The Missing and the Dead (43 page)

‘Seriously, all that gunk in your junk will be backing up. Don’t get rid of it at some point and you’re going to burst like a big spermy pluke.’

‘OK, you can go away now.’ A couple of burglaries needed looking into. Some witness statements taken for a hit-and-run in Cornhill. An unlawful removal in New Pitsligo. The peeping tom was back in Macduff, and someone had set fire to a shed in Gardenstown. Hopefully it wouldn’t be an idiot with his own barbecue this time.

‘Don’t want that, do we? You, getting every woman in three hundred feet pregnant.’

He scribbled them all down in his new notepad. ‘Are you still here?’

‘Susan’s getting everything packed in the car now. Says she’s made a picnic lunch: chicken, beetroot, sausages, egg sarnies, and that weirdo potato salad with gherkins you like because you’re a freak.’

‘You’re the freak.’ He picked his Airwave off the desk. Punched in Janet’s number. ‘Safe to talk?’

‘Sarge: you’re awake! Feeling OK?’

‘No.’ Logan glowered at Steel for a moment. ‘Janet, I need you and—’ The desk phone rang. It was the Duty Inspector’s number on the screen. ‘Hold on.’ He grabbed the handset. ‘Guv?’

Inspector McGregor’s voice could have made it snow in July.
‘Sergeant McRae. My office.
Now!
’

‘I didn’t say you could sit.’

Caught, halfway down into the chair, Logan stood again. Feet shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind his back. ‘Ma’am.’

The Inspector took off her glasses and sighed. ‘Do you know what I got when I arrived at work this morning, Sergeant? I got a bollocking from the Area Commander, because apparently I’m incapable of controlling my own staff.’

‘Guv, it wasn’t—’

‘Did I say you could talk?’

Logan closed his mouth.

McGregor swept a spare strand of greying hair from her face. Then let her shoulders droop, all the ice gone from her voice. ‘I
was
going to haul you over the coals, but to be honest, I’m more disappointed than angry.’ She shook her head. ‘What did I do wrong, Logan? What did I do that made you decide I wasn’t fit to be your commanding officer?’

Logan swallowed down a groan. Stuffed it down into his ribcage where it could marinate in the spreading guilt.

Through the window behind her, the sky was a uniform lid of granite, flecked with wheeling herring gulls. Grey sky, grey sea, grey Sunday.

The only sound was the hum of her computer’s fan.

She pointed at herself. ‘Do you have problems taking orders from a woman, is that it? I thought we’d developed a rapport, Logan. That you had at least a
sliver
of respect for me.’

The guilt seeped out through his ribs, oozing down into his stomach, climbing up into his throat. Making his cheeks burn.

He let out a breath. ‘No, Guv. I mean, yes. I mean …’ This was going well. Why couldn’t she have yelled at him and had done with it? A straight-up rant would’ve been a lot easier to deal with. And she bloody well knew it. ‘I don’t have a problem taking orders from a woman, and I
do
respect you.’

More silence.

He cleared his throat. ‘I wanted to … When we talked about getting stuff under the radar, I thought this could be one of those things.’ God knew what colour his cheeks were by now, but his ears were probably going to burst into flame any minute.

Inspector McGregor sagged back in her seat. ‘Logan, I know you mean well on this one, I really do, but you have to stop. We’re officially on our final warning. DCI McInnes has taken over the scene at Fairholme Place. All digging stopped till further notice.’

Count to ten. Don’t say anything.

Sod it. ‘Ma’am, with all due respect to the Detective Chief Inspector, he’s an idiot. Klingon’s mum never made it to Australia. There’s no sign of her leaving the country. She’s buried in the back garden, and Klingon and Gerbil killed her.’

‘That’s as may be, but until McInnes says otherwise, no one’s digging her up. And yes, I think that’s wrong. And I think it’s wrong we’re not getting to prosecute for the serious assaults on Jack Simpson. But it doesn’t matter what I think, because we have
no
say in this. It’s over.’

A weight settled on Logan’s shoulders, dragging them down. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ The carpet was blue and tufted, he stared at it for a bit. Shuffled his feet. ‘Might be a
bit
of a problem there.’

Another sigh. ‘What did you do?’

‘I gave Sammy Wilson a tenner to sniff out information on the Candlestick Maker, AKA: Martyn Baker.’

A laugh burst its way free of the Inspector. She rocked back in her chair, all her teeth on display. Hooting.

