The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

generic salt-and-vinegar and a bog-standard loaf of white.

      ‘Give me five minutes.’

       ‘Will do.’

      Quick march, round the corner and a few aisles down, where the medicines and toothpaste lurked. Condoms, pile cream, antacids, eyedrops … Ah. There they were. Laxatives.

      It’d break the weekly budget, but what the hell. Sometimes you had to live a little.

      He picked two different brands at random and flipped them over to read the instructions.

      A tap on his shoulder.

      Logan turned to see a young woman in the standard blue-short-sleeved-shirt-and-black-trouser uniform. An ‘ASK ME ABOUT CAR INSURANCE’ badge pinned above the one with her name on it: ‘AMANDA’. She smiled up at him. ‘Are you looking for something specific?’

      ‘Do you have anything really strong and quick-acting?’

      She picked a green-and-yellow packet from the shelf. ‘My nan uses these – gentle, predictable relief.’

      ‘Nah. I’m looking for something a bit more aggressive. Wire-brush and Dettol time. Got anything that fits the bill?’

       9

      Arran Court. A single row of terraced houses: white harling walls, slate roofs; the occasional block of dark wood connecting upper and lower windows. The street was hidden away in Fraserburgh’s winding knot of cul-de-sacs. Surrounded by the back gardens of other buildings. A small patch of green sat opposite, lit by the yellow glow of a concrete lamp post. A handful of cars parked in front.

      Logan counted the doors off, and stuck the patrol car in front of number twenty-six.

      Three middle-aged women formed a clot by the garden gate. Two of them sitting on the low wall between it and number twenty-five. The third pacing back and forth, leaving cigarette trails in the street-lit air. All of them in pyjamas and dressing gowns.

      Peaked cap on, out into the night. Logan clunked the car door shut and marched over. ‘Does anyone have keys?’

      The woman with the cigarette stopped pacing and stared at him. Face souring. ‘You think we’d be standing here like lumps if we did?’

      ‘How about relatives? Or maybe a carer?’

      One of the wall-sitters shook her head. ‘Her daughter, Sandra, lives three streets over, but she’s in Edinburgh for a thing.’

      He stepped through the gate. ‘And you’re sure she’s not gone out somewhere? Night out in Aberdeen? Visiting friends in Peterhead?’

      Number three sniffed. ‘She’s got a heart condition. What if she’s dead?’

      Logan tried the door handle. Locked.

      No lights on inside.

      ‘OK, let’s try round the back.’ He pointed at Mrs Cigarette. ‘Do you have the daughter’s mobile number?’

      She dug a mobile from her dressing-gown pocket, poked at the screen, then held the thing out. ‘Ringing.’

      He took it. Stuck it against his ear as he marched to the end of the street and slipped around the side of the last house. A little lane ran between the back of Arran Court and the rear of the next street over. Logan counted his way along the patchwork of wooden fences to number twenty-six as the mobile phone rang. And rang. And rang.

      And finally, ‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice, thin and nervous.

      ‘Is this Sandra Bairden?’

      There wasn’t a gate into the back garden. Instead, a seven-foot-tall woven wood screen stretched the length of the garden. It wobbled when he grabbed hold of it.

       ‘Who is this?’

      ‘I’m a police officer. I don’t want to worry you, Sandra, but your mum’s neighbours are concerned about her.’

      He put one foot on the low brick wall and pulled himself up. A single light was on in the house, shining faintly through a small pane of rippled glass. Probably the bathroom. The garden wreathed in gloom.

       ‘Oh God … Is it her heart?’

      ‘Could be nothing at all. We just want to make sure she’s OK.’ He gave the fence another shoogle. Better do it quick before the whole thing came crashing down. Up and over. Thumping down with both feet in a vegetable patch.

       ‘I … I knew I shouldn’t have left her alone … But it was a work thing and—’

      ‘Let’s not jump to any conclusions.’ Crunching out through the woody stalks of leeks on parade, the air filled with the sharp scent of fresh onion. Back door. ‘Do you know if your mother keeps a spare key anywhere on the property? Under a plant pot? Something like that?’ He unclipped his torch from the stabproof and clicked it on. Swept the LED beam around the garden.

      ‘No, definitely not. She’s very security conscious …’ A sob rattled from the phone’s speaker. ‘Please let her be all right …’

      One of those ridiculous half-terrier garden ornaments sat by the back door – as if the dog was digging its way through the paving slab down to the house foundations. He nudged it over with his toe. A single key was taped to the underside.

      Yeah, because that was the last place a burglar would look.

      He pinned the phone between ear and shoulder, picked the key up and slipped it into the back-door lock. ‘It’s OK, I’m letting myself in now.’

      The kitchen was in darkness. ‘Mrs Bairden? Hello?’

      Silence.

       ‘Oh my God, she’s dead, isn’t she?’

      ‘Mrs Bairden? It’s the police, are you OK?’ He clicked on the light. Yellow and blue tiles on the walls, grey faux-marble worktop, white units.

      Through into the hall. Click. Photos on the walls, leading up the stairs: an overweight little girl playing with a big hairy dog, the same girl in school uniform with missing front teeth, then getting older, married, looking more tired and more worn down as she aged.

       ‘Why did I have to come to Edinburgh …?’

      ‘Mrs Bairden? Hello?’

      Up to the landing.

      Light seeped out under the bathroom door, the drone of an extractor fan, muffled by the door.

      Logan knocked. ‘Mrs Bairden? Are you in there?’

      He tried the handle. Locked.

       ‘I’m so stupid …’

      Another knock. ‘Mrs Bairden?’ He stuck his ear against the door. Was that a voice? Barely audible under the extractor fan’s incessant buzz. ‘Mrs Bairden, I’m coming in.’

      Logan pulled a handful of change from his trouser pocket. Took a two-pence piece and slotted the edge of it into the little twiddly thing beneath the handle. Twisted it left till the lock went clack.

      The door swung open, revealing a small bathroom clarted in pink floral tiles. A salmon-coloured suite. And a very pale old lady – naked in the bathtub, surrounded by filthy water. Thin grey hair. Sunken cheeks. One shoulder hunched. The left side of her mouth drooping.

      Logan stuck the mobile phone on mute. Popped it on the pink cistern, next to the Spanish flamenco-dancer toilet-roll cosy. And knelt beside the bath. Put two fingers against Mrs Bairden’s neck.

      Then grabbed his Airwave and called for an ambulance.

       ‘… join us