The Missing and the Dead (45 page)

Logan pointed over her shoulder. ‘Kirstin Rattray, I have reason to believe that you’re in possession of a controlled substance, so I’m detaining you in terms of Section Twenty-Three of the Misuse of Drugs Act 1971 for the purpose of a search.’

She curled in on herself, folding at the knees and wrapping her arms around her head. ‘Noo …’

‘We are unable to search you here, as I don’t have a female officer to do it. So we’re going to take you to the station until one becomes available. You’re not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say—’

‘Please …’ Her voice came out muffled and strangled. ‘Please, if they put me away I’ll never get to see my wee Amy again. Please …’

Tufty shifted from foot to foot. ‘Sarge?’

‘She’s only
three
!’

The same age Helen’s daughter was when she disappeared.

‘Sarge, maybe we could … I don’t know. Something?’

Kirstin stayed where she was, rocking back and forward slightly. Crying.

Logan stared up at the lid of grey that loomed over the town. The drizzle caressed his face with its cold clammy hands. Three years old.

Ah, sod it. It wasn’t always about banging people up. ‘Kirstin.’

‘Please …’

‘Kirstin, come on: stand up, I’m not going to arrest you.’

She peered up at him with bloodshot eyes. ‘My Amy’s only—’

‘I know. I’m not arresting you. Up.’

She stood, sniffling and gulping. Wiped the snot off her top lip with a skeletal hand. ‘I can go?’

‘Not yet.’ He snapped on a single blue nitrile glove. ‘What did Frankie Ferris give you?’

The skeletal hand scrubbed at her eyes. ‘I didn’t—’

‘You were seen, Kirstin. What did he give you? You can give it to me, or you can come down the station and wait to be searched. And when we find it, we arrest you and confiscate it anyway. Your choice.’

She nodded. Sniffed. Then dug into the front pocket of her joggy bottoms. Came out with a small plastic baggie with brown powder in it. Rubbed the thing between her fingertips, like the world’s tiniest violin. Licked her lips again. Cleared her throat.

He held out his gloved hand. ‘Kirstin?’

A hatchback went past, the sound of music turned up too loud grinding out through the rolled-up windows.

‘Come on, Kirstin. What’s more important: getting high, or your daughter?’

The drizzle fell.

Tufty shifted his feet again.

And finally Kirstin dropped the little packet on Logan’s palm. Her fingertips hovered over it for a moment, then she snatched her hand away and pressed them against her throat. ‘It … Sometimes it’s …’ She looked away. ‘I found it.’

‘Of course you did. Does Frankie have a big stash? Is it worth my while paying him a visit?’

She hauled one shoulder up to her ear. ‘Didn’t see anything. He was, you know, working the hall, never got to see anywhere else.’

‘OK.’ Logan pointed. ‘Can I see inside the carrier bag?’

She held it out and open.

Inside was a little pink princess dress, a set of pink fairy wings, and a pink magic wand.

He stepped back. ‘Thanks. You tell Amy the nice policemen said hello, OK?’

A nod. Then she scuffed her Ugg boots on the pavement. ‘She’s all I’ve got.’

‘Off you go then.’

She scurried away, carrier bag clutched to her chest. Getting smaller and smaller, until the hill and the drizzle swallowed her up.

Tufty grinned. ‘Catch-and-release. Like it.’

‘Right. Back to work.’

While Tufty got in behind the wheel, Logan closed his fist around the little package of heroin, then pulled the glove inside out, trapping it inside. Slipped it into one of his stabproof vest’s zippy pockets. Couldn’t sign it into evidence without implicating Kirstin. Just have to lose it down a drain somewhere.

The drizzle thickened, the drops turning heavier and wetter.

He climbed into the passenger seat. Clunked the door shut. ‘Right, a couple more goes, then we’re off to Gardenstown to see about that shed fire.’ He pulled his Airwave free as Tufty crossed Tannery Street and started yet another long slow loop of Rundle Avenue.

‘Sarge?’

‘Is this about Einstein again?’ He thumbed the Duty Inspector’s shoulder number into his Airwave. ‘Bravo India from Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

‘You know the Big Bang?’

‘Go ahead, Logan.’

‘Any chance I can get a warrant to dunt in Frankie Ferris’s door? We’re getting a lot of tip-offs about him dealing today. Sounds as if he’s got a new batch of heroin in.’

‘You doing stop-and-searches?’

‘On it now.’

