Logan McRae 09 - The Missing and the Dead Read online

  Past the junction and the road widened out into Castle Street with its much grander houses. Nicholson waved at an old woman having a sneaky fag outside the Castle Bar. ‘Come on, Sarge, you were CID for years. You know why.’

  Logan popped another Polo. ‘Yeah, in the old days, maybe. Now they hive off all the interesting bits of the job and give them to specialist groups. If you’re not on the Major Investigation Team you’re not going to catch a murder.’ He counted each one off on his fingers. ‘Then there’s Rape Teams, Violence-Reduction Teams, Domestic Abuse Teams, Drugs Teams, Housebreaking Teams, blah, blah, blah teams.’ A shrug. ‘All that’s left for CID is the boring crap no one else wants to do.’

  Right, onto Seafield Street. Climbing again, Banff Bay glinting in the rear-view mirror. The sky above, saltire blue. Unblemished by clouds or airplane-trail scars.

  ‘Didn’t stop you catching Graham Stirling, did it?’

  True.

  Logan smiled. ‘Forget CID, Janet. Divisional policing – that’s where all the cool kids are.’

  Her shoulders slumped a bit.

  The houses on the right were huge. He turned his head to watch them drift by. ‘How much do you think one of those cost?’ All fancy granite with cornices and bay windows and those raised blocks around the doors, windows, and gable ends. Grey slate roofs and manicured gardens. The occasional gnome.

  Nicholson sighed. ‘More than we’ll ever make.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, the Sergeant’s Hoose will be nice when it’s finished, but I’m tired of living out of boxes.’

  A call crackled out of the car’s radio. ‘Control to Bravo India, hello?’

  ‘Aye, aye.’ Logan turned the volume up. ‘Must be something big if they’re bothering the boss.’

  ‘Come on, Sarge, I don’t want to be one of those cops who spends their whole career in one place. Got a glass ceiling to shatter.’

  A woman’s voice came through the speakers, deep and smooth: ‘Bravo India to Control, safe to talk.’

  ‘Aye, ma’am, we’ve got another Cashline machine gone walkabout. Owner says they got aboot twenty-seven grand of stock as well. Broch Braw Buys, on Gallowhill Road, Fraserburgh.’

  Not another one.

  ‘Twenty-seven thousand pounds? Who’s he trying to kid?’

  ‘So he says, like.’

  ‘Sarge?’

  Past the bowling green, and the houses got a lot more councily. Semidetached with streaked harling walls and rusting satellite dishes.

  ‘Probably swinging for a hefty insurance claim. Get the scene secured and I’ll be there soon as I can …’

  Logan turned the radio down again. Have to pop past Broch Braw Buys later and see what was going on. But with any luck it’d be someone else’s problem by then.

  ‘Sarge, are you—’

  ‘How about this: I’m off to court tomorrow for the trial. You want to be in charge while I’m gone? I mean, you couldn’t be Duty Sergeant, but you could run the team.’

  Nicholson chewed on the inside of her cheek.

  ‘It’ll look good on your CV. You can start doing some of the briefings too. It all helps.’

  ‘Deal.’ She leaned forward, squinting against the sunshine at the cars droning towards them. ‘That boy on his mobile phone?’

  Logan shielded his eyes. ‘The ugly one in the blue Fiesta?’

  The Fiesta rumbled past, followed by three other vehicles. Then a tiny gap … Then a Passat.

  Nicholson’s finger jabbed one of the buttons mounted in the middle of the dashboard and the unit’s blues flickered into life. Another button and a short siren woop blared out.

  The Passat’s driver slammed the brakes on, slithering to a halt about six feet away. An auld mannie goggled out at them, hands curled into fists around the steering wheel, tartan bunnet all squint on his head.

  She gave him a nod, then pulled a U-turn. Put her foot down. The acceleration pushed Logan into his seat. Added its weight to the stabproof vest’s crushing fist.

  Cars parted before them, clearing the way through to the blue Fiesta with the ugly driver. The thing was shiny and polished, like new. Nicholson wheeched up right behind it and tapped the horn. The siren changed tone. Insistent. Demanding.

  Mr Ugly glanced back at them, his face a curdled mess through the rear window. A pause … then he pulled in to the kerb.

  Nicholson parked behind him. She fiddled with the Airwave clipped to the front of her vest. ‘Control, I need a PNC check on a blue Fiesta.’

