The Missing and the Dead (30 page)

‘That’s why it’s better to go on the books.’

‘Don’t understand why you can’t leave us alone. Never did nothing to you.’

‘It all gets handled through Aberdeen, you never even have to speak to me again.’

‘You got any idea what they do to grasses? Like all my fingers where they are, thank you very much!’

‘It’s not grassing, it’s helping keep your community safe. You want little Amy to grow up somewhere safe, don’t you?’ He shifted the phone to his other ear as a manky old Land Rover rattled past, haunted by the cloud of blue-grey smoke billowing out of its exhaust pipe. ‘Have you ever heard of someone called the Candleman? Maybe Candlestick Man?’

‘Are you off your head?’

‘He’d be from Newcastle or Liverpool. Wee guy, but fancies himself a bit dangerous?’

‘No.’

A little old lady stepped off the kerb, shoulders hunched, pulling an ancient Westie behind her. It walked on stiff limbs, its once-white coat stained like a smoker’s teeth.

The Land Rover’s driver leaned on his horn, forcing out an asthmatic honk.

The old lady scurried back to the kerb and glowered as it passed. Stepped out onto the road again and stuck two fingers up at the departing smokescreen. The manky Westie managed a bark.

Auld wifies, got to love them.

‘… are you even listening to me?’

Ah, right. Back to the phone. ‘Sure you don’t know him?’

‘Can I go back to bed now?’

Ah well, it’d been worth a try. ‘Give whoever it is my best when you get there.’

The old woman doddered across the road towards him, grumbling and swearing away to herself. Westie lumbering behind her like a broken wind-up toy.

Hmm …

‘… can go bugger yourself with a—’

‘Listen, while I’ve got you: Klingon’s mum.’

Pause.
‘What about her?’

‘You said she’d gone to Australia. When?’

‘Dunno. Couple of months? Does it matter?’

‘What was she like: scruffy? Drunk? Bit of a druggie?’

‘You’re kidding, aren’t you? Like she was born starched, holding a can of Mr Sheen in one hand and a vacuum in the other. Had to take your shoes off at the door.’

She was in for a shock when she came home and saw the state of the place, then.

‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a contact number for her, do you?’

‘Yeah, cause my middle name’s “Yellow Sodding Pages”. God’s sake …’
And Kirstin was gone. Back to bed with whoever was financing her habit today.

A couple of months in Australia. Long enough for Kevin and Gerbil to turn the house into the sub-slum pit they’d raided?

Maybe. Maybe not.

The old lady was getting closer, brows down, mouth chewing through a buffet of profanity.

Logan keyed Maggie’s number into his Airwave handset. ‘Aye, Maggie: does your Bill still work for the Council?’

‘Depends on your definition of “working.”’

‘Do me a favour – see if he’s got any friends in Housing. I need them to find out who’s paying rent on Klingon and Gerbil’s place.’

‘On a Saturday?’

‘They don’t call you the miracle worker for nothing.’

The old lady came to a halt in a waft of Ralgex and peppermint. She jabbed a twisted finger in the direction of the dissipating exhaust fumes. Flashed her dentures like she was about to bite him. ‘Did you see that?’ Up close, she barely came up to his breast pocket.

‘Well, I’ll see what I can do. But no promises.’

‘Thanks, Maggie. And put the kettle on, I’ll be back at the ranch in five.’ He put his Airwave handset back on its mount ‘Now, how can I help?’

‘People like that should be taken out and shot! Beeping his horn, like it’s
my
fault. Little sod. I’m eighty-two!’

‘Well, at least you’re OK, that’s the important—’

‘They’ve got no manners at all. None. It’s like living in the
Lord of the Flies
.’ She sniffed. Chewed for a bit. ‘Got a good mind to get myself a shotgun and teach them all a lesson.’

‘Yeah. Probably not such a good idea.’

‘I blame the parents. This is what happens when you tell people they can’t smack their children. I’m eighty-two and my father would leather the living hell out of me and my brothers for leaving the
toilet lid
up! Never mind cheeking my elders.’

Behind her, the Westie sank its backside onto the pavement and sat there puffing and panting with its mouth hanging open, tongue lolling over a row of stumpy brown teeth.

