The Missing and the Dead (67 page)

Rain clicked across the windscreen like the feet of tiny crabs.

OK. This was all doable. They were just a pair of kids.

He stepped into the grey morning. Turned to look back up the hill.

‘There’s a big sign up there, saying “Road Closed”. No one’s coming.’ Catherine picked Logan’s equipment belt off the passenger seat and clipped it on. Far too big – she had to hold it up with one hand. ‘They’re waiting for us.’

The North Sea surged, dark and heavy against the pebble beach.

She marched off, through the gap in the rock at the far end of the car park.

Just a pair of kids.

He followed her along the old tarmac road: past the rocks and another pebble beach lined with the bones of old seaweed; past the warning sign about Tarlair pool being closed and dangerous. Past the crumbling concrete wall. Then onto the apron of rain-slicked grey that led out to the two derelict pools.

Tarlair’s boxy art deco buildings stood like gravestones around the edge.

Catherine kept going. Down, onto the terraced steps leading to the water.

Both pools were nearly full – the one closest to the defunct changing rooms, and the one nearest the sea. Probably topped up by yesterday’s storm. Three figures were on the walkway between the two – one standing, one kneeling, and one in a wheelchair.

Catherine glanced back over her shoulder at him. ‘Do you like it here? I like it. It’s all decayed and broken … A dead place, where the dead come. Like all of us.’

‘This doesn’t have to go this way, Catherine. It can be made right again.’

‘Can it?’ Her trainers squelched through vast puddles of standing water, the surface pebbled with rain.

‘It can if you want it to be.’

They’d almost reached the concrete walkway separating the inner pool from the outer one. The water in both was nearly black, reflecting back the clouds and surrounding hills.

A boom, and a wall of spray leapt over the sea wall. It hissed down against the dark water.

They’d wheeled Samantha out to the middle of the walkway and parked her facing out to sea. Both arms were curled against her chest, knees lopsided and together. Head hanging on one side, as if she was trying to get something into focus.

Next to her was a man, on his knees, hands tied behind his back, a pillowcase over his head.

Catherine rubbed her palm down the side of her jacket, as if she was trying to remove a stain. ‘David says everyone dies in the end. The unlucky ones keep on breathing afterwards.’ She paused on the edge of the pool. ‘Dad was unlucky. Watching him lie there, all cut up and broken, and dead, and still breathing …’ She shook her head. ‘It’s not fair to make people suffer like that. If he’d been a dog, we wouldn’t have let him suffer, we’d have put him down to spare the pain.’

‘Catherine!’ Logan grabbed her arm. ‘I thought you were meant to be the sensible one. The one who kept David from doing something stupid. It’s not too late.’

‘Did you never think that about your girlfriend? That it’d be kinder to put her to sleep?’

He stared at her. ‘Please. This doesn’t have to—’

‘We don’t have any choice.’ She marched out onto the walkway.

Logan stepped onto the strip of concrete. Had to be about five-foot wide, but they’d positioned Samantha’s wheelchair with the small front wheels resting on the very edge.

David Bisset stood right behind her, leaning on the back of the chair.

Catherine walked up to him. Stopped. ‘See? I brought him.’

‘You did great.’

‘And I got this too.’ She unfastened the equipment belt and held it out to her brother. Then produced a four-inch kitchen knife from her denim jacket. Held it clenched in her fist. ‘He thinks we’re being stupid.’

Logan held his hands out, palms up. ‘You are, but you don’t have to. We can sort this out.’

Stubble made patchy blue-grey shadows on David’s chin. His eyes had sunken into his head, underlined by the same bony cheeks as his sister. He stared back for a moment, then fastened the equipment belt around his waist. Pointed at the kneeling figure. ‘Does this look stupid to you?’

David snatched a handful of pillowcase and pulled.

Graham Stirling blinked in the light. His face was a paisley-pattern of yellow and purple bruises, one nostril crusted with black. A thick wad of fabric poked out of his mouth, held in place by the gag tied behind his head. ‘Mmmnnnnngh! Mnnngghhnnnghnnnphhhh!’

‘He says he never touched our dad. Says you made it all up to frame him. That right?’

‘No. He’s sick and he’s dangerous and he should be locked away for the rest of his life.’