  Logan reached into the back of the patrol car for his hat and climbed out into the sunshine. Shook one leg like a dog getting its belly scratched. Bloody police-issue trousers were made of burning ants and sandpaper. He did a slow walk around the Fiesta to the driver’s window. Rapped his knuckles on the glass.

  It buzzed down and Mr Ugly glared up at him. ‘What?’ The word came out like a gob of phlegm from a crooked mouth full of crooked teeth. Definitely a Birmingham accent. Thick eyebrows, broad face, dimpled chin, a spattering of angry red spots along the line of his jaw.

  OK. Going to be one of those.

  Logan unhooked the elastic band holding his body-worn video shut and slipped the front down, setting it recording. ‘You do know it’s an offence to use your mobile phone while driving, don’t you, sir?’

  A scowl. ‘I wasn’t using no mobile.’

  ‘We saw you, sir.’

  He faced the front again. Worked his jaw, making the fault line of spots ripple. A couple of volcanoes in the chain ready to blow. ‘Prove it.’

  ‘Name?’

  Silence. More tectonic activity. Then, ‘Martyn Baker, with a “Y”. Sixteenth December, Nineteen Ninety-Three. Thirty-eight Dresden Road, Sparkbrook. Birmingham.’

  Name, date of birth, and address. The crook’s version of name, rank, and serial number. Just like that. No stranger to giving his details to the police, then. Logan printed it all down in his notebook. ‘Stay in the vehicle, sir.’ Then around to the boot of the car and onto Control for a background check.

  Nicholson pulled on her peaked cap and sauntered over, thumbs tucked into the armholes of her stabproof, like Rumpole of the Bailey. She jerked her chin up. ‘Sarge? Car’s registered to a Martyn Baker—’

  ‘Nineteen Ninety-Three, thirty-eight Dresden Road, Birmingham?’

  ‘That’s him. AKA Paul Butcher, AKA Dave Brooks. Got a sheet two miles long: housebreaking, aggravated assault, possession of a Class A, possession with intent, beat the crap out of his girlfriend and his mum … Bit of a charmer, by all accounts.’

  ‘Certainly failed the attitude test.’ Logan looked back at the car. Baker’s narrowed eyes were right there in the rear-view mirror. Staring at them. ‘Any outstanding warrants?’

  ‘Not so much as an overdue library book.’ She shifted from foot to foot. ‘You want to do him for the phone?’

  ‘Denies it.’

  A snort. ‘Really? Law-abiding citizen like him?’

  The Airwave clipped to Logan’s chest bleeped four times: a point-to-point call. A quick glance and there was PC Scott’s shoulder number on the screen. His voice boomed out of the speaker. ‘Shire Uniform Seven, it’s Dean, you safe to talk?’

  He hunched one shoulder forward, tilting his head so his mouth was up against the microphone. Pressed the button. ‘Go ahead, Deano.’

  ‘Got ourselves an assault in Whitehills. The Drookit Haddie on Harbour Place. Bunch of scrotes gave an old boy a battering. Me and Tufty are waiting for the ambulance.’

  ‘Suspects?’

  ‘Nah: everyone in the pub’s come down with amnesia. And Maggie’s been on – there’s a coo loose on the B9031 round about Gamrie.’

  ‘OK. We’ll see to it. Make sure you get the CCTV from the pub.’

  Nicholson’s face soured. ‘A cow wandering about on the road. Not exactly Silence of the Lambs, is it?’

  ‘Careful what you wish for.’ Logan let go of the hands
et and turned back to Mr Ugly’s Fiesta. ‘Not all it’s cracked up to be.’

  ‘So … what are we going to do with Plukey Pete?’

  But Logan was already walking up to the driver’s window. ‘Tell me, Martyn-with-a-“Y”, what brings you all the way from thirty-eight Dresden Road, Birmingham, to the streets of sunny Banff?’

  Another dose of the evil eye. ‘Personal, isn’t it. Now you done? ’Cos you’re infringing my right to free movement and that.’

  ‘I see …’ He drummed his fingers on the roof of the car. ‘You know what, Mr Baker, I was going to let you off with a warning, but I have reason to believe you wouldn’t pay any attention to it. As such, I’m confiscating your mobile phone as evidence—’

  ‘Aw, bugger off!’ The line of spots simmered. ‘You’re not taking my bloody phone.’

  ‘Under Common Law I have the power to seize any items suspected to be used in the execution of a crime. Or would you like me to do you for resisting instead?’ Logan popped his wrist forward and checked his watch. ‘I’ve got a couple of hours to spare. Step out of the car, Mr Baker.’

