The Missing and the Dead (35 page)

‘Baker? Hang on,’ Steel popped the e-cigarette back in, ‘he told me his name was Mycar. Don’t you know it’s an offence to give a false name to the police, Mr Baker?’ She flashed a smile at Logan. ‘I think that’s just cause for a stop-and-search, don’t you, Sergeant?’

Logan snapped on a pair of blue nitriles. ‘If you can put your arms out for me, Mr Baker.’

Steel took a long slow drag as Logan patted Baker down. ‘Didn’t answer my question, by the way. Have you been visiting your friendly neighbourhood drug dealer? Maybe picking something up, or dropping it off?’

If that jaw clenched any tighter, one of those spotty Vesuviuses was going to blow. ‘You arresting me?’

‘Depends what my Sergeant finds, doesn’t it?’

Logan finished running his hands down Martyn-with-a-‘Y’’s legs. ‘Have you got anything in your pockets I should know about? Anything sharp – knives, needles, blades?’

He bared his teeth. ‘This is harassment.’

‘Paul?’ A woman appeared from the same doorway, with a Brummie accent thick as a breezeblock. Cut-off jeans and a ‘B
ARNEY
M
UST
D
IE
’ T-shirt. Her bare toes made little feet fists as she stepped out onto the path. ‘Everything OK?’ A toddler wobbled up behind her and stood clinging to her leg, thumb firmly planted in mouth.

The scowl faded, and Baker turned his head to her, face stretched in a smile. ‘It’s OK, Elsie. You and Mandy go back inside and stick the kettle on, yeah?’

‘Paul?’

The fake smile slipped a bit. ‘I
said
it’s OK. Someone vandalized the car and these … officers are being a bit jobsworth. Go back inside.’

A little nod, then she disappeared back into the house. The toddler froze on the top step, looking back at them. Then Martyn-with-a-‘Y’ gave her a little wave and she followed her mum. The door swung shut.

Martyn Baker assumed the position again. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

‘So who’s Paul when he’s at home?’ Steel turned to peer through the back window as the Big Car headed off down the road. ‘Well, no’ “at home” so much as “slumming it in Teuchter Town with some leggy blonde tart”.’

‘Alias.’ Nicholson took them straight through the roundabout onto Whinhill Terrace, hands slip-sliding around the wheel in proper I’m-trying-to-pass-my-driving-test manner. ‘Martyn Baker also goes by Paul Butcher and Dave Brooks.’

‘So the poor cow he’s shagging doesn’t even know his real name? That no’ a wee bit sad?’

Sitting in the back, Logan stuffed his blue nitrile gloves into an old Tesco carrier bag and stuffed that into one of the pockets on his stabproof. ‘Can’t believe he didn’t have anything on him.’

Nicholson shrugged. ‘Maybe next time?’

‘Would it no’ be really weird for him as well, though? There he is, humping away, and she’s screaming, “Oh, Paul, you magnificent stallion. Harder, Paul, harder!” and he’s thinking, “Who the hell is
Paul
? … Oh, right, it’s me.” You’d think that would put him off his stroke.’

Logan’s Airwave bleeped.
‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

‘Thump away, Maggie.’

‘Are we still looking for a Charles “Craggie” Anderson? ’Cos we’ve got a sighting this morning of him getting off a bus in Inverness.’

Steel took a sook on her e-cigarette, setting the tip glowing. ‘Do you think the wee kid’s his? Imagine growing up no’ knowing your dad’s real name.’

‘We sure it’s Charles Anderson?’

‘Not really. You know what it’s like. Someone sees someone that vaguely looks like someone on a missing person poster they can barely remember, so they call us.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Deano and Tufty got themselves an overdose in Keilhill, ambulance is on the scene.’

‘Thanks, Maggie.’

Nicholson took them right, onto Castle Street. It was busy with couples and families. Baby buggies and carrier bags.

Nicholson slammed on the brakes. Pointed. ‘There! It’s
definitely
him this time!’

A chunky middle-aged man, balding at the back, lurched along the pavement, carrying a pair of wooden kitchen chairs with the labels still attached.

She undid her seatbelt. Hopped out of the car. ‘Liam Barden?’ No response. ‘HOY, LIAM!’ Still nothing. She grabbed her bowler hat, wedged it on, and hurried after him on foot.

Steel half turned in her seat. ‘Why are you lot obsessed with this Liam bloke?’

