The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

      Logan checked his watch. ‘Right, fifteen more minutes and we’re done.’

      Steel shuffled her feet as Nicholson thumbed the bell again. The cottage sat on the brow of a hill, overlooking the cliffs and the sea – still and silent, washed like pewter by the thin smear of light from the crescent moon. Nothing but fields and gorse for miles.

      A plume of e-cigarette steam snaked up into the starry night. ‘You used to be a lot more fun.’

      ‘Just because you’re on nightshift, it doesn’t mean we are too. Some of us have got court tomorrow. Supposed to get eleven hours between the end of any shift and having to give evidence; that’s gone for a Burton.’

      ‘Don’t say I’m never good to you: Swanson’s heading into Aberdeen first thing with a bunch of productions from the search – she’ll give you a lift. You can snore all the way.’

      Nicholson backed away from the door. Stared up at the windows. ‘Maybe he’s not in?’

      Another puff. ‘Try round the back.’

      She clicked on her LED torch and picked her way past the rose bushes and round the side of the cottage.

      Steel stuffed her hands in her pockets, fake fag clamped between her teeth. ‘Don’t know what you’re moaning about. Case is watertight – Graham Stirling’s spending the rest of his natural playing hide the soap with rapists and murderers.’

      Logan leaned back against the wall. Yawned. Stretched his arms and legs. ‘So, come on then: Nicholson’s not here any more, what did you do?’

      ‘Sod all.’ She took a deep drag. Hissed out a thin stream of vapour. ‘Ever occur to you I might miss this?’

      ‘Knocking up sex offenders in the middle of the night?’

      ‘No’ sex offenders …’ She pulled out a hand and thumped him on the chest. ‘This. You and me: Cagney and Lacey; Holmes and Watson; Dalziel and Pascoe.’

      Laurel and Hardy, more like.

      ‘Thought you had Rennie now.’

      ‘Rennie’s no’ the same. He cries when I make fun of him. And McKenzie’s one poke away from an aneurism.’

      An owl hooted in the fields behind the cottage. Followed by what sounded like someone knocking over a stack of flowerpots and some muffled swearing.

      Logan frowned out into the night. ‘You think there’s anything to this sex offenders getting attacked and going missing thing? That’s twice we’ve heard about it.’

      ‘Twice out of what, twenty paedos? No’ exactly statistically significant, is it?’

      ‘Three, if you count Mrs Bartholomew’s “Burn in Hell” threat. And Neil Wood’s dad got beaten up today. Well, technically yesterday, but you know what I mean.’

      Steel took another long drag. ‘Not like they don’t deserve it, is it?’

      All the parking slots outside the station were taken – a mix of patrol and unmarked pool cars, all bathed in the thin sodium light. The car park out front was full too. Among the more everyday vehicles loomed a couple of police pods and a Transit in full riot gear, its front grille raised like a surprised monobrow.

      Logan found them a parking spot further down the street.

      Steel creaked her way out of the passenger seat and paused on the pavement for a big stretch. Her blue silk shirt rode up, exposing a slash of dead-fish skin and a bellybutton. ‘Pffff …’ She had a scratch. ‘Any chance of something to eat? Starving.’

      Logan nodded back towards the station. ‘Vending machine in the canteen. Crisps, caffeinated drinks, and chocolate.’

      Her eyebrows tented in the middle, bringing out the puppy eyes. ‘No chips?’

      Nicholson bounced out from the back of the car, following them along the pavement. ‘The baker’s opens at five. They do a great chicken-curry pie.’

      Steel checked her watch, then sagged. ‘An hour and twenty minutes … Be a skeleton by then.’

      ‘Good, you can keep Hector company.’ Logan thumbed the code into the keypad by the tradesmen’s entrance. Then covered his mouth for a long shuddering yawn.

      The sound of telephones filtered through the building. Raised voices. Someone laughing.

      Nicholson pointed down the corridor towards the Constables’ Office. ‘Paperwork first, Sarge?’

      ‘Do your actions, then sod off home. Put down for three hours’ overtime.’ He turned to Steel. ‘That’s fair, isn’t it?’

      ‘Bloody bunnets, eating my budget …’ Steel turned and lumbered into the main office.

      Two PCs sat at Maggie’s desk, one typing things into a spreadsheet while the other hunched over a pile of evidence bags. Reading out the label numbers as his mate logged them in.

      Someone in a charcoal-grey suit was at the other desk, tongue poking out the side of her mouth as she picked at her keyboard with two fingers. Wrinkles furrowed the gap between her eyebrows, a mass of frizzy brown hair tied back in a wobbly half-bun-half-ponytail-thing.

      Not one of them looked up until Steel clicked her fingers three times. ‘Hoy, Becky: any messages?’

      The woman in the suit flinched. Grabbed the stack of Post-it notes beside her. ‘Body’s arrived at Aberdeen, Boss. PM’s set for half nine. DS Rennie wants to call off the search till dawn. Says it’s too dark to—’

      More finger snaps. ‘I can read, DS McKenzie: give.’

      Becky handed over the Post-its. Her jaw tightened, the muscles flexing. ‘Yes, Boss.’

      Steel flicked through the yellow squares, holding them at arm’s length and squinting. ‘Pfff … Is there no bugger in the whole force who can make a decision on their own?’ She stuffed them into a pocket. ‘If anyone needs me, I’ll be upstairs. In the ladies. Making smells.’ She paused on the threshold to the hall. ‘And see if you can rustle up a cup of tea, eh? And something to eat.’ Then slouched off into the hall and away up the stairs.

      Beat. Two. Three. Four. And the smile died on Becky’s face. Eyes narrowed on the closing door. Voice a serrated-blade whisper. ‘What did your last slave die of, you old bag?’

      She turned and stomped off towards the canteen.

      Looked as if Steel was right: one prod away from an aneurism.

      Nothing like running a happy team.

      Logan crossed to the Sergeants’ Office and opened the door. Then froze.

      A thin bloke in a blue suit was sitting in his seat. Feet up on his desk. Scratching himself on the back of the head with a biro, mobile phone clamped to his ear. ‘… yeah, that’s what I thought …’ A frown. Then he glanced in Logan’s direction: long nose, trendy hair quiffed up at the front, designer stubble. ‘Get lost, I’m on the phone … No, not you, Guv. Some fanny in uniform … Yeah …’ Then laughter.

      Logan nodded. Stepped into the room, and slammed the door behind him, hard enough to make the dick in the suit flinch.

      ‘And you are?’

      The guy licked his lips. Took his feet off the desk. Squared his shoulders. ‘On the phone.’

      Probably too young to be a boss, but with these fast-track programmes you never knew. ‘And tell me, Inspector, how long do you plan on using my office?’

      ‘Sorry, Guv, give me a minute.’ He held the phone against his chest, covering the mouthpiece. ‘It’s Detective Sergeant. Detective Sergeant Dawson. MIT.’

      ‘Ah, I see.’