  Baker folded over until his forehead brushed the steering wheel. ‘Fine.’ Then dug in his pocket and came out with a big Samsung job, the case all battered and scratched. The screen cobwebbed with cracks radiating out from the bottom left corner. He handed it over. ‘Happy?’

  ‘Delirious, sir. I’ll make out a receipt for the phone.’ But he took his time over it. ‘Drive carefully, Mr Baker.’ A smile. ‘We’ll be keeping an eye out to make sure you’re OK.’

  Nicholson stared after the Fiesta as it drove away. ‘Think he’s dealing? Making a delivery? Maybe on the run from someone?’

  ‘Or D, all of the above …’ Logan slipped the phone into a brown paper evidence bag. Labelled it. ‘But who knows, maybe he’s off for a romantic assignation with a nice sheep?’ Dumped the bag in the boot of the patrol car. ‘Speaking of animal husbandry, that cow’s not going to round itself up.’

  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.’

  He wriggled a couple of times, didn’t get anywhere, then hung limp.

  ‘Well?’ She gave him a little shake. ‘What’ve you got to say for yourself?’

  He bit his top lip. Then shrugged. ‘It’s a comment on our political elite and the disenfranchisement and disengagement of the common man.’ His voice tried out three octaves along the way.

  ‘Spray-painting willies on a Conservative Party billboard doesn’t count as political commentary.’

  ‘Does too.’

  She pushed him at Logan, then dragged out her notebook. ‘Name?’

  He tensed, as if he was about to bolt again. Logan grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘You want a go in the handcuffs? Because I can arrange that.’

  He looked up, over his shoulder. A blush filled in the pale skin between his freckles. ‘You’re not going to tell my mum, are you?’

  Nicholson poked him with her pen. ‘Name?’

  ‘I mean, they lord it over us from Edinburgh, don’t they? Our political masters. No one really cares what we think any more. We’re like drones to them, only instead of honey they grow fat on our taxes.’

  Logan pulled his chin in. ‘Our taxes? You’re, what, thirteen? When did you last pay any tax?’

  ‘Workers control the means of production.’

  Nicholson poked him again. ‘You’ve got one more chance, then I’m doing you for refusing to give your details. Now: name?’

  He took a deep breath. Stared down at his trainers. ‘Geoffrey
Lovejoy.’ Then a sniff, and his head came up again, eyes glinting. ‘I’m a political prisoner. I demand you call the United Nations. Power to the people!’

  Logan looked up from his notebook. ‘And you’re sure you’d recognize her again if you saw her?’

  The shopkeeper nodded, setting a crowd of chins on a Mexican wave. ‘Absolutely. She had half a dozen bottles of Chanel Number Five, a handful of Touche Éclat concealer, Elizabeth Arden, and every single bit of Paco Rabanne we had on display!’ He swept a hand towards the other side of the chemist’s, where the front door was being held open by a little old lady wearing a plastic headscarf. ‘Scooped them up and ran off without so much as a blush. Our Stacey chased her, but …’ A shrug.

  Nicholson’s stabproof was beginning to look as if she’d smeared it with camouflage paint – green grass stains mingling with the mud from their run-in with the escaped cow. It wasn’t a good look. She pointed at the security camera bolted to the wall behind the till. ‘You get it on CCTV?’

  A blush swept across the puffy cheeks. ‘It’s plastic. I bought it off eBay for a fiver.’

  Nicholson pointed. ‘Is that not Liam Barden?’

  On the other side of the road, a chubby man in an Aberdeen Football Club shirt walked into the Co-op.

  Logan frowned as the automatic door closed, hiding the man and his bright-red shiny shirt. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Certain.’ She parked outside the shop. ‘Well … eighty percent. You got the ID sheet?’

  He dug into the glove compartment and came out with four creased sheets of A4, stapled together. Two photos on each sheet, along with names and details of when and where they went missing. Liam Barden was on the third page: grinning away at a Caley Thistle match, both thumbs up, and what looked like a gravy stain splodging the Orion Group logo on his blue-and-red football top. A wee gold thistle glinted on a golden chain around Liam’s neck. Very classy. A proper Ratners special.

  Liam shared the printout with a picture of everyone’s favourite drug-dealing scumbag, Jack Simpson – jagged tribal tattoos on his neck, sunken cheeks, pierced nose and ears.