The Missing and the Dead (12 page)

Logan stepped forward. ‘Perhaps—’

‘No, no, no.’ Steel held up a hand. ‘Billyboy’s got every right to moan if he wants to.’ She grinned at him with unnaturally white teeth. ‘“Pigsty”, because we’re police officers. Very droll. Your file didn’t say you were such a wit.’ She took her feet off the table. ‘What it
does
say is you’ve got a thing for wee girls. Four to nine years old, wasn’t it?’

His face hardened – a granite slab with a hooked nose. ‘That was nothing more than scurrilous rumour. The whole trial was a farce from start to finish. A sick vendetta by a handful of ignorant troglodytes!’

The sound of a toilet flushing rattled the pipes behind the wall.

Steel pursed her lips – the wrinkles lined up to turn her mouth into a rouged cat’s bumhole. ‘Good enough for the jury to give you eight years, though, wasn’t it?’

‘Vile
lies
.’

‘What was it the tabloids called you? No, don’t tell me … Ah, got it: Dr Kidfiddler!’

Yes, because that was helping.

Logan took out his notebook. ‘Mr Gilcomston—’

‘
Doctor
. It’s Dr Gilcomston.’

‘Dr Gilcomston, has anyone threatened you? Implied they were going to attack you?’

‘Ignorance runs rampant throughout our society, Sergeant.’

Steel rested her chin on her hands. ‘And no one’s tried to make contact?’ She fluttered her eyelashes at him. ‘Maybe, oh, I don’t know, someone like Neil Wood?’

A pause. ‘If you’re implying I’ve got anything to do with that
pervert
, I resent it.’

The lounge door opened and Nicholson stepped into the room. ‘Sorry about that. Must have been something I ate.’

Gilcomston shuddered. ‘Well, I hope you cleaned the bowl after you. I have no desire to clean up your
filth
.’

That halogen smile broke across Steel’s face again. ‘“Filth!” Another excellent police pun. You’re like Oscar Bleeding Wilde today, aren’t you, Billyboy?’

Logan dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘All I’m saying is we might get on better if you weren’t so rude to everyone.’

Steel settled into the leather settee, stretched her arms along the back. ‘No’ bad here, is it? Wonder how much this place cost?’

It was a Victorian pile on Church Street with big bay windows and a garden to match. Hunting prints on the wall, pine cones and potpourri in the grate, beneath an ornate marble fireplace. Upright piano. Glass-fronted bookcase full of leather volumes. Standard lamps holding the night at bay.

‘Dr Gilcomston—’

‘Is a dirty scumbag. And he’s no’ a doctor either – got struck off after the conviction.’

Nicholson folded her hands behind her back. ‘Am I on piddling duty again?’

Steel drummed her fingers on the tobacco-coloured leather. ‘Got to play to your strengths.’

She sighed. Wrapped her arms around herself. ‘People will think I’ve got cystitis.’

The lounge door swung open and a large woman in a twinset sailed into the room like a lavender barge. Half-moon glasses on the end of her round nose. Only the pair of fluffy slippers, scuffing on the old woollen carpet, gave away the fact that she’d been roused from bed a little after one in the morning. She lowered a tray laden with scones and cups and a teapot onto the glass-topped coffee table. ‘Who’s got cystitis?’

Steel hooked a thumb at Nicholson. ‘Been going all night like a leaky bathtub.’

There was a small pause, then Nicholson rubbed both knees together. ‘Actually, sorry to bother you, but could I …?’

‘There’s one by the back door, or the top of the stairs on the left.’

‘Thanks.’ And she was gone.

Mrs Twinset settled into a wing-backed leather chair. ‘Now, is this about these stupid threats?’

Logan took out his notebook. ‘Threats, Mrs Bartholomew?’

‘Yes, threats. Thrust through my letter box, like some sort of takeaway menu. “You will burn in hell for everything that you have done. God will not save you. We are coming.” That kind of thing.’ A snort. ‘“We are coming.” Honestly, some people have no sense of propriety. Still, that’s the age we live in, I suppose.’ She picked up the teapot. ‘Now, shall I be mother?’

Steel smiled. ‘That no’ how you got into trouble in the first place?’

A chubby rumpled face peered out at them through the gap between the door and the frame. Streetlights thickened the dark circles beneath his eyes as he looked them up and down. ‘You got any idea what time it is?’

Steel popped her wrist forward, so her watch poked from the end of her sleeve. ‘Yup. Now you going to invite us in for a chat, or are we going to drag you down the nick?’

Nicholson climbed into the car. ‘How many’s that now?’

Logan started the engine. ‘Eleven.’