She gave a little yank on the lead, hauling the dog back to its feet again. ‘And have you
seen
what they’ve done to the billboard by the bridge? A great big purple willy, painted right across the nice man from the SNP. It’s a disgrace.’

Wonderful – Geoffrey Lovejoy, their resident political analyst, strikes again.

Logan nodded. Backed away a step. ‘Right. Yes. A disgrace.’

‘I wouldn’t put it past the Tories to do something like this. It’s their level. It’s not a by-election, it’s a war zone.’ Getting closer with every word, forcing him back against the wall.

Logan put his cap on his head. Slipped sideways out of the gap between her and the hospital’s granite blocks. ‘Right, well …’ He pointed over his shoulder back towards the bay and the bridge and the big purple willy. ‘I’d better go see what we can do about that billboard.’

Her parting call growled out behind him. ‘I’m eighty-sodding-two!’

‘Roger that, we are two minutes away …’ Logan clutched at the grab handle above the passenger door as Nicholson roared past a joiner’s van. The Big Car’s blue lights strobed through the morning air, accompanying the siren’s throbbing wail.

They flashed through the town limits. ‘W
ELCOME TO
PORTSOY P
LEASE
D
RIVE
C
AREFULLY
’. So much for that – the needle on the speedo ticked up past seventy.

‘Be advised, perpetrators are still at the scene.’

Bungalows on one side of the road, fields of lustrous green on the other.

Logan clicked the button again, talking into the Airwave pinned to his stabproof. ‘Copy that.’

Nicholson turned and flashed him a grin. ‘We’re going to catch them red-handed!’

‘Just watch the road.’

The bungalows gave way to old-style Scottish granite, then trees – whipping past the Big Car’s windows. Then into Portsoy proper, with its ancient, flat-fronted granite. A hard right onto Seafield Street, the engine howling as Nicholson battered down the gears and hit the brakes, then on with the power again. Accelerating past shops and little old ladies. A minibus with ‘C’MON THE SOY !!!!’ lettered down the side, little kids dressed in black-and-white-striped football tops staring as the car wheeched by.

Logan jabbed a finger. ‘There.’

Nicholson hammered on the brakes, slithering them to a halt outside the bus stop.

Little cubes of glass, tins, packets, and jars spread across the road in front of the Co-op. The signage above the windows was buckled out on the side closest to them, the support beneath the word ‘Co-operative’ missing – the glass it held in place reduced to a sagging web around the edges. A hole ripped through the knee-high blockwork beneath it.

No sign of whoever did it.

Logan jumped out, grabbed his peaked cap. ‘You!’ pointing at a young woman with a pushchair. ‘Which way did they go? What are they driving?’

There was a pause, then her arm came up. ‘One of them big four-by-fours. Erm … blue? I think?’

He got back in. Thumped the dashboard. ‘Go!’

Nicholson put her foot down again and the Big Car roared forward.

‘Shire Uniform Seven to Control, perpetrators have fled the scene. Witness says they took the Cullen road. We’re in pursuit.’

‘Do you have visual?’

The car powered past leafy gardens and someone walking their dog.

‘Negative.’

Three cars, a bus, a removal van, and a tanker – all coming the other way – pulled into the side of the road, giving them a clear run at it. More than could be said for the idiot with the caravan blocking this side of the road.

Nicholson thumped the steering wheel. ‘Out of the way you mouldy old sod!’ Soon as they’d cleared the tanker she wrenched the Big Car onto the other side of the road and accelerated past the caravan. ‘Can’t have missed them by much …’

Logan clicked his Airwave again. ‘Where’s everyone else?’

‘Units are on their way. Closest is fifteen minutes away.’

‘Tell them to hit the A98 soon as they can. We’re looking for a blue four-by-four. No make or model known, but the back end will be all dented in.’

A petrol station whizzed by on the left, then a plumber’s, then the fringe of a housing estate. The speedo hit ninety as they flashed through the limits and out into the countryside again.

‘Roger that.’

Ten seconds later the lookout request crackled from the Big Car’s radio.
‘All units be on the lookout for a blue four-wheel-drive vehicle heading west on the A98 …’

With any luck, this time, they were actually going to catch them.

‘Anything?’

Nicholson looked up from her Airwave and shook her head. ‘No sign of them anywhere.’

