The Missing and the Dead (62 page)

‘This why you joined the police? To let child molesters walk free?’

‘Of course I didn’t. It—’

‘Child killers?’

‘Charles … Craggie, we’re not allowed to play God, OK? We’ve got laws and rules and—’

‘Some people don’t deserve the law. I find one of them, and I make sure he tells me everything I need to know. Then I move on to the next one.’

‘That’s not justice, it’s a witch hunt. You need to come back.’

A wave boomed against the sea wall, sending up a stinging explosion of salt water.

Logan hunched his shoulders, turned his face away as it crashed down around him.

‘Is your friend OK? I’m sorry I had to hit him, I really am.’

He wiped the sea from his eyes. ‘You have to stop this.’

‘Sorry I had to hit you too. Didn’t really leave me any choice though, did you? Can’t do what I need to from a prison cell.’

‘You didn’t have to burn the house down.’

‘I’m dead, I don’t need a house. I died a long time ago.’

Peerie Wullie’s Rant
grew dimmer, the growl of its engines torn away by the wind. Its shape swallowed by the night.

‘They snatched Andrew, because he was there. Wasn’t planned. Liam Barden saw him playing in the field by the cliff and told Neil Wood to stop the car. They got out. And abducted my son.’

Cold spray whipped across the wall, rocking Logan back on his feet. ‘I’m sorry.’

The only sign of the boat now was its running lights, fading away into the storm.

‘They used him for two days, then they strangled him so he wouldn’t tell anyone. He was four. Nicest wee boy you could ever meet, and they killed him so no one would find out what they’d done.
’

‘You can’t just go around murdering paedophiles. An eye-for-an-eye is
not
how this works.’

‘And if I don’t do it, who will? You can’t even question them without their lawyer sitting there, telling them to lie. The whole system’s rigged so the guilty get every chance their victims didn’t.’

Couldn’t really argue with that. Not after what happened with Graham Stirling.

Logan puffed out a breath. ‘What was her name? The little girl they bought?’

‘Wood didn’t know. Neither did Barden. They said Gilcomston called her “Cherry”, don’t know if it was shorrrrrrrrtttt … ing … Maybe it … be … better place if … innnnnnn … never.’

‘Hello?’

‘… if you tellllllll … won’t … too imporrrrrrrtant … ffffff … shhhhhhhhh …’

Then static.

Then silence.

The boat was out of range of the masts.

Couldn’t even see its lights now. There was nothing but darkness and waves.

Logan turned his back and picked his way down the stairs. Wiped his mobile on the leg of his trousers and slipped it in his pocket.

Penny’s voice clattered out of the Airwave.
‘Shire Uniform Seven. Sarge? We’ve got Constable Quirrel. Where are you?’

‘How’s Tufty?’

‘Think he might have a touch of concussion, but he’s fine otherwise. They’re playing it safe and taking him in for an X-ray, though.’

‘Good. I’m out by the harbour exit and I’m soaked. Do me a favour: come get me?’

Logan dripped on the Inspector’s carpet. The drops made little patting noises when they hit. ‘The hospital rushed through an X-ray of his head, and apparently there
is
a brain in there.’

‘Hmm …’ Inspector Fettes swivelled in the chair for a bit, setting his mop of ginger hair shoogling like a badly fitted wig. He’d cleared some space on the desk for a framed photo of a spaniel. Other than that, it was just the way Inspector McGregor left it when she headed off at the end of the dayshift. Well, except for the nippy smell of menthol coming from Fettes every time he opened his mouth. The words sounded as if they were squeezing themselves individually down his red nose. ‘And do we have any idea who did it?’

Right …

Logan stared at the wet patch, seeping into the carpet. What was he supposed to do, let Charles Anderson get away with two murders, assaulting two police officers, and the possible theft of a boat? Let him run free to punish child molesters? To get justice when the courts let them walk?

All those years, Liam Barden was doing the most horrific things to children, and the police never got anywhere near him. And if it wasn’t for Charles Anderson, he’d still be doing it.

‘Logan?’

Blink.

‘Sorry, Guv. It was dark. Whoever it was hit Tufty from behind then ran off. I went after them, but …’ It wasn’t too late to pull this back. Stop this right here. Cover for Anderson, and it’d be perverting the course of justice, and culpability in any other murders he committed.

Was that really such a great idea?

