The Missing and the Dead (8 page)

But it wasn’t her.

Breath hissed out of him.

Deano put the roll of tape down. ‘You OK, Sarge?’

Blink. Logan coughed the lump out of his throat. ‘Yeah. It’s … She looks like Jasmine.’

The girl lay on her front, three feet from the dirty concrete wall and the ramp down into the pool. She was half-in, half-out of the water. Head, arms and torso floating amongst the detritus, lower half stranded on the rocks.

One leg lay straight out behind her, the small red shoe pointing back towards the main building. Looked as if the strap across her ankle had got caught on a rusting length of broken pipe. Holding her in place. The other leg stuck out at nearly ninety degrees. White socks and a grey dress. All covered with a thin dusting of white crystals.

Her grey jumper was sodden – torn between the shoulders, and at the elbows, showing the white shirt underneath. A school uniform.

Skin was pale as snow, covered in small scratches and tiny triangular holes. Her hands swollen and white. Neck bent at an unnatural angle.

Her cheek rested against a submerged rock. Eyes open, staring out through the murky water. Mouth open. Pale blonde hair floating around her face. A big dent in her forehead.

Deano tied the length of tape off on the last metal post. ‘You sure you’re OK?’

A shrug. ‘Yeah. Bit of a surprise, that’s all.’

‘See if I thought it was
my
daughter, I’d skin the scumbag alive …’ He sniffed. ‘Well you know: if I actually had any kids.’

Logan picked his way down the ramp, boots slithering on the weed-covered concrete, and squatted down at the edge of the water. Licked the tip of his index finger, then tapped it against the snagged red shoe. Pressed the finger against his tongue. Salt.

‘Deano, when’s high tide?’

‘No idea. Can find out, though.’

‘Definitely not an accident?’
Inspector McGregor was cranked up to full volume, trying to compete with the siren of the car she was in.
‘You’re sure?’

‘As I can be, without screwing up the scene.’ Logan marched back to the road, pulling off his blue nitrile gloves and stuffing them into an empty carrier bag. Fingers trembling, struggling with the plastic. ‘Looks as if someone battered her head in, but there’s no sign of blood on the walkway, or the wall, or the steps. So she didn’t do it falling into the pool. Best guess: she was dead by the time she hit the water. Probably had been for a couple of hours. Must’ve been completely submerged at one point – her skirt, legs and shoes are covered in salt crystals.’ He stopped, blew out a breath. ‘Poor wee soul was only five or six.’

The second-hand roar of the siren wailed from his Airwave’s speaker.

‘Guv?’

‘I’ll be there in five minutes. You’ve secured the scene? And got a lookout request on the go for Neil Wood?’

‘Deano handed it off to the OMU soon as we knew the guy was missing. Don’t know if they’ve done it or not.’

‘For God’s sake, Logan, it’s—’

‘You said, get back to you ASAP.’ The carrier bag went in his pocket. ‘Thought that made it top priority.’

A sigh, barely audible over the background noise.
‘Suppose you’re right.’

Deano scrambled up the shingle beach, back onto the road. Stopped and shook one leg, as if he’d stood in a puddle. Waves hushed against the pebbled shore.

‘Guv, you still there?’

‘Yes. Fine. I’m getting the MIT up from Aberdeen. Make sure no one touches anything till I get there.’

‘Already got Constable Quirrel as acting CSM.’

‘Tufty’s our Crime Scene Manager? … Wonderful … We’re all doomed.’
This time she was gone for good.

Deano marched over – one shoe leaving damp footprints on the age-dulled tarmac – while Logan punched in the badge number of the admin assistant Inspector McGregor had dug up for them.

The woman on the other end picked up.
‘Sergeant McRae?’

‘I need you to run a check on all missing persons aged eleven and under.’ The wee girl looked a lot younger than that, but there was no point taking any risks. ‘Female. Blonde hair. Wearing a school uniform – grey with white socks and shirt. Red shoes and tie. No school badge on the jumper.’

‘Where am I looking?’

Deano stopped in front of him, pointed at himself. Mouthed, ‘Anything needing doing?’

‘Better start with the Northeast and expand it from there. Go UK wide if you have to.’ He took his finger off the transmit button. ‘Deano, whoever you spoke to at the Offender Management Unit – give them a poke and make sure they’ve got a lookout request on for Neil Wood. I want him picked up.’

‘Sarge.’

