The Missing and the Dead (44 page)

‘Lentil soup.’

A billboard for home insurance slid by at the end of the road. A happy nuclear family, grinning away at a Plasticine dog. Someone had spray-painted a big purple willy right across the lot of them.

Nicholson pointed at it. ‘You know, I’m beginning to get the feeling our graffiting wee Marxist friend isn’t all that interested in the political process. I think he just likes painting willies on things.’

‘Think you’re right. Suppose that means we’ll have to pay Comrade Geoffrey a visit. There’s—’

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

‘Here we go.’ He pressed the button. ‘Hammer away.’

‘We’ve got reports of cows on the road: A947, between Keilhill and the farm shop.’

Nicholson slowed them to a stop, then curled forward and boinged her head off the steering wheel. ‘Not again.’

‘Roger that, show us responding.’ He reached out and poked her in the arm. ‘Come on, Calamity Janet, time to go play cowboys. Yehaw, ornery critters, circle the wagons, etcetera.’

‘Yeah, right here’s fine.’ The Big Car drifted to a halt outside the Sergeant’s Hoose, and Logan popped the door. ‘You going home, or you using the shower in the station?’

Nicholson scowled across from the driver’s side. ‘It’s sodding
everywhere
.’ Drying mud made pale beige streaks across her cheeks, clumped in her hair, stained the sleeves of her black Police T-shirt and the pale arms sticking out of it. More on her trousers and stabproof vest.

‘If you’re worried about Hector spying on you in the shower, go home. I think we can spot you an extra half-hour for lunch today, after your sterling efforts thwarting the Great Bovine Rebellion.’

‘Oh, you’re funny now, are you?’

Logan climbed out into the dreich afternoon. ‘I’ll be here all week. Try the fish.’ He clunked the door shut and waved as Nicholson bared her teeth for a bit, then pulled away from the kerb. Heading back to the station and a hot shower.

He crossed the road, dug out his keys and let himself into the house. No point carting soup about the whole time when home was a two-minute walk away.

The living-room door was open, showing off four nice cream walls and shiny white skirting boards. Next up – carpet.

Logan unVelcroed his stabproof and hung it over the bannister. ‘Helen?’ No reply. ‘Hello?’

Through to the kitchen. Not there.

Oh.

Cthulhu yawned from the windowsill – perched between the herbs – stretched, turned around to show Logan her bum, then settled down to sleep again.

So much for the big welcome.

He checked the fridge. Both steaks were still in residence. As was the leftover macaroni cheese. Lunch.

Logan pulled it out, popped a couple of holes in the clingfilm, and stuck it in the microwave. Put the kettle on.

A clunk from the front of the house.
‘Logan?’

He stuck his head out into the hall. ‘How does macaroni-cheese on toast sound?’

Helen dumped her bulging contingent of carrier bags on the bare floorboards and wiped a sheen of water from her face, hair hanging in frizzy brown-tinged coils. ‘Urgh … So much for summer.’ A shudder. Then she pointed at the bags. ‘Want to give me a hand?’

They unpacked them in the kitchen as the microwave droned. Salad. Pickles. Salmon fillets. Sausages. Potatoes. Onions. Chocolate. Wine.

Warmth bloomed in Logan’s cheeks. ‘You don’t have to, you know.’

She put a squeezy bottle of salad cream away in the cupboard. ‘Don’t have to what?’

‘This: buy loads of things. Cook for me.’

Her eyebrows drifted up an inch, the edges of her mouth going in the opposite direction.

Logan held out his hands. ‘No – it’s great, seriously, I’ve not eaten this well in months, but I don’t want you to think you
have
to. It’s not …’ He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t want to be taking advantage.’

She put a jar of mustard down on the counter. Looked at it. ‘You want me to go.’

‘No! No, I don’t, I’m only …’ He shrugged at the pile of food. ‘You’re doing all this for me, and I’m doing nothing in return.’

‘Yes you are.’ Helen stepped in so close that the scent of apricots coiled around him from her damp hair. Joined by the warmth of her body. ‘You’re finding my daughter.’

She placed her hand on the small of his back.

Ding
. The microwave came to a halt.

Logan swallowed. Took hold of her shoulders.

Helen looked up, lips parted.

OK.

Deep breath. And—

‘LAZ?’ The word barged in from the front of the house, wearing smoky hobnail boots. ‘YOU IN THERE?’

‘Gah …’ He flinched. Stared at the kitchen door. Not
now
.

Helen shrank back a step. Bit her top lip. Blushed.