‘Pfff …’ She sagged in the rear-view mirror. ‘Your old boss is … different.’

DCI Steel paced up and down the pavement in front of the terraced houses, mobile phone clamped to her ear, puffing away on her e-cigarette. One hand flailed away, emphasizing whatever point she was making, even though there was no way whoever was on the other end of the phone could see it.

‘Oh, she’s that all right.’ Logan stretched the knots out of his neck. ‘On the plus side, we might have a new nickname for you.’

Nicholson covered her eyes with one hand. ‘Sarge, I swear to God, if “Piddler” is the next word out of your mouth, I’m going to strangle you with your own limb restraints.’

A grin. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

She turned to stare out at the houses. A light was on in the flat they’d just visited, the curtains held open – a figure silhouetted in the gap. Tall, thin, long hair. Then the curtains fell shut again.

Nicholson went on staring. ‘Looked far too young to fiddle with little girls, didn’t he? Barely out of nappies himself.’

‘Still think it’s all glamour and glory on a Major Investigation Team?’

‘Kind of thought it’d be more …’ A shrug. ‘You know.’

Steel hung up and stuffed the phone in her pocket. Stomped back towards the car.

Logan nodded. ‘If it’s any consolation, you’re following a long line of officers in a noble tradition.’

‘Designated piddler?’

‘I used to have to do it all the time. “Oh, I’m bursting for a pee, can I use your toilet?” Then go rummaging through drawers and cupboards while whichever boss it was asked stupid questions.’

‘Yeah …’ Nicholson’s mouth stretched out and down, the tendons sticking out in her neck. ‘You wouldn’t
believe
some of the things I’ve found tonight. I mean, not kiddie porn or anything, but dildos, and lube, and rubbery things like Ping-Pong balls on a string.’ She curled her top lip. ‘That doctor guy had a butt plug, a ball gag, and furry handcuffs. I mean, can you
imagine
him all oiled up and—’

The passenger door clunked open and Steel tumbled into the seat. Produced her list of sex offenders and a pen, then drew a thick red line through the address of the young man who interfered with little girls. ‘Right. Next up – Windy Brae.’

Logan stifled a yawn. Then tapped the dashboard clock. ‘That’s twenty past two. I’ve got court tomorrow, remember?’

‘Worried you’ll no’ get enough beauty sleep? Trust me, that boat sailed when you got the shaved-scrotum haircut.’

He opened his mouth … Closed it again. Turned to stare at her. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Told you: trying to catch a wee girl’s—’

‘Oh no you don’t. This …’ He pointed up at the flat. ‘Trolling through the registered sex offenders? That’s no job for a detective chief inspector. That’s a sergeant, maybe DI at most.’

She closed her door. ‘Nothing wrong in taking pride in your work, is there?’

‘You pissed someone off, didn’t you? That’s why you’re here: it’s a punishment. You said something you shouldn’t to Finnie or Young.’

Steel yanked the seatbelt down and rammed it into place. ‘Oh … sod off.’

Logan checked his watch. ‘Right, fifteen more minutes and we’re done.’

Steel shuffled her feet as Nicholson thumbed the bell again. The cottage sat on the brow of a hill, overlooking the cliffs and the sea – still and silent, washed like pewter by the thin smear of light from the crescent moon. Nothing but fields and gorse for miles.

A plume of e-cigarette steam snaked up into the starry night. ‘You used to be a lot more fun.’

‘Just because
you’re
on nightshift, it doesn’t mean we are too. Some of us have got court tomorrow. Supposed to get eleven hours between the end of any shift and having to give evidence; that’s gone for a Burton.’

‘Don’t say I’m never good to you: Swanson’s heading into Aberdeen first thing with a bunch of productions from the search – she’ll give you a lift. You can snore all the way.’

Nicholson backed away from the door. Stared up at the windows. ‘Maybe he’s not in?’

Another puff. ‘Try round the back.’

She clicked on her LED torch and picked her way past the rose bushes and round the side of the cottage.

Steel stuffed her hands in her pockets, fake fag clamped between her teeth. ‘Don’t know what you’re moaning about. Case is watertight – Graham Stirling’s spending the rest of his natural playing hide the soap with rapists and murderers.’

Logan leaned back against the wall. Yawned. Stretched his arms and legs. ‘So, come on then: Nicholson’s not here any more, what did you do?’

‘Sod all.’ She took a deep drag. Hissed out a thin stream of vapour. ‘Ever occur to you I might miss this?’

‘Knocking up sex offenders in the middle of the night?’

‘No’ sex offenders …’ She pulled out a hand and thumped him on the chest. ‘
This
. You and me: Cagney and Lacey; Holmes and Watson; Dalziel and Pascoe.’