‘… OK, I’ve got three mispers that match the age range in the Northeast …’
The clatter of fingers on keyboard.
‘Two are female … One red-haired, one brown. Sure yours hasn’t dyed her hair?’

He pulled out his mobile and scrolled through the photos he’d taken. That pale little face, staring down at the stones. Deep breath. ‘Far as I can tell. Eyebrows match the hair colour, anyway.’

‘Then we’re going to have to search further out. Might take me a while. How far back do you want me to go: one month, two, three?’

‘Better give it two years. Just because she only turned up today, doesn’t mean she’s not been missing for a long, long time.’

A sigh. Then,
‘Josef Bloody Fritzl has a lot to answer for.’

‘Email me if you get anything.’ Logan clipped the handset back in place.

Deano was on the other side of the police van, marching back and forth with one squelchy shoe. ‘… oh no you don’t. I
told
you he was missing. I
told
you to get a lookout request and … No, no, no, no, no: this is
your
cock-up, sunshine, not mine.’

Brilliant.

As if today could get any worse.

The cliffs were washed with blood, shadows long and dark as the sun sank into the North Sea. Painting the grass in shades of amber and gold. Glinting on the chain-link fence.

Nicholson tucked her hands into the armholes of her stabproof, covered now with a clean high-vis waistcoat. Shrugged her shoulders up round her ears and kept them there, peaked cap wedged on top of her head. ‘Getting a bit nippy.’

Logan rocked on the balls of his feet. Shoulders back. Hands clasped behind him. Chin up. ‘No slouching.’

A double line of blue-and-white ‘P
OLICE
’ tape stretched between the end of the chain-link fence and the telegraph pole on the other side of the road. A handful of rusty cars were parked in front of the cordon, their drivers and passengers sitting on the bonnets, cameras and microphones hanging idle. Waiting. The Sky TV outside broadcast van partially blocked the entrance to the wastewater plant, a journalist in a fleece and serious expression doing a piece to camera. The BBC doing the same a couple of hundred yards behind them.

‘Feel like a right turnip.’ But Nicholson stood upright anyway. ‘Stuck here like a pair of willies while everyone else is off doing proper police work.’

‘Pair of
Wallies
. Not willies.’

‘I know what I said.’ She turned back to the patrol car. ‘Don’t suppose we’ve got any of those nice padded jackets in the boot, do we?’

A sigh. ‘Go on then.’

An unmarked car came to a halt on the other side of the barrier tape and the nightshift Duty Inspector climbed out. Held up his hands as a swarm of lenses turned in his direction. When he spoke, the words came out as a thick roll of bunged-up vowels. ‘We’re not making any comment at this time. Thank you.’ He turned his back on them, ducked under the tape and marched up to Logan. Kept his voice low. ‘Bunch of vultures.’ A waft of Vicks VapoRub and menthol sweets.

‘Guv.’

Inspector Fettes tucked his peaked cap under his arm. His hands were huge – completely out of proportion with the rest of him – and covered with freckles. His cheeks and nose were a freckle playground too, reaching all the way up his forehead to a magnificent mop of red hair. He nodded at the road, where it snaked off down the hill. ‘Inspector McGregor still down there?’

‘You taking over?’

‘Got enough on my plate running the division as it is. Wendy can hold the fort here till her shift ends. Wanted to make sure I’m up to speed before she heads home.’

Logan’s phone vibrated in his pocket. ‘Sorry.’ He pulled it out – an email from the support officer in Elgin, listing all the young girls reported missing in the UK for the last two years, filtered for hair colour. None of the photographs worked on his phone. ‘Bloody typical.’

‘Problem?’

‘Someone’s emailed through photos of all the missing girls on file, but they won’t display.’ He gave the side of the phone a slap. It didn’t help.

Of course, the photos only mattered if she’d actually been reported missing …

Inspector Fettes sniffed. Dabbed at his nose with a hanky. ‘Still, I suppose it’s not
really
our problem any more, is it?’

‘Like they’d trust us with a murder.’ Logan put his useless phone away again. ‘No: the Major Investigation Team turns up an hour ago, in a blaze of flashing lights and sirens, and takes it off our hands. Thanks for your help, now sod off and go guard the scene for the rest of the night.’

‘Tossers.’

‘Exactly what I was thinking, Guv.’

Another sniff. ‘Speak of the devil …’

A battered Vauxhall grumbled up the hill from the swimming pool, and rattled to a halt next to the patrol car. Sat there with its engine running.

Probably expected him to abandon his post and rush over to see what they wanted.

