The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

it?’

      ‘Vile lies.’

      ‘What was it the tabloids called you? No, don’t tell me … Ah, got it: Dr Kidfiddler!’

      Yes, because that was helping.

      Logan took out his notebook. ‘Mr Gilcomston—’

      ‘Doctor. It’s Dr Gilcomston.’

      ‘Dr Gilcomston, has anyone threatened you? Implied they were going to attack you?’

      ‘Ignorance runs rampant throughout our society, Sergeant.’

      Steel rested her chin on her hands. ‘And no one’s tried to make contact?’ She fluttered her eyelashes at him. ‘Maybe, oh, I don’t know, someone like Neil Wood?’

      A pause. ‘If you’re implying I’ve got anything to do with that pervert, I resent it.’

      The lounge door opened and Nicholson stepped into the room. ‘Sorry about that. Must have been something I ate.’

      Gilcomston shuddered. ‘Well, I hope you cleaned the bowl after you. I have no desire to clean up your filth.’

      That halogen smile broke across Steel’s face again. ‘“Filth!” Another excellent police pun. You’re like Oscar Bleeding Wilde today, aren’t you, Billyboy?’

      Logan dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘All I’m saying is we might get on better if you weren’t so rude to everyone.’

      Steel settled into the leather settee, stretched her arms along the back. ‘No’ bad here, is it? Wonder how much this place cost?’

      It was a Victorian pile on Church Street with big bay windows and a garden to match. Hunting prints on the wall, pine cones and potpourri in the grate, beneath an ornate marble fireplace. Upright piano. Glass-fronted bookcase full of leather volumes. Standard lamps holding the night at bay.

      ‘Dr Gilcomston—’

      ‘Is a dirty scumbag. And he’s no’ a doctor either – got struck off after the conviction.’

      Nicholson folded her hands behind her back. ‘Am I on piddling duty again?’

      Steel drummed her fingers on the tobacco-coloured leather. ‘Got to play to your strengths.’

      She sighed. Wrapped her arms around herself. ‘People will think I’ve got cystitis.’

      The lounge door swung open and a large woman in a twinset sailed into the room like a lavender barge. Half-moon glasses on the end of her round nose. Only the pair of fluffy slippers, scuffing on the old woollen carpet, gave away the fact that she’d been roused from bed a little after one in the morning. She lowered a tray laden with scones and cups and a teapot onto the glass-topped coffee table. ‘Who’s got cystitis?’

      Steel hooked a thumb at Nicholson. ‘Been going all night like a leaky bathtub.’

      There was a small pause, then Nicholson rubbed both knees together. ‘Actually, sorry to bother you, but could I …?’

      ‘There’s one by the back door, or the top of the stairs on the left.’

      ‘Thanks.’ And she was gone.

      Mrs Twinset settled into a wing-backed leather chair. ‘Now, is this about these stupid threats?’

      Logan took out his notebook. ‘Threats, Mrs Bartholomew?’

      ‘Yes, threats. Thrust through my letter box, like some sort of takeaway menu. “You will burn in hell for everything that you have done. God will not save you. We are coming.” That kind of thing.’ A snort. ‘“We are coming.” Honestly, some people have no sense of propriety. Still, that’s the age we live in, I suppose.’ She picked up the teapot. ‘Now, shall I be mother?’

      Steel smiled. ‘That no’ how you got into trouble in the first place?’

      A chubby rumpled face peered out at them through the gap between the door and the frame. Streetlights thickened the dark circles beneath his eyes as he looked them up and down. ‘You got any idea what time it is?’

      Steel popped her wrist forward, so her watch poked from the end of her sleeve. ‘Yup. Now you going to invite us in for a chat, or are we going to drag you down the nick?’

      Nicholson climbed into the car. ‘How many’s that now?’

      Logan started the engine. ‘Eleven.’

      ‘Pfff …’ She sagged in the rear-view mirror. ‘Your old boss is … different.’

      DCI Steel paced up and down the pavement in front of the terraced houses, mobile phone clamped to her ear, puffing away on her e-cigarette. One hand flailed away, emphasizing whatever point she was making, even though there was no way whoever was on the other end of the phone could see it.

      ‘Oh, she’s that all right.’ Logan stretched the knots out of his neck. ‘On the plus side, we might have a new nickname for you.’

      Nicholson covered her eyes with one hand. ‘Sarge, I swear to God, if “Piddler” is the next word out of your mouth, I’m going to strangle you with your own limb restraints.’

      A grin. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

      She turned to stare out at the houses. A light was on in the flat they’d just visited, the curtains held open – a figure silhouetted in the gap. Tall, thin, long hair. Then the curtains fell shut again.

      Nicholson went on staring. ‘Looked far too young to fiddle with little girls, didn’t he? Barely out of nappies himself.’

      ‘Still think it’s all glamour and glory on a Major Investigation Team?’

      ‘Kind of thought it’d be more …’ A shrug. ‘You know.’

      Steel hung up and stuffed the phone in her pocket. Stomped back towards the car.

      Logan nodded. ‘If it’s any consolation, you’re following a long line of officers in a noble tradition.’

      ‘Designated piddler?’

      ‘I used to have to do it all the time. “Oh, I’m bursting for a pee, can I use your toilet?” Then go rummaging through drawers and cupboards while whichever boss it was asked stupid questions.’

      ‘Yeah …’ Nicholson’s mouth stretched out and down, the tendons sticking out in her neck. ‘You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve found tonight. I mean, not kiddie porn or anything, but dildos, and lube, and rubbery things like Ping-Pong balls on a string.’ She curled her top lip. ‘That doctor guy had a butt plug, a ball gag, and furry handcuffs. I mean, can you imagine him all oiled up and—’

      The passenger door clunked open and Steel tumbled into the seat. Produced her list of sex offenders and a pen, then drew a thick red line through the address of the young man who interfered with little girls. ‘Right. Next up – Windy Brae.’

      Logan stifled a yawn. Then tapped the dashboard clock. ‘That’s twenty past two. I’ve got court tomorrow, remember?’

      ‘Worried you’ll no’ get enough beauty sleep? Trust me, that boat sailed when you got the shaved-scrotum haircut.’

      He opened his mouth … Closed it again. Turned to stare at her. ‘Why are you here?’

      ‘Told you: trying to catch a wee girl’s—’

      ‘Oh no you don’t. This …’ He pointed up at the flat. ‘Trolling through the registered sex offenders? That’s no job for a detective chief inspector. That’s a sergeant, maybe DI at most.’

      She closed her door. ‘Nothing wrong in taking pride in your work, is there?’

      ‘You pissed someone off, didn’t you? That’s why you’re here: it’s a punishment. You said something you shouldn’t to Finnie or Young.’