Of course it wasn’t. He shrugged and dripped some more. ‘It was Charles Anderson.’

The Inspector frowned. ‘But he’s
dead
.’

‘Not so much. I think the body they found in the boat is what’s left of Neil Wood.’

‘Wonderful.’ A sigh. ‘At least that would mean we could stop looking for Wood. Doubt there’s enough left to run DNA on, but we can give it a try. And get the IB up – let’s see if they can get some fingerprints off the chandler’s warehouse.’

‘I’ll set up a lookout request on the boat he was using.’

‘Might get lucky. Still—’

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

He pointed at it. ‘Is it OK if I …?’

The Inspector waved a hand. ‘No skin off mine.’

Logan pressed the button and talked into his shoulder. ‘Bash away.’

‘Aye, you wanted to know when Kirstin Rattray woke up? That’s her now.’

‘She say anything about who attacked her?’

‘Nah. I’ve seen headstones more talkative. You want to have a shot?’

He let go of the button. ‘Guv?’

‘Might as well. Not as if there’s anything else we can do tonight anyway.’

Logan abandoned the Big Car in someone’s reserved parking space and jogged back through the drizzle towards Accident and Emergency. Forty-five minutes: not bad from Banff to Elgin. Only had to use the blues-and-twos twice as well.

The town’s lights reflected back from the heavy lid of cloud, casting a sickly burnt-orange glow across the hospital’s bland grey façade. A handful of smokers choked the entrance to A & E, keeping out of the rain. Shuffling feet and fidgeting fingers, the streams of their cigarettes glowing in the harsh lighting.

He squeezed past into the depressing antiseptic blandness of the waiting area.

A nurse shuffled by in a pair of pink Crocs, clipboard clutched tightly to his chest as if it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Logan stepped in front of him. ‘I’m looking for Kirstin Rattray.’

The nurse blinked at him. Grey-purple skin filled the hollows beneath his eyes. A yawn shuddered its way through him, leaving him slumped around his clipboard. ‘Sorry. Been a long shift. Who?’

‘Kirstin Rattray, assaulted earlier today. Cracked skull, broken ribs, arms, leg …?’

‘Yes. Right. Let’s check the computer.’

The nurse stopped in the corridor and gave his clipboard another squeeze. ‘I can only give you a couple of minutes. She’s been through a lot.’

‘I’ll be quick.’ Logan pushed through the door into the ward.

The room was caught in the dim glow of a reading light in the far corner. Eight beds, four to a side, but only three were occupied. One by an obese teenager, flat on her back and snoring. One by the old lady in the corner reading what looked like a trashy crime novel. And one by Kirstin Rattray.

Her face was a mess of plasters and patches of gauze. One arm propped up on a stick and plastered from fingers to armpit, the other in a sling across her chest. A boxy contraption made a square hump in the blankets where her right knee should have been. Tubes going in from drips, others going out to bags dangling under the bedframe.

Logan drew in a breath. It tasted of disinfectant and pain and despair. ‘Is she …?’

The nurse dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘You wouldn’t
believe
how much morphine they gave her, and it barely touched the sides. No one wants to OD a patient by accident.’

Logan pulled up a chair, then slipped the elastic band off his BWV and set it recording. ‘Kirstin? Can you hear me?’

The fingers poking out from the full-length cast twitched. Then her head turned. One eye taped shut, the other a mess of burst blood vessels. Kirstin’s skin was an inkblot mess of darkening bruises. ‘Hrrrts.’ Her mouth barely moved.

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

‘Oiiiwwnt mmey Ammgheee …’

Oiiiwwnt mmey Ammgheee …
? Then it dawned. ‘You want Amy? Your daughter? I think they’d like you to get a bit better before they bring her to see you.’ Logan forced a smile. ‘Don’t want to scare her.’

A little shake of the head. Then a wince. ‘Dnnnnt lt thmmm tk hrrrrr awwwweyyyy.’

‘Do you know who did it?’

‘Hrrrts.’

No wonder.

Logan’s hand went into one of the zippy pockets on his stabproof vest. The one where the tiny plastic baggie he’d confiscated from her was. A single wrap of heroin, concealed in an inside-out blue nitrile glove. That’d make a dent in Kirstin’s pain.

Of course it could react really badly with whatever else they’d given her. And then she wouldn’t hurt any more, she’d be dead.

Stupid idea.

