The Missing and the Dead (31 page)

The screens froze.

Camera four showed an old man juggling a basket and a two-litre bottle of Irn-Bru. Six had a young girl dangling a teddy bear by its leg, while an older woman weighed up the difference between two loaves of bread. Camera one was an exterior shot from above the front door. And camera two had Stacey, sitting behind the counter hunched over some sort of paperwork.

Play.

The old man dropped the basket. The little girl skipped along the aisle.

A big blue four-by-four reversed into shot on camera one, swung round and its rear-end smashed into the window beside the door.

Camera two filled with exploding glass and dust, flying tins and packets. All in perfect silence.

Debris blocked the view of cameras two-to-three, but the others showed shelves shaking. The older woman clasping the bread to her chest like a parachute.

Camera three went to static.

It took a couple of seconds for camera two to clear, and when it did the back half of the huge four-by-four jutted into the shop. Not a Range Rover or a sporty job, a proper huge one with a loadbay and canopy. Toyota Hilux, or a Mitsubishi Warrior? Difficult to tell from this angle. Maybe it was an Isuzu? Something like that. The sort of thing you could chuck bales of hay or a couple of sheep into.

Ceiling tiles and tins lay on top of the canopy.

Camera one: the car’s back doors popped open and two figures swarmed out and into the shop, climbing through the shattered hole where the windows used to be. Black ski masks, gloves, tracksuits. One had a length of heavy-duty chain in his hands. He wrapped it around the base of the cash machine, while his mate clipped the other end onto the four-by-four’s towbar.

Mr Towbar jumped back and thumped on the side of the vehicle. Mr Chain hurried behind the cash machine as whoever was at the wheel put their foot down, snapping the chain taut and ripping the whole machine from its moorings.

Then Mr Chain and Mr Towbar opened the canopy lid, thumped down the tailgate, and humped the cash machine into the loadbay. Shut everything up and clambered out through the broken window again.

Camera one caught them clambering back into the four-by-four and it roared off. Inside the shop, a chunk of ceiling tiles collapsed.

Pause. Two. Three. Four. And then Stacey peeked out from behind the counter.

The whole thing had taken a little over a minute.

Brilliant. So much for
‘Be advised, perpetrators are still at the scene.’

Logan put a mug of tea on Nicholson’s desk.

‘Thanks, Sarge.’ She cleared her throat, leaned over in her seat to peer out through the open Constables’ Office door. Then back again, voice lowered to a whisper. ‘Maggie told me that DS Dawson’s
still
in hospital.’

‘Yup.’ He took a sip of his own tea. Hot and milky. ‘We’re never mentioning it again, remember?’

‘Yeah, but, Sarge, maybe, you know, if they knew what caused it, they might have more luck fixing him? I don’t know, we could do it anonymously, or something? They wouldn’t have to know it was us …’

‘They’d know. And
you’ll
never make it in CID if you can’t keep a secret.’

She pulled a face. ‘Yes, Sarge.’

He headed back through to the Sergeants’ Office.

Inspector McGregor sat in the other chair, digging through the contents of a large cardboard box. ‘Do we have any triple-A batteries? All I can find are double-A’s. Hundreds and hundreds of double-A’s …’

‘Sorry, Guv – the Alcometers are all double.’ Logan settled in behind his desk. ‘I can get Tufty to pick some up on his way back?’

She pushed the box away. ‘A little bird tells me there was a crowd of journalists outside most of yesterday.’

Ah. He took a sip of tea. Arranged his notepad, Post-its, and keyboard into a straight line. Tried for a nonchalant shrug. ‘Didn’t notice. I was busy painting the house.’

‘They were very interested in talking to you. Apparently, now Stephen Bisset’s dead, the story’s become a lot more shiny. Anything you want to tell me?’

His head dropped. ‘It wasn’t my fault.’

‘I don’t like journalists staking out my stations, Logan, it makes the public nervous. Makes it look like we’ve done something wrong.’

‘It wasn’t my fault! I did what …’ He sighed. ‘We’ve been over this.’

‘Of course, things might have gone a bit better if you’d actually caught the Cashline Ram-Raiders this morning, instead of letting them get away.’

‘I didn’t
lose
them, they were long gone by the time we got there. I saw the security-camera footage: whole thing was over in eighty-two seconds.’ He sat forward and poked the desk with a finger. ‘The only way we could’ve got to Portsoy
before
they sodded off is if Police Scotland issued us with a TARDIS.’

‘Thought they were still at the scene?’

‘I checked with the control room – turns out the guy who said the Ram-Raiders were still there was blootered. Not bad going for half nine on a Saturday morning.’

