The Missing and the Dead (22 page)

‘Don’t be such a fairy princess.’ Steel poked her e-cigarette at him. ‘Get off your magic pony and go pick Helen Edwards up. You organized it, it’s your—’

‘Fine!’ Logan shoved his chair back, thumping it into the wall. ‘I’ll go and do
your
job for you. As sodding usual!’ He grabbed his hat and stormed out.

Her voice followed him into the main office. ‘And get some decent biscuits while you’re at it!’

Nicholson rested her forearms on the steering wheel. ‘I think Tufty’s parents got him a subscription to
New Scientist
.’

Logan settled back in his seat and scowled out through the windscreen. ‘They all out of New Idiot?’

The sun beat down on Low Street, glittering back from the Perspex cover over the bus stop. A handful of Banffers strolled along the pavement, as if they were taking the air on the Riviera. Arm in arm, basking in the warmth.

Bloody Steel. All this time and he was
still
running around after her.

He sniffed. Wrinkled his nose. ‘And what is that horrible smell?’ Eggy, dirty, and rancid. The kind of stench Biohazard Bob would’ve been proud of.

Nicholson shrugged. ‘Told you. We’ve had the windows rolled down all day as well. Going to have to get one of those air freshener things …’ She sat forward in her seat. ‘Oh-ho, here we go.’

A big rectangular single-decker bus grumbled around the corner.

It pulled up at the stop with a hiss of air brakes as Logan climbed out.

He pulled his peaked cap on and marched across the road, in time to catch the doors opening and the first passenger getting off. It was an auld mannie, all dressed in grey and beige. Presumably from Old-Farts-R-Us. Next a pregnant woman with a red face and a screaming toddler.

Then nothing.

Then another, older woman, and finally the last person stepped down onto the pavement. The bus door hissed shut. The engine growled and the thing lurched away.

Then everyone else did the same, leaving the last passenger standing there with a holdall at her feet.

Logan stopped by the public information point. ‘Ms Edwards?’

She shuffled her feet. Picked up her bag. ‘Sorry.’ Dirty-blonde hair hung in a curly bob around a heart-shaped face, like broken springs. Bags under dark eyes. Dark lipstick beneath a long thin nose. Pretty, in a haunted kind of way. Grey woolly jumper and blue jeans. Some sort of puffa jacket, folded over one arm. ‘Actually, it’s Helen.’ A faint Ayrshire accent, almost buried beneath generic queen’s English.

‘Helen.’ He held out a hand for her bag. ‘Sergeant McRae, we spoke when you were coming up on the bus? I’m going to take you back to the station, so you can meet with the Detective Chief Inspector running this part of the investigation. Want to give me your coat too?’

‘Oh. OK. Thanks.’ A small smile. ‘Sorry. Didn’t think it’d be this warm. Raining in Edinburgh this morning.’

He led her back to the Big Car. ‘Have you got somewhere to stay?’

She wrinkled her top lip, made creases around her eyes. ‘Just grabbed my bag and jumped on the first train north.’

‘I’m sure they’ll sort something out.’ He opened the back door on the driver’s side. ‘Probably as quick walking, but thought you’d like to be met.’

A small smile. ‘Thanks.’ She dug into her handbag and came out with a pink envelope – the kind that came with birthday cards for little girls. Held it out. ‘I’ve got those hair samples.’

‘Better save that for DCI Steel.’

‘Oh. Yes. Sorry.’ A breath, then she looked away. ‘You’ve got other things to do.’

‘Don’t worry: we’ve got a dedicated Major Investigation Team working on the case. PC Nicholson and I do the day-to-day policing up here. We want to make sure you give those to the right person.’

‘Right. Of course. Sorry.’ She climbed into the back of the car and Logan clunked the door shut.

Nicholson pulled a three-point turn and headed back to Banff police station.

Helen sat in silence for the five-minute ride. Nose twitching from time to time, as if she was trying to figure out where the funny smell was coming from.

‘All units, be on the lookout for a stolen John Deere tractor in the Strichen area …’

The Big Car pulled up outside the station entrance.

Clunk
.
Clunk
. Helen Edwards frowned in the rear-view mirror. Then tried the door handle again. ‘It’s stuck.’

‘Child locks.’ Logan climbed out and opened the door from the outside. ‘Sometimes the people in the back try to make a run for it.’

