The Missing and the Dead (52 page)

Half the roof had caved in, exposing rafters like the ribs of a skeletal ship. The garage was a solid block of snapping flame.

So much for getting a warrant.

He ran his fingertips along the back of his head again. Winced. Yeah, that was blood.

Headlights bounced along the rutted track, getting closer. Then an MX-5 emerged from the gloom, grinding and scraping through the potholes. Steel clambered out from behind the wheel and stood there with her mouth hanging open. ‘What the hell did you do?’

The fire engine’s diesel growl cut through the night, its swirling lights casting strobe patterns that interfered with the ones from the ambulance and the patrol car.

‘Ow!’ Sitting on the ambulance’s back step, Logan winced. ‘Easy!’

‘Don’t be such a baby.’ The paramedic went in for another go with the antiseptic, tongue poking out the side of her mouth as she tortured him. ‘When was your last tetanus shot?’

Acid-dipped needles tattooed across his scalp. ‘Ow!’

‘Bleeding’s stopped – won’t even need stitches.’ She liberated a wad of gauze from its sterile packaging and pressed it against the back of his head. ‘Now: tetanus?’

‘Couple of years.’

‘Should be fine then.’ A smile. ‘Do you want a bandage and a lollypop, or are you putting your big-boy pants on?’

Logan sniffed. ‘You don’t like people very much, do you?’

‘God, no.’ She tried to jab a finger all the way into his skull.

‘Ow!’

‘You’ll live.’ The paramedic snapped off her surgical gloves and turned to Steel. ‘Right, he’s all yours. Need to keep an eye out for a concussion – says he didn’t black-out, but if you believe that …’ A shrug. Then back to Logan. ‘Medical advice time: a concussion can mean subdural haematoma or a subarachnoid haemorrhage, dizziness, nausea, confusion, and – worst-case scenario – death.’ She hooked a thumb in Steel’s direction. ‘So you should probably stay at your mum’s the night. Make sure you don’t die in your sleep.’ Then she shooed Logan off the back step, closed the back doors, climbed in behind the wheel and drove off, while Steel stood there and spluttered.

Thank you, Florence Nightingale.

‘Your
mum
?’

Don’t smile, it’ll only make it worse. ‘I know, nerve of the woman.’

Steel threw her arms up, as if she was going to tear the clouds from the sky. ‘One: I am nothing like that frumpy scheming battleaxe. Two: I’m nowhere near old enough. And three: if I was your mother you wouldn’t be so sodding ugly!’

‘Finished?’

‘She thinks I’m your mum! How can I be your mum? I mean, look at me: in my prime here.’

He peeled the gauze off and squinted at it in the patrol car’s swirling lights. A thin line of scarlet, marred with dark-orange blobs.

‘Are you listening to me?’

‘Not really.’

Gouts of white steam tumbled upwards into the air, eating away at the black smoke.

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

Steel grabbed his Airwave. ‘No he’s not. And if he opens his mouth again, I’m going to finish the job!’

‘OK … Well, tell him that Tayside have stopped that Megabus and it’s not David and Catherine Bisset. Sighting was wrong.’

‘What a shock.’ She chucked it back at him. ‘How come you’re on the update list for the Killer Bissets?’

‘Because.’ He probed the lump on the back of his head. Winced. ‘Lucky I’m not dead.’

Steel sooked on her fake cigarette. Dribbled the steam out of her nose. Then nodded at the burning house. ‘So?’

He dabbed the gauze pad against the sore bit again. ‘Probably got a cracked skull.’

‘Did you see anyone? Did someone hit you, or did you just trip and bang your head like an auld wifie?’

‘What, and then dragged myself outside and set the house on fire?’ Another dab. ‘Ow.’

The fire flickered, dimmed, then went out, plunging the surrounding area into darkness again. Well, except for the swirling lights of the assembled emergency services.

Four firefighters in their bulky brown-and-high-vis outfits wrestled with a pair of hoses, deluging what was left of Charles Anderson’s house.

Steel pulled the e-cigarette from her mouth and bared her bottom teeth. ‘And you’ve no idea who did it? Thought you said you didn’t black out.’

‘Blah, blah, blah. You heard Nurse Crippen: I’m fine.’ Still stung though.

‘Maybe it was someone in this paedophile ring? Found out you knew about them and decided to make it go away?’

‘How would they even know I was there?’ He crumpled up the gauze and stuffed it into his pocket. ‘Anderson had it all mapped out on his board. About a dozen names and faces, all linked to the Livestock Mart.’

