The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

of her mouth. ‘I’m flattered, but I don’t think my wife would approve.’ Steel’s hair was all squashed on one side, the other looked as if it had filed for independence from her head. Thick, dark circles crowded the bags beneath her eyes. More dark circles beneath the arms of the same blue silk shirt she’d had on the night before. Jacket slung over one shoulder, heavy carrier bag in her other hand. She nodded at his midriff. ‘Nice scars though.’

      He folded his arms over the shiny puckered lines.

      She frowned. ‘You’ve lost weight. What happened to the cuddly chunky-monkey McRae we all know and love? Just skin and bones now.’

      ‘You try humphing a stone-and-a-bit of equipment around for ten hours every day.’

      A minibus full of old ladies rumbled past, pale creased faces pressed to the window. Assorted whoops and obscene hand gestures.

      Steel waved back at them. ‘Well, you going to stand there dripping, with your willy hanging out, or are you going to invite me in?’

      He grunted, turned and shuffled back inside. ‘Can’t be long – catching a hurl into Aberdeen with Swanson, remember?’

      Steel clunked the door shut behind her, then whistled. ‘Wow. Rennie was right, you do live in a craphole.’

      The wallpaper was stripped off in the stairwell and the hall, the lathe and plaster crumbling and stained. Grey flex drooped from the ceiling, dangling a single bare bulb like an unsniffed runny nose. Dust and fluff made little drifts on every step of the stairs, dark varnish chipped and faded on either side of the paler strip where the carpet had been. No carpet on the floor either. Small cracked patches of linoleum made scabs on the wooden boards.

      She opened a door off the hall. The room on the other side was nothing but stacks and stacks of file-boxes. Not quite floor to ceiling, but close to it. ‘This your porn collection? Nearly as big as mine.’

      He clumped up the stairs in his slippers. ‘Station’s been using this place as an overflow file storage for decades. Kettle’s in the kitchen. Make yourself useful.’

      By the time he’d come back down, all dried and dressed in Police-Scotland black, she was in the lounge, an open bottle of beer clutched to her chest. Frowning at the stacks of books on the mantelpiece.

      A small TV balanced on a packing box. A bargain-basement couch from the charity shop. A folding chair. Two stepladders draped with dust sheets and a stack of paint tins and brushes. Bags of plaster.

      He dumped his black fleece on the couch. Tucked his T-shirt into his itchy trousers. Picked up Cthulhu’s water and food bowls from their placemat in the corner. ‘It’s seven in the morning. Where did you get beer?’

      ‘Confiscated it.’ A swig. ‘Laz, seriously, this place is a dump. And no’ a nice one either, this is the kind of dump where you’ve got to go see your doctor afterwards to get the bad news. Half the windows are boarded up!’

      Logan carried the bowls through to the kitchen. The units might have been cheap, but they were new and they were clean. A fresh coat of cheerful yellow on the walls. A row of potted herbs on the windowsill, drinking in the morning sun.

      Through the glass, Banff police station lurked on the opposite corner of the small square. Three storeys of dirty sandstone, with a fake balcony over the main entrance and curly carved bits holding up various lintels. Stone urn-shaped things decorated the front edge of the roof. If it wasn’t for the blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ sign and the sprawl of patrol cars and vans parked outside, it could have passed for an ancient hotel.

      A handful of reporters wandered about out front, drinking from Styrofoam cups and sunning themselves in the early morning glow. Waiting …

      Logan emptied out the kettle, filled it, and put it on to boil. ‘You want a tea?’

      Steel appeared in the doorway. ‘How long’s it going to take you to do this place up: five years? Ten?’

      ‘It’s a work in progress.’

      ‘Pfff …’ Then she dug into her plastic bag and pulled out a copy of the Daily Mail. Slapped it down on the working surface. ‘Looks like your PC Nicholson’s no’ the only thing that’s leaky up here.’

      Most of the front page was taken up with a photo of Neil Wood, beneath the headline, ‘SICKO SEARCH ~ POLICE HUNT FOR MISSING PAEDOPHILE’. There was even a small inset photo of the outdoor pool at Tarlair.

      ‘Well, don’t look at my team, this is your bunch of numpties.’ He dug Cthulhu’s bowl into the bag of dried cat food. ‘So what happened with the dead girl?’

      ‘Post mortem’s at half nine. Messrs Young and Finnie in attendance, while yours truly gets to grab a whole five hours to herself …’ A jaw-cracking yawn, followed by a burp. Then a shudder. And another mouthful of beer. ‘Been on since seven yesterday morning. Two kebabs, three gallons of coffee, two proper cigarettes, a poke of chips, five tins of Red Bull, someone else’s sandwich, a bag of cheese-and-onion, and a beer.’ She raised it in salute. ‘Doing wonders for my diet.’

      Logan washed out the water bowl and filled it with fresh. ‘So join divisional, that’ll shift a few pounds.’

      ‘Cheeky sod.’ Another swig. ‘And the leak can’t have come from my numpties. Most of them spent the night carpet-bombing the porcelain. Was like the battle of Dresden in that station last night.’ A nod. ‘Luckily I’m made of sterner stuff.’

      Lucky she got DS McKenzie to make a cuppa before Logan and Nicholson got their poisoned round in, more like.

      He dried his hands on a tea towel. Did his best to look innocent. ‘Do me a favour?’

      ‘If it involves me getting naked too: no.’

      ‘Pair of local scrotes got a big shipment of drugs from down south. I’ve got a warrant for a raid. Couldn’t go in yesterday because of the wee girl …’ Through to the lounge to put Cthulhu’s bowls back where they’d come from. ‘If we leave it much longer, they’ll cut the shipment up and disappear it out onto the streets. And you’ve got all the spare bodies in the division.’ Then into the kitchen again.

      ‘Would you stop charging about? Making me seasick.’ She knocked back the rest of her beer. Clunked the bottle down on the worktop. Sagged. ‘When, and how many?’

      ‘Tomorrow evening. Say … four OSU, and a drugs dog? Syd Fraser’s good, if we can get him.’

      A massive yawn left her shuddering and stretching – shoulders up around her ears, arms locked, elbows out. ‘How long?’

      ‘Two hours. Ish.’ A quick rummage in the cupboard for a bowl and the box of waxy own-brand cornflakes. ‘About your dead girl – you’re searching the outdoor swimming pool, and the car park, and the buildings, right?’ Flakes in the bowl. ‘What if she wasn’t dumped there?’

      Steel produced a bottle opener and clicked the top off another beer. ‘She didn’t fly there on her own. Body had to get there somehow.’

      ‘There’s green weed and slime all around the main pool, especially on the seaward side. That’s only going to grow if the wall’s regularly underwater. And given we had a couple days of rough weather over the weekend …?’

      She stared at him. Then covered her face with her hands. ‘Sodding hell. She washed in from the sea.’

      ‘Sure you don’t want a cup of tea?’

      ‘Want a pee.’

      ‘Top of the stairs.’

      Her footsteps clumped up the bare steps. Then the clunk of a door closing.

      Logan sploshed milk on the flakes and checked his phone – a voicemail from Deano and a text from his mother. That got deleted unread.

       ‘Sarge, Deano. Listen, we’re having a barbecue at ours, Thursday evening.