‘But he’s not, is he? They let him go, and they let you call our father a pervert.’

David untied the gag and Stirling spat out the lump of fabric. Coughed. Spluttered. Retched. Then his shoulders drooped.

Stirling’s voice creaked like an unoiled hinge. ‘I didn’t … I didn’t touch … your father. I swear … I didn’t touch him.’

‘See? He says you’re a liar, Sergeant McRae.’

‘I’m not! I saw what he did – he led me there! He did it. But he needs to go to prison, not whatever this is.’

‘I didn’t … it’s … it’s all … lies.’

David’s left hand drifted down to the extendable baton, thumb toying with the catch keeping it in its holder.
Pop
– it was off.
Click
– it was back on again.
Pop
.
Click
.

‘He set … He set me up.’

‘This doesn’t help you, David.’ Logan inched closer, hands still out. ‘We know you killed your dad, but it was a mercy killing. He was suffering. It was an act of love. No jury’s going to hold that against you.’

Pop
.
Click
.
Pop
.
Click
.

‘Stop this now, before it goes too far.’

Pop
.
Click
.
Pop
.
Click
.

‘Please … don’t kill … don’t kill me. I didn’t …’

‘He says he didn’t do it, McRae.’

Pop
.
Click
.
Pop
.
Click
.

‘He’s lying, because he’s scared. Come on, let’s all—’

‘OK.’
Pop
. David yanked the baton free of its holder, hard enough to send the extendable end clacking out to full lock. Raised it high above his head, arm drawn back, teeth bared.

Stirling flinched, shoulders up, as if that was going to save him. ‘Please! I didn’t! I didn’t do it!’

Oh Christ, David was going to kill him.

‘NO!’ Logan lunged, then stopped as Catherine rested the tip of her knife against the dip in Samantha’s head, where the bone was missing.

Catherine stared at him. ‘You stay where you are.’

‘Please, don’t do this. He’s sick, OK? He’s broken. He deserves to be locked away for ever, but he doesn’t deserve to die.’

David lowered the baton. ‘Doesn’t deserve to die? After what he did to my dad, he DOESN’T DESERVE TO DIE?’

‘David, please, I know you’re upset, but—’

‘HE DESERVES TO DIE!’ The pale skin darkened, whites showing around the iris of his eyes. ‘HE
DESERVES
TO BE TORN TO PIECES! I SHOULD SKIN HIM ALIVE!’

‘David, you don’t get to decide who lives and who—’

‘I SHOULD CASTRATE HIM! CARVE HOLES IN HIS CHEST! RIP HIS BOWELS OUT HIS BACKSIDE!’ David’s arms and legs trembled, the extendable baton slapping against his own thigh. The tendons in his neck twitched. Teeth glittering with spittle in the gloom.

Catherine reached out her other hand and tugged on his sleeve. ‘It’s OK. Just do it like we practised.’

A couple of deep breaths. Then he nodded. ‘But I can’t do those things, because I’m not a pervert like him. So I’m going to bash his brains out. He’s guilty. And he
does
deserve it.’ The baton swooped up again.

‘Stop! OK, you’re right!’ Logan held his hands out again. Flicked his eyes towards Graham Stirling – kneeling there with his eyes screwed shut and his teeth bared, waiting for the blow to come. Waiting to die. Logan cleared his throat. ‘I was lying. He didn’t do that to your dad. I picked him, because I didn’t know who did it. Put the baton down.’

No one moved.

David stared at him. Then lowered his arm. The colour faded from his face, leaving him ghost-pale again. ‘You were right.’

Stirling looked up. Smiled. ‘What did I tell you? Sergeant McRae
lied
.’ He worked his way to his feet. ‘All that time,
lying
about me.’ He pulled his hands apart. The rope had been wrapped around his wrists, not tied. It was all for show. ‘A dirty, filthy, liar.’

Logan stepped back. ‘You planned it?’

‘I helped David and Catherine see through your lies, McRae. They came to me, and they were angry and upset, and I helped them.’

‘I only said that because they were going to
kill
you!’

‘See? I told you. He lies, and he schemes, and he could’ve saved your dad, but he was too busy fitting me up to care.’

David looked up at the lowering clouds.

Boom
– another wave hit the sea wall, sending spray bursting over it like fireworks.