‘Oh. Right.’ She climbed out. Looked up at the little portico with its carved curls and fake columns.

‘It’ll be OK. I’ll take you into the reception area and someone will look after you.’

A crease appeared between Helen’s eyebrows. ‘Are you not …?’

‘We’ve got to go patrol. But don’t worry, everything will be fine. If you need anything.’ He dug out a business card and printed his mobile number on the back. Handed it over. ‘The Major Investigation Team are doing everything they can.’

‘Thank you.’ She tucked the card away in her handbag, accepted her coat and holdall, then walked up the steps and into the station.

The sour stench of BO rolled off the stick-thin man in waves as he held up his arms. Hands trembling. It was nearly impossible to tell what colour his tracksuit had started off as. Now it was the colour of rancid liquid leaking from a broken bin. Smelled about the same too.

Nicholson snapped on a pair of blue nitriles. ‘Now, before we start, is there anything in your pockets I need to know about, Sammy? Needles, knives, anything sharp?’

‘Nah.’ The word slumped out on rotting corpse breath. Sammy Wilson’s skin was nearly translucent, stretched tight across a large skull with prominent cheeks like knife blades, the bones sticking out in his wrists. Fingers like dirty twigs. Thin silver lines ran from his nose to his top lip. Pupils constricted to full-stop dots. ‘But, you know, take your time in the front pockets, yeah?’ A bloodshot wink. ‘I like it nice and
slow
.’

Logan tried not to breathe the stench in. ‘Who are you buying from now, Sammy? You still Klingon’s client?’

A shrug. ‘I’m, like, nondenominational. Secular. And I don’t do … don’t do drugs no more …’ His eyes half-closed, then a slow smile spread across his face as Nicholson eased her gloved fingers into his front pocket. ‘Oh yeah … Nice and slow …’

The Big Car’s blues-and-twos cut a path through the evening traffic, the engine roaring as Nicholson floored it.

Logan hung onto the grab handle above the door, thumbed his Airwave’s talk button again. ‘Sorry, Control, missed that last bit, say again?’

‘Roger: we’re getting reports about people going in and out of a Francis “Frankie” Ferris’s house, fifteen Rundle Avenue. Caller said it’s probably drug dealing.’

‘Any idea who?’

A squeal of tyres as Nicholson swung them around the corner and onto School Lane, drifting onto the other side of the road as the back end kicked out. Barely missing a big red removal van. Their brand-new Magic Tree air freshener swung like a pendulum from the rear-view mirror.

‘Caller can’t ID any of them, but we’re getting descriptions.’

Worth a go. ‘Tell Constable Scott to get over there and dragnet the surrounding streets. Anyone matching the descriptions gets a free stop-and-search. With any luck we’ll get enough for a warrant on Frankie’s hovel.’

‘Will do.’

The car battered across the junction with Main Street, ignoring the stop sign. Little granite houses flashed by the Big Car’s windows. An old lady stopped to gawk as they roared past in a blare of lights and sirens.

Logan let go of the talk button. ‘Are you channelling Jeremy Clarkson today?’

Nicholson spared him a quick grin. ‘Urgent danger to life, Sarge.’

Across North Street, the needle hitting sixty as they battered past the ‘T
WENTY’S
P
LENTY
’ limit.

Back on to Control. ‘You got an ETA for the fire brigade?’

‘En route … Board shows them fifteen miles away.’

Sodding hell.

A hard right, and there it was – Taylor Drive. But instead of flames searing through broken windows, crackling roof timbers, and palls of black smoke streaking the blue sky, there was a middle-aged man standing in the middle of the road wearing a ‘K
ISS
T
HE
C
OOK
’ apron. Face blackened with soot.

He held his hands up, as if expecting to be shot, as Logan and Nicholson scrambled out of the car.

‘Sorry, sorry, my fault.’

Logan hurried over. ‘Is everyone out of the house?’

‘No, it’s a bit of a disaster. Sorry. I put a
tiny
bit too much lighter fluid on the barbecue and … well … the shed, sort of, caught fire. Just a little. We put it out with the garden hose.’ A thin, uncomfortable smile. ‘Sorry.’

‘Nah, sod all so far.’
Deano’s sigh rasped out of the Airwave’s speaker.
‘Been round this block so many times, Tufty’s getting dizzy.’

Logan reclined his seat an inch. ‘All we need’s to get lucky once.’

