The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride
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was all scuffed blue carpet tiles, magnolia walls, boxy plastic ducting, and slightly grubby ceiling tiles. Two desks, back-to-back, corralled in by blue fuzzy cubicle walls. Another barricade of the same blue fuzz separating the front desk – little more than a wide shelf with a roller shutter above it – from the reception area.
Maggie had one of the small square locker doors open, so she could fiddle an Airwave handset into its charger. A tall woman in black trousers, shiny shoes and a pink silk blouse. Grey hair pulled back in a ponytail. Sharp, bird-like features. She twitched her head towards the front desk’s barricade, with its covering of posters and notices. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Saving society from a one-woman shoplifting crime-spree.’ He clunked open the filing cabinet in the corner and rifled through it. ‘Any messages?’
‘That horrible Detective Chief Inspector Steel called. Then Nelson Street: they say you can’t have the Big Car back till tomorrow—’
‘You’re kidding. Sick of not having a car with a proper radio in it.’
‘Well, you’ll have to sing along with yourself then, won’t you. They need to put in a whole new CCTV system.’
‘Again?’
‘Take it up with Sergeant Muir. I’m not the one who left Stinky Sammy Wilson unsupervised in the back. Oh, and Louise from Sunny Glen was on the phone an hour ago.’
Logan froze, one hand on the thick manila folder marked ‘B DIVISION ~ STAFF APPRAISALS’. He cleared his throat. ‘Something wrong?’
‘Oh, no, nothing bad. She wants to talk to you about changing your girlfriend’s medication, that’s all.’ Maggie picked a couple of yellow Post-its from her desk and held them out. ‘Here you go.’
So it wasn’t an emergency. Nothing bad had happened. The breath huffed out of him, leaving a metallic taste behind. As if he’d been sucking on copper wire. ‘Thanks, Maggie.’ He took the proffered Post-its. ‘Any chance you could order up some more Biros? Hector’s nicked all mine again.’
‘Hmmph.’ A small selection of today’s papers were draped over the partition of her cubicle. The Press and Journal had ‘STORMS BATTER NORTHEAST COAST’ in big letters across the front page and a photo of waves crashing over the harbour wall in Peterhead. Aberdeen Examiner – ‘WOODLAND RIPPER TRIAL OPENS’ stretched above a photo of Graham Stirling grinning away at a party somewhere. And the Daily Mail had gone for, ‘DRIVE-BY SHOOTING KILLERS ON THE RUN’ with a picture of a bus stop and blurry figures sealed off behind a line of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape. ‘LIVERPOOL POLICE LAUNCH NATIONWIDE MANHUNT FOR GANGLAND MURDERERS.’
Maggie grabbed the Aberdeen Examiner and slipped it under her arm. ‘Right. I’d better get on. Bill’s stovies won’t make themselves.’ She pulled on a multi-coloured hiking jacket and picked up her bag. ‘Don’t forget to put in a good word for my extra five percent.’ She disappeared out the door to the tradesman’s entrance, humming what sounded like ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’.
Took all sorts.
And five percent? What planet did she beam down from? Lucky if she got three quid and a box of staples.
He grabbed the appraisals folder, clanged the filing-cabinet drawer shut, then flicked through the Post-its. Groaned when he got to the one about Steel.
‘CALL DCI STEEL ABOUT GRAHAM STIRLING ~ URGENT.’
Brilliant.
He pulled out his phone and selected her name from the contacts list. Listened to it ring.
Steel’s gravelly voice rasped in his ear. ‘About time. You all prepped for your testimony tomorrow? Cause if you’re no’, I’ll—’
‘Yes, I’m all prepped. It’s fine.’ He settled his bum against the photocopier.
‘Better be. Last thing we need is Graham Stirling back on the streets. You see what the press are calling him now? The—’
‘The Woodland Ripper. I know. It’s fine. Open-and-shut case. Graham Stirling isn’t going anywhere but jail for the next sixteen to life.’
‘Good.’ There was a sooking noise, then she was back. ‘Susan says are you remembering Jasmine has a dance competition Saturday?’Cos you’re going whether you like it or not.’
‘Saturday?’
‘There an echo in here? Aye, Saturday. She’s been lolloping about the house for weeks, driving me and her mum mad. Don’t see why we should be the only ones to suffer.’
‘What time?’
‘Half twelve. I’ve got you down for a pair of tickets. That’s twelve quid you owe me. And before you ask: you’re no’ taking your mother.’
As if.
Logan’s shoulders dipped. ‘I can’t make half twelve. Saturday’s dayshift – won’t get off till three.’ He pushed through the door and into the stairwell, his footsteps echoing on the tiled floor. ‘Tell Jasmine I’m sorry.’
‘Oh no you don’t. I’m no’ doing your dirty work for you. You can call your daughter and tell her why Daddy can’t be arsed turning up for anything any more.’
He closed his eyes and thunked the side of his head against the wall. ‘We’ve been over this.’
‘Far be it from me to—’
‘You got me transferred up here! This is your fault.’ He scuffed his way up to the first floor. ‘What am I supposed to do, go AWOL in the middle of a shift? This isn’t CID, OK? Divisional policing doesn’t work like that.’ Took a left at the top of the stairs and stopped outside the blue door: ‘BANFF & BUCHAN ~ INSPECTOR’. A brass nameplate had been slid into the holder above the notice: ‘WENDY MCGREGOR’.
‘Wah, wah, wah. Pity poor Logan.’ Steel had another sook. ‘You’re lucky I’m no’—’
He hung up on her. Switched his phone off. Rammed it into his pocket. Stood there, grinding his teeth for a bit.
As if he didn’t have enough to worry about.
Deep breath.
Count to ten.
Shoulders back.
Then Logan reached out and knocked on the Duty Inspector’s door.
‘Come.’
He stepped into the room. About the same size as the one he had to share downstairs, only with a new blue carpet and chairs that didn’t look as if they would self-destruct if you even thought about sitting on them. A round coffee table and a shiny desk. Two pinboards on opposite walls – almost completely covered in maps. And a stunning view from the corner windows, out over Banff harbour and the bay.
The Inspector sat behind her desk, black T-shirt complete with two shiny pips on each of the attached epaulettes. Hair swept back from her heart-shaped face, greying at the temples. She took her glasses off and pointed at one of the visitors’ chairs. ‘You actually turned up? Are you sure you’re feeling all right? Couldn’t come up with an excuse to wriggle out of it?’
Warmth spread between his shoulder blades, tickled the tips of his ears. ‘Operational priorities …’
‘Sit. Sit.’ She pulled out a notepad and a silver pen. ‘So, four months back in uniform.’
He sank into the chair and plonked his folder on the desk. ‘How did you get on at Broch Braw Buys?’
‘Definitely our friends the Cashline Ram-Raiders. In and out in less than two minutes. If you’re in Fraserburgh tonight, do me a favour and pop past. It’s about time we caught these idiots.’
‘I