The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

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      ‘If it involves me getting naked too: no.’

      ‘Pair of local scrotes got a big shipment of drugs from down south. I’ve got a warrant for a raid. Couldn’t go in yesterday because of the wee girl …’ Through to the lounge to put Cthulhu’s bowls back where they’d come from. ‘If we leave it much longer, they’ll cut the shipment up and disappear it out onto the streets. And you’ve got all the spare bodies in the division.’ Then into the kitchen again.

      ‘Would you stop charging about? Making me seasick.’ She knocked back the rest of her beer. Clunked the bottle down on the worktop. Sagged. ‘When, and how many?’

      ‘Tomorrow evening. Say … four OSU, and a drugs dog? Syd Fraser’s good, if we can get him.’

      A massive yawn left her shuddering and stretching – shoulders up around her ears, arms locked, elbows out. ‘How long?’

      ‘Two hours. Ish.’ A quick rummage in the cupboard for a bowl and the box of waxy own-brand cornflakes. ‘About your dead girl – you’re searching the outdoor swimming pool, and the car park, and the buildings, right?’ Flakes in the bowl. ‘What if she wasn’t dumped there?’

      Steel produced a bottle opener and clicked the top off another beer. ‘She didn’t fly there on her own. Body had to get there somehow.’

      ‘There’s green weed and slime all around the main pool, especially on the seaward side. That’s only going to grow if the wall’s regularly underwater. And given we had a couple days of rough weather over the weekend …?’

      She stared at him. Then covered her face with her hands. ‘Sodding hell. She washed in from the sea.’

      ‘Sure you don’t want a cup of tea?’

      ‘Want a pee.’

      ‘Top of the stairs.’

      Her footsteps clumped up the bare steps. Then the clunk of a door closing.

      Logan sploshed milk on the flakes and checked his phone – a voicemail from Deano and a text from his mother. That got deleted unread.

       ‘Sarge, Deano. Listen, we’re having a barbecue at ours, Thursday evening. A mate’s come into some steaks, if you fancy it? Give us a shout back.’

      Why not? Be nice to have something that actually looked like real meat for a change. And by then Graham Stirling would be heading off to Barlinnie for the rest of his unnatural. Plus: they’d have raided Klingon and Gerbil’s place. Big haul of drugs, mentions in dispatches, medals, and a parade. Time to celebrate.

      It was too early to call Deano back. So Logan wolfed down the cornflakes, slipped his phone in his pocket, and a slice of bargain-basement white into the toaster. Stuck his head out into the hall. ‘Hurry up: I’ve got to go in a minute.’

      No reply.

      ‘OK, I’ll leave a spare key on the table for you. You can let yourself out.’

      Silence.

      ‘Listen,’ he walked to the bottom of the stairs, ‘thought I’d pop past and see Susan while I’m in town. See how she’s getting on. She at home today?’

      Nothing.

      Maybe she hadn’t been so lucky with the poisoned tea after all?

      ‘Hello?’ The steps creaked beneath his feet, all the way up. ‘You’ve not fallen in, have you?’ When he knocked on the bathroom door, it swung open.

      Thankfully Steel wasn’t sitting on the toilet with her trousers around her ankles. The room was empty – freshly tiled with a new bathroom suite. Cheap, but serviceable. Even if it had taken weeks to put in.

      ‘Hello?’

      A jagged rasp, like a wood-saw hacking away at a sheet of corrugated metal, came from the bedroom. Then a pause. Then another one.

      He put a hand on the door and swung it open. There she was: lying flat on her back, on his bed, with both feet still on the floor. One arm flung out to the left, the other hand draped over her right boob. Mouth wide open. Snoring.

      Wonderful.

      He swung her legs up onto the duvet, pulled off her boots, then pulled a blanket over her.

      A ‘Proooop?’ came from the hallway. Cthulhu sauntered in and hopped up on the bed beside Steel. Treddled the blanket for a minute, then turned round twice and settled onto the pillow beside her head.

      ‘Disloyal little sod.’

      Logan closed the door and left them to it.

      Logan shifted his fleece to the other hand and let himself into the station. The unnatural-pine scent of disinfectant and air freshener clawed its way into his nose, itched at the back of his throat. As if someone was trying to cover up a terrible smell.

      Keep a straight face.

      He poked his head into the Constables’ Office: no one there. A couple of cardboard boxes sat in the middle of the room – piled high with brown-paper evidence bags – but other than that, it was the same slightly scruffy collection of posters, notices and in-trays laden with paperwork.

      No one in the canteen. No one in the main office either.

      Two abandoned papers hung folded over the edge of the partition by Maggie’s desk – an Aberdeen Examiner and an Evening Express. One had gone with an aerial photo of Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool, with a silhouette inset of what was meant to be a little girl: ‘BODY FOUND IN NEGLECTED NORTHEAST BEAUTY SPOT’. The other featured a head-and-shoulders of Neil Wood: ‘DID MISSING PAEDOPHILE KILL TRAGIC SCHOOLGIRL?’ A tiny article in the sidebar was titled, ‘STIRLING TRIAL CONTINUES’. Would have thought it deserved more page space than that, considering what Graham Stirling had done to Stephen Bisset.

      Logan did a three-sixty. ‘Hello? Anyone home?’

      Maybe the MIT had caught whoever killed the little girl and sodded off back where they’d come from? That’d be nice …

      He got out his keys and opened the little blue locker with his name on it. Unhooked his Airwave handset from its charger. Switched it on and slipped it into his fleece pocket. Then pushed through into the Sergeants’ Office.

      Stopped.

      DS Dawson was sitting in his seat again. Only not looking quite so cocky this time.

      His face was a pale shade of grey, the bags under his eyes a smudgy, bruised colour. His quiff had lost its arrogant strut and dangled limply across his shiny forehead. He looked up as Logan closed the door. Grimaced. Stuck one hand to his stomach as a coffee-percolator-gurgle rumbled somewhere inside it. ‘What you doing in? Thought you were backshift.’

      Logan did his best not to smile. ‘You look a bit rough.’

      ‘Urgh … Think we hit a dodgy kebab shop last night. Half the station’s been welded to the bogs since back of four.’

      ‘That СКАЧАТЬ