Steel stared at him. Then the burning garage. Then back again. ‘You
what
?’ Then she hit him.

‘Ow! Cut it out.’

‘We’ve been after a lead on the Livestock Mart for
years
, and you let it go up in flames? What’s wrong with you?’ Another thump.

‘Get off!’ He backed away. ‘I got bashed over the head. What was I supposed to do, wake up and wade back into the fire?’

Steel stormed off a half-dozen paces, then back again. ‘What was on the board. Who? How did it all link up?’

‘I can’t remember. It—’

‘Why didn’t you take a picture? You’ve got a camera on your sodding phone,
use it!
’

He jabbed a finger at the smouldering house. ‘I’m not psychic. How was I supposed to know they were going to set fire to the place? I could’ve died!’

Steel turned her face to the dark, oily clouds. ‘Give me strength …’ A sigh. She screwed her eyes shut. ‘Can you remember
any
of it at all?’

‘The wee dead girl from Tarlair – she was on there, connected to Dr Gilcomston.’

‘Wee Willy Gilcomston? Dr Kidfiddler?’ A raised eyebrow. ‘Why?’

Logan headed across to the Big Car. ‘No idea. Let’s find out.’

‘No, I don’t. I told you this before, and I resent having to repeat myself.’ William Gilcomston’s eyebrows dipped over those eerie blue eyes. Tonight’s cardigan was bottle green, with a small heart-shaped pin in the collar. The kind they gave to blood donors. ‘Now, if there’s nothing else?’

The house sat in silent isolation, surrounded by gardens on all four sides. His standing in the community might have taken a tumble after the court case, but the family home stood firm. Three storeys of grime-streaked granite with mature trees out front, a sweeping gravel driveway, a separate garage, and a low wall separating it from the street.

An old-fashioned Jaguar was parked out front, hubcaps gleaming in the house’s security lights.

Steel kept her foot wedged in the doorway – keeping it open. ‘Can we come in, Billyboy?’

He stiffened his back, pulling himself up to his full height, and glared down at Steel. ‘Do you have a warrant?’

‘I can get one.’

‘Then the answer is no. Now remove your foot from my property, I’m under no obligation to entertain your nonsense any further.’

The sound of a television, turned up a little bit too loud, came from somewhere inside. A serious man’s voice doing the news:
‘… confirm that an arrest has been made in the Scottish town of Banff, connected to the fatal shooting of undercover police officer, Mary Ann Nasrallah …’

Logan stepped up. ‘Dr Gilcomston, do you know a man called Charles Anderson? Also goes by the nickname, “Craggie”?’

‘… go live to Aberdeenshire. Kim, have Police Scotland released any details about the individual involved?’

Gilcomston pursed his lips. ‘I believe he’s some sort of dead fisherman. There was an article in the paper about him setting fire to his boat.’

‘Yes, but did you know him before that? Before he went missing?’

‘No. Now please go.’

‘… as Martyn Baker, a twenty-one-year-old man from Birmingham.’

Steel pulled her foot back. ‘OK, play hard-to-get if you like, Billyboy, but we’ll no’ be far away.’ She winked at him. ‘Stay out of trouble, eh?’ Then turned and marched down the path toward her little sports car.

‘… plead guilty or not guilty, when Mr Baker comes up before the Sheriff Court at nine a.m. tomorrow morning.’

The tendons in Gilcomston’s neck tightened for a beat, then he turned his blue eyes on Logan. ‘I’ll be making a complaint about your superior. This is harassment.’

Logan stared back in silence.

‘Thank you, Kim. And we’ll have more on that later, when the Police Scotland press conference starts.’

A herring gull cawed and shrieked somewhere in the darkness.

‘This, of course, ends a week-long manhunt for the person or people who shot and killed Mary Ann Nasrallah …’

A car rumbled past.

‘… to Liverpool now, where Constable Nasrallah’s family have been holding a prayer vigil …’

Gilcomston cleared his throat. Looked away. ‘I have nothing further to say to you.’

‘Charles Anderson thought you were involved in the death of the little girl we found at Tarlair. What would give him that idea?’

‘I’m sorry, I have to go.’ Gilcomston closed the door. Then the sound of bolts and locks shooting home clicked and clacked out through the wood.

Logan gave it a count of ten, then turned and joined Steel on the pavement.

She was leaning back against her MX-5, arms folded, e-cigarette sticking out the corner of her mouth. ‘He’s a slimy git.’

