The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

to Barlinnie for the rest of his unnatural. Plus: they’d have raided Klingon and Gerbil’s place. Big haul of drugs, mentions in dispatches, medals, and a parade. Time to celebrate.

      It was too early to call Deano back. So Logan wolfed down the cornflakes, slipped his phone in his pocket, and a slice of bargain-basement white into the toaster. Stuck his head out into the hall. ‘Hurry up: I’ve got to go in a minute.’

      No reply.

      ‘OK, I’ll leave a spare key on the table for you. You can let yourself out.’

      Silence.

      ‘Listen,’ he walked to the bottom of the stairs, ‘thought I’d pop past and see Susan while I’m in town. See how she’s getting on. She at home today?’

      Nothing.

      Maybe she hadn’t been so lucky with the poisoned tea after all?

      ‘Hello?’ The steps creaked beneath his feet, all the way up. ‘You’ve not fallen in, have you?’ When he knocked on the bathroom door, it swung open.

      Thankfully Steel wasn’t sitting on the toilet with her trousers around her ankles. The room was empty – freshly tiled with a new bathroom suite. Cheap, but serviceable. Even if it had taken weeks to put in.

      ‘Hello?’

      A jagged rasp, like a wood-saw hacking away at a sheet of corrugated metal, came from the bedroom. Then a pause. Then another one.

      He put a hand on the door and swung it open. There she was: lying flat on her back, on his bed, with both feet still on the floor. One arm flung out to the left, the other hand draped over her right boob. Mouth wide open. Snoring.

      Wonderful.

      He swung her legs up onto the duvet, pulled off her boots, then pulled a blanket over her.

      A ‘Proooop?’ came from the hallway. Cthulhu sauntered in and hopped up on the bed beside Steel. Treddled the blanket for a minute, then turned round twice and settled onto the pillow beside her head.

      ‘Disloyal little sod.’

      Logan closed the door and left them to it.

      Logan shifted his fleece to the other hand and let himself into the station. The unnatural-pine scent of disinfectant and air freshener clawed its way into his nose, itched at the back of his throat. As if someone was trying to cover up a terrible smell.

      Keep a straight face.

      He poked his head into the Constables’ Office: no one there. A couple of cardboard boxes sat in the middle of the room – piled high with brown-paper evidence bags – but other than that, it was the same slightly scruffy collection of posters, notices and in-trays laden with paperwork.

      No one in the canteen. No one in the main office either.

      Two abandoned papers hung folded over the edge of the partition by Maggie’s desk – an Aberdeen Examiner and an Evening Express. One had gone with an aerial photo of Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool, with a silhouette inset of what was meant to be a little girl: ‘BODY FOUND IN NEGLECTED NORTHEAST BEAUTY SPOT’. The other featured a head-and-shoulders of Neil Wood: ‘DID MISSING PAEDOPHILE KILL TRAGIC SCHOOLGIRL?’ A tiny article in the sidebar was titled, ‘STIRLING TRIAL CONTINUES’. Would have thought it deserved more page space than that, considering what Graham Stirling had done to Stephen Bisset.

      Logan did a three-sixty. ‘Hello? Anyone home?’

      Maybe the MIT had caught whoever killed the little girl and sodded off back where they’d come from? That’d be nice …

      He got out his keys and opened the little blue locker with his name on it. Unhooked his Airwave handset from its charger. Switched it on and slipped it into his fleece pocket. Then pushed through into the Sergeants’ Office.

      Stopped.

      DS Dawson was sitting in his seat again. Only not looking quite so cocky this time.

      His face was a pale shade of grey, the bags under his eyes a smudgy, bruised colour. His quiff had lost its arrogant strut and dangled limply across his shiny forehead. He looked up as Logan closed the door. Grimaced. Stuck one hand to his stomach as a coffee-percolator-gurgle rumbled somewhere inside it. ‘What you doing in? Thought you were backshift.’

      Logan did his best not to smile. ‘You look a bit rough.’

      ‘Urgh … Think we hit a dodgy kebab shop last night. Half the station’s been welded to the bogs since back of four.’

      ‘That is a pity.’ He unlocked the little grey filing cabinet and pulled out the drawer with his notebook in it. Popped it into a pocket. ‘Supposed to be getting a hurl into Aberdeen with Swanson. You seen her?’

      ‘I ended up stuck in the cells for two hours – only bog that was free.’ Dawson puffed out his cheeks and rubbed at his growling stomach. ‘Never touching another doner as long as I live.’

      ‘Sounds dreadful.’ Don’t grin. Don’t grin. ‘So, Swanson?’

      ‘No idea. All I know is everyone ran off to break up some fight outside the— Urgh …’ Another roll of gurgling thunder. ‘Oh God …’ He grabbed the desk. Paused. Took a deep breath. Let it out in a long slow hiss. ‘No, I’m OK …’

      Logan pulled on the most sympathetic face he could. ‘Well, as I’ve got a couple of minutes, how about I make you a nice cup of tea?’

      Constable Swanson shifted her grip on the steering wheel, hunched forward in her seat as they roared around the bend, heading south on the A947. Big hands; broad face; scruffy brown hair streaked with blonde like a humbug, tied up in a bun. Glasses. ‘I’m really, really sorry. Only these two auld mannies were really laying into each other. Fists and false-teeth flying everywhere.’ She grimaced. ‘Sorry.’

      ‘Told you: it’s OK. As long as I’m at the High Court for nine, we’re fine.’ Logan took out his phone as they thundered over the Castleton Bridge. No new messages.

      A constant burble of calls murmured from his Airwave handset – B Division going about its daily business.

       ‘Suspected overdose on Crooked Lane, Peterhead.’

       ‘Anyone in the vicinity of Asda’s in Fraserburgh? Shoplifter’s been apprehended by store security.’

       ‘All units, lookout request for one Tony Wishart, IC-one male, eighteen years old, dark hair. Outstanding apprehension warrant for burglary.’

       ‘Getting complaints of a domestic disturbance in Whitehills, any unit free to attend? Priority one.’

      Logan turned the volume down and wriggled in his seat. Settling further into the fabric.

      Nice not to be wearing a stabproof vest and equipment belt for a change.

      Outside the window, vivid green fields and trees swooshed past. The hissing soundtrack of tyre noise joining the Airwave’s chatter and the throaty growl of the patrol car’s engine. The rattle of the blue plastic crate on the back seat. Their car swept around another bend, and the rustle of the crate’s evidence bags joined the music.

      Swanson grimaced at him. ‘Just have to hope we don’t catch the rush hour heading into Dyce. Don’t know if going via Inverurie’s worse or—’

      ‘We’ll be fine. Labs won’t do anything with your stuff till this afternoon anyway.’ He reclined his seat a couple of notches, tipped his peaked cap forwards so it covered his eyes and nose. ‘And if it’s getting tight, we’ll blues-and-twos it. Don’t think the Powers That Be will complain if it helps put Graham Stirling away.’ He stretched out. Stifled a yawn. Sighed.

      ‘Sarge?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘You don’t snore, do you?’

      ‘About