What happened to the disappointed expression and
we’re-all-doomed
voice?

Then, when the fit passed, McGregor wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Classic. You trusted Stinky Sammy Wilson with ten pounds? I wouldn’t trust Stinky Sammy Wilson with a snotty hankie. A knitted condom would be more reliable than him.’ She waved a hand at the door. ‘Go on, you can take ten quid from the petty cash and I’ll sign for it. Worth it for the laugh.’

Logan dumped a teabag in his mug and put the kettle on to boil. From the Tupperware containers on the canteen table, it looked as if someone had brought in cakes that morning, but all that was left were crumbs and smears of icing.

Typical. Nothing left for Logan.

Steel’s whipping girl, DS McKenzie, lumbered in on her mobile. ‘Yeah … No, I don’t think so, but we’ll follow it up … OK. Thanks.’ She hung up and dug a mug out of the cupboard. Then nodded at Logan, setting the frizzy ponytail-bun thing wobbling. ‘Sergeant.’ All the warmth of yesterday’s vomit and just as bitter.

Logan nodded back. ‘Did you get some cake?’

The creases between her eyebrows deepened. ‘There was cake?’

‘Yeah, I didn’t get any either.’

‘How come no one said there was cake?’ She thumped her mug down next to Logan’s.

He dug the huge carton of semi-skimmed out of the fridge. ‘You want a bit of unsolicited advice?’

‘No.’

‘Tough. Detective Chief Inspector Roberta Steel can be a massive pain in the arse. I know, because for ten years it was
my
arse she was a pain in. Do this, do that, go here, go there—’

‘Fetch this, carry that.’ A small smile cracked itself on McKenzie’s face. ‘Do all my paperwork for me.’

‘Exactly. But she’s also—’

‘And all the swearing, and the blasphemy, and the innuendo, and the sexual comments, and the sarcasm, and the
scratching
!’ DS McKenzie threw her arms wide, hands curled into claws.

‘Yes, but—’

‘Forever digging at her bits and her boobs. And look at her! Like someone ran over Columbo with a lawnmower, how’s that supposed to command respect?’

‘You finished?’

A shrug. McKenzie dropped her arms by her sides. ‘You know what she’s like.’

‘Yes, and I also know she’s incredibly loyal. If you screw up, she’ll rip you a new one in private, but she’ll slap down anyone who has a go in public. She’s got your back and she trusts you to do a decent job, not like some bosses.’

Silence.

Then McKenzie stuck her chin out. Stared down her nose at him. ‘Yeah, maybe she trusts
you
. The sainted Logan McRae.’ Her voice took on a gravelly edge, not the best impression of Steel, but not bad either: ‘“Logan wouldn’t do that”, “When Logan was my DS everything was much better”, “Logan’s wonderful, Logan’s perfect, everything you can’t do, he’d be great at.”’

The kettle rattled to a halt.

‘Really?’

‘You’re the stick she beats me with every day.’

‘Then don’t rise to it. If she finds a crack she’ll dig and poke till the whole thing breaks, or it gets fixed. Fix it.’

Nicholson appeared in the canteen doorway. ‘There you are, Sarge. Been calling you.’

‘Airwave’s back in the office. What can I do for you, Janet.’

She pulled her mouth into a sad-frog frown. ‘Got another anonymous tip: our mate Frankie Ferris is at it again.’

So much for a nice cup of tea.

Nicholson took a right onto Rundle Avenue. Again. ‘You know, I’m beginning to think someone’s having a laugh.’

Logan slumped in the passenger seat, staring out of the window. ‘You ever wonder why we bother, Janet?’

‘We get, what, six calls a day about Frankie dealing from his house? So round we dutifully trot. And round and round we go. But do we ever catch anyone?’

The white harled houses gave way to the timber semi-shed ones.

‘I mean, this: right here, it’s the perfect metaphor for the job, isn’t it? We go round and round in circles, but what do we really achieve?’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘You know what I think? I think someone’s figured out that this is a
really
easy way to get us out of the way for an hour.’

‘End of the day, people still keep doing horrible things to each other, and we’re trying to keep everything together with string and old chewing gum.’

‘Yeah, I heard Inspector McGregor had a go at you this morning.’ Nicholson shifted her grip on the wheel. ‘What did you get: the full shouty savaging, or the guilt trip?’

‘Guilt trip.’

