whirred in the silence.

Logan narrowed his eyes. ‘I thought this was supposed to be about Operation Troposphere: Klingon, Gerbil, Klingon’s mum.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, we’ll get to that. In the meantime: when we do find Graham Stirling, what would you like to bet he’ll be face-down in a ditch? Or do you favour a shallow grave, Sergeant McRae?’

‘I think the more important question would be, “Where are David and Catherine Bisset?”’

‘Enquiries are proceeding.’ He sat forward, resting his elbows on the desk and his chin on his fingertips. ‘Do you know where they are, Sergeant?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure? Because a more cynical man than I might come to the conclusion that if you’re unable to exert justice-slash-vengeance on your own, who better to recruit to your cause than the children of the man you couldn’t save?’

‘I don’t know where they are.’

‘Graham Stirling walked free, because you couldn’t be bothered following procedure. We know you don’t feel bound by the same rules as the rest of us mere mortals. What’s a little conspiracy to commit murder between friends?’

Logan stared at him.

Napier smiled back. ‘You see, the DNA results came in this morning: we know that David and Catherine Bisset were in Stirling’s kitchen. Did you send them there? Did you tell them they could kill Graham Stirling and get away with it?’

Inspector Gibb raised her head, eyes glittering. Pen poised, ready to take notes.

So he’d been right — they’d put their father out of his misery, then broken into Stirling’s house and killed him. It was just a case of waiting now till the body turned up and David and Catherine Bisset went down for twelve years to life.

Logan kept his mouth shut. Let the silence stretch.

‘Well, Sergeant? Would you care to-’

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

He glanced at the screen. No idea whose shoulder number it was, but it was low, so might be a boss.

Napier held up a finger. ‘I don’t think so.’ He put his hand out. ‘If you don’t mind.’

‘And if I do?’

His shoulder rose, then dipped. ‘Well, for a start, I’m a chief superintendent, and you’re a sergeant, so that makes me, let’s see: four steps further up the ladder? If you can’t have the common courtesy to switch off your Airwave when you’re in a meeting, I shall do it for you. Now: the handset, please.’

No point fighting — it wasn’t as if he was ever going to win.

Logan unclipped his handset and passed it across.

‘Thank you.’ Napier glanced down at the screen as he reached for the off switch. Then stopped, fingers hovering over the control. ‘Ah …’ He pursed his lips. ‘I think you probably better take this one.’ Then stood, walked around behind Logan, on those silent little feet, and placed the Airwave on the table in front of him. ‘It’s the Chief Constable.’

The breath wheezed out of Logan, dragging heart and lungs down into his bowels. Great — a tag-team bollocking.

He pressed the button. ‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk.’

Napier settled back into his seat, that Night-of-the-Living-Dead smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

Inspector Gibb’s pen hovered over her notepad.

And then the Chief Constable’s voice thumped out into the room. ‘Sergeant McRae — Logan — it’s John.’

‘Sir.’

Here we go …

‘I wanted to call you anyway; say congratulations on catching the man who shot Constable Mary Ann Nasrallah. Excellent result, especially given the case was a national priority. First-rate job there. Really showed the power of good old-fashioned divisional policing.’

Logan blinked at the handset a couple of times. OK … ‘Thank you, sir.’

Time for the other shoe, not so much to drop as get rammed home into his groin.

‘And now I hear you’ve been instrumental in arresting the Cashline Ram-Raiders.’

Warmth bloomed in his cheeks. ‘Thank you, sir, but it was a team effort.’

‘That’s what I like to hear, Logan: shoulder the blame when things go wrong, share the credit when they don’t. That’s the kind of leadership I want in Police Scotland.’

Logan raised an eyebrow at Napier. ‘Glad to hear it, sir.’

‘The media lot are putting out a statement, and believe me when I say you’re going to get a glowing write-up. Well done again. We could do with a lot more Logan McRaes out there, Sergeant.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ But the Chief Constable was already gone. Logan placed his Airwave handset back on the tabletop. Gave Napier his widest smile. ‘Now, I think you were busy implying that I colluded with David and Catherine Bisset to kill Graham Stirling?’

Napier pulled his chin in. Bit his top lip. Closed his eyes. Let out a small sigh. ‘Inspector Gibb, switch off the camera: this meeting is concluded. I’m sure Sergeant McRae has lots more vital work to be getting on with.’

And, escape.