The Missing and the Dead

‘Still should be answering his radio, unless the power’s gone. Could be adrift, middle of the North Sea?’

‘Pretty certain the radio has to have batteries. Health and Safety.’

‘True.’

Round the next bend, and the bright lights of Macduff twinkled in the distance. ‘Tell Tufty to get the kettle on. I’ll be home in five.’

More dark fields. More cloudy silhouettes of trees. Then ‘WELCOME TO MACDUFF’. Someone had hung a white sheet, with ‘HAPPY 40TH BIRTHDAY CAZ!!!!!’ splodged across it in black paint, under the limits sign. A couple of gaily coloured balloons were tied to the posts, sagging like a miserable clown’s testes.

Logan took a quick detour down Moray Street, with its blocky grey buildings. Then stopped at the bottom – the junction with High Shore. Two choices. Right: back to the station, or left: towards the Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool?

The dashboard clock glowed ‘00:30’ at him.

Wasn’t as if he could contribute anything. Much more likely he’d get roped into doing something that could probably be accomplished by half a dozen traffic cones.

Right it was. Past the quaint wee houses, following the curving road, their dormer windows staring out across the sea as it hissed against the pebble beach.

Bleep. ‘Anyone in the vicinity of Rosehearty? We’ve got a report of an assault ongoing outside the traveller camp …’

Pause. Two. Three …

Then someone caved. ‘Sergeant Smith to Control, on my way. Tell McMahon and Barrow to get their fingers out and join me there.’

Past the aquarium – closed for refurbishment. A caravan sat in front of the temporary mesh fence encircling the oversized barnacle-shaped building, surrounded by orange traffic cones. A scruffy scarecrow in a filthy tracksuit sat on the caravan’s top step, smoking. Hand cupped around the cigarette, trying to hide its light from snipers.

As if anyone would waste a bullet on Sammy Wilson.

Logan pulled into the entrance, drifting slowly past the big red buoy that decorated the middle of the car park.

His Airwave gave its point-to-point bleeps again, and DCI Steel’s voice growled out into the car. ‘How come you’ve no’ called me back yet?’

‘I’m busy.’ Logan slowed. Poked the button marked ‘LEFT ALLEY’ and a spotlight lanced out and caught Sammy Wilson full in the face.

All bones and angles and taut sallow skin. Flecked with stubble, dirt and bruises.

Sammy shrank back against the caravan, one arm up, covering his eyes.

Logan wound down the window. ‘Evening, Sammy.’

A wince. Then a sniff. And Sammy Wilson peered out from behind his grim sleeve. ‘Not doing nothing.’

‘Sure you’re not.’

‘Hoy! You still there?’

‘No. This is a recording. Leave a message after the beep.’ He let go of the talk button and pointed at the temporary fencing with its warning notices. ‘You’re not planning on doing something I’d disapprove of, are you, Sammy? Bit of breaking and entering, maybe? Wheeching bits of kit off the building site?’

‘Nah, I’d never. Nope. Not me. Not a thief and that.’

Logan stared at him.

He shrugged one shoulder. Stared down at his feet. ‘Suppose I could sod off.’

‘Probably for the best. Don’t want someone getting the wrong idea.’

He hauled himself to his feet and scuffed away up Market Street, leaving a coil of cigarette smoke behind.

‘You can be a right dick, you know that, don’t you?’ Steel cleared her throat. ‘Anyway, it’s no’ like I’m asking for much: a wee hand to talk to your local sex offenders, that’s all.’

‘I’m not the one being a dick.’ He put the car in gear again, heading down Laing Street and along the front. ‘You’ve got the biggest team in the division. Use it.’

‘You want the murdering pervert who did this to get away? That what you want?’

To the left, a hodgepodge of old-fashioned Scottish buildings faced out over the railing to the harbour walls and the still, grey mass of the North Sea. Some of them wore grey harling, some dressed granite, some painted white.

‘Shift finishes in half an hour.’

‘You’re no’ telling me that sodding off home for a Pot Noodle and a spot of onanism is more important than catching a wee girl’s murderer, are you?’

‘And I’m in court tomorrow.’

Past the Macduff Arms, all shuttered and quiet.

‘Oh, don’t be such a big Jessie. It’s just a couple of sex offenders. No’ like we’ll be that long at it.’

The Bayview Hotel had some sort of wedding reception going on – a knot of wobbly blokes in kilts smoking cigarettes and laughing on the pavement in front.

‘You’re authorizing the overtime, are you?’

‘Ah …’

No one outside Bert’s. A couple of women getting money from the Bank of Scotland cash machine. Nothing doing at the Highland Haven Hotel.