Well, tough.

Inspector Fettes popped his hat on his head. ‘Suppose I’d better go make myself useful.’ He headed over to the Vauxhall. Leaned on the roof and spoke to someone through the open window. Pointed at Logan. Then stood back up and marched off down the road towards Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool.

Nicholson reappeared, hauling on a big fluorescent jacket with reflective strips. Nodded at the idling Vauxhall. ‘Something happen?’

Logan faced front again. ‘Doubt it.’

She checked her watch. ‘Soon be time for tenses. Nice cuppa and a chocolate éclair.’

‘No tenses for us tonight.’

‘Oh …’ Her face drooped. ‘Elevenses?’

‘We should be so lucky.’

The Vauxhall’s passenger door opened and a dishevelled head poked out. Hair like an angry weasel had rampaged through a haystack. The creases deepened around her mouth. Voice like sandpaper on a rusty pipe. ‘Laz! Stop dicking about.’

Nicholson raised an eyebrow. ‘Laz?’

‘Don’t ask.’

Detective Chief Inspector Steel clambered out of the car. Slightly hunched in her wrinkled grey trouser suit. Black overcoat. Blue silk shirt. She waved at him. ‘Get your arse over here.’

Pause.

‘Sarge?’

Sigh. ‘OK. You stay here. No one—’

‘Yeah, “None shall pass”, I get it.’

He turned and walked over to the Vauxhall.

‘About sodding time.’ Steel hooked a thumb over her shoulder. ‘Come on, you and me’s going for a walk.’

They stopped at the top of the hill, overlooking the bay and the abandoned outdoor swimming pool. Steel waded into the knee-deep grass, then settled onto the park bench someone had erected years ago to make a viewing point. Back when councils still had money for things like that. She produced an electronic cigarette and took a deep puff, setting the tip glowing blue. Trickled out a stream of vapour from her nose. ‘Well this is a bloody mess.’

Logan sat next to her, engulfed in the throat-catching smell of perfume and mints. He pointed down to the pools, where a phalanx of bodies in white SOC suits picked their way around the far side. Two marquees sat beside the old building, both glowing with their internal lights. Three patrol cars. Two police vans. A big Range Rover. And a scruffy Transit van. ‘Any idea who she is yet?’

Steel jammed the e-cigarette into the corner of her mouth and took an envelope out of her pocket. ‘Came today. Haven’t dared look yet. Susan’s terrified.’

‘Going from the look of her, she can’t have been dead long. Maybe a day? Possibly two? We’re lucky the seagulls didn’t find her first.’

‘Right.’ Steel ran a finger along the envelope’s seal, ripping it open. Then ferreted out the sheet inside. Stuck the whole lot on her lap. ‘I can’t look.’

‘Put on your glasses then.’

She stared at him. ‘I don’t
need
glasses. It’s important, OK?’ She poked the sheet of paper. ‘This is a big deal.’

‘And a dead wee girl isn’t?’

Another long drag on the fake cigarette. ‘Got a point.’

‘Look …’ He cleared his throat. Took off his peaked cap and held it in his lap. ‘I know it means a lot to Susan. But maybe she needs to …’

Steel just stared, mouth hanging open.

‘What?’

‘What the hell did you do to your
head
?’ She reached out and scrubbed her hand across the back of it. ‘It’s like a velour egg.’

‘Get off.’ He scooted away to the edge of the bench.

‘Who cut your hair? You tell me and we’ll go round right now and beat the crap out of them. You look like an angry scrotum!’

‘
I
cut it.’ He slapped her hand away as she went in for seconds. ‘Got a set of clippers off the internet.’

‘One born every minute.’ She took another puff on her e-cigarette. Glanced down at the paperwork in her lap. ‘Pathologist’s examining the wee girl now. Quick once-over then off to Aberdeen. Post mortem tomorrow.’

‘You got any idea how much a haircut costs these days? Don’t get anything like the same overtime I did in CID. And with the pension contribution going up …’

‘Right now it looks like a blow to the head. Something solid and cylindrical. Best guess: he bashed her head in with a metal pipe. Find out more tomorrow when they cut her open.’

Logan screwed his hands together, knotting the fingers tight. ‘When I saw her lying there, all twisted in her school uniform … For a heartbeat, I thought it was Jasmine.’

Steel draped an arm along the back of the bench. Gave Logan a little squeeze. ‘Don’t be such a big girl’s blouse. She’s home with her mum.’