The Missing and the Dead

58

‘Well, this is fun.’ Steel clunked the passenger seat back a foot, then stuck both of hers on the dashboard. ‘We should do this more often.’

On the other side of the road, Gilcomston’s big granite house lurked behind its partial screen of trees and bushes.

‘You didn’t have to come.’

Her voice jumped up an octave. ‘Ooh, look at me, my name’s Logan, we should totally go sit about like a pair of morons outside Dr Kidfiddler’s house for half an hour.’

‘Was that supposed to be me? And it’s only been ten minutes.’

She blew a wet raspberry. ‘I’m bored.’

‘Really? Because you’re doing a great job of hiding it.’

Wind rattled the sycamore trees, sending a cascade of second-hand rain tumbling from their leaves. Up above, the sky loomed grey and black.

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

‘Batter on, Maggie.’

‘They’ve had another sighting of Catherine and David Bisset: Waverley Centre. Edinburgh are attending.’

Probably a complete waste of time, but it had to be followed up anyway. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes. Constable Quirrel has reported for duty. Am I letting him, or sending him home again.’

‘He look OK to you?’

She lowered her voice. ‘He’s wearing a badge with “genius” on it, but it’s spelled G.E.N.I.O.U.S.’

‘If Inspector McGregor’s got no objections, send him out. But make sure Tufty sticks with Deano all day. No wandering off on his own.’

‘Will do.’

He clipped his Airwave back into place.

Steel was staring at him. She narrowed her eyes.

‘What?’

‘Thought you said you were phoning him when we were at Mark Brussels’s place.’

‘I trust Maggie more than I trust Tufty. If she says he’s OK, he’s OK.’

Steel folded her arms and let her head fall back. ‘Couldn’t be more bored if I tried.’

‘This is for your benefit! Your case, remember?’

‘So let’s kick the door in and ransack the place!’

A jackdaw hopped sideways across the driveway.

‘We haven’t got a warrant.’

‘Then there’s no point sitting here. He’s hardly going to wander out and invite us in for quiche and a look at his stash of kiddy-porn, is he?’ She hauled her feet off the dashboard. ‘You know what? I’m no’ doing this any more. Back to the ranch.’

Logan opened the door and climbed out onto the street.

‘Hoy! I said back to the ranch.’

He clunked the door shut and walked across the road. Stood at the foot of Gilcomston’s driveway. Wandered along the pavement, looking up at the house. No sign of life. So he tried the other side of the driveway.

Paused on the edge of the kerb.

From there, just outside the front left corner of the property, he had a clear view between the leaves of a rhododendron bush to a garage set back from the house. Black double doors. Difficult to tell for sure without the actual photograph for reference, but it looked a lot like the spot where Charles Anderson must have stood to take a photo of the little dead girl before she appeared face-down in Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool.

He unhooked his Airwave.

Steel was right, they needed a warrant.

Of course that didn’t matter to Charles Anderson. No evidentiary procedures to follow. No slippery defence lawyers waiting to pick holes in everything. No letting people like Graham Stirling back on the streets. No worrying about-

A loud Breeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep! Sounded from the Big Car.

God’s sake, it was like babysitting a drunken toddler.

Logan started back, then stopped. Stared down the street.

An ancient green Jaguar growled its way up the hill towards him, with Dr Gilcomston behind the wheel. The car didn’t slow down as it swung into the driveway, crunching its way up the gravel drive.

Logan marched after it.

The driver’s door creaked open, and Gilcomston stepped out. Shoulders back, chin up, scowling down his nose. ‘This is harassment. I’ve already made a formal complaint about you and that woman’s behaviour. Now please get off my property, I have nothing further to say to you.’ Today’s cardigan was purple. He walked around to the Jag’s boot and popped it open. Took out a clutch of Asda carrier bags. Slammed the boot shut again.

‘We know.’

He picked up his bags and scrunched along the gravel towards the house. A gust of wind snatched at his grey hair.

‘We know about you, and Mark Brussels, and Neil Wood, and Liam Barden. We know about the little girl you bought.’

