The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride
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the other end of the phone, Steel groaned. ‘Could you no’ have let the nasty wee sod fall down the stairs a few times? We’re no’ allowed to—’
‘You want to tell Stephen’s family we let him freeze to death, all alone, in a shack in the forest, because we were more concerned with following procedure than saving his life?’
‘Laz, it’s no’ that simple, we—’
‘Because if that’s what you want, tell me now and we’ll head back to HQ. You can help Dr Simms pick out a body-bag. Probably still got some nice Christmas paper knocking about, you could use that. Wrap his corpse up with a bow on top.’
‘Will you shut up and—’
‘Maybe something with kittens and teddy bears on it, so Bisset’s kids won’t mind so much?’
Silence.
‘Hello?’
‘All right, all right. But he better be alive. And another thing—’
He hung up and marched over to the pool car.
Biohazard leaned against the bonnet, arms folded, shoulders hunched, one cowboy boot up on the bumper. Nose going bright red, the tips of his taxi-door ears too. He spat. Nodded at the ill-fitting suit behind the steering wheel. ‘The wee loon’s right, this is daft.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ve cleared it with the boss, so we’re doing it.’
A sniff. ‘What if Danny the Drag Queen tries it on when you’re out there?’
Logan peered around Biohazard’s shoulder.
Stirling was slumped in the rear seat, blood dried to a black mask that hid the lower half of his face. Bruises already darkening the skin beneath both eyes. The blue sundress all mud-stained and tatty after the chase through the gardens. Shivering.
‘Think I’ll risk it.’ Logan pulled out the canister of CS gas from his jacket pocket, ran his thumbnail across the join between the safety cap and the body. ‘But just in case, get his hands cuffed behind him. And I want the pair of you ready to charge in.’
Logan popped open the back door and leaned into the car. It smelled of sweat and fear and rusting meat. ‘Out.’
Twigs snapped beneath his feet as they picked their way between the grey-brown branches, following the circle of light cast by Logan’s torch. A tiny dot, adrift on an ocean of darkness.
Something moved out there. Little scampering feet and claws that skittered away into the night.
Logan flicked the torch in its direction. ‘How much further?’
He jerked his chin to the left. ‘That way.’ The words plumed out from his mouth in a glowing cloud, caught in the torchlight. Curling away into the night. Dragon’s breath.
Down a slope, into a depression lined with brambles and the curled remains of long-dead ferns, already sagging under the weight of snow. More falling from the sickly dark sky.
Stirling’s feet clumped about in Rennie’s shoes, the scuffed black brogues and white socks looking huge beneath the torn sundress and laddered tights.
Up the other side, through the ferns – brittle foliage wrapping around Logan’s trousers, leaving cold wet fingerprints. ‘Why him? Why Stephen Bisset?’
‘Why?’ A shrug. The torchlight glinted off the handcuffs’ metal bars, secured behind his back, fingers laced together as if they were taking a casual stroll along the beach. ‘Why not?’ A small sigh. ‘Because he was there.’
Logan checked his watch. Fifteen minutes. Another five, and that was it: call this charade off. Call in a dog team. Get the helicopter up from Strathclyde with a thermal-imaging camera. Assuming Steel could pull enough rank to get them to fly this far north on a Friday night in January.
They stumbled on between the silent trees. Fallen pine needles made ochre drifts between the snaking roots, the branches too thick to let the snow through.
He stopped, pulled up his sleeve – exposing his watch again. ‘Time’s up. I’m not sodding about here any longer.’ He grabbed the plastic bar in the middle of the handcuffs and dragged Stirling to a halt. ‘This is a waste of time, isn’t it? You’re never going to show me where Stephen Bisset is. You want him dead so he can’t testify against you.’
Stirling turned. Stared at Logan. Face lit from beneath by the torch, like someone telling a campfire horror story. Tilted his head to the left. ‘You see?’
Logan stepped away. Swung the torch’s beam in an arc across the trees, raking the needle-strewn forest floor with darting shadows …
A sagging wooden structure lurked between the trunks, in a space that barely counted as a clearing, partially hidden by a wall of skeletal brambles.
Stirling’s voice dropped to a serrated-edged whisper. ‘He’s in there.’
Another step. Then stop.
Logan turned. Shone the torch right in Stirling’s face, making him flinch and shy back, eyes clamped shut. Then took out his handcuff key. ‘On your knees.’
A thick stainless-steel padlock secured the shack’s door. It had four numerical tumblers built into the base, its hasp connecting a pair of heavy metal plates – one fixed to the door, the other to the surround. Both set up so the screw heads were inaccessible.
Logan flicked the torch beam towards Stirling. ‘Combination?’
He was still on his knees, both arms wrapped around the tree trunk, as if he was giving it a hug. Hands cuffed together on the other side. Cheek pressed hard against the bark. ‘One, seven, zero, seven.’
The dials were stiff, awkward, but they turned after a bit of fiddling. Squeaking against Logan’s blue-nitrile-gloved fingertips. Clicking as they lined up into the right order. The hasp popped open and he slipped the padlock free of the metal plates. Slipped it into an evidence bag.
Pushed the door.
Almost as stiff as the padlock wheels, it creaked open and the stench of dirty bodies and blood and piss and shite collapsed over Logan. Making him step back.
Deep breath.
He stepped over the threshold. ‘Stephen? Stephen Bisset? It’s OK, you’re safe now; it’s the police.’
Bloody hell – it was actually colder inside the shack.
The torch picked out a stack of poles and saws and chains. Then a heap of logs and an old tarpaulin. Then a cast-iron stove missing its door. Then a pile of filthy blankets.
‘Stephen? Hello?’
Logan reached out and picked one of the poles from the stack. Smooth and shiny from countless hands over countless years. A bill hook rattled on the end, the screws all loose and rusted. ‘Stephen? I’ve come to take you home.’
He slipped the hook under the nearest blanket and lifted.
Oh Christ …
Outside. The cold air clawed at the sweat peppering his face. Deep breath.
Logan rested his forehead against a tree, bark rough against his skin. The smell of pine nowhere near strong enough to wash away the shack’s corrupt stench.
Don’t be sick.
Be professional.
Oh God …
Deep breath.
‘I …’ His throat closed, strangling the words. Pressed his forehead into the bark so hard it stung. Tried again. ‘I should kick the living shit out of you.’
Stirling’s voice oozed out from the darkness. ‘He’s beautiful, isn’t he?’
The phone trembled in Logan’s hands