The Inspector picked up a manila folder. Tapped the edge against the desk. ‘Did you hear? Traffic stopped a blue Isuzu D-max a mile north of Keith.’

A smile bloomed on Logan’s face. ‘That’s great. Did—’

‘Wasn’t them. Still, it’s not our problem any more, it’s DI McCulloch and his MIT’s.’

The smile faded. ‘Does it really not bug you? Every time something big comes up, we’ve got to hand it over?’

She dumped the folder on his desk. ‘Appraisal results, hot off the press from Division Headquarters. The Big Boss says Maggie can have two and a half percent and not a penny more.’

‘Better than nothing.’ He opened the folder, pulled out the printouts. ‘Oh, I spoke to Jack Simpson this morning.’

‘And how is everyone’s favourite drug-dealing minker?’

‘Lucky to be alive, and feeling vindictive. Got a sworn statement off him, fingering Klingon and Gerbil for assault. They weren’t trying to kill him, they were trying to put the fear of God into everyone else.
And
whoever supplied the drugs is down as an accessory. So, soon as the MIT are done with their drugs charges, we can ask the PF to prosecute.’

‘Excellent.’ She hopped down from the desk. Straightened her police-issue T-shirt. ‘Don’t suppose he ID’d the supplier?’

‘Best he could do is: wee hardman from Newcastle or Liverpool, calling himself the Candleman, or Candlestick Man. Doesn’t know his real name. I’m going to call round, see if anyone recognizes the alias.’

‘Well, keep me informed.’ She paused in the doorway. ‘It
does
bother me when the MITs swoop in and grab everything. But it is what it is. We just have to try and get one in under the radar every now and then.’

Logan folded his arms and leaned against the alley wall. ‘Really?’

Sammy Wilson blinked a couple of times with his good eye – the other swollen and darkened, the skin turned purple-blue and green. Looked down at the paper bag in his grubby skeletal hand. Licked his thin lips with a pale tongue. Then sniffed. ‘Yeah … I wasn’t … This …’ He looked over his shoulder where Nicholson blocked his escape route.

A cough.

Another sniff.

Then Sammy’s working eye raked the ground around his manky trainers. ‘Found it.’

‘Did you now?’

He rubbed his other hand along the grass-stain streaks on his tracksuit top. ‘Bag was kinda lying there.’

‘I’ll bet it was.’

Nicholson stepped up close. Opened her mouth to say something. Wrinkled her nose. Then stepped back and tried again from a safer distance. ‘Why’d you run then, Sammy?’

‘Had to catch a bus. Yeah, a bus, can’t be late for the bus or they drive off, don’t they? Like, you know, the Ninky Nonk …’ He peeled open the paper bag. ‘Wow, look at that, got rowies in it, rowies, yeah, not that big a deal is it? Bagarowies? Found them.’

She pointed. ‘Where’d you get the black eye, Sammy?’

‘Found it.’ Sammy swayed from side to side. ‘You don’t need me, right? I’m not, like, on your radar or nothing and I was just nipping past the baker’s … to get something for Jack Simpson. Yeah, a present, cause of him being in hospital with the beatings and that.’ Sammy’s smile was a graveyard of yellow and brown. ‘Cause of Klingon and Gerbil. Bad stuff, eh? Bad stuff. You don’t need me, right?’

‘Thought you said you’d found it?’

Logan took a deep breath. Regretted it. The air tasted of rotting meat and onions. ‘Normal people bring flowers and grapes, Sammy. Not rowies.’

‘Yeah. Right. Forgot. Flowers not rowies.’ Another brown gap-toothed smile. ‘Get them confused. You should see my mum’s grave, like.’

‘Sammy, you ever heard of a drug dealer from down south, calls himself the Candleman? Maybe Candlestick Man, something like that? Wee tough nut from Newcastle or Liverpool?’

‘Yeah, nah, I don’t know no drug dealers. Don’t do drugs. Nah, used to, but I’m clean as a … you know, these days? Clean, clean, clean.’

Logan kept his mouth shut and stared.

One set of filthy fingers beat a tattoo on his pigeon chest.

Dirty trainers shuffled on the pavement.

‘Nope. No drug dealers. Never.’ Sammy cleared his throat. Looked down at his scabby arms. ‘Couldn’t lend us a tenner, could you? You know, for a cuppa tea and that? To go with me rowies …’

Silence.

‘Twenty gets me the name of the guy Klingon and Gerbil got their stuff from. His
real
name. And where I can find him.’

