The Missing and the Dead (58 page)

Logan kept his mouth shut. Let the silence stretch.

‘Well, Sergeant? Would you care to—’

Then Logan’s Airwave gave its four point-to-point bleeps.
‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

He glanced at the screen. No idea whose shoulder number it was, but it was low, so might be a boss.

Napier held up a finger. ‘I don’t think so.’ He put his hand out. ‘If you don’t mind.’

‘And if I do?’

His shoulder rose, then dipped. ‘Well, for a start, I’m a chief superintendent, and you’re a sergeant, so that makes me, let’s see: four steps further up the ladder? If you can’t have the common courtesy to switch off your Airwave when you’re in a meeting, I shall do it for you. Now: the handset, please.’

No point fighting – it wasn’t as if he was ever going to win.

Logan unclipped his handset and passed it across.

‘Thank you.’ Napier glanced down at the screen as he reached for the off switch. Then stopped, fingers hovering over the control. ‘Ah …’ He pursed his lips. ‘I think you probably better take this one.’ Then stood, walked around behind Logan, on those silent little feet, and placed the Airwave on the table in front of him. ‘It’s the Chief Constable.’

The breath wheezed out of Logan, dragging heart and lungs down into his bowels. Great – a tag-team bollocking.

He pressed the button. ‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk.’

Napier settled back into his seat, that Night-of-the-Living-Dead smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

Inspector Gibb’s pen hovered over her notepad.

And then the Chief Constable’s voice thumped out into the room.
‘Sergeant McRae – Logan – it’s John.’

‘Sir.’

Here we go …

‘I wanted to call you anyway; say congratulations on catching the man who shot Constable Mary Ann Nasrallah. Excellent result, especially given the case was a national priority. First-rate job there. Really showed the power of good old-fashioned divisional policing.’

Logan blinked at the handset a couple of times. OK … ‘Thank you, sir.’

Time for the other shoe, not so much to drop as get rammed home into his groin.

‘And now I hear you’ve been instrumental in arresting the Cashline Ram-Raiders.’

Warmth bloomed in his cheeks. ‘Thank you, sir, but it was a team effort.’

‘That’s what I like to hear, Logan: shoulder the blame when things go wrong, share the credit when they don’t. That’s the kind of leadership I want in Police Scotland.’

Logan raised an eyebrow at Napier. ‘Glad to hear it, sir.’

‘The media lot are putting out a statement, and believe me when I say you’re going to get a glowing write-up. Well done again. We could do with a lot more Logan McRaes out there, Sergeant.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ But the Chief Constable was already gone. Logan placed his Airwave handset back on the tabletop. Gave Napier his widest smile. ‘Now, I think you were busy implying that I colluded with David and Catherine Bisset to kill Graham Stirling?’

Napier pulled his chin in. Bit his top lip. Closed his eyes. Let out a small sigh. ‘Inspector Gibb, switch off the camera: this meeting is concluded. I’m sure Sergeant McRae has lots more vital work to be getting on with.’

And, escape.

‘Interview suspended at sixteen hundred hours.’ Logan gathered his papers together and stood.

The guy on the other side of the table squinted back at him. The green overalls were gone, replaced by a white paper oversuit with bootee feet. The skin across his left cheek had darkened to a thundercloud of blue and purple, marbled with yellow. That’s what he got for doing a runner on Nicholson’s watch. He sniffed, rubbed at his nose with cuffed-together hands. ‘You’ll make sure McNee goes down for it, aye? Rest of us was only doing what we was told.’

The solicitor from the Scottish Legal Aid Board polished a pair of little round specs. ‘Albert, there’s no need for you to continue talking. The interview’s over.’

He pulled one shoulder up till it almost touched his ear. ‘Just want to make sure, like.’

Logan looked down at the dirty fingernails, the thick hands, the cuffs. ‘Why Broch Braw Buys?’

‘Eh?’

A sigh from Mr Solicitor. ‘Sergeant McRae, this interview has been terminated.’

‘I’m curious.’

‘Was McNee’s idea.’ Albert picked at the wart on the back of one thumb. ‘We was hungry, so we parked up to get a burger. McNee went into the shop for a paper. Said there was this wee blonde girl comes skipping in and the gadgie running the place is shouting and swearing and kicks her out. Tiny wee girl, all dressed in pink with a skateboard. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

Another sigh. ‘Albert, I really have to advise
against
this.’

‘So McNee comes back and he says, “We’re doing that miserable old git next.” Said it was payback for being cruel to kids and that.’