Sun glittered on the windscreen, catching the flecks of dust and sticky fingerprints left behind by whoever did the Big Car’s service. But Nicholson was still visible as she knocked on the red door. Stood there, hands tucked into her stabproof. Rocking back and forward on the balls of her feet.

Mind you, whoever serviced the car had left more behind than fingerprints, going by the smell. It was like something dead was being marinated in Biohazard Bob’s eggiest of farts.

‘If this was TV we could batter Frankie’s door in, quick search montage, and back to the station in time for the ad break.’

A petite brunette opened the door, looked up and down the street, then disappeared inside again. Nicholson followed her into the house. Closed the door behind her.

‘That’s because made-up cops never have to deal with Professional Standards.’

‘Or paperwork. Tell you, I was watching something last night and … Hold on, Sarge. Tufty: over there – bloke in the green hoodie and orange joggy bottoms.’

Silence.

A kid went by on his BMX, standing on the back bar.

Still nothing from Deano.

Logan pulled out his phone and checked his text messages.

Puffed out his cheeks.

Played a game of solitaire on the little screen.

Lost.

Sat where he was, sniffing.

The smell wasn’t coming from the back, or the passenger side. That left the driver’s side.

Logan climbed out into the sun, opened the driver’s door and sniffed at the seat.

Definitely something stinky going on there. Maybe someone had an accident?

He squatted down and peered under the seat. Yeah: there was something there.

Then Deano was back.
‘Sorry about that, Sarge.’

‘Get anything?’ He reached into the gap, fingers searching along the gritty carpet.

‘Not so much as a joint.’

‘Ah well, worth a go.’ Almost there … Got it. The smile died on Logan’s face as his fingers sank into something squishy. Urgh.

‘Looks like our info’s a load of old wank. That’s the new Police Scotland technical term, in case you’re wondering.’

Bile caught at the back of his throat.

Oh God. Why didn’t he put on a pair of gloves?

Too late now.

He pulled the squishy thing out. A half-eaten egg sandwich, the bread and filling gone green and hairy. ‘Dirty …’ He dropped it in the gutter, then dragged his hand along the kerb, trying to wipe off the sticky bits.

‘Sarge?’

‘No wonder the Big Car’s been stinking. Some filthy sod left half a sandwich going mouldy under the seat!’ He got back into the passenger side. Popped open the glove compartment and pulled out the emergency packet of baby wipes. Scrubbed his fingers clean.

‘Bet it was nightshift. You want me and Tufty to keep at it here?’

The red door opened again and Nicholson stepped out into the sunshine. Turned to face the house, obviously saying something. Then nodded and marched back towards the car.

‘Give it another ten minutes, then go see if you can find something useful to do instead.’

‘Thanks, Sarge.’

Nicholson opened the driver’s door and slid in behind the wheel. Rearranged her equipment belt so the extendable baton wasn’t jabbing into the handbrake. ‘Safe-and-well check done.’

Logan twisted his Airwave handset back into the clip on his vest. ‘And?’

‘Usual lies.’ Nicholson turned the engine over. Pulled away from the kerb. ‘Alex has changed. Alex is sorry. Alex promises it’ll never happen again. They
love
each other.’ Around the corner, heading back towards the middle of town. ‘Tell you, Sarge, some people are too thick to realize they’ve got their hand in a blender till the love of their life turns it on.’

The driver wrapped his hands tight around the steering wheel. Cheeks flushed. Jaw muscles working like an industrial clamp. He stared straight ahead as Logan checked the proffered driving licence.

‘Thank you, Mr Clifton.’ Logan handed it back. Then followed it up with the fixed-penalty notice.

It was snatched out of his hand. Crushed in a fist. A strangled, ‘Thank you,’ forced out between gritted teeth.

Logan patted the roof of the car. ‘Drive safely.’

A trembling hand reached up and pulled the safety belt down, and clipped it into place. Then the BMW pulled away from the kerb.

Nicholson zipped her ticket book away in a pocket. ‘If he’d done that in the first place, would’ve saved himself a hundred quid.’

‘… reported break-in at Aberdeen Heritage in Mintlaw, anyone free to attend?’

‘You know what bugs me?’ Nicholson took the patrol car up onto the bridge across the River Deveron. ‘If he’d hit someone coming the other way, he would’ve been through that windscreen like a bowling ball. Splat. Probably dead.’