‘Urgh, I
hate
it when she does that. “I’m not angry with you, Janet, just
disappointed
.”’ Nicholson grimaced. ‘She’s even better at it than my mother, and that’s saying something. Last time, I had to go eat a whole tub of ice cream afterwards, and I still felt like an utter failure.’ Nicholson pulled the Big Car to the kerb, opposite Frankie’s place. Frowned through the windscreen. ‘What if he doesn’t deal from his own house any more? What if this is all make-work to keep us away from where the real action’s going down?’

Logan frowned at her. ‘Have you been watching old repeats of
The Sweeney
again?’

‘When did we last arrest someone coming out of Frankie Ferris’s Den of Dodgy Drugs?’

True.

‘Not as if we can ignore the tip-off though, is it? Soon as we do, something horrible will happen: Sod’s Law. Give it one more pass, then back to the station.’ He dug out his mobile and called Steel. ‘Anything back from the labs yet?’

‘What? No, I won’t come into the office. I told you, my wife’s more important to me than any job.’

Brilliant. Logan closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. ‘Susan’s there, listening, isn’t she?’

‘Get DS McKenzie to do it. I’m spending time with my family for a change.’

‘Yes or no: have the labs done the DNA match with Helen Edwards yet?’

‘Damn it, sir, I’m no’ a miracle worker. These things take time.’

‘For God’s sake, you were supposed to chase them up! Do I have to do everything?’

‘Thank you, sir. I’ll see you when I get back to the station.’

Unbelievable. Logan hung up, unhooked his Airwave and got Control to put him through to the Dundee Lab as Nicholson took them on another tour of the back streets.

‘Come on, answer the sodding— Hello? I need to speak to whoever’s processing the Tarlair MIT samples. Can you …’ He held the handset out. ‘I’m on hold.’

Nicholson tapped her two index fingers on the steering wheel, like searching antenna. ‘Or maybe it’s someone who likes screwing with the police? Calls us up, gets his giggles watching us driving about like idiots …’ A frown. ‘What if it’s
Frankie
doing the tipping-off?’

‘About his own dealing? Nah.’

A one-eyed smile spread across her face. ‘Yeah, think about it: he calls us with these bogus tip-offs when he knows there’s no one there buying his product. Waste our time often enough, and we stop taking tip-offs seriously.’

A thick Glaswegian accent curled out of the Airwave’s speaker.
‘Yellow?’

Logan pressed the talk button. ‘Sergeant McRae: B Division. Where are you with the DNA comparison on the wee girl and Helen Edwards?’

‘Ah …’
A sooking noise – getting ready to break the bad news.
‘Between you and me: going to have to be Tuesday or Wednesday. Can’t get to it any sooner than that.’

‘You’ve had it for nearly a week!’

‘Aye, well, there’s a load on in the labs right now. Everyone’s upgrading their kit but us, so we’re getting nine divisions’ worth of stuff. And Renfrewshire-and-Inverclyde are going
mental
with all these feet washing up in—’

‘No.’ Logan jabbed a finger against the dashboard. ‘Trust me on this, there is
nothing
you’ve got on that’s more important than identifying our victim. Other people might tell you there is, but they’re not going to turn up on your doorstep at four in the morning and knee your testicles out through your ears. Are we clear?’

‘But the severed feet—’

‘Would you rather have severed testicles?’

A cough. A pause.
‘Look, this isn’t my choice, OK? I have to do what I’m—’

‘And can you imagine how many people will be lining up to lend a knee when it gets out you’ve been dragging your heels? When
that
gets splashed across the front pages?’ Logan shook his head. ‘Dear, oh dear. Here’s us trying to catch a little girl’s killer, and you’re messing about with feet? Think your bosses are going to stand behind you on that one? Or are they going to tie sausages round your neck and throw you to the sharks?’

Nothing.

‘Take your time.’

The voice dropped to a whisper.
‘OK. OK. I’ll bump it up the list. But … I’m only doing my job, here.’

‘Then do it faster. I want that result on my desk by close of play.’ Logan ended the call and twisted his Airwave back on its holder. Looked up to find Nicholson grinning at him. ‘What?’

‘Oh, Sergeant McRae: you’re so
masterful
!’

Nicholson drifted the Big Car through the little side streets, keeping the speed under twenty. ‘What do you fancy doing for Sunday lunch?’

‘Nice big carvery. Rare roast beef; fluffy Yorkshire puddings; crispy roast potatoes done in goose fat; carrots and peas and gravy. All you can eat.’

‘Sounds cool. What are you
actually
having?’