Nice and peaceful. Quiet. Like his Airwave’s speaker.

Then the harbour gave way to industrial units and the bus depot.

He thumbed the button again. ‘Well, are you?’

‘It’s no’ as easy as—’

‘This isn’t CID. We get sod all for the first half-hour of unplanned overtime, after that it’s on the clock. I’m not running a charity here.’

The buildings faded in the pool car’s rear-view mirror. Banff twinkled on the other side of the bay.

More silence from Steel. Then, finally, ‘OK, OK, overtime. You’re a greedy—’

‘I’m not greedy, I’m skint. You got any idea how much of a pay-cut came with the “development opportunity” you lumbered me with? I’m living on bargain-basement soup and pappy sliced white.’

‘That’s no’ my fault! How was I supposed to know Big Tony Campbell would stick you in a bunnet in the arse-end of nowhere?’ Her voice dropped to what was probably meant to be a sultry purr. ‘Come on: you and me, questioning sex offenders like the good old days.’

‘Yeah, well … Too late to do anything about it tonight anyway.’ Up and over the bridge into Banff.

‘Laz, Laz, Laz. Did you learn nothing from our time together? It’s never too late to rattle a nonce.’

Nicholson leaned forward from the back seat. ‘I want to say thank you, again, for the opportunity to work on the Tarlair Major Investigation Team.’

Sitting in the passenger seat, Steel took a long draw on her e-cigarette, setting the tip glowing blue. ‘Calm down, eh? No one likes a brown-noser.’ Then poked Logan in the shoulder. ‘Are we there yet?’

‘For the last time: we’ll get there when we get there.’

A shrug. ‘No’ my fault you drive like an old lady, Laz.’

Nicholson tapped Steel on the arm. ‘Erm … Why do you call him “Laz”?’

‘Short for Lazarus. You remember the Mastrick Monster? Laz here caught him. Got into a knife fight on top of a tower block.’

‘It wasn’t a knife fight.’

‘Who’s telling this story, you or me?’ Another puff. ‘Knife fight.’

Nicholson frowned. ‘But why Lazarus?’

‘Cause our wee boy here got himself killed stone dead.’

Her eyes went wide in the rear-view mirror. ‘What happened?’

Logan shifted his grip on the steering wheel. Took the turning onto Duff Street. ‘I got better.’

Steel sniffed. ‘Are we there yet?’

‘Shut up.’

The short man blinked back at them from behind thick-framed spectacles. ‘I’m sorry?’ He clutched his dressing gown tight shut across his chest, hiding the patchwork of scars and shiny cigarette burns. Ran his other hand across the shiny top of his shiny head.

Steel scooted forward, until she was sitting right on the edge of the armchair. ‘No’ a difficult question, is it, Markyboy? Where were you?’

He puffed out his cheeks. Shrugged. ‘Here, probably. I don’t really like to go out much. After …’ Mark Brussels cleared his throat. ‘Well, it’s probably for the best. Probably. I mean, you hear stories, don’t you? People on the register getting beaten up.’ He flapped a hand at the outside world. Then pressed his knees together. ‘People on the register going missing.’

She pulled out her e-cigarette and gave it a sook. ‘Missing like Neil Wood?’

‘Been a lot of that kind of thing going on. Kickings. Disappearings. Concerned citizens taking it out on poor sods like us.’

‘Poor sods?’ She hauled out her list. ‘Says here you abused girls as young as seven over a twelve-year period.’

Logan rocked back and forwards on the balls of his feet. ‘When’d you last get a supervisory visit, Mr Brussels?’

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked into the silence. A small smelly terrier snored on its back in a tartan beanbag in the corner. A radio in another room, played saccharine boy-band pop. The floorboard creaked overhead as Nicholson crept about, pretending she was off to the toilet. Have to have a word with her about not sounding like an elephant in tap shoes.

Steel puffed out her cheeks. ‘Come on, Markyboy, it’s like pulling teeth here. When’d you last get a visit from the Perv Patrol?’

‘Well …’ His eyes slid towards the zombie-grey gaze of the off television. ‘They said I wasn’t really a risk any more, so I could go to once every six weeks. To be honest, I miss the company.’ He stood. ‘Can I get anyone a cup of tea?’

‘Sounds like a load of old bollocks to me, Billyboy.’ Steel stuck her feet up on the low coffee table. Had a squint about. ‘Someone like you, passing up a sweet young thing in a school uniform? Nah, that’s no’ your style.’