Gilcomston paused, one foot on the front doorstep. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘She was six years old. You called her “Cherry”. Did you pick her yourself, or did you put it to a vote?’

‘Whoever you’ve been talking to is lying. This is nothing to do with me.’

‘And we’re not the only ones who know about it. There’s someone targeting people like you. And you’re the only one of the ring left.’

His eyes darted to the garage, with its black doors. ‘Please get off my property.’

‘Neil Wood’s dead. Liam Barden’s dead. Mark Brussels is missing, so he’s probably going to be joining them soon. That leaves you.’

He lowered one set of bags and dug out his keys.

‘How long do you think it’ll be before he comes after you too?’

Gilcomston unlocked the front door. ‘Am I under arrest?’

‘You come in voluntarily, you make a complete confession, and we get you somewhere safe.’

‘If I’m not under arrest, you can leave now.’

He marched inside. Slammed the door closed.

Some people think they’re untouchable.

Some people really needed to learn.

Logan clicked the talk button on his Airwave. ‘Shire Uniform Seven to Bravo India, Safe to talk?’

Inspector McGregor’s voice crackled out of the little speaker. ‘What’s up?’

‘We need to get a surveillance operation set up: Dr William Harris Gilcomston, eighteen Firth Place, Macduff. I need a twenty-four-hour observation on him for about a week. Week and a half. Starting now.’

‘You are joking, aren’t you? You’re talking about at least two and a half thousand man-hours. Have you any idea how much that would cost?’

‘Might be our best bet to catch Charles Anderson.’

A sigh. ‘If it was up to me: I’d say go for it, but I haven’t got the bodies, Logan. I’ll try the Area Commander, but it’ll take a while to get an operation of that scale approved. At least two or three days.’

By which time Gilcomston would probably be dead.

Maybe it was for the best? Charles Anderson turns up and carts Gilcomston off somewhere painful for a chat. Then dumps whatever’s left of him at sea. Couldn’t exactly say he’d be a great loss to humanity.

Still …

Logan puffed out his cheeks. Let the breath slowly hiss out. There was one way to save the arrogant scumbag’s life. Not exactly ethical, but it might work. ‘OK, thanks, Guv. Let me know how it goes.’ He twisted the handset back onto its holder.

‘Are you no’ done sodding about yet?’

Logan turned, and there was Steel, puffing away on her fake cigarette.

He nodded at the house. ‘Detective Chief Inspector, was it my imagination, or did Dr Gilcomston seem unsteady on his feet when he emerged from his vehicle?’

‘Eh?’ She pulled her chin in. ‘Why are you talking like that? Sound like you’ve swallowed your notebook.’

‘I’m concerned that he may have been driving under the influence of either drink or drugs.’ Logan thumbed the doorbell. Then gave the police-issue three loud knocks. Stepped back. Released the elastic band from his body-worn video and set it recording.

‘You’re off your head, Laz.’

The door yanked open, and there was Gilcomston glowering down at them. ‘I think I made myself perfectly clear, Sergeant. I want you off my property.’

Logan wandered over to the Jaguar, hands tucked into the zippy pockets on his stabproof vest. ‘Is this your vehicle, sir?’

‘Of course it is. And it’s taxed and insured.’

‘I see.’ Logan turned a smile on him. ‘Have you been drinking, sir? Because you seem a little unsteady.’

‘I have not been drinking. How dare you come here and accuse me!’ Gilcomston stamped down onto the driveway and jabbed a finger in Logan’s direction. ‘I’ll have your badge. Or warrant card. Or whatever it is you petty fascists have.’

‘Sir, I have reason to suspect that you’ve been driving under the influence of drink or drugs in contravention of Section Two of the Road Traffic Act 1988. Are you sure you’ve not been drinking?’

‘I’VE JUST TOLD YOU THAT!’ Blood flushed his face, hands curled into fists at his sides, arms shaking.

Steel raised an eyebrow. ‘Aye, aye, someone’s no’ been taking their happy pills.’

‘If you’ve not been drinking, sir, I can only conclude that you may have taken, and be in possession of, a controlled substance.’

‘I don’t have to stand here and listen to this nonsense!’

