The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

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       5

       ‘… says you’re not to forget about your appraisal today.’

      Logan hit the talk button on his Airwave handset. ‘Depends on how things pan out. Janet and me are busy keeping the good people of Aberdeenshire North safe from scoundrels and scallywags.’

      Fields rolled past the car’s windows, shiny and green, dark walls of gorse aflame with burning yellow flowers. Ahead, in a break between the hills, cliffs disappeared down into the North Sea.

      Maggie’s voice dropped to a hard whisper. ‘Sergeant McRae, you are going to tell her I’m needing a wee pay rise, aren’t you? Only with Bill’s back being what it is, we—’

      ‘Can’t promise anything, but I’ll try. Assuming we get finished here in good time.’ Logan shifted in his seat. Pointed out through the windscreen as they crowned the brow of yet another hill. ‘There we go.’

      A big brown bullock waddled down the middle of the road. Broad shouldered and thick bottomed. Tail flicking from side to side. Horns weaving back and forth as it lumbered along.

       ‘The Inspector says you’re not to put it off again. Appraisals have to be in by Wednesday.’

      Nicholson leaned on the horn. Breeeeeeeeeep.

      The cow didn’t even flinch.

       ‘She really was quite insistent.’

      ‘OK, OK. Tell her we’ll be back at the station about …’ Logan checked his watch. ‘Better make it half four. Twenty to five. Ish.’

      ‘Will do.’ And Maggie was gone.

      Nicholson tried the horn again. Breeeeeeeeeep. Nothing. ‘I went to police college for this? Months at Tulliallan. Two years as a probationer …’ Breeeeeeeeeep. She buzzed down her window. ‘Come on, you hairy bugger, get off the road!’

      Logan swivelled in his seat. Empty fields, all around. Not a single head of livestock to be seen, other than the one clomping its way down the middle of the road. ‘No idea where he came from.’ Off to the left, a swathe of green was peppered with big round bales wrapped in black plastic. ‘We’ll stick him in there.’ Logan undid his seatbelt. ‘Come on.’

      Nicholson scowled. ‘This is what happens when they don’t let us carry tasers.’

      ‘Gah …’ Nicholson shoved the gate shut and hauled the pin back, making the spring squeal. Let go and it clacked into place. She spat twice. Then a third time. Wiped a hand through the mud that caked her face from one ear to the other. More covered the front of her high-vis waistcoat. Lumps of it wodged in the armholes of her stabproof. Another gob of muddy spittle. Then a glower in his direction. ‘Where all the cool kids are, my arse.’

      Logan shrugged. ‘You imagine what would happen if someone came round the corner doing sixty and hit that?’ Pointing at the big brown beast, who was at least three shades cleaner than Nicholson. ‘They’d have to scoop you into your body-bag like eleven stone of mince.’

      She wiped her hands down the front of her vest, smearing the filth. ‘You saying I’m fat?’

      ‘Come back here, you wee sod!’ Logan vaulted the low garden wall and sprinted across the lawn, knees pumping. One hand clamping the peaked cap to his head, the other clutching his extendable baton in its holder. Stopping it from jiggling about with every other step.

      The wee sod in question kept on running. Sneakers flashing their white bellies, his arms and legs going like pistons, hoodie flapping behind him like an obscene pink tongue.

      Over into the next garden.

      Crashing straight through a bed of nasturtiums and pansies. The owners sat on a bench against the house, sharing a bottle of wine. On their feet and shaking fists as the Wee Sod battered past.

      A hedge separated this property from the next one. He leapt it, almost lost his footing on the other side. His shoulder bag slipped, thumped into the lawn. Tins of spray paint clattered across the grass like WWII bombs.

      ‘I said, come back here!’

      The Wee Sod risked a grin over his shoulder. Freckled face, no more than twelve. Maybe thirteen. Curly red hair and dimpled cheeks.

      Then THUMP – Nicholson slammed into him from the side with the kind of rugby tackle that would’ve done the nation proud at Murrayfield.

      They went careening across the lawn in a tumble of limbs, coming to rest in a clatter of pots and gnomes.

      Logan slowed to a jog, then a halt as Nicholson scrambled to her feet, then hauled the Wee Sod upright by his hoodie.

      She spat out a blade of grass. ‘When someone yells, “Stop, police!” you sodding well stop.’

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