The man in the beige cardigan stared at her with striking blue eyes that lurked beneath heavy white eyebrows. ‘It’s William, not “Billyboy”, and I’ll thank you to get your feet off my furniture.’ Spine ironing-board stiff, grey hair swept back from a high forehead. ‘It’s bad enough you turn up at this ungodly hour, the least you can do is have the civility not to treat my home like whatever kind of pigsty you live in.’

Logan stepped forward. ‘Perhaps—’

‘No, no, no.’ Steel held up a hand. ‘Billyboy’s got every right to moan if he wants to.’ She grinned at him with unnaturally white teeth. ‘“Pigsty”, because we’re police officers. Very droll. Your file didn’t say you were such a wit.’ She took her feet off the table. ‘What it does say is you’ve got a thing for wee girls. Four to nine years old, wasn’t it?’

His face hardened – a granite slab with a hooked nose. ‘That was nothing more than scurrilous rumour. The whole trial was a farce from start to finish. A sick vendetta by a handful of ignorant troglodytes!’

The sound of a toilet flushing rattled the pipes behind the wall.

Steel pursed her lips – the wrinkles lined up to turn her mouth into a rouged cat’s bumhole. ‘Good enough for the jury to give you eight years, though, wasn’t it?’

‘Vile lies.’

‘What was it the tabloids called you? No, don’t tell me … Ah, got it: Dr Kidfiddler!’

Yes, because that was helping.

Logan took out his notebook. ‘Mr Gilcomston—’

‘Doctor. It’s Dr Gilcomston.’

‘Dr Gilcomston, has anyone threatened you? Implied they were going to attack you?’

‘Ignorance runs rampant throughout our society, Sergeant.’

Steel rested her chin on her hands. ‘And no one’s tried to make contact?’ She fluttered her eyelashes at him. ‘Maybe, oh, I don’t know, someone like Neil Wood?’

A pause. ‘If you’re implying I’ve got anything to do with that pervert, I resent it.’

The lounge door opened and Nicholson stepped into the room. ‘Sorry about that. Must have been something I ate.’

Gilcomston shuddered. ‘Well, I hope you cleaned the bowl after you. I have no desire to clean up your filth.’

That halogen smile broke across Steel’s face again. ‘“Filth!” Another excellent police pun. You’re like Oscar Bleeding Wilde today, aren’t you, Billyboy?’

Logan dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘All I’m saying is we might get on better if you weren’t so rude to everyone.’

Steel settled into the leather settee, stretched her arms along the back. ‘No’ bad here, is it? Wonder how much this place cost?’

It was a Victorian pile on Church Street with big bay windows and a garden to match. Hunting prints on the wall, pine cones and potpourri in the grate, beneath an ornate marble fireplace. Upright piano. Glass-fronted bookcase full of leather volumes. Standard lamps holding the night at bay.

‘Dr Gilcomston—’

‘Is a dirty scumbag. And he’s no’ a doctor either – got struck off after the conviction.’

Nicholson folded her hands behind her back. ‘Am I on piddling duty again?’

Steel drummed her fingers on the tobacco-coloured leather. ‘Got to play to your strengths.’

She sighed. Wrapped her arms around herself. ‘People will think I’ve got cystitis.’

The lounge door swung open and a large woman in a twinset sailed into the room like a lavender barge. Half-moon glasses on the end of her round nose. Only the pair of fluffy slippers, scuffing on the old woollen carpet, gave away the fact that she’d been roused from bed a little after one in the morning. She lowered a tray laden with scones and cups and a teapot onto the glass-topped coffee table. ‘Who’s got cystitis?’

Steel hooked a thumb at Nicholson. ‘Been going all night like a leaky bathtub.’

There was a small pause, then Nicholson rubbed both knees together. ‘Actually, sorry to bother you, but could I …?’

‘There’s one by the back door, or the top of the stairs on the left.’

‘Thanks.’ And she was gone.

Mrs Twinset settled into a wing-backed leather chair. ‘Now, is this about these stupid threats?’

Logan took out his notebook. ‘Threats, Mrs Bartholomew?’

‘Yes, threats. Thrust through my letter box, like some sort of takeaway menu. “You will burn in hell for everything that you have done. God will not save you. We are coming.” That kind of thing.’ A snort. ‘“We are coming.” Honestly, some people have no sense of propriety. Still, that’s the age we live in, I suppose.’ She picked up the teapot. ‘Now, shall I be mother?’

Steel smiled. ‘That no’ how you got into trouble in the first place?’