‘Sir, I’m detaining you in terms of Section Twenty-Three of the Misuse of Drugs Act, 1971 for the purpose of a search. Do you have anything in your pockets I should know about? Any knives, needles, anything sharp?’

‘You are not searching me! I demand to speak to your superior.’

Steel gave him a grin. ‘That would be me. You search away, young Logan. Methinks Dr Kidfiddler doth protest too much.’ A wink. ‘That’s your actual Shakespeare.’

‘Arms out, please, sir.’ Logan snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves.

‘I’ll make damn sure the pair of you never work again. Do you hear me?’

‘Yes, sir. Now: arms out, please.’

Logan ran his hands along the sleeves of Gilcomston’s cardigan, then the legs of his corduroy trousers. Checked the turn-ups. Then the cardigan’s pockets. The left one contained a pipe, and a packet of tobacco. The right one contained a box of matches. ‘Well, well, well. Would you care to explain this, sir?’ He held up a small plastic baggie with brown powder in it. Remarkably similar to the one he’d confiscated from Kirstin Rattray when she was on the way to her daughter’s fairy princess party. Identical, in fact.

‘It … I never …’ Gilcomston’s face darkened again. ‘YOU PLANTED THAT!’ He lunged, fist swinging.

Logan grabbed the arm, locked the wrist, and thumped him chest-first into the Jaguar’s passenger door.

‘GET OFF ME! I’LL KILL YOU!’

‘Possession of a Class A drug, resisting arrest, threats to kill.’ Logan snapped on the cuffs. ‘William Gilcomston, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Procedure — Scotland — Act 1995, because I suspect you of having committed an offence punishable by imprisonment …’

Wind whipped a fistful of rain against the Sergeants’ Office window. Outside, Fraserburgh scowled beneath a swathe of grey clouds.

Logan pinned the phone between his ear and shoulder, and ran a thumbnail along the foil, between the KitKat’s fingers. ‘We did presumptive testing, and it’s definitely heroin.’

The officer on the other end of the phone sighed. ‘Never pegged him for a druggie, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything.’ Her voice was big, round, and warm. The kind of voice that went with hot chocolate and marshmallows.

Click, and the two bits of biscuit snapped apart. ‘I was wondering: is this a violation of his supervision order?’

‘Not explicitly. But given how prickly he is at the best of times, it’s not a good sign. Did he admit to it?’

‘Does he ever?’ Logan crunched into one of them, sooking the chocolate off the wafer.

‘Not that I’ve ever heard. You could catch him peeing in your shoe and he’d tell you someone else did it.’

The chair swivelled left, then right, then left again. ‘Can you do me a favour? Get a search warrant for his house? If he’s up to this, maybe he’s up to something else?’

A pause.

Logan crunched down the rest of the finger, and started on the other one.

‘Do you know something I don’t?’

‘Well … let’s just say it might be worth taking a look around before he gets out and disposes of whatever it is he’s hiding.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

The door opened and Steel bundled into the room, fastening her belt. ‘You getting a search warrant?’

He put a chocolaty hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Offender Management Unit are handling it. We could probably tag along, if you like?’

Little creases appeared between her eyebrows. ‘How come you’re no’ doing it?’

‘He’s a registered sex offender. Thought it made more sense if they were in charge.’ And it didn’t hurt to put a little distance between himself and the warrant.

‘Oh no you don’t, it’s my shout.’

Back to the phone. ‘Can you give DCI Steel a bell when you’re ready to go in? She’s keeping an eye on him for something else. Wants to tag along.’

‘Will do.’

Logan put the phone back in its cradle. Scrunched up the tinfoil wrapper and lobbed it in the bin. ‘You ready to head back to the ranch? Gilcomston’s solicitor’s not going to be up till three-ish.’

Steel settled on the edge of the desk. ‘Do you no’ think it was a bit of a coincidence? You think he’s acting a bit funny, you search him, and hallelujah, praise the Lord, you find a wrap of heroin.’

Logan didn’t look at her, gathered up his things instead. ‘Sometimes you get lucky.’ OK, so it wasn’t ethical. And if anyone found out he’d done it, he’d be fired, then prosecuted. But he’d probably just saved William Gilcomston’s life.