Logan dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Maybe if we’re really quiet, she’ll give up and go away?’

The kitchen door battered open, and a whirlwind in pink top and blue jeans charged into the room, ash-blonde hair streaming out behind her. ‘Daddy!’ She grabbed Logan’s waist for a quick hug then ran over to the windowsill. ‘Cthulhu!’

Stroking and petting and rubbing of ears and purring.

Upstaged by the cat. As usual.

Helen crossed her arms. Pulled back against the working surface. ‘Yes. Right. Sorry.’

‘Gah, what a day.’ Susan lurched into the room and dumped a cool-bag on the table. She’d pulled her blonde hair back into a ponytail, and when she smiled, dimples appeared in her round cheeks. Little wrinkles deepened around her eyes. ‘Logan. How are you? We haven’t seen you in ages. Jasmine was so disappointed you couldn’t make the dance competition.’ Susan marched over and gave him a kiss. Then turned and clapped her hands. ‘Come on, Little Monkey, wash up, time for lunch.’

‘But, Mu-um—’

‘No buts. Upstairs. Wash. Don’t make your dad arrest you.’ Susan peeled off her jacket as Jasmine skipped out of the room. Her belly was a little swollen, but not that much more than usual. ‘Honestly, I love her to bits, but I swear to God: sometimes …’ She turned to Helen and rolled her eyes. ‘Sorry, I’m all over the place today. Two hours in a car with the loudest six-year-old on the planet.’ Stuck her hand out. ‘Susan.’

A pause. ‘Helen.’

‘Helen. I love your hair, all mine ever does is hang there like mince. With Jasmine, soon as I hit the third trimester it was like I was channelling Tina Turner, so there’s that to look forward to.’ She unzipped the cool-bag. ‘Do you like roast chicken and watermelon salad? I’ve made about enough for twenty.’

‘It … I should probably …’

Susan turned and took a deep breath. ‘ROBERTA! DON’T FORGET THE DRINKS!’

Steel’s voice boomed through from the hall. ‘I’M ON THE PHONE!’

‘Of course you are.’ Susan pulled a stack of Tupperware from her cool-bag. ‘You’re always on the phone.’

The sound of the toilet flushing came from upstairs. Then Steel lurched into the room, carrying a big plastic box. Fake cigarette sticking out of the corner of her mouth. Phone pinned between her shoulder and her ear. ‘I’m no’ telling you again, Becky – get those lazy sods out there door-to-dooring with Neil Wood’s picture. … I don’t care if it’s raining, snowing, or …’ She stopped. Stared at Helen. Stood there for a bit, bottom lip hanging open. Then, ‘Just sort it. Gotta go.’

Helen wrung her fingers into a knot. ‘Has something happened? Have they got the test results back?’

Steel dumped the plastic box on the kitchen floor. Stuffed her phone in a pocket. ‘Mrs Edwards?’ Then she had a raised-eyebrow ogle at Logan. ‘OK …’ Then back to Helen. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Edwards, it’s going to take a bit of time. Everyone watches these stupid detective TV things and thinks you can get it done in fifteen minutes, but it’s no’ that easy in real life.’

‘Oh.’ She stared at her feet for a moment. ‘Of course. I’m being stupid.’

‘No problem. Didn’t know you were here.’

Susan put a hand against her stomach, fingers splayed over the bump. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I thought you were a friend of Logan’s. And here’s me rabbiting on.’ She creased her eyes up. ‘If you’d like to join us for lunch, that’d be—’

‘Why don’t you lay the table, Sooz?’ Steel pointed over Helen’s shoulder. ‘I need to borrow Sergeant McRae for a wee minute.’

Logan grabbed a glance at Helen, then followed Steel down the hall and out into the gloomy afternoon. The slate-grey sea mirrored the granite sky. ‘You could have called!’

‘What the hell are you playing at?’ Steel punched him on the upper arm. ‘I can’t believe you’re shagging our dead kid’s mum! Are you
insane
?’

‘Ow!’ He rubbed at the spot. ‘Nothing happened, OK? Not that it’s any of your business.’ He pulled the front door shut.

‘Aye, and my bum’s the Queen of Sheba. You were at it, weren’t you?’

‘She wouldn’t have to crash at mine if you’d got your finger out and organized somewhere for her in the first place.’

‘Oh my God, it’s you, isn’t it? The “friend” she’s staying with. I
knew
it.’

‘She thinks it’s her daughter lying in the mortuary, OK? She just wants someone to talk to.’