A chubby rumpled face peered out at them through the gap between the door and the frame. Streetlights thickened the dark circles beneath his eyes as he looked them up and down. ‘You got any idea what time it is?’

Steel popped her wrist forward, so her watch poked from the end of her sleeve. ‘Yup. Now you going to invite us in for a chat, or are we going to drag you down the nick?’

Nicholson climbed into the car. ‘How many’s that now?’

Logan started the engine. ‘Eleven.’

‘Pfff …’ She sagged in the rear-view mirror. ‘Your old boss is … different.’

DCI Steel paced up and down the pavement in front of the terraced houses, mobile phone clamped to her ear, puffing away on her e-cigarette. One hand flailed away, emphasizing whatever point she was making, even though there was no way whoever was on the other end of the phone could see it.

‘Oh, she’s that all right.’ Logan stretched the knots out of his neck. ‘On the plus side, we might have a new nickname for you.’

Nicholson covered her eyes with one hand. ‘Sarge, I swear to God, if “Piddler” is the next word out of your mouth, I’m going to strangle you with your own limb restraints.’

A grin. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

She turned to stare out at the houses. A light was on in the flat they’d just visited, the curtains held open – a figure silhouetted in the gap. Tall, thin, long hair. Then the curtains fell shut again.

Nicholson went on staring. ‘Looked far too young to fiddle with little girls, didn’t he? Barely out of nappies himself.’

‘Still think it’s all glamour and glory on a Major Investigation Team?’

‘Kind of thought it’d be more …’ A shrug. ‘You know.’

Steel hung up and stuffed the phone in her pocket. Stomped back towards the car.

Logan nodded. ‘If it’s any consolation, you’re following a long line of officers in a noble tradition.’

‘Designated piddler?’

‘I used to have to do it all the time. “Oh, I’m bursting for a pee, can I use your toilet?” Then go rummaging through drawers and cupboards while whichever boss it was asked stupid questions.’

‘Yeah …’ Nicholson’s mouth stretched out and down, the tendons sticking out in her neck. ‘You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve found tonight. I mean, not kiddie porn or anything, but dildos, and lube, and rubbery things like Ping-Pong balls on a string.’ She curled her top lip. ‘That doctor guy had a butt plug, a ball gag, and furry handcuffs. I mean, can you imagine him all oiled up and—’

The passenger door clunked open and Steel tumbled into the seat. Produced her list of sex offenders and a pen, then drew a thick red line through the address of the young man who interfered with little girls. ‘Right. Next up – Windy Brae.’

Logan stifled a yawn. Then tapped the dashboard clock. ‘That’s twenty past two. I’ve got court tomorrow, remember?’

‘Worried you’ll no’ get enough beauty sleep? Trust me, that boat sailed when you got the shaved-scrotum haircut.’

He opened his mouth … Closed it again. Turned to stare at her. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Told you: trying to catch a wee girl’s—’

‘Oh no you don’t. This …’ He pointed up at the flat. ‘Trolling through the registered sex offenders? That’s no job for a detective chief inspector. That’s a sergeant, maybe DI at most.’

She closed her door. ‘Nothing wrong in taking pride in your work, is there?’

‘You pissed someone off, didn’t you? That’s why you’re here: it’s a punishment. You said something you shouldn’t to Finnie or Young.’

Steel yanked the seatbelt down and rammed it into place. ‘Oh … sod off.’

11

Logan checked his watch. ‘Right, fifteen more minutes and we’re done.’

Steel shuffled her feet as Nicholson thumbed the bell again. The cottage sat on the brow of a hill, overlooking the cliffs and the sea – still and silent, washed like pewter by the thin smear of light from the crescent moon. Nothing but fields and gorse for miles.

A plume of e-cigarette steam snaked up into the starry night. ‘You used to be a lot more fun.’

‘Just because you’re on nightshift, it doesn’t mean we are too. Some of us have got court tomorrow. Supposed to get eleven hours between the end of any shift and having to give evidence; that’s gone for a Burton.’

‘Don’t say I’m never good to you: Swanson’s heading into Aberdeen first thing with a bunch of productions from the search – she’ll give you a lift. You can snore all the way.’

Nicholson backed away from the door. Stared up at the windows. ‘Maybe he’s not in?’

Another puff. ‘Try round the back.’

She clicked on her LED torch and picked her way past the rose bushes and round the side of the cottage.

Steel stuffed her hands in her pockets, fake fag clamped between her teeth. ‘Don’t know what you’re moaning about. Case is watertight – Graham Stirling’s spending the rest of his natural playing hide the soap with rapists and murderers.’

