The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

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СКАЧАТЬ ended up stuck in the cells for two hours – only bog that was free.’ Dawson puffed out his cheeks and rubbed at his growling stomach. ‘Never touching another doner as long as I live.’

      ‘Sounds dreadful.’ Don’t grin. Don’t grin. ‘So, Swanson?’

      ‘No idea. All I know is everyone ran off to break up some fight outside the— Urgh …’ Another roll of gurgling thunder. ‘Oh God …’ He grabbed the desk. Paused. Took a deep breath. Let it out in a long slow hiss. ‘No, I’m OK …’

      Logan pulled on the most sympathetic face he could. ‘Well, as I’ve got a couple of minutes, how about I make you a nice cup of tea?’

      Constable Swanson shifted her grip on the steering wheel, hunched forward in her seat as they roared around the bend, heading south on the A947. Big hands; broad face; scruffy brown hair streaked with blonde like a humbug, tied up in a bun. Glasses. ‘I’m really, really sorry. Only these two auld mannies were really laying into each other. Fists and false-teeth flying everywhere.’ She grimaced. ‘Sorry.’

      ‘Told you: it’s OK. As long as I’m at the High Court for nine, we’re fine.’ Logan took out his phone as they thundered over the Castleton Bridge. No new messages.

      A constant burble of calls murmured from his Airwave handset – B Division going about its daily business.

       ‘Suspected overdose on Crooked Lane, Peterhead.’

       ‘Anyone in the vicinity of Asda’s in Fraserburgh? Shoplifter’s been apprehended by store security.’

       ‘All units, lookout request for one Tony Wishart, IC-one male, eighteen years old, dark hair. Outstanding apprehension warrant for burglary.’

       ‘Getting complaints of a domestic disturbance in Whitehills, any unit free to attend? Priority one.’

      Logan turned the volume down and wriggled in his seat. Settling further into the fabric.

      Nice not to be wearing a stabproof vest and equipment belt for a change.

      Outside the window, vivid green fields and trees swooshed past. The hissing soundtrack of tyre noise joining the Airwave’s chatter and the throaty growl of the patrol car’s engine. The rattle of the blue plastic crate on the back seat. Their car swept around another bend, and the rustle of the crate’s evidence bags joined the music.

      Swanson grimaced at him. ‘Just have to hope we don’t catch the rush hour heading into Dyce. Don’t know if going via Inverurie’s worse or—’

      ‘We’ll be fine. Labs won’t do anything with your stuff till this afternoon anyway.’ He reclined his seat a couple of notches, tipped his peaked cap forwards so it covered his eyes and nose. ‘And if it’s getting tight, we’ll blues-and-twos it. Don’t think the Powers That Be will complain if it helps put Graham Stirling away.’ He stretched out. Stifled a yawn. Sighed.

      ‘Sarge?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘You don’t snore, do you?’

      ‘About to find out.’

      The round of applause started as soon as Logan walked into the CID office. Beige walls, grubby ceiling tiles, grubbier carpet tiles, whiteboards covered in notes and lines. It was smaller than the old one, but then so was the team – whittled down by all the other specialist units that had sprung up with the change from Grampian Police to Police Scotland. But the half-dozen officers who were there gave him a standing ovation, a mug of milky tea, and a bacon buttie.

      Biohazard slapped him on the back and popped the cap on a bottle of tomato sauce. Squirted it into the buttie. ‘Got to keep your strength up for today.’

      ‘Ta. When are you giving evidence?’

      ‘Tomorrow morning.’ He stuck the tomato sauce back on his desk. ‘Course, by then it’ll all be over.’

      The others drifted back to their desks and their phones while Biohazard led him over to a file-box by the printer, with ‘NOTEBOOKS’ written on it in heavy black marker letters. ‘Took the liberty.’

      Logan had a bite of buttie. It was lukewarm, but it tasted of smoky victory as he rummaged through the box for the notebooks he’d had when they’d been after Graham Stirling. Popped them onto the printer. ‘What about Rennie?’

      ‘Tomorrow afternoon. Assuming he can find his way back down here from your Teuchter backwater.’

      ‘Watch it, you.’ Logan had another mouthful, washing it down with a slurp of tea. ‘Any idea how it’s going so far?’

      ‘You know how it is. Yesterday was all opening arguments and weaselling. Nothing for the jury to get its teeth into. Speaking of which …’ Biohazard picked up a green folder and handed it over. ‘They’re going for mock-ups.’

      He stuffed the last third of the buttie in his mouth and flicked through the folder’s contents. Instead of the actual crime-scene photographs, someone had mocked up a body in the computer and modelled Stephen Bisset’s wounds onto it. Nice and sanitized and safe for the fifteen boys and girls who’d be sending Graham Stirling to jail in a couple of days.

      Logan slipped the pictures back where they’d come from. Checked his watch. ‘Better get going. You know what the Fiscal’s like before a big one.’ He downed the last of his tea in one. ‘Drinks after?’

      ‘You better believe it.’ A grin split across Biohazard Bob’s face, all teeth and chubby cheeks. ‘Steel’s even put fifty quid in the kitty.’

      ‘About time.’ Logan stuck his old notebooks in his fleece pockets. ‘Right, better get going.’

      A wink. ‘It’s a shoo-in.’ Then he screwed up one side of his face and leaned to the left. A high-pitched squeak. Then a grin. ‘For luck, like.’

      The smell was like being battered about the head with a mouldy badger. Logan backed off, eyes stinging. Waving a hand in front of his face. ‘God … What have you been eating?’

      The grin got bigger. ‘Oh yeah, Stirling’s going down.’

       13

      The sound of murmured voices oozed out from the Witness Room. Logan tucked his peaked cap under one arm and pulled out his mobile. Headed through the doors to the stairwell, selecting Deano’s number from the contacts as he climbed up to the next landing. Leaned against the windowsill as the phone rang. Outside, Marischal Street’s granite terrace reached away down the hill, took a break for the bridge over the dual carriageway, then finished up at the harbour. Three storeys of grey stone, flecks of mica glittering in the sunshine. Rooftop dormers mirroring back the glare. A supply vessel loomed at the bottom of the road, its yellow-and-black hull streaked with lines of rust.

      Probably start off in Blackfriars after the trial. Couple of pints, then across the road to Archies for pie-and-chips and more beer. Then on to the Illicit Still. The Prince of Wales. Ma Cameron’s … All the old haunts. СКАЧАТЬ