The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride
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was all written across the bottom of the PowerPoint slide, but Logan read it out anyway. ‘Charles “Craggie” Anderson, fifty-two, missing for a week and a bit now. Tufty?’
‘Yeah …’ Constable Quirrel pulled out his notebook and flicked through to near the end. ‘Spoke to his friends and neighbours again: he’s not been in touch. Got on to the Coastguard and there’s no sign of the Copper-Tun washing up anywhere. Waiting to hear back from ports in Orkney, Shetland, and Norway in case he’s done a runner.’
‘Right. When you’ve been round Alex Williams’s, you and Deano hit Whitehills, Macduff, Portsoy, and Gardenstown. Do a door-to-door of all the boats. Did anyone see Charles Anderson the night he went missing? Anyone hear where he was going? Did he have any money problems? You know the drill.’
Deano nodded. ‘Sarge.’
‘And keep Tufty on a tighter leash this time, OK? Never known a probationer to get in so much trouble.’
Quirrel blushed. ‘How was I supposed to know she wasn’t wearing any pants?’
‘I repeat: tighter leash. That’s five missing persons we’ve got on the books now. Be nice if we could actually find this one.’ Pause. ‘Last, and by all means least, we have a new edict from on high. We are Moray and Aberdeenshire Division. From this point on anyone caught calling it the “Mire” gets a spanking. Any questions?’
Deano gave the canister of CS one last fiddle. ‘Aye, is that the good kind of spanking, or the bad kind?’
‘You’re disturbed, you know that, don’t you?’ Logan finished his rowie and sooked the grease from his finger. Stood. ‘Deano and Tufty, you’re in the Postman Pat van. Janet and me are away to spin some druggies.’
‘Sarge?’ Nicholson took the patrol car round the hairpin bend, changing down for the hill. Off to the left, the North Sea shone like a polished stone. Yachts and tiny fishing boats bobbed lazily in the harbour.
Made a nice change after the horrible weekend.
On the other side of the bay, Macduff shone in the afternoon sunshine.
Then the view was swallowed by the pale harling walls of the Railway Inn. Old-fashioned Scottish houses lined the road, all towered over by the intimidating grey Victorian bulk of the Health Centre. Nicholson shifted her hands along the steering wheel, voice light and carefree. ‘Sarge, has anyone spoken to you about the pool? You know, how it’s going?’
Logan unzipped one of the pockets on his stabproof and pulled out a packet of Polos. Liberated one from its foil prison. Popped the mint in his mouth and crunched. ‘Take it from me: CID’s a mug’s game.’ The stabproof vest was like a fist, squeezing his chest with every breath. Handcuffs clicking against the seatbelt clasp. Extendable baton poking into his thigh. Limb restraints digging into the small of his back. Bet Batman’s utility belt never gave him this much gyp. ‘Still don’t see why you want to join.’ Crunch, crunch, crunch. ‘Polo?’ Wiggling the pack at her.
Past the junction and the road widened out into Castle Street with its much grander houses. Nicholson waved at an old woman having a sneaky fag outside the Castle Bar. ‘Come on, Sarge, you were CID for years. You know why.’
Logan popped another Polo. ‘Yeah, in the old days, maybe. Now they hive off all the interesting bits of the job and give them to specialist groups. If you’re not on the Major Investigation Team you’re not going to catch a murder.’ He counted each one off on his fingers. ‘Then there’s Rape Teams, Violence-Reduction Teams, Domestic Abuse Teams, Drugs Teams, Housebreaking Teams, blah, blah, blah teams.’ A shrug. ‘All that’s left for CID is the boring crap no one else wants to do.’
Right, onto Seafield Street. Climbing again, Banff Bay glinting in the rear-view mirror. The sky above, saltire blue. Unblemished by clouds or airplane-trail scars.
‘Didn’t stop you catching Graham Stirling, did it?’
True.
Logan smiled. ‘Forget CID, Janet. Divisional policing – that’s where all the cool kids are.’
Her shoulders slumped a bit.
The houses on the right were huge. He turned his head to watch them drift by. ‘How much do you think one of those cost?’ All fancy granite with cornices and bay windows and those raised blocks around the doors, windows, and gable ends. Grey slate roofs and manicured gardens. The occasional gnome.
Nicholson sighed. ‘More than we’ll ever make.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, the Sergeant’s Hoose will be nice when it’s finished, but I’m tired of living out of boxes.’
A call crackled out of the car’s radio. ‘Control to Bravo India, hello?’
‘Aye, aye.’ Logan turned the volume up. ‘Must be something big if they’re bothering the boss.’
‘Come on, Sarge, I don’t want to be one of those cops who spends their whole career in one place. Got a glass ceiling to shatter.’
A woman’s voice came through the speakers, deep and smooth: ‘Bravo India to Control, safe to talk.’
‘Aye, ma’am, we’ve got another Cashline machine gone walkabout. Owner says they got aboot twenty-seven grand of stock as well. Broch Braw Buys, on Gallowhill Road, Fraserburgh.’
Not another one.
‘Twenty-seven thousand pounds? Who’s he trying to kid?’
‘So he says, like.’
‘Sarge?’
Past the bowling green, and the houses got a lot more councily. Semidetached with streaked harling walls and rusting satellite dishes.
‘Probably swinging for a hefty insurance claim. Get the scene secured and I’ll be there soon as I can …’
Logan turned the radio down again. Have to pop past Broch Braw Buys later and see what was going on. But with any luck it’d be someone else’s problem by then.
‘Sarge, are you—’
‘How about this: I’m off to court tomorrow for the trial. You want to be in charge while I’m gone? I mean, you couldn’t be Duty Sergeant, but you could run the team.’
Nicholson chewed on the inside of her cheek.
‘It’ll look good on your CV. You can start doing some of the briefings too. It all helps.’
‘Deal.’ She leaned forward, squinting against the sunshine at the cars droning towards them. ‘That boy on his mobile phone?’
Logan shielded his eyes. ‘The ugly one in the blue Fiesta?’
The Fiesta rumbled past, followed by three other vehicles. Then a tiny gap … Then a Passat.
Nicholson’s finger jabbed one of the buttons mounted in the middle of the dashboard and the unit’s blues flickered into life. Another button and a short siren woop blared out.
The Passat’s driver slammed the brakes on, slithering to a halt about six feet away. An auld mannie goggled out at them, hands curled into fists around the steering wheel, tartan bunnet all squint on his head.
She gave him a nod, then pulled a U-turn. Put her foot down. The acceleration pushed Logan into his seat. Added its weight to the stabproof vest’s crushing fist.
Cars parted before them, clearing the way through to the blue Fiesta with the ugly driver. The thing was shiny and polished, like new. Nicholson wheeched up right behind it and tapped the horn. The siren changed tone. Insistent. Demanding.
Mr Ugly glanced back at them, his face a curdled mess through the rear window. A pause … then he pulled in to the kerb.
Nicholson parked behind him. She fiddled