Sammy swallowed. Upped the tattoo on his chest. Bit his bottom lip. Then his hand trembled out, palm open, fingers spread.

Logan took out his wallet. Produced the last two fivers from the thing. Leaving nothing but lint till the end of the month. Held the notes up. ‘I’m warning you, Sammy – you get me that name, or I come after you. We clear?’

That single bloodshot eye sparkled like a rat’s. Hand
reaching
. ‘Yeah, yeah, his name and where you can find him.’

‘Half now, half later.’

‘Promise on my mother’s grave and that …’ Fingers twitching.

Logan dropped the cash and he snatched the falling notes from the air like a cat taking a pair of birds.

‘Now, get out of here and find me that name.’

‘Yeah, right, right, got to go and see Jack Simpson. And find the name. Name, name, name.’ He jammed the money in a tracksuit pocket and lurched off, legs stiff, like a wind-up automaton with heroin as the cranking key.

Nicholson joined Logan by the wall. Frowning as Sammy disappeared around the corner onto Kingswell Lane. ‘You sure that’s a good idea?’

‘Nope.’ Logan put his empty wallet away. ‘I’m skint now.’

‘Well, that’s one tenner you’re never going to see again.’ She waved a hand back and forth. ‘Think he’s ever seen a bar of soap in his life?’

‘You never know, maybe he’ll come up with something.’ Logan headed back towards Big Car – parked half on the pavement where they’d abandoned it to give chase.

Nicholson shook her head. ‘Why are you bothering anyway? Klingon and Gerbil have the backbone of an earthworm. They’ll have sold out their supplier quicker than you can say “wriggle”.’

Because the Inspector was right – sometimes you had to slip something in under the radar.

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

Logan pressed the button. ‘Batter on, Maggie.’

‘Got another misper sighting for you. Liam Barden – spotted in the Dundee Waterstones this morning.’

Nicholson took the Big Car along the waterfront. Macduff harbour shone sapphire blue, a couple of small fishing boats tied up against the walls. The wheeling shriek of herring gulls. Windows down, letting in the crisp tang of seaweed and ozone.

Logan reached out and poked her in the shoulder. ‘See? Told you he’s not visiting the Co-op on the High Street.’ Back to the Airwave. ‘Maggie, can you get onto Tayside and ask them to check the bookshop CCTV? Might not be him, but it’d be nice if we can let his family know he’s OK.’

‘Will do. And I spoke to Bill, he’s asking round his fishing buddies for you about who’s paying Klingon and Gerbil’s rent.’

‘Thanks, Maggie.’

Out the window, the streets of Macduff gave way to the A98, skirting the bay.

Logan twisted his Airwave back onto its holder. ‘So … Liam Barden’s in Dundee.’

Nicholson stuck her chin up. ‘Can’t help it if I’m thorough.’

He grinned. ‘Deluded, more like.’

‘I’m not the one who gave Stinky Sammy Wilson my last ten quid.’

Ah … True.

Up and over the bridge into Banff.

A billboard sat at the side of the road, not far from the football ground. The horrible little old lady was right – someone
had
drawn a huge willy over the local SNP candidate’s campaign poster. A big purple willy. Geoffrey Lovejoy strikes again.

Still, at least it looked as if their one-man Marxist revolution was being even-handed in his coverage of the issue. And the candidates.

‘All units, be on the lookout for an IC-One female, five two, slim build, ginger hair, in the Peterhead area. Wanted in connection with an assault on a Salvation Army volunteer.’

‘Sorry.’ Logan turned the volume down, until the Airwave’s babble was barely audible.

Steam fogged the kitchen window, the air full of the rich meaty scent of mince and earthy mashed tatties. He dug his fork into his plateful again. ‘Very good.’

Sitting opposite, Helen smiled. ‘Natasha wouldn’t have mince and tatties without peas and carrots in it. Wouldn’t touch either on their own, but soon as you cooked them with mince: best thing ever.’

‘Much better than lentil soup for lunch.’

She cracked some black pepper over hers. ‘Are you heading up to see Samantha later?’

‘When the shift’s finished. Shouldn’t be too late.’

‘Good. You can give me a hand finishing the living room. Going to look nice when it’s done. Then, I was thinking, maybe steak for tea?’

‘Steak?’ More mince. More mashed potato. Logan swallowed. Had a sip of water. ‘Don’t know when I last—’

His Airwave gave its four point-to-point beeps.

God’s sake. ‘Can I not get
five
minutes?’ He picked it up, turned up the volume. ‘Sorry.’ Pressed the button. ‘Shire Uniform Seven.’