The Missing and the Dead (63 page)

He grabbed his peaked cap and climbed out into the rain.

Sergeant Mitchell waved from the open door of the Operational Support Unit van. Then held up a thermos. ‘Dear God, do they issue every bunnet up here with tea-detecting radar? Haven’t even opened it yet.’

Logan stood outside, water drumming on his high-vis shoulders, bouncing off his black-and-white cap. ‘This is the thing you were doing, isn’t it? Why you couldn’t come on my dunt.’

‘Bit of a result. Found heaps of gear under the floorboards in the bedroom. Like an Aladdin’s cave for druggies.’ He screwed the top off the thermos and poured a measure into a mug with ‘W
ORLD’S
B
EST
D
OOR
-K
ICKER
-I
N
’ on it. ‘Shame you missed the dunt, though.’ A grin. ‘They let us use the chainsaw.’

‘Glad someone’s having a good night.’ Logan turned his back and marched up the path to Frankie Ferris’s house.

A uniformed PC slouched on the threshold, sheltering from the rain. He stood up straight. ‘Sergeant.’ Wasn’t a local lad – definitely not from B Division. Probably a big-city boy up from Aberdeen. Big ears, small forehead, thick furry hair.

The outer edges of the door framed him like a particularly unattractive picture, its UPVC ragged where the chainsaw had ripped through it.

Logan gave him a nod. ‘Your guvnor about?’

‘DI Porter? Yeah.’ He didn’t move. Then it must have dawned on him. ‘Oh, right. I’ll shout her.’ He turned, still blocking the entrance, and bellowed back into the house. ‘Boss? There’s a sergeant here to see you. Want me to let him in?’

Rain soaked through the collar of Logan’s high-vis jacket.

PC Ugly pulled a face. ‘Maybe she’s in the bog?’

Then feet thumped down the stairs and a short woman in a grey suit appeared. Carefully manicured haircut. Shiny boots.

PC Ugly scrambled out of the way, without being asked, and Porter took his place. Looked Logan up and down. ‘Well, you’ve saved me a phone call at least. Come to confess, have we?’

Logan tightened his hands into fists. ‘You arrested Frankie Ferris.’

‘Did you come all this way to stand in the rain and tell me things I already know? Or, let me guess, are you here to stick your nose into my investigation instead?’

‘He assaulted Kirstin Rattray earlier today, tried to batter her to death with a crowbar and left her for dead in a lay-by.’

‘I know. You phoned me, remember?’ Porter raised an eyebrow. ‘Has your Kirstin Rattray ID’d him?’

Logan tapped his BWV unit. ‘Did it on camera.’

‘Well, we’ll follow it up.’ The rain continued to fall. ‘Now, are you deaf, Sergeant, or just stupid? You were told time and time again to stay the hell away from Operation Troposphere, but you couldn’t do it, could you?’

‘I stayed away. I’ve
been
staying away.’

‘Really? Then tell me, Sergeant McRae, when I dunted in Frankie Ferris’s door, why did I find this?’ She turned and nodded at PC Ugly. ‘Bring the smelly one out.’

Smelly one?

PC Ugly reappeared with a dishevelled stick-figure in a manky tracksuit. Both hands were cuffed together in front. Stinky Sammy Wilson. Oh God …

Sammy sniffed, wiped his nose on a grimy sleeve. ‘See? I told you, yeah? Told you. I’m like, on police business. Totally official.’

Porter’s smile didn’t look all that genuine. ‘Well, Sergeant? Care to enlighten us how getting drug addicts to poke about in my investigation is “staying away”?’

‘I told him not to! I told him it was over. Sammy, tell her – I told you to drop it.’

Sammy shook his head, setting his greasy hair swishing. ‘I’m here undercover, yeah? Doing my bit. Asking questions for ten quid, questions for ten quid, questions, questions, questions.’ Another sniff. Then he stared at Logan. ‘You got my three seventy-seven, yeah? I found out for you – I found out who the Candleman is.’

‘THERE ISN’T ANY CANDLEMAN!’ Two steps away, then back again. Staring at DI Porter, but jabbing a finger at Sammy Wilson. ‘I told him to quit it! He was outside the station and I told him to stay the
hell
away from this thing.’

‘And yet, here we are.’ She folded her arms. ‘Anything else?’

He bit the inside of his cheek. Calm it down. Unclenched his fists. ‘Do you know if your team’s finished at Klingon’s house yet?’