‘It’s not him.’ Logan shifted forward in his seat. ‘So, come on then, you’re getting a lift back to the station. What did your DI Porter say?’

A blank look wafted across her face, then it must’ve clicked. ‘Aye, Porter. She’s in charge of the day-to-day on that big drugs bust – what is it, Kevin and Gherkin?’

‘Klingon and Gerbil.’

‘Takes all sorts.’ Steel had a long drag on her fake cigarette. ‘You wanted to know about Kevin’s mum.’

‘
Klingon’s
mum. She’s supposed to be in Australia for a couple of months, but word is she’s not been at her home address for a long, long time.’

‘So?’

‘So I want to know if Klingon or Gerbil said anything about Klingon’s mum.’

Another puff. ‘Why?’

‘You didn’t see the state of the place. No way they caused that much mess in a couple of weeks. That house has been a slum for
months
. She’s a neat freak. And according to the Council, even though the place is still in her name, Klingon’s been paying the rent for nearly a year. So what happened to her?’

‘That’s what you’ve got? The place is dirty?’ Steel pointed a chipped red fingernail at her cheek. ‘Does this look like a face that gives a toss about two junkies’ housekeeping skills? By the time the pair of them get out of prison, she’ll have tidied it all up anyway.’

A family of five shambled past the patrol car, the father and mother looking as if they’d never seen a happy day in their lives.

Logan lowered his voice. ‘What if she never went to Australia in the first place?’

‘Still not caring.’

‘What if she’s dead?’

Steel clicked her cigarette off and slipped it back into her pocket. ‘You think this Kevin’s the kind of bloke to kill off his dear old mum?’

‘For God’s sake, it’s
Klingon
. Kevin is Gerbil’s real name.’ Logan sat back in his seat. ‘Maybe they killed her, or maybe she had an accident, but something’s not right.’ He drummed his fingers on the driver’s headrest. ‘Wonder if she’s still drawing money from her bank account? Think we can find out?’

Steel produced her phone and poked away at the screen for a bit.

Logan poked her. ‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

God’s sake. ‘What did DI Porter say? About Klingon’s mum?’

‘Nothing. Never came up.’ She held out her phone. A photo of Susan and Jasmine glowed on the screen. The two of them were in a school hall, Susan in a floral dress that could’ve walked straight off the set of a Doris Day film, Jasmine in a black leotard with a green tutu – grinning away, clutching a tiny golden trophy. That would be at the dance competition. ‘She came third. Think I should ask them to come up to Banff for a couple of days?’

‘They didn’t mention his mum at all?’

‘Course they couldn’t stay at Craphole House with you, but it’d be nice, wouldn’t it? Trip up here, in the sun.’

‘How could she not ask?’

‘They could jump in the car today, spend the night, and go back on the Sunday. Be nice to have them for longer, but these idiot teachers throw a wobbly if you take kids out of school in term time.’ Steel stared at the picture. ‘We could have a barbecue. Go for a walk along the beach. Swim in the sea.’

‘Are you even listening to me?’

‘Nope.’

Fine. If she wasn’t going to help …

He took out his own phone and scrolled through the contacts list. Selected one, then listened to it ring. And ring. And ring.

And then a man’s voice came on the line, very well spoken with a faint Essex twang.
‘Department of Administrative Support.’

‘Derek? It’s Logan McRae. We met at the big security briefing weekend for the Commonwealth Games? You and your boss were getting chucked out of that strip—’

‘Ah yes, Logan. Of course. Yes. How are you?’
He cleared his throat.
‘I thought we weren’t going to talk about that again.’

‘You still with the Secret Squirrel Squad?’

Steel changed the photo on her phone to Susan and Jasmine in bathing suits on a white sandy beach, with palm trees and tins of Irn-Bru.

Derek was silent for a moment.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes then. Listen, I need to find out if someone’s left the country. She’s supposed to be on holiday in Australia. Any chance you can find out when, and
if
, she went?’

Steel turned and held the phone out to him. ‘Tiree. Got sunburnt every morning, eaten alive by midges every evening, and loved every minute.’

‘Logan, the Department of Administrative Support doesn’t do counter-terrorism, it does requisitions for staplers and Bic pens. Photocopier maintenance contracts. All very mundane.’

‘Sure it does. And you still owe me one, remember? The strip—’

‘It wasn’t …’
Deep breath.
‘Yes, well, perhaps I can make some discreet enquiries on your behalf. Name?’

Logan dug it out of his notebook. ‘Lesley Spinney, born in Fraserburgh, eighth of April, 1971.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’
He hung up.

