The Missing and the Dead (57 page)

‘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.