The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

old one, but then so was the team – whittled down by all the other specialist units that had sprung up with the change from Grampian Police to Police Scotland. But the half-dozen officers who were there gave him a standing ovation, a mug of milky tea, and a bacon buttie.

      Biohazard slapped him on the back and popped the cap on a bottle of tomato sauce. Squirted it into the buttie. ‘Got to keep your strength up for today.’

      ‘Ta. When are you giving evidence?’

      ‘Tomorrow morning.’ He stuck the tomato sauce back on his desk. ‘Course, by then it’ll all be over.’

      The others drifted back to their desks and their phones while Biohazard led him over to a file-box by the printer, with ‘NOTEBOOKS’ written on it in heavy black marker letters. ‘Took the liberty.’

      Logan had a bite of buttie. It was lukewarm, but it tasted of smoky victory as he rummaged through the box for the notebooks he’d had when they’d been after Graham Stirling. Popped them onto the printer. ‘What about Rennie?’

      ‘Tomorrow afternoon. Assuming he can find his way back down here from your Teuchter backwater.’

      ‘Watch it, you.’ Logan had another mouthful, washing it down with a slurp of tea. ‘Any idea how it’s going so far?’

      ‘You know how it is. Yesterday was all opening arguments and weaselling. Nothing for the jury to get its teeth into. Speaking of which …’ Biohazard picked up a green folder and handed it over. ‘They’re going for mock-ups.’

      He stuffed the last third of the buttie in his mouth and flicked through the folder’s contents. Instead of the actual crime-scene photographs, someone had mocked up a body in the computer and modelled Stephen Bisset’s wounds onto it. Nice and sanitized and safe for the fifteen boys and girls who’d be sending Graham Stirling to jail in a couple of days.

      Logan slipped the pictures back where they’d come from. Checked his watch. ‘Better get going. You know what the Fiscal’s like before a big one.’ He downed the last of his tea in one. ‘Drinks after?’

      ‘You better believe it.’ A grin split across Biohazard Bob’s face, all teeth and chubby cheeks. ‘Steel’s even put fifty quid in the kitty.’

      ‘About time.’ Logan stuck his old notebooks in his fleece pockets. ‘Right, better get going.’

      A wink. ‘It’s a shoo-in.’ Then he screwed up one side of his face and leaned to the left. A high-pitched squeak. Then a grin. ‘For luck, like.’

      The smell was like being battered about the head with a mouldy badger. Logan backed off, eyes stinging. Waving a hand in front of his face. ‘God … What have you been eating?’

      The grin got bigger. ‘Oh yeah, Stirling’s going down.’

       13

      The sound of murmured voices oozed out from the Witness Room. Logan tucked his peaked cap under one arm and pulled out his mobile. Headed through the doors to the stairwell, selecting Deano’s number from the contacts as he climbed up to the next landing. Leaned against the windowsill as the phone rang. Outside, Marischal Street’s granite terrace reached away down the hill, took a break for the bridge over the dual carriageway, then finished up at the harbour. Three storeys of grey stone, flecks of mica glittering in the sunshine. Rooftop dormers mirroring back the glare. A supply vessel loomed at the bottom of the road, its yellow-and-black hull streaked with lines of rust.

      Probably start off in Blackfriars after the trial. Couple of pints, then across the road to Archies for pie-and-chips and more beer. Then on to the Illicit Still. The Prince of Wales. Ma Cameron’s … All the old haunts. Maybe even—

       ‘Hello?’

      ‘Deano? Logan. Yeah, thanks, barbecue sounds good.’

       ‘Cool. Janet and Tufty are coming too. Got a box of ribeyes big as your head.’

      ‘We’re on for the warrant tomorrow. Got the extra bodies.’

       ‘Even better. Be good to finally get Gerbil and that idiot Klingon banged up.’

      ‘Can you get the team to keep an eye on the place tonight? Probably peeing in the wind, but I don’t want them cutting their shipment up and wheeching it out till we’ve had a chance to dunt their door in. Keep it low-key though.’

       ‘Will do.’

      ‘You need me to bring something on Thursday?’

      ‘Potato salad? Coleslaw? Something like that. Aye, and not from a tub: homemade. Oops, got to go – don’t want to burn my cornbread.’

      Logan almost had his phone back in his pocket when it blared out its generic ringtone. ‘Sod …’ He pulled it out. Unknown number. Hit the button. ‘Logan McRae.’

      Silence.

      ‘Hello?’

      A thin, nervous voice filled his ear. ‘Is this … is this Sergeant McRae? You saved my mum’s life last night.’

      Frown. He did? ‘Oh, Mrs Bairden.’ The old woman in the bath.

      A heavy-set man in a black robe, white bow tie and wing collar, appeared through the door on the next landing down. Scanned the stairs down to the floor below, then looked up at Logan. Small ears and small nose, eyes hidden in folds of drooping grey. The Macer checked the clipboard in his hand. ‘Sergeant McRae?’

      Logan nodded, held a hand up. Back to the phone: ‘Is she OK?’

      ‘The doctors say she had a stroke. If you hadn’t got to her …’ Pause. ‘Thank you.’

      Warmth spread through his chest, like a sip of malt whisky. ‘Glad I could help.’

      ‘Sergeant McRae, they’re ready for you.’ A frown. ‘And you shouldn’t be using your mobile phone in here.’

       ‘Really, really thank you …’

      ‘It was my pleasure. Wish her well for me.’

      ‘Sergeant McRae, I must insist—’

      ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go. I’m in court today.’

       ‘Yes, yes, of course. Thank you …’

      When she’d hung up, he smiled. Switched off his phone and slipped it back into his pocket. Put his peaked cap on his head and marched downstairs to where the Macer was waiting. Patted him on the shoulder. ‘You know, some days, I remember why I joined the police.’

      The courtroom didn’t look anything like the ones on the TV. It was bright and modern, with pale varnished wood and cream-coloured walls. Long and narrow, divided in half by a waist-high partition. A cross-section of Aberdonians had squeezed themselves into the rows of public seating, faces shining in the warm room. The table for the press was packed with hunched men in sweat-ringed shirts, tapping away into laptops or scribbling into notepads.

      In the middle of the partition, an eight-foot-high screen of bullet-proof glass wrapped around three sides of the defendant’s box. Graham Stirling sat flanked by two huge G4S guards. He’d dropped the blue sundress for a sombre suit – his hair longer than it had been, curling around his ears. Looking more like an accountant than a manipulative, vicious, sexual predator. He turned his head, avoiding Logan’s eyes.

      Should think so too.

      A large oval wooden table took up most of the space on this side of the partition. Prosecution team on one side: an Advocate Depute and his junior in their black robes, suits, and ties; and sitting next to them, the Procurator Fiscal in grey pinstripe with matching hair and military moustache. The defence team sat