Laurel and Hardy, more like.

‘Thought you had Rennie now.’

‘Rennie’s no’ the same. He cries when I make fun of him. And McKenzie’s one poke away from an aneurism.’

An owl hooted in the fields behind the cottage. Followed by what sounded like someone knocking over a stack of flowerpots and some muffled swearing.

Logan frowned out into the night. ‘You think there’s anything to this sex offenders getting attacked and going missing thing? That’s twice we’ve heard about it.’

‘Twice out of what, twenty paedos? No’ exactly statistically significant, is it?’

‘Three, if you count Mrs Bartholomew’s “Burn in Hell” threat.
And
Neil Wood’s dad got beaten up today. Well, technically yesterday, but you know what I mean.’

Steel took another long drag. ‘Not like they don’t deserve it, is it?’

All the parking slots outside the station were taken – a mix of patrol and unmarked pool cars, all bathed in the thin sodium light. The car park out front was full too. Among the more everyday vehicles loomed a couple of police pods and a Transit in full riot gear, its front grille raised like a surprised monobrow.

Logan found them a parking spot further down the street.

Steel creaked her way out of the passenger seat and paused on the pavement for a big stretch. Her blue silk shirt rode up, exposing a slash of dead-fish skin and a bellybutton. ‘Pffff …’ She had a scratch. ‘Any chance of something to eat? Starving.’

Logan nodded back towards the station. ‘Vending machine in the canteen. Crisps, caffeinated drinks, and chocolate.’

Her eyebrows tented in the middle, bringing out the puppy eyes. ‘No chips?’

Nicholson bounced out from the back of the car, following them along the pavement. ‘The baker’s opens at five. They do a great chicken-curry pie.’

Steel checked her watch, then sagged. ‘An hour and twenty minutes … Be a skeleton by then.’

‘Good, you can keep Hector company.’ Logan thumbed the code into the keypad by the tradesmen’s entrance. Then covered his mouth for a long shuddering yawn.

The sound of telephones filtered through the building. Raised voices. Someone laughing.

Nicholson pointed down the corridor towards the Constables’ Office. ‘Paperwork first, Sarge?’

‘Do your actions, then sod off home. Put down for three hours’ overtime.’ He turned to Steel. ‘That’s fair, isn’t it?’

‘Bloody bunnets, eating my budget …’ Steel turned and lumbered into the main office.

Two PCs sat at Maggie’s desk, one typing things into a spreadsheet while the other hunched over a pile of evidence bags. Reading out the label numbers as his mate logged them in.

Someone in a charcoal-grey suit was at the other desk, tongue poking out the side of her mouth as she picked at her keyboard with two fingers. Wrinkles furrowed the gap between her eyebrows, a mass of frizzy brown hair tied back in a wobbly half-bun-half-ponytail-thing.

Not one of them looked up until Steel clicked her fingers three times. ‘Hoy, Becky: any messages?’

The woman in the suit flinched. Grabbed the stack of Post-it notes beside her. ‘Body’s arrived at Aberdeen, Boss. PM’s set for half nine. DS Rennie wants to call off the search till dawn. Says it’s too dark to—’

More finger snaps. ‘I
can
read, DS McKenzie: give.’

Becky handed over the Post-its. Her jaw tightened, the muscles flexing. ‘Yes, Boss.’

Steel flicked through the yellow squares, holding them at arm’s length and squinting. ‘Pfff … Is there no bugger in the whole force who can make a decision on their own?’ She stuffed them into a pocket. ‘If anyone needs me, I’ll be upstairs. In the ladies. Making smells.’ She paused on the threshold to the hall. ‘And see if you can rustle up a cup of tea, eh? And something to eat.’ Then slouched off into the hall and away up the stairs.

Beat. Two. Three. Four. And the smile died on Becky’s face. Eyes narrowed on the closing door. Voice a serrated-blade whisper. ‘What did your last slave die of, you old
bag
?’

She turned and stomped off towards the canteen.

Looked as if Steel was right: one prod away from an aneurism.

Nothing like running a happy team.

Logan crossed to the Sergeants’ Office and opened the door. Then froze.

A thin bloke in a blue suit was sitting in
his
seat. Feet up on
his
desk. Scratching himself on the back of the head with a biro, mobile phone clamped to his ear. ‘… yeah, that’s what I thought …’ A frown. Then he glanced in Logan’s direction: long nose, trendy hair quiffed up at the front, designer stubble. ‘Get lost, I’m on the phone. … No, not you, Guv. Some fanny in uniform. … Yeah …’ Then laughter.