She was still staring at him.

‘What?’

Steel took out her fake cigarette, clicked it on. Took a puff. ‘Nothing.’

Logan pushed through the tradesmen’s entrance and into Banff station. ‘No. The photo was taken outside Gilcomston’s house. That means the wee girl was there. There’s going to be DNA. Maybe photographs.’

Steel followed him into the canteen. ‘Going to be hard to get him for killing her. Even if we get anything at the house, he’s going to blame one of the others. Pass the corpse.’

Logan grabbed a couple of mugs from the cupboard. ‘We can still do him for the abuse. Maybe conspiracy to commit?’

‘Well, that’s sod all use, isn’t it? I want to bang someone up for killing that wee girl, no’ slap them on the wrist for being a nonce.’

‘What am I supposed to do, magic up a witness?’ Teabags.

‘How about a wrapper of heroin, because-’

Logan’s phone blared out its anonymous ringtone. Saved by the bells. ‘McRae?’

What sounded like singing in the background, then, ‘Logan? It’s Helen. Helen Edwards?’

‘Hold on a minute.’ He put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘I need to take this.’

Steel folded her arms. ‘I’m no’ stopping you.’

‘In private.’

‘Tough.’

‘Fine. You make the teas.’ He turned and marched back outside. ‘Sorry. Had someone with me.’

‘No, I’m sorry for running off. I didn’t want to leave without talking to you, but I was running out of time and I had to get the bus, or I would’ve missed my train. I stayed for as long as I could.’

‘You could’ve called me!’

‘I know. I tried, but … I’m really, really sorry.’

A big stone weight dragged at his shoulders, pulling them down. ‘Yeah, I’m sorry too.’

A handful of herring gulls swooped and crawed across the bay, glowing like diamonds when they hit a blade of sunlight, then fading to grey on the other side.

He cleared his throat. ‘So: Gwent. Wales.’

‘Took all night and all morning to get here. I’m at the police station.’

‘Well … make sure you get a B-and-B this time. No more sleeping rough waiting for nice police officers to take you in.’

‘I really am sorry, Logan.’

A couple of cars drove past. An ugly man with an uglier child walked along the road.

The awkward silence stretched.

‘It’s OK. We knew it was going to happen sooner or later. But I kind of hoped we’d have a bit longer before it did.’

‘And it’s not as if you’ve got room to spare any more, right? Now you’ve got guests, you don’t need me cluttering up the place.’

‘Cluttering? You didn’t …’ Frown. ‘Sorry? I’ve got guests?’

‘Of course you do.’

‘It’s not Steel, is it? Because if it is, she can kiss my-’

‘No: Samantha’s cousins. They came round yesterday when I was waiting for you.’ Helen made a hissing sound, as if she was sucking air in through her teeth. ‘It was kind of awkward, really. They’re asking questions about how she’s getting on and if the care home’s any good, and all I can think of is “I slept with her boyfriend.”’

Cousins?

‘Samantha doesn’t have any cousins. Her mum was an only child, her dad too. Are you sure they said-’

‘Of course I am. Boy and a girl. He’s, what, sixteen-ish? She’s about fourteen? Both of them really needed feeding up, so I made fish fingers, beans, and chips. I would’ve washed up, but I didn’t have time, and-’

‘Helen, this is important. What did they look like?’

‘Well, they were thin. Dark hair — they both had the same haircut, shoulder-length and straight — both really soft-spoken. Aberdeen accents?’

No. No. No. No.

The young woman, standing in Helen’s spot by the sea wall earlier. Thin. Shoulder-length black hair. Samantha didn’t have cousins.

He looked up and the girl was still there, leaning back against the concrete. A denim jacket, black jeans, big white trainers. Face dead and motionless.

Catherine Bisset. Stephen Bisset’s daughter. The young woman who’d helped kill her own father. Who’d probably cheered her brother on while he battered Graham Stirling to death. Or did she join in?

Logan’s throat tightened.

She’d been in his house, asking questions about Samantha.

He stepped out into the road.