The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

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      ‘Probably for the best. Don’t want someone getting the wrong idea.’

      He hauled himself to his feet and scuffed away up Market Street, leaving a coil of cigarette smoke behind.

      ‘You can be a right dick, you know that, don’t you?’ Steel cleared her throat. ‘Anyway, it’s no’ like I’m asking for much: a wee hand to talk to your local sex offenders, that’s all.’

      ‘I’m not the one being a dick.’ He put the car in gear again, heading down Laing Street and along the front. ‘You’ve got the biggest team in the division. Use it.’

       ‘You want the murdering pervert who did this to get away? That what you want?’

      To the left, a hodgepodge of old-fashioned Scottish buildings faced out over the railing to the harbour walls and the still, grey mass of the North Sea. Some of them wore grey harling, some dressed granite, some painted white.

      ‘Shift finishes in half an hour.’

       ‘You’re no’ telling me that sodding off home for a Pot Noodle and a spot of onanism is more important than catching a wee girl’s murderer, are you?’

      ‘And I’m in court tomorrow.’

      Past the Macduff Arms, all shuttered and quiet.

       ‘Oh, don’t be such a big Jessie. It’s just a couple of sex offenders. No’ like we’ll be that long at it.’

      The Bayview Hotel had some sort of wedding reception going on – a knot of wobbly blokes in kilts smoking cigarettes and laughing on the pavement in front.

      ‘You’re authorizing the overtime, are you?’

       ‘Ah …’

      No one outside Bert’s. A couple of women getting money from the Bank of Scotland cash machine. Nothing doing at the Highland Haven Hotel.

      Nice and peaceful. Quiet. Like his Airwave’s speaker.

      Then the harbour gave way to industrial units and the bus depot.

      He thumbed the button again. ‘Well, are you?’

       ‘It’s no’ as easy as—’

      ‘This isn’t CID. We get sod all for the first half-hour of unplanned overtime, after that it’s on the clock. I’m not running a charity here.’

      The buildings faded in the pool car’s rear-view mirror. Banff twinkled on the other side of the bay.

      More silence from Steel. Then, finally, ‘OK, OK, overtime. You’re a greedy—’

      ‘I’m not greedy, I’m skint. You got any idea how much of a pay-cut came with the “development opportunity” you lumbered me with? I’m living on bargain-basement soup and pappy sliced white.’

      ‘That’s no’ my fault! How was I supposed to know Big Tony Campbell would stick you in a bunnet in the arse-end of nowhere?’ Her voice dropped to what was probably meant to be a sultry purr. ‘Come on: you and me, questioning sex offenders like the good old days.’

      ‘Yeah, well … Too late to do anything about it tonight anyway.’ Up and over the bridge into Banff.

      ‘Laz, Laz, Laz. Did you learn nothing from our time together? It’s never too late to rattle a nonce.’

      Nicholson leaned forward from the back seat. ‘I want to say thank you, again, for the opportunity to work on the Tarlair Major Investigation Team.’

      Sitting in the passenger seat, Steel took a long draw on her e-cigarette, setting the tip glowing blue. ‘Calm down, eh? No one likes a brown-noser.’ Then poked Logan in the shoulder. ‘Are we there yet?’

      ‘For the last time: we’ll get there when we get there.’

      A shrug. ‘No’ my fault you drive like an old lady, Laz.’

      Nicholson tapped Steel on the arm. ‘Erm … Why do you call him “Laz”?’

      ‘Short for Lazarus. You remember the Mastrick Monster? Laz here caught him. Got into a knife fight on top of a tower block.’

      ‘It wasn’t a knife fight.’

      ‘Who’s telling this story, you or me?’ Another puff. ‘Knife fight.’

      Nicholson frowned. ‘But why Lazarus?’

      ‘Cause our wee boy here got himself killed stone dead.’

      Her eyes went wide in the rear-view mirror. ‘What happened?’

      Logan shifted his grip on the steering wheel. Took the turning onto Duff Street. ‘I got better.’

      Steel sniffed. ‘Are we there yet?’

      ‘Shut up.’

      The short man blinked back at them from behind thick-framed spectacles. ‘I’m sorry?’ He clutched his dressing gown tight shut across his chest, hiding the patchwork of scars and shiny cigarette burns. Ran his other hand across the shiny top of his shiny head.

      Steel scooted forward, until she was sitting right on the edge of the armchair. ‘No’ a difficult question, is it, Markyboy? Where were you?’

      He puffed out his cheeks. Shrugged. ‘Here, probably. I don’t really like to go out much. After …’ Mark Brussels cleared his throat. ‘Well, it’s probably for the best. Probably. I mean, you hear stories, don’t you? People on the register getting beaten up.’ He flapped a hand at the outside world. Then pressed his knees together. ‘People on the register going missing.’

      She pulled out her e-cigarette and gave it a sook. ‘Missing like Neil Wood?’

      ‘Been a lot of that kind of thing going on. Kickings. Disappearings. Concerned citizens taking it out on poor sods like us.’

      ‘Poor sods?’ She hauled out her list. ‘Says here you abused girls as young as seven over a twelve-year period.’

      Logan rocked back and forwards on the balls of his feet. ‘When’d you last get a supervisory visit, Mr Brussels?’

      The clock on the mantelpiece ticked into the silence. A small smelly terrier snored on its back in a tartan beanbag in the corner. A radio in another room, played saccharine boy-band pop. The floorboard creaked overhead as Nicholson crept about, pretending she was off to the toilet. Have to have a word with her about not sounding like an elephant in tap shoes.

      Steel puffed out her cheeks. ‘Come on, Markyboy, it’s like pulling teeth here. When’d you last get a visit from the Perv Patrol?’

      ‘Well …’ His eyes slid towards the zombie-grey gaze of the off television. ‘They said I wasn’t really a risk any more, so I could go to once every six weeks. To be honest, I miss the company.’ He СКАЧАТЬ