The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

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      ‘Anything?’ Logan shifted his grip on the skeletal arm as Nicholson rummaged her way through the leopard-skin-print handbag. Big enough to take a breezeblock or a small child.

      A delivery van grumbled by, the Tesco Logo emblazoned down one side, trailing a cloud of dust behind it.

      Warm golden light washed the gap between two buildings.

      It was big enough to fit another house, but if there had been one on the site, it was long gone. Now it doubled as a dirt-floored car park and access through to the garages and lock-ups that ran along the rear of the gardens.

      Weeds jungled at the base of the five-foot wall that formed either side of the gateless entry to the secret land beyond. Shutting the three of them off from the street.

      Nicholson held up a golden pen thing in one blue-nitrile-gloved-hand. ‘This is a bit fancy, isn’t it, Kirstin? Touche Éclat? I’ve seen it in Boots – stuff costs a fortune.’

      Kirstin Rattray shrugged one bony shoulder. The motion caused the neck of her baggy T-shirt to slip far enough to expose a bright-green bra strap stretched taut over semi-skimmed skin. ‘Found it, didn’t I?’ A small flock of purple lovebites perched in the crook of her neck. Eighties hair and dark circles under her eyes. Cheekbones you could peel tatties with.

      ‘Right. Course you did. What about these?’ Nicholson pulled out two lots of Chanel No. 5, still in their boxes, then one of Paco Rabanne. ‘You find them, too?’

      Kirstin’s bottom lip disappeared between her teeth. Eyes down to the left. ‘You planted that. Never seen them before.’

      ‘Don’t be a spaz, Kirstin. Did you rob them yourself? Or did someone do it for you?’

      ‘I should get a lawyer and that. Sue you for false thingummy.’

      ‘Ooh and a brand new iPhone too.’ Nicholson wiggled it at Logan. ‘When I was on the dole it was a red-letter day if I could afford to buy chips and pants the same week. Now it’s all smartphones and perfume.’ Back to their new friend. ‘Let me guess: you found it?’

      Kirstin’s head fell back so she was staring up at the warm blue sky. A breath hissed out. Her knees sagged an inch or two. ‘What do you want?’

      ‘World peace for me. Sarge?’

      Logan frowned. ‘I’m partial to Maltesers, myself.’

      ‘Look, I’ve got a little girl. Amy. She’s three, I swear on her life I never nicked nothing.’

      ‘Really? Then how come you match the description of the woman who pilfered a heap of perfume and makeup from Fisher’s the Chemists? And how come your handbag’s full of the stuff that got robbed?’

      ‘Told you, I found it.’ She stuck her hand out. ‘Now can I get me bag back?’

      ‘Sarge?’

      Logan let go of the thin pale arm. ‘Police Scotland thanks you for your cooperation, and for handing in the items you “found”. Very public spirited. We’ll try to return them to their rightful owners.’ He scribbled out another receipt. ‘Now, we’ve got to make a quick stop at the station – prior engagement – but after that, why don’t we all pop over to yours and see if we can’t turn up anything else you’ve “found” recently? Voluntarily.’

      Kirstin’s head drooped back again. ‘Sodding hell …’

       6

      Kirstin scowled up at him from the bench in Interview Room Two. Both hands in front of her, fingers knotting and twisting, while Nicholson leaned back against the wall behind her.

      The vertical blinds were closed, but the light was still painfully bright in the small room. The panic strip all shiny and unused. A creased chunk of flip-chart paper was pinned to one wall. Far more chairs than would ever be needed in an interview cluttered the grey carpet.

      Logan gave Kirstin a smile, then slipped out and closed the door behind him.

      Into the front hall, with its elaborate beige, brown, blue, and white tiles. They didn’t really go with the walls – white to the waist-high rail, then pastel blue above. The Response Level sign was just visible through the open door to the stairwell. Apparently, today’s terrorism threat level was ‘FABULOUS!’ in big block capitals.

      Bloody day shift …

      Logan replaced it with the official ‘MODERATE’ then punched his access code into the keypad to get through to the main office.

      It was all scuffed blue carpet tiles, magnolia walls, boxy plastic ducting, and slightly grubby ceiling tiles. Two desks, back-to-back, corralled in by blue fuzzy cubicle walls. Another barricade of the same blue fuzz separating the front desk – little more than a wide shelf with a roller shutter above it – from the reception area.

      Maggie had one of the small square locker doors open, so she could fiddle an Airwave handset into its charger. A tall woman in black trousers, shiny shoes and a pink silk blouse. Grey hair pulled back in a ponytail. Sharp, bird-like features. She twitched her head towards the front desk’s barricade, with its covering of posters and notices. ‘Where have you been?’

      ‘Saving society from a one-woman shoplifting crime-spree.’ He clunked open the filing cabinet in the corner and rifled through it. ‘Any messages?’

      ‘That horrible Detective Chief Inspector Steel called. Then Nelson Street: they say you can’t have the Big Car back till tomorrow—’

      ‘You’re kidding. Sick of not having a car with a proper radio in it.’

      ‘Well, you’ll have to sing along with yourself then, won’t you. They need to put in a whole new CCTV system.’

      ‘Again?’

      ‘Take it up with Sergeant Muir. I’m not the one who left Stinky Sammy Wilson unsupervised in the back. Oh, and Louise from Sunny Glen was on the phone an hour ago.’

      Logan froze, one hand on the thick manila folder marked ‘B DIVISION ~ STAFF APPRAISALS’. He cleared his throat. ‘Something wrong?’

      ‘Oh, no, nothing bad. She wants to talk to you about changing your girlfriend’s medication, that’s all.’ Maggie picked a couple of yellow Post-its from her desk and held them out. ‘Here you go.’

      So it wasn’t an emergency. Nothing bad had happened. The breath huffed out of him, leaving a metallic taste behind. As if he’d been sucking on copper wire. ‘Thanks, Maggie.’ He took the proffered Post-its. ‘Any chance you could order up some more Biros? Hector’s nicked all mine again.’

      ‘Hmmph.’ A small selection of today’s papers were draped over the partition of her cubicle. The Press and Journal had ‘STORMS BATTER NORTHEAST COAST’ in big letters across the front page and a photo of waves crashing over the harbour wall in Peterhead. Aberdeen Examiner – ‘WOODLAND RIPPER TRIAL OPENS’ stretched above a photo of Graham Stirling grinning away at a party somewhere. And the Daily Mail had gone for, ‘DRIVE-BY SHOOTING KILLERS ON THE СКАЧАТЬ