Steel held out her mobile again. The three of them sitting around a camp fire with fish on sticks. ‘That’s us in Lossiemouth. Went out fishing in a wee boat.’ A grin. ‘Susan caught this mackerel; got it off the hook and it starts wriggling like a mad thing. Slaps her in the face with its tail, and sods off back into the water. Fish: one, Susan: nil.’ A sigh. ‘I’m going to call them.’

The driver’s door clunked open and Nicholson slumped in behind the wheel. Sighed.

Logan put his phone away. ‘Let me guess: it wasn’t him.’

‘
Looked
like him.’

‘It’s the same bloke as last time, isn’t it? The one you chased into the Co-op. No moustache. Supports the wrong football team.’

‘Well … what sort of idiot goes about looking like a missing person? That’s asking for trouble.’ Nicholson stayed where she was for a moment, then turned the key in the ignition. ‘Could’ve sworn it was him.’

‘Shire Uniform Seven – urgent.’

Logan unhooked his Airwave. ‘Safe to talk.’

‘Reports of raised voices and screaming at number sixteen, Chapel Hillock Crescent. You’ve got a grade one flag on that—’

‘Alex Williams.’ He thumped a hand down on Nicholson’s shoulder. ‘Go!’

She shifted gears then jabbed the 999 button setting the lights and siren blazing. Put her foot down.

The Big Car’s back end wriggled for a moment, rear wheels spinning, then they caught and the whole thing rocketed forwards, pushing Logan into his seat.

Traffic parted before them, Saturday shoppers stopping on the pavement to gawp as the patrol car flashed and wailed past.

Logan clicked the talk button. ‘Roger that, we are en route. Who reported it?’ He snatched at the grab handle above the door as Nicholson Silverstoned around the sweeping curve at the bottom of Castle Street. Bushes, trees, and lampposts flashed by the windows. Out onto the wrong side of the road to overtake a lorry full of cattle.

‘Next-door neighbours. Say they can hear plates and things smashing.’

Nicholson hunched forward, closer to the wheel. ‘Told you, Sarge: all fun and games till someone turns on the blender.’

Steel shoogled in her seat. ‘This is more like it. Bit of excitement for a change.’

He thumbed Deano’s shoulder number into the handset. ‘Deano, where are you?’

‘We’re up the hospital.
Again
. Our overdose took offence at getting a shot of Narcan. Nearly ripped the head off the paramedic who injected her. What’s up?’

‘Alex Williams.’

‘Crap. Right, give us a minute. We’ll be there, soon as.’

The football ground came and went, then the bridge into Macduff. Tearing through the streets of the town, walls of granite flashing past the windows.

The Big Car screeched around the corner onto Chapel Hillock Crescent. Cookie-cutter houses in the familiar pattern of semidetached houses and mini-terraces. Grey harling. White harling. Red pantile roofs.

Nicholson stamped on the brakes, bringing them to an abrupt halt outside number sixteen. She jumped out, reached back and opened Logan’s door.

He’d got one foot on the pavement when his Airwave gave its point-to-point bleeps.

‘DCI McInnes to Shire Uniform Seven.’

Who the hell was DCI McInnes?

Logan lunged out of the car and hit the button, talking into his shoulder. ‘Have to call you back, sir, we’re—’

‘No you won’t! You will talk to me now or I will personally get someone over there to kick a hole in your backside big enough to drive a bus through!’

Nicholson scrambled up the path to the red front door. Hammered on it. ‘POLICE! OPEN UP!’

‘I’m attending a domestic. You do what you want.’

More hammering. ‘POLICE!’

He let go of the Airwave. ‘Kick it in.’

Nicholson stepped back and hammered her foot into the UPVC, an inch below the handle. The thing gave a wobbling
BOOM
, but it didn’t seem to do anything. She gave it another go.
BOOM
.

‘Sergeant, I am
warning
you!’

Steel got out and made a loudhailer out of her hands. ‘TRY THE HANDLE, YOU IDIOT!’

Nicholson did. And the front door swung open. The sound of raised voices battered out into the afternoon. Then something smashing.

She charged inside, Logan right behind her. Steel puffing along at the rear.

It was a short hallway with a set of stairs on one side, heading up to a small landing. Downstairs, two doors lay wide open. One to a kitchen, the other—

A scream – off to the right.

Nicholson threw herself into the lounge, clacked out her extendable baton. ‘POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!’