‘Good. I want you copping a feel of everyone who comes out of that place. You get me one solid bit intel and I’ll get you a warrant.’
There was a bit of rustling at her end. Then,
‘I’ve no spare bodies for a dunt today. Have to be tomorrow or Tuesday.’

Might all be gone by tomorrow or Tuesday. But it was better than nothing. ‘Thanks, Guv.’

Tufty took them out the end of the street and onto Golden Knowes Road. It was the Westernmost edge of town, no houses on the left side of the road, from here on it was fields and cattle all the way to Whitehills. ‘If we hadn’t let Kirstin Rattray off with a caution, you’d have got your warrant.’

‘And make sure she never saw her kid again? Thought you were all in favour of catch-and-release.’

‘Yeah, but …’ A small frown and a little chewing on the inside of his cheek. Then whatever ethical dilemma was raging inside that misshapen little head of his must have passed. ‘Anyway, so we know that the universe goes from nothing to everything: boom, in teeny wee fraction of a second.’ He took his hands off the steering wheel and mimed an explosion.

‘Anyone in the vicinity of St Fergus, got reports of a campervan with German plates acting suspiciously. MOD staff want them picked up …’

A right, onto Windy Brae, making another long loop.

‘So there’s nothing, then there’s inflation, then there’s expansion, then there’s everything, right?’

‘I’m beginning to know how Deano felt.’

Little houses, terraced bungalows, all darkening in the rain.

‘All units be on the lookout for an IC-Two female, suspected of robbing a Big Issue vendor in Peterhead, Back Street …’

‘So, in that first trillionth of a trillionth of a trillionth of a second, all this primordial quantum foam is accelerating faster than the speed of light—’

‘How about him?’ Logan pointed through the windscreen at a man in a scuffed bomber jacket with a hoodie underneath, marching on through the rain.

‘Should be green cargo pants, not stonewashed jeans. But it’s the same thing, isn’t it? Closer you get to the speed of light, the greater your inertial mass, so if it wasn’t for that tiny fraction of a second wheeching everything up to uber-fast speeds, there wouldn’t be any mass in the universe. We’re made of speed, not stuff.’

Logan stared at him.

‘What?’

‘I swear to God, Tufty, I was this close to being nice to you today.’ He held one hand up, thumb and forefinger less than an inch apart.

Right, onto Meavie Place, then another quick right onto Ardanes Brae again.

‘Only trying to get a bit of intelligent debate going.’

There was blissful silence all the way back to Rundle Avenue. Well, except for the rhythmic squeak-and-groan of the windscreen wipers.

Tufty heaved a big sigh. ‘Must be weird, living in one of the wood-clad houses. Think it’s a bit like moving into a two-storey shed?’

‘Don’t know what’s worse, your cosmology, or your social commentary …’ Logan sat forward in his seat. Peered out through the rain-smeared windscreen. ‘Up there. Is that not our good friend, Martyn Baker?’ And he was going into Frankie Ferris’s delightful little drug den too. Logan grinned. Rubbed his hands together. ‘Right, park the car around the corner. Soon as he comes out, we’ve got ourselves a winner.’

And best of all, he had plausible deniability. The Duty Inspector gave the order to stop-and-search everyone who comes out of Frankie’s place.
Everyone
. And that included Martyn Baker.

Yes, DCI McInnes would blow a vein, but sod him.

About time these MIT scumbags learned what a real police officer looked like.

‘Mr Baker, what a nice surprise.’ Logan stepped out from behind the mouldy Transit van. Rain pattered on the brim of his peaked cap, bounced off the shoulders of his fluorescent yellow jacket. Not exactly subtle, but Martyn-with-a-‘Y’ still hadn’t seen him.

A narrowing of the eyes. Probably weighing up the odds of doing a runner, but then Tufty stepped onto the pavement behind him.

‘Sarge?’

Baker took his hands out of his pockets, curled them into fists. The tendons on his neck tightened, stretching the skin. Rain soaked into his bomber jacket, slicking the red fabric. ‘What?’ Those thick eyebrows glowered like storm clouds.

‘I see you’ve been visiting with Frankie Ferris.’

‘Nothing illegal, is it? Visiting someone?’ His Brummie accent thickened with every word. ‘Youse jocks are harassing us.’

Logan smiled at him. Smiled at the gel-spiked hair drooping in the rain. Smiled at the nuclear-furnace plooks ready to blow along his jaw. Then slipped the elastic band off the body-worn video unit and set it recording. ‘Martyn Baker, I have reason to believe that you’re in possession of a controlled substance—’

‘Don’t.’ He bared his teeth. ‘Don’t you
bloody
don’t.’