Logan let go of the glove, left it where it was.

‘I’ll let your mum and dad know you’re in here. They can arrange for Amy to come visit.’

The bloodshot eye squeezed shut, forcing out a couple of tears. She pulled her lips back, but there weren’t any teeth to bare, just swollen gums spidered with stitches.

‘I’m sorry.’ Logan put a hand on Kirstin’s shoulder. ‘Who did this to you?’

The nurse’s Crocs squeaked on the ward floor. ‘Look, I think she’s probably had enough. She’s tired. She needs to—’

‘Frrnnnnkeee Frrrrs.’

Logan frowned. ‘Who?’

‘Look, I’m really going to have to insist.’

Her whole face clenched with the effort. ‘Frrnnkeee
Frrrrrrrrrrrs!
’

Logan took out his notebook and … Sodding Hector. He turned to the nurse. ‘Can I borrow a pen?’

‘This isn’t—’

‘She wants to ID the person who tried to kill her with a crowbar, OK? Now give me your pen.’

A pause, then a chewed blue biro was produced.

Logan held it out to Kirstin and she reached for it with the fingers of her other hand – the one poking out of the sling. Clutched it against the strip of fibreglass cast across her palm. Then picked out the name in painful wobbling capitals: ‘FRANKIE FERRIS’ and underlined it twice, before slumping back into the pillows, panting.

Logan held the notepad up so the BWV could capture what she’d written. ‘You’re saying Frankie Ferris attacked you?’

A nod. A gulping breath.

‘And you’re
sure
it was him?’

A pause. Then another nod.

Which meant Frankie Ferris was about to get his door battered in.

And if he resisted arrest and fell down the stairs a couple of times, that would be a bonus.

Dark fields flickered past the Big Car’s windows, caught for a brief moment in the flashing lights, then disappearing into the night again.

Logan changed up and kept his foot down.

The headlights made glittering streaks on the wet road as the windscreen wipers
thunk-wonk
ed back and forth across the glass.

Logan pressed the talk button on the steering wheel. ‘I’m about fifteen minutes away. No one moves till I get there, understood?’

Penny’s voice crackled out of the speaker.
‘Yup – we block both ends of the street and we wait for you. What about a warrant?’

‘Next on my list.’

The Big Car swept around a long bend, engine roaring.

He hit the button again. ‘Shire Uniform Seven to Bravo India, safe to talk?’

‘Go ahead.’
Inspector Fettes paused for a sneeze.
‘Urgh … Sorry about that. How’s Kirstin Rattray?’

‘Lucky to be alive. She’s ID’d Frankie Ferris as the assailant. I’m on my way back to Banff now. I applied for a warrant to search his place yesterday, any chance you can light a fire under Sheriff Harding? He’s dragging his heels and I need to—’

‘Ah. Actually …’
A cough.
‘Logan, there’s a reason Harding’s not issued your warrant. He already gave a search-and-arrest one to DI Porter.’

‘Porter?’

‘Operation Troposphere dunted Frankie Ferris’s door in half an hour ago.’

‘Are you
kidding
me!’

‘
They’ve netted about eighty grand’s worth of heroin, and another sixty of cocaine. Three bricks of resin, a big box of temazepam, and about thirty thousand in cash.’

‘He was
my
suspect! I’ve been after him for months.’

‘Well, yes, but look on the bright side: that’s a substantial amount of drugs that are never going to hit our streets. You’ve got to be pleased about that.’

‘Sodding months!’

Brilliant. Thank you DI Porter, DCI McInnes, and Operation Bloody Troposphere. Bunch of scumbag MIT tossers. Frankie Ferris was
his
. His pet project. His drug dealer. And McInnes waltzes in and wheechs him away, right from under Logan’s nose. Not so much as a thank you.

It was his case in the first place, too.

Logan jabbed his thumb against the ‘B
LUES
’ button on the central console and the strobing lights flickered out. No point hurrying now.

Rundle Avenue was blocked off. Three patrol cars, two unmarked CID Vauxhalls, Syd Fraser’s dog van, and an OMU Transit with its riot grille up and its side door open. Logan parked in front of the cordon of blue-and-white ‘P
OLICE
’ tape.

His dunt. His arrest. His bloody suspect.

Half the houses in the street had their lights on. Probably standing there with their mobile phones out, filming everything for posterity and YouTube.