‘Let me guess: his mum’s been moaning about not being allowed home yet?’

‘Something like that.’

A shrug. ‘She can have it back any time she wants. Not a crime scene any more – we’re focusing our efforts here on Rundle Avenue now.’

‘Good.’ He turned to go.

‘Sergeant?’

Logan stopped. What now, more gloating?

DI Porter’s voice softened. ‘We’re charging Colin Spinney and Kevin McEwan with the attempted murder of Jack Simpson. They’re not getting away with anything. Thought you’d like to know.’

Probably wouldn’t make much difference to Klingon and Gerbil’s sentences, but at least it was something.

And the day had started so well …

‘You woke me up to tell me
that
?’
A cough rattled down the phone.
‘Urgh …’

Logan stepped out into the rain and clunked the station door shut behind him. ‘Thought you’d still be up watching porn.’

The streetlights made sickly yellow spheres in the downpour as he hurried across the street.

‘What you want me to do, pat you on the head and say, “There, there, poor Logan. Aunty Roberta kiss it all better”?’

Down the steps to the car park – taking the quickest route to the Sergeant’s Hoose. ‘It was my case.’

‘You’re no’ six, Laz. For God’s sake, grow a pair. If you flounce off in a huff every time some Major Investigation Team swoops in and takes over your case, you think anyone’s going to care? This is how it works now.’

He dragged in a deep breath, then huffed it out again. Hurrying between the puddles. ‘I’ve been working on nailing Frankie Ferris for months.’

‘I’m going back to sleep now.’

‘Thanks for the sympathy.’

‘Laz, if you don’t like MITs nicking your cases, come back and work for me. Be the nicker, not the nickee. Either way, stop whingeing.’

‘I’m not “whingeing”, I’m getting screwed over. How is that “whingeing”?’

Nothing.

‘Hello?’

She’d hung up on him. Lovely.

Across the road, around the corner. Water overflowed the weed-blocked gutters, cascading down the side of the house. Yet another thing to stick on the to-do list.

He let himself in.

Darkness. No sound of television. No creak of floorboards.

Not really surprising at quarter to two on a Tuesday morning – Helen would be asleep – but it would’ve been nice.

A pair of eyes glittered at the top of the stairs, then
thump-poc
,
thump-poc
,
thump-poc
, and Cthulhu worked her way down. Wound herself around his ankles, purring. He bent down and picked her up. Soft and warm and fuzzy.

‘Daddy’s had a crappy day.’

He carried her back upstairs. Popped her down on the landing. Eased open the bedroom door. ‘Helen?’

Grimy orange light spilled in through the window and onto the bed. Curtains weren’t closed. And the bed was empty, still made from that morning.

Maybe she wanted to sleep on her own tonight?

Had he done something?

Back downstairs.

His knuckles made a dull thunk on the living-room door. ‘Helen?’

Idiot. What was the point of whispering?

Knock again. Louder. ‘Helen, you awake?’

Silence.

Maybe she’d been drinking again and passed out on the couch?

He opened the door. But there was no one there.

Kitchen.

Empty.

An envelope sat in the middle of the table, birthday-card sized, with ‘L
OGAN
’ written on the front. He tore the flap open.

Wasn’t a birthday card after all, it was a thank-you one. A photo of a kitten wearing a jumper and John Lennon glasses looked out at him. The message inside was written in neat blue biro:

Dear Logan,

They’ve arrested a traveller family in Gwent and taken a little girl into care. They’re all dark haired, but she’s blonde. She’s six. It might be Natasha.

Thank you so much for letting me stay with you. It’s been a long time since I’ve let anyone get that close. And I’m sorry about the washing up.

Love,

Helen x

Brilliant. That was really sodding brilliant.

He pulled out his phone. Glared at the card.

Not even a goodbye.

Logan scrolled through his contacts. Found her number …

No.

He swiped down to Syd Fraser’s details instead. Hit dial.

Syd Fraser wiped the sheen of sweat from his face. Leaned on his shovel. ‘You know, when I said we should go grave-robbing, I didn’t mean it literally.’

‘Shouldn’t have said it then.’ Logan dug the blade of his spade into the turf and heaved. The grass roots crackled as they tore, letting out the rich dark smell of the soil beneath.

‘It was more an expression of moral support.’

‘I’d feel more supported if you were actually digging right now.’