‘—under Section Twenty-Three of the Misuse of Drugs—’

‘You’ve already got my phone, that not enough for you!’

‘—detained for the purposes of search—’

All the air vanished from Logan’s lungs, as a fist smashed into his stomach hard enough to skid him back a couple of inches on the pavement. Yeah, a stabproof vest might be a pain to lug about all day, but if it didn’t let a kitchen knife through, a fist wasn’t going to have much luck.

He snapped his hand up and out, palm forward, fingers splayed, channelling his weight through his hip. The heel of his hand slammed into the underside of Baker’s chin. ‘Back!’

Baker’s head jerked up, and his feet went out from underneath him. Windmilling arms and a gurgling moan, all the way down to the pavement. He hit like a sack of tatties, and lay there, blinking up at the rain.

Tufty lunged, whipping out the cuffs and snapping them on one wrist, before hauling him over onto his front and flicking the other one into place. He looked up at Logan. ‘You OK, Sarge?’

‘Never better, Officer Quirrel. Never better.’

They stood him in the middle of the custody suite and searched him.

The Fraserburgh Cellblock Choir did a round-robin of ‘Soft Kitty’ as Tufty worked his way along Martyn Baker’s limbs, then through his turn-ups and pockets.

The PCSO puffed out his cheeks and stirred his tea. ‘You’re lucky you weren’t here this morning: we got the Spice Girls’ greatest hits. Can you imagine spending your honeymoon in the cells, waiting for the courts to open Monday morning? Singing about wanting a zigazig-ah?’

Logan leaned back against the custody desk and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I want Baker processed ASAFP, but keep it low key, OK?’

The Police Custody and Security Officer folded his thick, thistle-tattooed arms. ‘You hiding him from anyone in particular?’

‘Not hiding him, I’m ensuring his safety. In case someone decides to throw a fit.’

‘So …?’

‘I want to be done before anyone from Operation Troposphere, or some MIT numptie comes sniffing about. Baker calls his lawyer, then we get him in an interview room. And make sure you give me a shout, soon as he’s ready. We burst him, we throw a party, then everyone gets medals.’

Tufty came to the end of his search, then held out his gloved hand to Logan. A ziplock plastic bag of dried green herbs sat in the middle of the palm. Not a huge bag, not even big enough for a charge of possession with intent.

Logan walked over and picked it out of Tufty’s hand. ‘This it?’

A shrug. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

He walked around to face Martyn Baker. ‘Well, Mr Baker? Anything else on, or in, your person I should know about?’

Martyn Baker’s jaw clenched and ground, the muscles writhing beneath the skin. Making the spots ripple. His feet made restless patterns on the grey floor, following the steps of some obscure, guilty dance. His eyes flicked from side to side, never meeting Logan’s. ‘I want my lawyer.’

‘I’ll bet you do.’

Logan rinsed the empty mug under the hot tap, then added it to the pile on the draining board. A couple of support staff sat around the TV in the canteen, having a deep and meaningful conversation about the new series of
Danger Mouse
.

A buzzing sensation worked its way into Logan’s thigh, followed by the tell-tale sound of a new text message arriving. He dug his phone out of his pocket.

Srry for being all wierd at lnch I just didnt expect all the ppl Im not usd to all th family anymore Still gt steak fr tea if U want it? I cn make chips

How could any gentleman refuse an offer of chips?

He hit reply, then stopped. Put his mobile away and headed back along the groaning corridor to the Sergeants’ Office. Picked up the internal phone.

‘Cellblock.’

‘Hi, it’s Sergeant McRae. Any word on our friend Martyn Baker yet?’

‘Still on the phone to his solicitor. Takes a while to remember to say “no comment” to everything. Takes practice.’

‘OK, well I’m heading out for a bit. Give me a shout soon as he’s ready.’

Out the door, down the stairs, and onto the rear car park.

Slivers of blue jabbed their way through the grey cloud. The leaching drizzle and unforgiving rain had gone, leaving the windscreens and bodywork of the parked patrol cars and van dulled to a pewter sheen.

He pulled out his mobile, found Helen’s number, and—

‘Sarge?’ Tufty.

Logan froze. ‘Martyn Baker said something?’

‘Well … No. PCSO said you were heading out. So, you need backup? Shall I get the Big Car?’