The Missing and the Dead (32 page)

Inspector McGregor’s voice crackled into the room.
‘Logan? Are you safe to talk?’

‘Give me a minute, Guv.’ He scraped his chair back. ‘I have to take this. Only be a minute.’

Then out of the kitchen and through into the lounge.

The sofa lurked in the middle of the room, along with the bookcase and the TV, their shapes making tell-tale humps in the dustsheet draped over them. Above, the ceiling was a perfect field of white. Must’ve taken Helen at least three coats to get it looking that clean.

Logan eased the door shut and pressed the button. ‘Bang away.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Lunch. Nicholson’s got some shopping to do, so we’re getting together at quarter-to and heading over to Macduff again. Canvas Melrose Crescent and see if we can dig anything up on our peeping tom.’

‘You’ll have to leave that till later: you’ve got a visitor.’

No doubt another fine upstanding Banff citizen in to complain about wheelie bins going out on the wrong day, or their neighbour’s dog, or Martians stealing their tins of Tartan Special and getting the cat pregnant. God bless Care in the Community. ‘Can Deano deal with it?’

‘Logan, you—’

‘Oh, and while you’re on: can you do me a favour, Guv? Can you ask whoever’s running the Klingon and Gerbil investigation if they’ve got a name for their supplier yet? I’m hearing rumours.’

‘It’s not our case any more. You
know
that.’

‘Yes, but if more drugs are on their way up here, it’d help if we knew what we were dealing with
before
it hits the streets. And who’s dealing it.’

‘Well, I suppose that’s valid. Now, before I return to my rapidly chilling baked potato, your visitor—’

‘Genuinely: Deano would be best. I’m up to my ears with nutters as it is today.’

‘Have you fallen on your
head
, Logan?’
Her voice dropped to a dramatic stage whisper.
‘You do
not
let anyone hear you calling him a “nutter”. What if he found out? God knows, he’s scary enough as it is.’

Logan cleared his throat. ‘Guv?’

‘Chief Superintendent Napier’s come all the way up from Aberdeen, just for you. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen him looking so happy in my life.’

Napier was happy?

Why did that sound like a very,
very
bad thing?

Chief Superintendent Napier steepled his fingers, rested his elbows on the desk, and stared. He’d commandeered the Major Incident Room on the top floor, sitting at the head of the long conference table with his back to the windows, so the light would be in Logan’s eyes.

The sun caught his thinning nimbus of ginger hair and made it glow like a halo of fire. A smile spread across his face, causing the end of his long nose to twitch.

He didn’t look very comfortable in the police-issue black T-shirt. Probably didn’t have enough shiny buttons for him. Or a place to hang his good conduct medal. Nothing to intimidate anyone with but the silver crown and single pip on each epaulette.

Logan sat perfectly still in his seat.

The Inspector who’d arrived with Napier fiddled with a digital video camera mounted on a tripod. Muttering to herself as she played with the settings. Then a red light appeared on the thing and she nodded. Middle-aged and gaunt, with a brown fringe swept forward in an attempt to cover the toast-rack wrinkles that crossed her forehead.

She settled into a chair diagonally opposite Logan. Put a digital dictaphone on the table between them. Then delved into a leather satchel and came out with a memo pad and a thick folder. Lined them up. Took the top off her pen. Cleared her throat. ‘Saturday twenty-fourth of May, two forty-seven p.m.’ Her voice was surprisingly light and girly. ‘Present are Chief Superintendent Napier, Inspector Gibb, and Sergeant Logan McRae.’ She turned and nodded to her boss.

His smile widened. ‘Sergeant McRae, how
kind
of you to take time out of your busy schedule to talk to us today.’

Rule number one of being recorded during interview: keep your gob shut unless you’re asked a direct question.

Napier rested his chin on the tips of his steepled fingers. ‘Perhaps you’d like to get something off your chest before we begin? Something that’s weighing on your conscience.’

Still no actual question. Logan kept his gob shut.

‘Well, perhaps later.’ He checked the file lying open on the desk in front of him. ‘For example: I see that you’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time on one Francis “Frankie” Ferris. Hundreds of man-hours spent for no result at all. Do you really think that’s a worthwhile expenditure of police resources?’