‘Shouldn’t even be anywhere near her.’ She hit him again. ‘What’s wrong with you? You—’

‘Ow! Cut it out, or—’

‘—when you’re investigating the damn case! It’s unethical.’

Logan marched off a couple of paces. Then back again, hands jabbing the air for emphasis. ‘Nothing happened! And I’m not
on
the case, I’m barely case-adjacent. You can hardly
see
the case from where I am.’

Steel crossed her arms, hoicking up her bosom. ‘Nothing happened?
Really
?’

‘Nothing happened!’

She hissed out a breath. ‘Well, no wonder you had a face like an unemptied scrotum this morning. See – told you. Sexual frustration.’

He rubbed a hand across his face. ‘We were eating lunch. That’s all.’

‘Fine.’ Steel poked him in the chest. ‘And make sure you keep your hands where I can see them.’

Tufty indicated left, then sniffed. ‘Why can I smell chicken?’

The Big Car drifted back onto Rundle Avenue, making its third pass in fifteen minutes.

Still no sign of anyone that looked even vaguely like the descriptions Maggie had shouted through.

Logan shifted in his seat. The equipment belt was digging into his stomach’s full load of chicken and sausage rolls and potato salad. Every burp burned. Should really loosen it. But if he did, the damn thing would fall off if they had to chase anyone. ‘So, come on then: what did you do?’

The tips of Tufty’s ears turned pink. ‘Maybe I wanted to learn from the master for a bit?’

‘What did you do?’

A breath of drizzle fogged the windscreen. The windscreen wipers squealed it away, but it was back a couple of beats later. The tips of Tufty’s ears darkened.

‘Well?’

He shrugged one shoulder. ‘Deano just gets a bit grumpy sometimes.’

‘Tufty!’

‘All I said was, Einstein states that as an object’s velocity approaches the speed of light, its inertial mass tends towards infinity, right? Well, what about photons? They travel at the speed of light, because they
are
light.’

‘There,’ Logan pointed, ‘woman in the tracksuit.’

She was trudging along through the drizzle, head down, woolly hat pulled low over her ears.

Tufty shook his head. ‘Should be wearing a green hoodie. Anyway: light’s both a wave and a particle, right? And it’s travelling
at
the speed of light, so the particle bit of it should have near-infinite mass, even if the wave bit doesn’t. So maybe
that’s
what dark matter is? All that excess inertial mass?’

‘You think dark matter is light?’

‘Well, it’s not gerbils, is it? Stands to reason …’

‘Janet’s right – we should’ve had you tested.’ Logan dug out his phone, found Helen’s number, and thumbed in a text.

Sorry about lunch – didn’t know they were coming.

They can be a bit much at times.

He frowned at the screen. Say something about the almost-kiss, or not? What if she didn’t mean it? What if it was a misunderstanding? He’d end up looking like a right idiot. Or a pervert. Or a massive dickhead.

Gah, it was like being a spotty teenager again.

Play it cool.

If I can get free we could try grabbing dinner?

His finger hovered over ‘S
END
’.

Nah. That last bit looked desperate.

He deleted the line, then sent the text off into the digital void.

All nice and bland and unembarrassing.

The phone went back into his trouser pocket.

Outside the car windows, the damp streets glistened.

Tufty sucked on his teeth for a bit. Then, ‘You ever wonder about the origins of the universe, Sarge?’

Logan hit the button on his Airwave and talked into his shoulder. ‘Maggie, any more sightings?’

‘Aye, we’ve got an IC-One female wearing Ugg boots, blue jogging bottoms, and an orange sweatshirt.’

Tufty stuck on the brakes. Then reversed downhill. ‘Got her.’ He swung the Big Car right, onto Ardanes Brae.

And there she was, hurrying along the pavement, bent into the wind, a carrier bag dangling from one hand.

‘OK, wait till she’s level with the white Passat … Go.’

Tufty slid alongside, then pulled into the kerb. Grabbed his peaked cap and jumped out into the drizzle.

Logan went the other way, around the back of the Passat, cutting off the retreat.

She looked up, just in time to avoid walking straight into Tufty. Stopped. Took a step back. Turned. Saw Logan. Swore.

Kirstin Rattray screwed her bony face into a fist, then slumped. Licked her thin, pale lips. ‘Was … out for a walk.’

‘Afternoon, Kirstin.’

No one moved.

She wrapped one bony arm around herself, the skeletal hand gripping her other arm. ‘Going to see Amy.’ She jiggled the carrier bag. ‘Got her some toys and a pretty dress. ’Cos … ’Cos it’s her birthday.’