Logan tied the end of the ‘P
OLICE
’ tape to the downpipe between the two parts of the Co-op. On one side it took up the bottom floor of a three-storey granite building, but the main entrance – the side that had been raided – was a single-storey extension, painted white with green buckled frontage. A red post box positioned by the entrance. The other end of the blue-and-white cordon was wrapped around it, like the ribbon on a very boring present, then stretched out to an orange cone in the middle of the road in front of it, and on to another in front of the downpipe. A nice big rectangle, protecting the scene.

The Big Car blocked the other side of the road, its lights spinning in the sunshine.

A bleep from his Airwave. Then,
‘Sarge, it’s Deano. Safe to talk?’

‘Fire away.’

‘Me and Tufty have been round the burglaries in Pennan. No witnesses. Got some pretty odd stuff gone missing though. There’s the usual iPads and DVDs and phones, bit of cash and jewellery, but one lot’s missing a bible from 1875, a First World War bayonet, and a Georgian vase. House next door’s missing paintings from the 1920s. One next to that’s lost a crystal decanter set from the
Cutty Sark
.’

Logan hauled open the Big Car’s boot. ‘M.O.E.?’

‘Popped a pane of glass in the back doors. Thing is, Sarge, how’d you know to take a decanter set and ignore a CD player?’

‘Stealing to order maybe? That or he’s got an interest. Run a check on the PNC, maybe we can get a quick result on this one.’ Logan pulled the dustpan and long-handled broom from the boot. ‘Keep me up to date, OK?’

‘Will do.’

He handed the broom and dustpan to Nicholson. ‘And before you start moaning, it’s not because you’re a woman, it’s because you’re a constable.’

Her face drooped. ‘Sarge.’

‘Clear this side of the road. Soon as it’s done, shift the car and get traffic moving again. Don’t sweep up anything inside the cordon.’ He picked his way through the scattered debris into the store. Inside, it looked as if a bomb had gone off. Ground Zero was the gap where the two windows had been, spreading impulse-buy items, tins, and lottery tickets out in a fan of destruction. A display stand of newspapers was smashed in half, canted over – spilling out its collection of red-top tabloids, gossip magazines, and issues of
Farmers Weekly
.

A handful of breezeblocks from the caved-in sill.

The manager sat behind the counter, cup of tea and packet of Rennies in front of her, mobile phone to her ear. Green shirt and black fleece. ‘S
TACEY
’, according to her name badge. Round-shouldered, going grey, and smelling of peppermint. She crunched down another antacid. ‘I don’t know, Mike. It’s up to the police. But the whole place …’ She stared out at it. Sagged a little further. ‘I’ll let you know soon as I do.’

Logan stood at the counter, amongst the drifts of newsprint and lotto tickets.

It could be you.

But today it was Stacey.

She blinked up at him. ‘Got to go.’ Hung up. Put her phone down. ‘Sorry. Head office. Wanted to know if everyone was OK.’

Logan nodded at the hole where the two windows used to be. The rest of them were blocked off with shelves and display units. ‘Where was the cash machine?’

She pointed over the counter at a clean rectangular patch on the floor, with four sheared bolts and a snapped length of electrical flex. ‘It was like … I don’t know. The window exploded and there was glass and things everywhere and it was over so quickly.’ Stacey wrapped her hands around her tea. ‘Thought everything was supposed to slow down, but:
whoosh
.’ A shudder.

‘How about CCTV?’

A nod. Then a deep breath. ‘Yes. CCTV. We can do that.’

She led him through the wreckage to much cleaner aisles. Past the crisps and cat food to a double door. Pushed into a backroom store full of cages of breakfast cereal and tatties. A little office sat on one side. Stacey opened the door and ushered him inside. ‘Three cameras cover the front of the shop: two inside, one out.’

A worktop desk ran along two walls, complete with computer, two phones, and a pair of office chairs. A monitor was mounted in the corner, above a bank of digital recording stuff. Eight views of the shop filled the screen, each with a little timer ticking over in the corner. Only one view was nothing but static.

Stacey picked a remote from the top of the recording boxes and sank into one of the chairs. She poked at the buttons, sending the timers clattering backwards.

Ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty. Forty – and the static disappeared, replaced by a view of the shop from a point above the display stand where people were meant to fill out their lottery tickets.

‘Here we go.’