‘Yes.’ Rule number two: only answer the question you’ve been asked, nothing more. Never volunteer anything. Never go off on a tangent.

‘Really?’ A frown creased Napier’s forehead. ‘Can you explain?’

‘Raids disrupt the flow of drugs and keep the dealers unsettled. It makes the environment more dangerous for them to deal in.’ Not quite word-for-word from the B Division drug-prevention strategy document, but near enough. ‘It’s proactive policing.’

There was no way Napier came all the way up from Aberdeen to ask about Frankie Ferris. This was just starters for whatever horrible meal he had planned. A prawn cocktail before the main course arrived.

He couldn’t be leading up to something about Stephen Bisset dying in hospital, could he? Already had a big moan about that over the phone on Wednesday night. Why do it again, in person?

Inspector Gibb sat with pen poised. She hadn’t taken a single note so far.

Logan narrowed his eyes. Opened his mouth … then shut it again. Rule three: never ask a question you don’t already know the answer to.

Napier let the silence stretch. Then tilted his head to one side. ‘You have a girlfriend, called Samantha Mackie, do you not?’

‘Yes.’

‘She’s currently residing at a private care home not far up the coast from here, I believe. Sunny Glen?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Hmm …’ The head came up, then tilted to the other side. ‘From what I understand, it’s a rather expensive facility. Full-time care for someone in a vegetative state – that must be difficult to afford on a Sergeant’s salary.’

Never volunteer anything.

‘So tell me, Sergeant, how exactly
do
you pay for Miss Mackie’s care?’

Inspector Gibb’s pen scrawled across her memo pad.

OK, that
was
a question. ‘I sold my flat in town. I was going to rent it out, but it wouldn’t bring in enough to cover Samantha’s care.’

‘So you sold your flat to take care of your sick girlfriend. How very noble of you.’

Please don’t ask who he’d sold it to. Stay far,
far
away from that particular wasps’ nest.

Logan spread his hands on the desktop, felt the muscles in his shoulders bunch. ‘She was hurt as a
direct
result of an ongoing investigation, she should’ve been covered under occupational health!’

Napier settled back in his seat. ‘Your investigations have a habit of creating collateral damage, don’t they, Sergeant McRae? Other people’s misery follows you around like an unwelcome stench.’

‘That wasn’t …’ He closed his mouth. Stupid. That’s what he got for breaking rule number two. Don’t go off on a tangent.

‘And speaking of collateral damage, we have Stephen Bisset. Murdered in his hospital bed, much to the delight of the press.’ Napier flicked a finger in Inspector Gibb’s direction and she dug into her thick folder.

Gibb pulled out a small stack of newsprint – the front pages of six or seven papers – then spread them out in front of Logan. ‘A small selection from the
Daily Mail
,
Daily Record
,
Scottish Sun
,
Aberdeen Examiner
,
Evening Express
,
Scotsman
, and last, but not least, the
Press and Journal
.’

The headlines ran from, ‘T
RAGIC
D
AD
M
URDERED
I
N
H
IS
B
ED
’ to ‘P
ERVERT’S
V
ICTIM
K
ILLED
W
ITH
H
OSPITAL
P
ILLOW
’. The
Aberdeen Examiner
had gone with, ‘“D
AD
W
ASN’T
A S
EX
F
REAK
!” S
AY
G
RIEVING
F
AMILY
’.

Each came with a photo of Stephen Bisset, all smiles and happy families. Not lying beneath a filthy blanket, covered in his own blood and filth, in a shack, hidden away in the depths of a snow-covered forest.

One had a little inset picture of Logan in his full dress uniform, getting a commendation for catching the Mastrick Monster. ‘P
OLICE
“H
ERO
” A
CCUSED
O
F
“F
ITTING
-U
P
” G
RAHAM
S
TIRLING
.’ Another had ‘“O
FFICER
F
ABRICATED
E
VIDENCE
” J
URY
T
OLD
.’

So that was it.

This wasn’t about someone killing Stephen Bisset, or Samantha’s care-home expenses, it was about Logan not following procedure back in January. Because obeying the rules mattered more than someone’s life.