At least that was one mystery solved.

Logan shifted his Airwave to the other hand and had a slurp of tea. ‘I thought Billy was doing it.’

‘Can’t, he’s been summoned to Tulliallan to explain that firearms thing from two weeks ago.’
Inspector McGregor sounded as if she was in a wind tunnel.
‘Sorry.’

Creaks and groans came from outside the Sergeants’ Office door as someone stalked Fraserburgh station’s wonky corridors.

‘Gah …’ Logan folded forward and rested his forehead against the keyboard. ‘We’re supposed to be going out tonight to celebrate.’ And then home to celebrate some more with Helen. Hopefully twice.

‘It’s just for tonight. Billy will be back tomorrow evening, we’ll do it then.’

‘Chips and beer.’

‘I wouldn’t ask, but we need a duty sergeant.’

Logan groaned. Swore. Then hit the button. ‘OK, put me down for a green shift.’

‘And we need someone to fill in for Big Paul as well. He’s stood down tonight because he’s got court first thing tomorrow – that attempted murder in Peterhead three months ago.’

‘I’ll have a word with the team.’

‘Good. Now, where are we at?’

‘Finished the last interview half an hour ago. Soon as the other three heard the van driver had rolled over on them, they all changed their plea. According to them, he’s the mastermind behind the Cashline Ram-Raiders. It’s like a competition to see who can shaft him the hardest. I’m writing it up now.’

‘So they’re all pleading guilty?’

‘That’s the plan.’

‘Excellent. What else?’

There was a knock on the door and Nicholson stuck her head into the room. ‘You want a tea before we head off, Sarge? Nearly home time.’

‘Got one, thanks.’ He flipped over a couple of pages in his notepad. Keyed the talk button again. ‘Right, we’ve got two drink drivers and one driving while disqualified, a break-in at Peterhead Cinema, an aggravated assault in Gardenstown, and a mum of three’s gone missing from Aberchirder. Friends say she’s never done it before, but rumour has it she’s got a fancy man in Cullen. I’ve asked the Moray lot to keep an eye out for her.’

‘All pretty calm for a Monday.’

‘Don’t knock it.’

‘And we’ll do chips and beer tomorrow. Promise.’

Assuming nothing went wrong between now and then. And knowing his luck …

Logan finished off writing up the interview notes, then headed through to the canteen.

Nicholson sat in one of the purple couches in front of the TV, Syd Fraser in the other one. The pair of them froze, hands dipped into a box of Maltesers.

Then Nicholson grinned. ‘Sarge, frightened the life out of us.’ She nabbed a Malteser and popped it in her mouth and went straight back for another one. Munching. ‘Thought you were the owner.’

Syd scooped up a clicking palmful of little chocolate balls. ‘They were planked in the back of the cupboard. Dig in before whoever bought them finds out.’

Logan helped himself. All malty and chocolaty and melty and crunchy. ‘Did you hear Klingon’s mum’s not dead?’

A shrug. More Maltesers. ‘To be fair, I did say Lusso’s not been a cadaver dog for years. They lose the nose for it if they don’t practise.’

‘Yeah.’ Crunch. Munch. Sook. ‘Would’ve been nice though.’

Syd rubbed a hand across his shiny bald head. Frowned. ‘OK, so it’s not Klingon’s mum buried in the back garden. So what? That doesn’t mean someone else isn’t. You got any missing druggies on the books?’

Nicholson grabbed another couple. ‘Always. And no one ever tells us if they turn up again.’

Syd took one more palmful, leaving the box virtually empty.

‘Pair of you are like vultures.’ Logan grabbed the last Malteser before anyone else could. ‘Still, it’s sod all to do with us now. DCI McInnes won’t let us anywhere near Klingon’s place.’

Syd squished the empty box flat. Folded it in half. Then dumped it in the bin and covered it with yesterday’s colour supplement. Burying the evidence. ‘Shame. Otherwise we could nip round there with a couple of shovels and do a bit of grave-robbing. Don’t think they’ll be letting Klingon’s mum move back in any time soon.’

True.

Logan hooked a finger at Nicholson. ‘Come on, Calamity, time to get you back to the station.’

Syd raised a chocolaty hand in salute. ‘Give us a call if you fancy playing Burke and Hare.’

Nicholson followed Logan out into the hallway. ‘Calamity?’

‘Calamity Janet rides again. You’re the one who wanted a nickname.’

They clumped down the stairs.

‘Yeah, but—’

‘No buts. You said people weren’t allowed to pick for themselves. So as of now, you’re Calamity.’