‘Anderson must’ve seen her. The picture on the board: it wasn’t from a newspaper or off the internet, it was a photograph. He took it. So he must have seen her when she was alive.’

‘And he probably saw her with Dr Kidfiddler.’ Steel blew a stream of steam at the heavy clouds. ‘Laz, could you no’ have saved the evidence, instead of swooning like a Victorian heroine?’

‘Thanks. Yes, it was all my fault someone tried to bash my brains in, how
very
careless of me.’ He dug his hands deep into his pockets. ‘Could’ve died. Bit of sympathy might not go amiss.’

‘Wah, wah, wah. Don’t be so melodramatic. If they wanted you dead, they would’ve left you in the house when they set fire to it.’

Logan drove the Big Car up the kerb, over the pavement, and onto the half-moon of blockwork opposite the Threadneedle Street Car Park. Well, it was easier than messing about with the automatic gate that secured the loading area at the back of Peterhead police station.

Nearly half-past eleven, and the place was dead. The occasional car drifted past – with horrible music
bmmmtshhh, bmmmtshhh, bmmmtshhh
ing out through the windows – but other than that, the Blue Toon was as quiet as it ever got.

Logan locked up and stepped out.

The surrounding wall of terraced houses cut the wind down to a dull roar, leaving the drizzle to sway down from the burnt-orange sky in clammy waves. He tucked his notepad under his arm, rammed his hat on his head—

‘Ow …’ Knives and needles jabbed through the skin and into his skull, radiating out from the brand-new lump. ‘Sodding hell.’

He tucked his hat under his arm instead and hurried up the street. From the front, Peterhead station looked like a bank – all granite and tall windows, an imposing frontage with pillars and a portico – but the other three sides were knobbly red sandstone, stitched together with thick lines of grey mortar.

‘All units, be on the lookout for a brown Ford Ranger, number plate unknown, but the back end’s all dented. Just ram-raided the Co-op in Strichen. Last seen battering away down the New Deer road.’

He dug out his key and let himself into the blue side door.

It opened on a manky magnolia hall, with temporary lockers and building works on one side. Singing came through the bars separating the cellblock from the rest of the building. It sounded as if all the talented members of the wedding party had ended up in Fraserburgh’s cells, leaving only the tone deaf behind.

Logan nipped up the wee flight of stairs, past the three banks of Airwave lockers, and into the stairwell. Stood at the bottom and stared up into the darkness. ‘SHOP!’

The only answer was the echo.
Shop … Shop … Shop …

OK. Up three flights to the first floor.

‘Anyone in the vicinity of New Aberdour? Mrs Tobias has gone walkabout again.’

Where the hell was everyone?

The canteen had the same collection of chipped Formica, cheap kitchen units, and unwashed mugs as every other station in the northeast. It was separated into two bits with a wee archway in the middle. One half held the vending machine and a handful of tables and chairs. Posters on the walls about integrity, fairness, and respect. One about dialling 101 if it wasn’t an emergency, and another about being on the lookout for suicidal colleagues. The other half had the kitchen: worktops; fridge – covered with notices and dire warnings about not stealing other people’s food; toaster; cooker; and not one but
two
microwaves. Fancy.

He helped himself to a mug and a teabag, then filled it from the special boiling-water tap mounted on the wall. Must’ve been someone’s birthday, because the last two slices of a chocolate cake sat on the kitchen table. He helped himself to one of those too.

Then picked up the wall phone and pressed the button for the cellblock. Listened to it ring.

‘Aye, aye?’

‘Stubby? It’s Logan. Whose birthday was it?’

‘Well, as I live and breathe – our very own B Division Duty Sergeant! To what do we lowly peasants owe the honour?’

‘Don’t be like that, I was here last night, wasn’t I?’

‘No.’

Fair enough. ‘Anything going on I should know about?’

‘Aye, Glen’s forty the day. Doesn’t look out of nappies yet, does he?’

‘I got hit on the head, so I’m stealing a slice of his cake.’

‘Other than that, we’ve still got a full set after Friday night’s wedding. Can’t wait for the courts to open tomorrow, it’s smelling a bit ripe down here.’

He took a bite of cake, chewing around the words. ‘Anything new?’

‘Domestic earlier: bloke’s off to Fraserburgh for the night. She’s off to the hospital. Picked up a guy for getting hot and heavy with, and I kid you not, a Shetland pony. Silly sod filmed it on his own phone. And there’s a couple of unlawful removals we’re looking into. Found one up at the Flaggie earlier. Other than that, it’s been pretty Q-word.’