Early morning sun dappled the back gardens of Fairholme Place, drying up yesterday’s rain.

‘All units, be advised that the lookout request on Ronnie Bronowski is cancelled. Found safe and well by his dad.’

Syd hacked out another patch of turf. ‘Be easier if we didn’t have to wear black the whole time.’

They’d staked out the corners of the lush patch of weeds and grass in Klingon’s back garden.

‘Told you, you could put on an SOC suit i
f you liked. They’re white.’

‘Yeah, and like wearing your very own sauna. No thank you.’

Another chunk of sod joined the pile. ‘Moan, moan, moan.’

At least they were getting somewhere now.

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

Logan heaved the last chunk of green out of the plot. Pressed the button. ‘Bang on, Calamity.’

‘Me and Deano have been round Portsoy. Break-ins all look like they’re done by one person. Even left us some fingerprints.’

‘Good. Get them off to the lab, then see if you can’t get hold of whoever’s monitoring Mark Brussels and William Gilcomston. Both sex offenders.’

‘Anything in particular you want to know?’

‘Everything.’

‘Sarge.’

Syd heaved out a lump of thick black soil. ‘Course, you know this might be a complete waste of time?’

‘Don’t you start. Was hard enough convincing the Duty Inspector to let us have a bash.’

Dig. Dig. Dig.

‘Look on the bright side, Sarge. Worst comes to worst, Klingon’s mum gets a lovely tatty patch dug for her.’

They worked in silence for a bit, except for the occasional grunt and hiss.

Nearly a foot down now.

Syd stepped into the hole. ‘If it
is
a dead body, who do you think it is?’

‘Don’t know. Toby Neish, maybe? He went missing about five months ago.’

Dig. Dig. Dig.

‘How’s Tufty’s head today?’

‘Every bit as empty as it was yesterday. Got two complaints from the hospital about him offering to show the nurses his “extendable baton”.’ Another shovel full of dirt.

Little chips of stone were appearing in the soil now. Like someone had dumped a bag of gravel.

Dig. Dig. Dig.

‘Should’ve brought some tins of coke or something … Parched.’

Dig. Dig.
Thunk
.

Syd raised an eyebrow. ‘Aye, aye. We have touchdown.’ He poked his shovel into the earth again.
Thunk
. Then over a bit.
Thunk
. A big smile. ‘Told you: best dogs in the country.’

They scraped the soil back. It was a wooden box, not quite as big as a coffin. But that didn’t really matter if you weren’t interested in the dear departed’s comfort or dignity.

‘What do you think, Sarge? Do we open it and risk contaminating anything, or leave it and call for backup?’

‘Doesn’t smell like a dead body.’

‘Wouldn’t if it was old enough. Everything would rot away.’

‘Then how did Lusso smell it?’ He dunked his spade off the lid a couple of times. ‘We open it.’ Logan climbed out of the hole and rummaged through the holdall from the Big Car’s boot. Came out with the hoolie bar. ‘This’ll do it.’

He wedged the curved blade of metal from the pick-end into the wood where the lid joined the box. Leaned all his weight on the prongs. Nothing. OK, shoogle it about a bit. Then more pressure …

First a small pop, then a splintering crackle, and
thunk
: the lid sprung open at one corner. No sudden waft of rotting meat. Didn’t take long to work the hoolie-bar’s adze along the gap, levering out the groaning nails.

‘Right, let’s see what we’ve got.’

They pulled the lid free and propped it up against the fence.

Syd pursed his lips. Sooked in a breath. Then whistled.

Logan nodded. ‘Looks like Lusso’s not the best cadaver dog in the world after all.’ But he
was
damn good at finding firearms and explosives. The box contained about a dozen rifles, four sawn-off shotguns, cardboard boxes of bullets and shells, and three semi-automatic pistols. ‘Think they were planning to start a war?’

‘Yes, well …’ DI Porter clicked her head to the side. It pulled the hair out of her eyes, but left the bags under them. One hand came up to scratch at the mole on her cheek. ‘Perhaps, in hindsight, we were a little hasty in declaring this no longer a crime scene.’

Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t say.’

She leaned back against the stained wallpaper in Klingon’s kitchen, watching as anonymous white-oversuited figures catalogued the contents of the gun coffin. ‘Far as we can tell, they wanted to set up an American-style drug cartel here in Banff. Bring the stuff in on boats and shoot anyone who got in their way. Witnesses, rival drug dealers, police officers.’