He kept his mouth shut.

Napier pursed his lips. ‘Tell me, Sergeant …’ dramatic pause, ‘where were you last night between the hours of eleven p.m. and three a.m.?’

What?

OK, wasn’t expecting that.

Logan stared at him. ‘Why?’

‘It’s a simple question. Where were you?’

‘I was at home, painting the bedroom.’

Napier did the head-tilting thing again. ‘Until three in the morning?’

‘No, about one. Then I went to bed.’ Rule Number Two.

That pointy smug smile of his never wavered, it sat there on his stupid face like it’d been welded on. ‘And can anyone vouch for that?’

Yeah, because Logan was going to tell him
all
about Helen Edwards staying at his house.

The red light on the digital camcorder glowed like an ember, the lens a dead, black, eye.

Logan shuffled his chair back from the table an inch. To hell with the rules. ‘Do I need to have a Federation rep in here with me?’

‘Do you think you need one?’

‘I want it made clear – for the record – that I haven’t been cautioned, nor am I under oath, nor have I been informed what the hell is going on.’ Back another inch.

Napier spread his hands, palms up, fingers out. Like a Bond villain about to disclose his master plan. ‘It’s interesting that you think you’ve done something which merits being interviewed under caution.’

Logan stood. ‘We’re done here.’

‘Do you remember discussing Graham Stirling with Miss Mackie on the morning of Wednesday the twenty-first?’

‘Discussing? Is that meant to be a
joke
?’ His hands made fists, the knuckles hard, skin stretched tight. ‘Samantha hasn’t spoken a word in four years.’

‘Did you discuss—’

‘
No
.’ Go on, swing for him. One last glorious act as a police officer – batter Napier’s head clean off his bloody shoulders.

‘Inspector Gibb?’

She reached into her folder again and came out with two sheets of paper, stapled together. ‘We have a statement from a Mr Kevin Cooper, an orderly at Sunny Glen. On the twenty-first of May he heard you talking to Miss Mackie about the collapse of Graham Stirling’s trial. He quotes you as saying, “I’ll go to Graham Stirling’s house in the middle of the night, and bash his head in with a crowbar.”’

Napier sat back and crossed his legs. He wasn’t wearing a nice solid pair of black boots – like everyone else in uniform – instead his tiny leather brogues were polished to an onyx shine. Couldn’t be more than a size six. Probably didn’t need anything bigger to cover his cloven hooves. One hand made a lazy circle in the air. ‘Do you remember saying that, Sergeant McRae?’

‘No. Maybe. I don’t know. If I did, it was—’

‘The reason I ask, is that Graham Stirling’s missing. His sister went to his house at nine o’clock this morning and, in her words …?’ Napier gave Inspector Gibb a smile.

She picked up a sheet from her folder. ‘“I let myself in using my key. I shouted for Graham, but there was no answer. I went into the kitchen and it was like a bomb had gone off. There were broken cups and plates, and a chair with its legs all snapped. And there was blood on the floor and on the fridge.”’

Ah …

Logan sat down again. ‘I had nothing to do with that.
Nothing
.’

‘But you
can
see why we’d be interested in talking to you? Here you are,’ one hand described a brief circle, taking in the room, and presumably the whole of Banff station and the area beyond, ‘reduced in circumstance, downgraded from a high-flying career in CID to Duty Sergeant in the back of beyond—’

‘I have
not
been downgraded. This was Chief Superintendent Campbell’s—’

‘Don’t interrupt. I understand you’ve been complaining that certain investigations have been removed from your remit and assigned to Major Investigation Teams better suited to completing them. So: reduced, downgraded, and frustrated.’ The fingers steepled again. Chin resting on the tips. That Cheshire Cat smile welded in place. ‘And then the case against Graham Stirling collapses, because you seem to think that following procedure is beneath you. Why not mete out a little justice of your own? Judge, jury, and executioner.’

‘I did
not
kill Graham Stirling!’ Logan shoved his chair back. Stood with his fists curled on the conference table. ‘And if you had any evidence we wouldn’t be having this
little chat
up here, we’d be in an interview room with a lawyer and a Federation rep. So you can take your accusations and shove them!’