Logan leaned back against the wall. Yawned. Stretched his arms and legs. ‘So, come on then: Nicholson’s not here any more, what did you do?’

‘Sod all.’ She took a deep drag. Hissed out a thin stream of vapour. ‘Ever occur to you I might miss this?’

‘Knocking up sex offenders in the middle of the night?’

‘No’ sex offenders …’ She pulled out a hand and thumped him on the chest. ‘This. You and me: Cagney and Lacey; Holmes and Watson; Dalziel and Pascoe.’

Laurel and Hardy, more like.

‘Thought you had Rennie now.’

‘Rennie’s no’ the same. He cries when I make fun of him. And McKenzie’s one poke away from an aneurism.’

An owl hooted in the fields behind the cottage. Followed by what sounded like someone knocking over a stack of flowerpots and some muffled swearing.

Logan frowned out into the night. ‘You think there’s anything to this sex offenders getting attacked and going missing thing? That’s twice we’ve heard about it.’

‘Twice out of what, twenty paedos? No’ exactly statistically significant, is it?’

‘Three, if you count Mrs Bartholomew’s “Burn in Hell” threat. And Neil Wood’s dad got beaten up today. Well, technically yesterday, but you know what I mean.’

Steel took another long drag. ‘Not like they don’t deserve it, is it?’

All the parking slots outside the station were taken – a mix of patrol and unmarked pool cars, all bathed in the thin sodium light. The car park out front was full too. Among the more everyday vehicles loomed a couple of police pods and a Transit in full riot gear, its front grille raised like a surprised monobrow.

Logan found them a parking spot further down the street.

Steel creaked her way out of the passenger seat and paused on the pavement for a big stretch. Her blue silk shirt rode up, exposing a slash of dead-fish skin and a bellybutton. ‘Pffff …’ She had a scratch. ‘Any chance of something to eat? Starving.’

Logan nodded back towards the station. ‘Vending machine in the canteen. Crisps, caffeinated drinks, and chocolate.’

Her eyebrows tented in the middle, bringing out the puppy eyes. ‘No chips?’

Nicholson bounced out from the back of the car, following them along the pavement. ‘The baker’s opens at five. They do a great chicken-curry pie.’

Steel checked her watch, then sagged. ‘An hour and twenty minutes … Be a skeleton by then.’

‘Good, you can keep Hector company.’ Logan thumbed the code into the keypad by the tradesmen’s entrance. Then covered his mouth for a long shuddering yawn.

The sound of telephones filtered through the building. Raised voices. Someone laughing.

Nicholson pointed down the corridor towards the Constables’ Office. ‘Paperwork first, Sarge?’

‘Do your actions, then sod off home. Put down for three hours’ overtime.’ He turned to Steel. ‘That’s fair, isn’t it?’

‘Bloody bunnets, eating my budget …’ Steel turned and lumbered into the main office.

Two PCs sat at Maggie’s desk, one typing things into a spreadsheet while the other hunched over a pile of evidence bags. Reading out the label numbers as his mate logged them in.

Someone in a charcoal-grey suit was at the other desk, tongue poking out the side of her mouth as she picked at her keyboard with two fingers. Wrinkles furrowed the gap between her eyebrows, a mass of frizzy brown hair tied back in a wobbly half-bun-half-ponytail-thing.

Not one of them looked up until Steel clicked her fingers three times. ‘Hoy, Becky: any messages?’

The woman in the suit flinched. Grabbed the stack of Post-it notes beside her. ‘Body’s arrived at Aberdeen, Boss. PM’s set for half nine. DS Rennie wants to call off the search till dawn. Says it’s too dark to—’

More finger snaps. ‘I can read, DS McKenzie: give.’

Becky handed over the Post-its. Her jaw tightened, the muscles flexing. ‘Yes, Boss.’

Steel flicked through the yellow squares, holding them at arm’s length and squinting. ‘Pfff … Is there no bugger in the whole force who can make a decision on their own?’ She stuffed them into a pocket. ‘If anyone needs me, I’ll be upstairs. In the ladies. Making smells.’ She paused on the threshold to the hall. ‘And see if you can rustle up a cup of tea, eh? And something to eat.’ Then slouched off into the hall and away up the stairs.

Beat. Two. Three. Four. And the smile died on Becky’s face. Eyes narrowed on the closing door. Voice a serrated-blade whisper. ‘What did your last slave die of, you old bag?’

She turned and stomped off towards the canteen.

Looked as if Steel was right: one prod away from an aneurism.

Nothing like running a happy team.

Logan crossed to the Sergeants’ Office and opened the door. Then froze.