The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

to ask.’

      ‘… and don’t get me started on that prick Dawson!’ Nicholson paced the scuffed grey floor, her hands jabbing out at random angles as she went. She marched straight through one of the two open, thick, blue metal doors and into the darkened cell beyond. Turned and stamped back into the room again. ‘Do you know what he said to me? Do you?’

      The new cellblock was a low-ceilinged room that smelled of lemon-scented cleaner and flaky pastry. The cells empty and immaculate, barely used since they were installed a decade ago, but still kitted out with their thin plastic mattresses and stainless-steel toilets. Waiting for the day when they had enough staff to open it up again. As if that was ever going to happen.

      Logan leaned against the door through to the garage, Deano the one through to the older part of the building while Tufty handed out the pastries. ‘No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell us.’

      ‘He said—’

      ‘On second thoughts, don’t.’ Logan pointed at the office chair behind the custody desk. ‘Sit. Deep breaths. And calm down.’

      ‘But, Sarge, he—’

      ‘Down. Arse in chair. Now.’

      Whatever she said under her breath, it probably wasn’t polite, but she thumped down in the chair and folded her arms.

      ‘Thank you.’ Logan helped himself to a bite of maple pecan twist. Talking with his mouth full. ‘For better, or worse, we’re lumbered with these guys. Some of them will be tossers, some of them won’t. But I don’t want any of you lowering yourselves to that level, am I understood?’

      Pink bloomed across Nicholson’s cheeks. She stared at her boots.

      Deano sighed. ‘She’s only letting off steam.’

      ‘I don’t care. And that goes for all of you. We are a professional modern police force. I will not have you letting B Division down by acting like sulky children.’

      The response was a barely audible, ‘Yes, Sarge,’ from Nicholson. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

      Logan nodded. Had a sip of tea. Hot and milky. ‘Now that we’re all calm and grown-up again, what did he say?’

      ‘Sexist scumbag thought I was going to make the tea for them!’ Nicholson ripped a bite out of her apple turnover, getting flakes of pastry all down the front of her black T-shirt.

      Tufty handed her a mug. ‘What did you do?’

      ‘Smiled sweetly and said, “Yes, Guv.”’ Her shoulders dipped. ‘What was I supposed to do? Kick off in the canteen?’

      Logan nodded back towards the older part of the building, where the main office was. ‘You want me to have a word?’

      She grimaced. ‘Think that’s going to help me get into CID? Constable Janet Nicholson, chippy feminist?’

      ‘Maybe not.’ But that didn’t mean they were going to get away with it. Logan took another bite of pastry. ‘I’m off to Fraserburgh after. Might do Peterhead too, depends if anything comes up.’ He pointed at Deano. ‘You and Tufty keep hitting the harbours. Janet, take the other car and drift by Alex Williams’s place every half-hour. Can’t stop the two of them getting back together, but we can let Alex know we’re watching.’

      A nod. ‘Sarge.’

      ‘When you’re not there, do a general sweep of the area. Everyone needs to remember that we’re the ones keeping the peace here, not some MIT bunch of bum-weasels.’

      The patrol car slid into New Pitsligo, the grey buildings and grey streets washed with amber streetlight. Going the long way round to Fraserburgh. Taking a detour through the wee town’s side streets. Peering into front and back gardens. Doing exactly the same thing he’d told Nicholson to do. Being seen. Flying the flag for community policing. Letting people know he was out there.

      Singing along to whatever tune popped into his head as the car radio crackled and bleeped with snippets from the investigation going on at Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool. Fingertip search of a cliff, by torchlight. Someone was off their rocker.

      And still no sign of anything turning up.

      Back onto the A950. Then a left onto the Strichen road. Blackened fields. Clumps of trees looming from the shadows. Stars like tiny LEDs sprinkled across treacle. The moon a ball of darkness with a faint sliver of white on one edge. A flock of sheep, their eyes shining like vampires’ in the headlights.

      His Airwave bleeped, cutting off a spirited rendition of the Birds Eye Steakhouse Grills advert: ‘Hope it’s chips, it’s chips …’ He took one hand off the wheel and clicked the button. ‘Go ahead, safe to talk.’

       ‘Sarge, it’s Janet. Been past Alex Williams’s – they’re both sitting in the lounge, watching the TV. You’d think butter wouldn’t melt. I mean, after what Williams did …’

      ‘I know. Keep an eye out. I’m winning that bet – no one dies.’

       ‘See if someone tried to do that to me? I’d have their kneecaps off.’

      ‘No one gets crippled either.’

      A pause.

       ‘Sarge?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Why haven’t I got a nickname? I mean Stewart’s Tufty, Dean’s Deano. Even you’ve got one. I’m just Janet. Or Nicholson. Is it because I’m a woman?’

      ‘You’re kidding, right?’ Frown. ‘Well … what do you want to be called?’

       ‘Oh no you don’t – only tosspots pick their own nickname.’

      ‘We could call you Constable Pain-in-the-Hoop?’

      ‘Funny.’ Voice flat. ‘Good job I’m wearing my stabproof vest, razor-sharp wit like that. Ha. Ha. Etc.’

      ‘Listen, do me a favour: have a bit of a drive round on Rundle Avenue. I want Frankie Ferris to know we’re watching him. Keep him on edge.’

      ‘God: a cow on the road, a bit of standing about behind a cordon, and the chance to kerb-crawl past a druggie scumbag’s house for the rest of the shift? All in one day? You’re right, why would anyone want to abandon that for a life in CID?’

      Strichen was as small as it was quiet. But Logan gave it the same treatment – up and down the side streets. Look at me, I’m a police officer. Your taxes at work. The only thing even vaguely noteworthy was the naked man duct-taped to the ‘STOP’ sign outside the town hall on the corner of Bridge Street and the High Street.

      Well … he was probably naked. It was difficult to tell under all the treacle and feathers. And they hadn’t exactly skimped on the duct tape either.

      Logan buzzed down the pool car’s passenger window. Leaned across the seats. ‘You OK?’

      Mr Tar-And-Feathers blinked back at him, then released a lazy grin. ‘I’m … I’m getting mar … married!’ The words all slurred and wobbly.

      ‘Congratulations.’ He buzzed the window back up again and headed off north towards Fraserburgh.

       ‘Control to Shire Uniform Seven.’

      Logan looked left and right. No one else in the aisle. All alone with the rows and rows of soup tins. He pressed the button on his handset. ‘Safe to talk.’

       ‘You’re in Fraserburgh tonight? Anywhere near Arran Court?’

      ‘No idea. I’m in that Tesco on South Harbour Road.’ The tattie and leek was cheap. But not as cheap as the lentil.

       ‘Neighbours are worried about a Mrs Bairden at number twenty-six.