‘All units, we’ve got a fatal RTC on the A90 between Boddam and the Cruden Bay turn-off. Anyone free to attend?’

Out into the car park at the back of the station.

Drizzle greyed the breezeblock and tarmac, misted the windscreens.

A couple of CID types leaned against a pool car, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. They looked up as Nicholson plipped the locks on the Big Car.

One seemed to think a Kevin Keegan perm was a good idea, the other looked as if the Ugly Fairy had paid him a visit and never left. Keegan jerked his chin up. ‘You McRae?’

‘Yes. You?’

‘Brogan, MIT. You got the Ram-Raiders?’

‘One removal van, one four-by-four, one boosted cash machine, and four guys in boiler suits.’

Ugly pinged the butt of his cigarette away into the drizzle. ‘Yeah, we’re going to take it from here.’

‘Be my guest.’ Logan swept an arm towards the cellblock door. ‘Mind you, there’s not far to take it. The other thing we got was four confessions. Job’s done.’ He climbed into the passenger seat. ‘You have fun though.’

Nicholson started the engine, drowning out whatever Brogan’s reply was.

She chewed on the inside of her cheek as she steered the Big Car out onto the street. ‘Curlytop didn’t look too happy.’

‘Poor wee soul probably thought he could swoop down at the last minute and take all the credit. Only to find the bunnets had got there first. Boo hoo. Nobody loves him. Etcetera.’

‘My heart bleeds.’ She took them out past the fish-processing plants, slowing down to peer into the car parks. ‘Shout if you see an old red BMW Z4. Driver’s disqualified.’

Grey hatchbacks and saloons: all sitting in ordered little rows, waiting for their fishy owners to do the five o’clock dash.

No BMW.

Logan adjusted his equipment belt, so the extendable baton wasn’t poking into his leg. ‘Fancy a green shift? Big Paul’s got court in the morning.’

‘Thought we were hitting the town for beer and chips.’

‘Can’t. Got to fill in for Davey Muir again.’

‘Yeah, well my mates are heading off to Ellon to see that new Johnny Depp where everyone’s zombies except him and Bill Bailey. If there’s no beer and chips, I’m joining them.’

Just have to ask Deano then.

Logan pointed through the windscreen at the glowering sky beyond. ‘Home, Calamity, and don’t spare the horses.’

‘… absolutely dinging it down.’

Logan pressed the talk button. ‘Well, don’t hang about too long then, Joe. Don’t want you and Penny catching pneumonia.’

Heat wafted through the Sergeants’ Office, making spider-webs of steam on the mullioned window. A clatter of rain against the glass made it shiver.

‘Definitely. We’ll finish up the last interview and be back in time for eightses. Penny’s got chocolate éclairs.’

Logan put his Airwave back on the desk and bashed in comments against two or three actions that needed following up. Shockingly, none of them belonged to Tufty. And speaking of Constable Quirrel …

His thin face appeared at the door. Cheeks shiny and red, with nose and ears to match. ‘Ooh, it’s perishing out there. Fancy a cuppa?’

Logan held out his mug. ‘Any news?’

‘Hospital say it wasn’t as bad as it looked. A broken leg and a couple of ribs. Not bad for getting knocked down by a bus.’ He pulled off his hat and a dribble of rainwater pattered against the carpet tiles.

Logan dug into his pocket and came out with a small paper bag. Tossed it on the desk. ‘Before I forget, that’s for you.’

‘Is it cola bottles?’ Tufty picked up the bag and peered inside. ‘It’s a badge.’

‘For your help yesterday with the CCTV.’ A smile. ‘Put it on then.’

Tufty unzipped his high-vis jacket and pinned the badge to his stabproof. Round and red, with ‘G
ENIOUS
’ on it in little white letters. He beamed. ‘Thanks, Sarge!’

‘No problem. You earned it.’

‘You’ve got a visitor, by the way. Outside.’

‘In this?’ Logan grabbed his waterproof high-vis gear. ‘Not supposed to leave members of the public out in the rain, Constable. Sends a bad message.’

‘Yeah … Didn’t want to let him into the building. Not after what he did to the Big Car. It’s Stinky Sammy Wilson and, going by the smell, I think he’s here to report his own death.’

‘I’ve changed my mind: you’re an idiot.’ Logan hauled on the vest, the jacket, and fastened his equipment belt over the top on his way to the tradesmen’s exit. Instantly a stone heavier. ‘Go make the tea – Penny and Joe are on their way back for eightses.’