Then down again.

He turned to his sister. ‘Like we practised.’

She grabbed hold of the wheelchair and wrenched the handles upwards, pitching it and Samantha forward into the pool.

‘NO!’

Samantha hit the water, and the weight of the wheelchair pulled her straight under.

Logan ran for the edge, then David crashed into him. A one-shouldered tackle that sent them both crunching onto the walkway.

A grunt, then pain flashed across Logan’s ribs as the extendable baton cracked into them.

He raised an arm, covering his head. Kicked out, missed.

But David didn’t. The baton smashed into Logan’s upper arm. Numbness followed a wave of broken glass, from his shoulder to his fingertips. Flat on his back, one leg in the cold water.

David scrambled on top, hauled the baton up again.

Logan jerked up a knee and made contact. But it didn’t make any difference.

The baton cracked down again, tearing into his scalp. Echoing through his skull on waves of burning coal.

His fist jabbed up and round. Caught David on the side of the nose, snapping it. Warm blood pattered down.

‘AAAAAAAAAAAAGH!’ David reared back, one hand covering his ruined nose, bright red oozing between his fingers.

Logan forced himself up on his numb arm and battered his right elbow into David’s face, mashing those bloody fingers into teeth and bone. Then grabbed a handful of long dark hair and yanked him forwards. Turning. Putting his weight behind it.

David’s head bounced off the concrete with a dull
thunk
. Twice. Three times.

Catherine screamed.

Logan pushed the limp body off of him and tumbled into the swimming pool. Cold, squeezed his body, forcing the air out of his lungs.

The wheelchair was only a couple of feet underwater, on its front, pinning Samantha to the rocky floor of the pool. She wasn’t moving. Wasn’t trying to save herself. She sat there, face down, strapped in, still like the dead.

He wrapped his arms around the chair’s back and heaved, dragging the whole thing up.

She flopped in her seat, head lolling, skin pale as ivory, lips granite grey. Water cascaded from her open mouth.

Thunder growled through the sky, reverberating back from the hills. A squall of rain pebbled the surface of the pool, bounced off the concrete walkway.

He snatched at the Velcro straps holding her in the chair. Tore them free, then dragged her out of it. Half wading, half swimming to the ramp at the side of the water leading up onto the tiered apron.

‘Come on …’ He pulled her up onto the walkway by her collar, knelt beside her and felt for a pulse. Nothing. ‘No, no, no, no, no.’

Logan tipped her head to the side and shook it, till water stopped running from her mouth and nostrils. Chest compressions. One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand.

Hands snatched at his back.

Catherine – eyes wide and bloodshot, face streaming with rainwater, black hair plastered to her head. ‘I’LL KILL YOU!’

One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand.

Then a fist thumped into his back.

‘KILL YOU!’

One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand.

A palm slapped the side of his head.

One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand.

Nails dug into his neck.

He snapped an elbow back. Caught her in the mouth.

One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand.

She stumbled back, moaning and spluttering. Scarlet smeared her lips and chin, dripped onto her denim jacket, spreading into the damp fabric like poppy blooms. Then one white trainer caught in a crumbling pothole and she fell, arms out. The dull crack when her head hit the concrete was like a distant gun going off.

Logan laced his hands together and pushed against Samantha’s chest again. ‘Come on!’

One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand.

He tilted Samantha’s head back, pinched her nose and breathed for her. Did it again.

More chest compressions: one one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand.

Something solid cracked off his head, hard enough to send him sprawling as broken bells and sirens screamed through his skull. Gagh … Black and yellow dots sparkled in the dark clouds above his face, riding the wave of heat trying to push his eyeballs free.

Then everything faded to grey, hiding the pool and the hills and the buildings. Like being wrapped in a shroud that muffled the sound of rain and pounding blood in his ears.

…

Get up.

Nothing but grey.

…

Then the world snapped back into Technicolor.

Graham Stirling stood over him, extendable baton clutched in both hands like a baseball bat. ‘Well, well, well. Looks like it’s just you and me again.’

‘Gnnn …’

‘I’d really love to take my time, but this has all turned into a bit of a mess, hasn’t it?’

The baton cracked into Logan’s leg. Glass and barbed wire ripped through the muscle.