The Missing and the Dead

David glared back, mouth a hard trembling line.

Then his sister took his arm and led him back towards the taxi. ‘Come on, David. Let’s go home. It’s OK.’

‘He’s not a pervert …’

‘I know.’

They climbed back into the taxi, him hunched over, one hand wiping the tears from his eyes, her rubbing his back between the shoulder blades.

Logan stood where he was as the taxi drove past him.

David was in full flood now, face screwed up, back heaving. But his sister stared out of the window, her eyes locked on Logan’s. Face dead and expressionless.

And then they were gone. Down to the bottom of Marischal Street and left, disappearing onto Regent Quay.

Graham Stirling ruined more than Stephen Bisset’s life, he screwed up Bisset’s kids too. Screwed them up so much they might never get past the sight of their father lying on his back in the High Dependency Unit with tubes and wires hooking him up to machines and drips and bags.

Four months and he’d barely moved. Hadn’t said a word. Just lay there.

A small shiver danced across the back of Logan’s neck.

Four months as a stump of a man, waiting for death. And Logan couldn’t even put the bastard who’d done it behind bars.

David Bisset had been right to have a go at him.

He deserved it.

Logan’s seat rattled as the big diesel engine changed down to climb the hill. Outside the windows, granite tenements shone in the afternoon light. Trees glowed green and gold. Roses made frozen scarlet fireworks in gardens.

He dug into his carrier bag and pulled out the first tin of beer. Still cold from the chiller cabinet. Little beads of condensation prickling on the metal surface. He clicked the tab, took a deep swig. Ground his teeth together and swallowed. Bitter. Which fitted perfectly.

The number 35 was nearly empty. A couple of oldies sat up front near the driver. Neither of them talking – him buried in his newspaper, her staring out of the window. Leaving Logan with most of the bus to himself.

Another swig.

Bloody Sandy Moir-Bloody-Farquharson.

What the hell was he supposed to do: let Stephen Bisset die?

He took his peaked cap off the seat next to him and stuffed it in the carrier bag. Followed it up with the epaulettes off his T-shirt. OK, so the sleeves still had ‘POLICE’ embroidered on them, but rolling them up a couple of turns hid that. Now he was just another skinhead, dressed in black, drinking cheap beer at the back of a bus. Glowering out at the city as the driver took them through Berryden, past Aberdeen Royal Infirmary, through Bucksburn, Dyce, then out into the countryside.

Tin number two died in his hands. He crushed the empty and dumped it in the bag.

Fields and sheep and cattle slid by outside the windows. Green land, blue sky, and happy little fluffy sodding clouds.

Should’ve been raining. Should’ve been hammering it down from a slate-grey sky, wind battering the bus and whipping the trees.

Logan’s phone went again. Not the ‘Imperial March’ for a change: unrecognized number.

His thumb hovered over the button. Pressed it. ‘Hello?’

Steel’s voice bellowed into his ear. ‘How could you possibly screw this up? Simple, open-and-shut case. What the hell’s wrong with you?’

‘It wasn’t my—’

‘Do you have any idea what the Big Brass are doing right now? They’re getting a dirty big stake sharpened, so they can ram it up my backside and roast me on an open fire!’

‘I didn’t—’

‘All the man-hours we put into that investigation and it’s ruined!’

‘There’s still the DNA evidence. It’ll—’

‘YOU TOOK STIRLING TO THE BLOODY CRIME SCENE!’ Silence. She was probably counting to ten. Then she was back, sounding as if she’d dropped something heavy on her foot. ‘Hissing Sid’s screaming cross-contamination. Never mind sending the bastard down, we’ll be lucky if we get out of this without Graham Stirling suing our arses off! It’s—’

Logan hung up.

Three seconds later, his phone started ringing again. Then the Airwave handset joined in.

He turned them both off. Rammed them deep into his fleece pockets.

Opened another tin of beer.

So much for celebrating.

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