The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

behind the defence, facing the witness stand, flanked by flat-screen TVs. Another two huge screens on opposite walls to display evidence on.

      No mahogany. No Victorian pseudo-gothic twiddly bits. No smell of antique cigarettes seeping out of threadbare carpet tiles. The only nod to antiquity was the carved coat of arms hanging over the Judge’s seat and the mace mounted on the wall beside it.

      Well, that and the Judge’s outfit.

      She straightened her white robe – stained a mild shade of pink, presumably because of the two big red crosses on the front of it and a washing machine on too hot a cycle. Her short white wig sat on top of her long grey hair. A pair of severe glasses perched on the bridge of her long thin nose. One hand stroking the tip of her pointy chin, watching as Logan took the stand.

      The Macer waited until Logan was in place, before turning to the Judge. ‘M’Lady, we have witness number six, Sergeant Logan McRae.’

      ‘I see.’ She stood, held up her right hand. ‘Sergeant McRae, repeat after me: I swear by Almighty God, that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.’

      ‘So, Sergeant McRae,’ Sandy Moir-Farquharson took off his glasses and polished them on the hem of his black robe, ‘are you seriously expecting the jury to believe it was a coincidence that you happened to be in Cults that evening?’ He slipped his glasses back on and smiled. It emphasized the twist in his nose. Grey hair swept back from the temples, the bald spot at the top covered by the short white wig. A suit that probably cost more than Logan made in six months peeking out between the front of his robes.

      Logan pulled his shoulders back. ‘That’s not what I’m saying at all. Graham Stirling was there, attempting to acquire a second victim, so—’

      ‘Objection.’ He turned a smile on the Judge. ‘Milady, the witness is indulging in supposition.’

      A nod. ‘Sustained.’ The Judge peered down at the witness stand. ‘Sergeant McRae, please restrict yourself to the facts.’

      ‘I am, Milady. Graham Stirling was placing anonymous personal ads in the Aberdeen Examiner, looking for men interested in having a sexual liaison with a pre-operative transsexual. On the advice of our forensic psychologist, we responded to one of them and arranged to meet—’

      ‘We’ll get to that, Sergeant.’ Moir-Farquharson checked his notes. Probably just for show. The slimy little sod would have all this memorized. ‘Now, you claimed in your statement that you’d given chase through the back gardens of Hillview Drive, because there was, and I quote, “Something suspicious about the figure in the blue sundress.” Is that right? In what way suspicious?’

      ‘… and did anyone else hear this alleged confession, Sergeant?’

      The clock mounted on the wall ticked away to itself.

      Motes of dust hung in the light streaming in through the windows.

      ‘Sergeant?’

      Logan flicked over a couple of pages in his old notebook. ‘Graham Stirling said, “Stephen Bisset is dying in the dark and there is nothing you can do about it.”’

      Moir-Farquharson shook his head. ‘No, Sergeant, I didn’t ask you what you claim to have heard, I asked if anyone could corroborate it.’

      Tick. Tick. Tick …

      ‘We were alone in the garden at that point, but—’

      ‘I thought not.’ The smile was wide and white. Good dental work. Couldn’t even see where most of his teeth had been kicked out. ‘So, you assaulted Graham Stirling: headbutting him and breaking his nose. Tried to break his wrist, and then miraculously got this confession that no one else heard.’

      The prosecution’s Advocate Depute was on his feet. One arm jabbed out at his learned colleague. ‘Objection!’ Long grey curls swept back from a high forehead and pinched face. Voice a booming Morningside: ‘Sergeant McRae applied reasonable force in restraining a suspect who was vigorously resisting arrest. To paint this as some sort of confession obtained by torture is disingenuous, to say the least.’

      Moir-Farquharson held up a hand. ‘My apologies, Milady. No such implication was intended.’

      ‘Uncorroborated confessions seem to be something of a trademark of your evidence, don’t they, Sergeant? I refer, of course, to the one allegedly obtained by yourself in the back of the unmarked police car.’

      Tick. Tick. Tick …

      Logan straightened his police-issue T-shirt. ‘Graham Stirling insisted my colleagues leave the car before he would talk.’

      ‘So no corroboration.’

      ‘We believed, correctly, that there was a clear and imminent danger to Stephen Bisset’s life. It was important to—’

      ‘Your statement claims you were told,’ he held up a sheath of paper and peered at it over the top of his glasses, ‘“You will never find the shack without me, it is not on any maps. By the time you find him, Stephen Bisset will be dead.” Is that correct?’

      ‘It is.’

      ‘How very convenient …’

      ‘Tell me, Sergeant McRae, is it normal Police Scotland practice to deny a suspect access to a solicitor on their arrest?’

      God’s sake …

      ‘These were unusual circumstances, Stephen Bisset was seriously injured and dying—’

      ‘You have heard of Cadder versus HM Advocate, haven’t you, Sergeant? Do you make a habit of contravening your suspects’ human rights?’

      Tick. Tick. Tick …

      ‘Sergeant?’

      ‘We didn’t … I took the decision that, given the time constraints, it was more important to save Stephen Bisset’s life!’

      ‘I see.’ Moir-Farquharson turned to the jury. ‘So, yet again, ladies and gentlemen, Sergeant McRae decided to ignore procedure, bend the rules, and cut another corner.’

      ‘To recap: once more, we have only your word for it, Sergeant?’

      Deep breaths. Calm.

      Logan stared straight ahead. ‘Graham Stirling refused to show me where the shack was, unless DS Rennie and DS Marshall remained behind at the car. My choices were to go with him, or let Stephen Bisset die.’

      A sigh. A shake of the head. Then a turn to the jury. ‘Bending the rules, yet again.’

      ‘I had no choice! And he knew the combination to the padlock, he—’

      ‘You make a disturbing habit of ignoring procedure, Sergeant McRae. How do we know that your sense of right and wrong isn’t similarly compromised? How far will you go to obtain a conviction?’

      ‘Objection!’

      ‘I put it to you, Sergeant McRae, that you nominated Graham Stirling as being responsible for Stephen Bisset’s disappearance and manufactured the circumstances and evidence to fit.’

      ‘That’s not true. We found evidence that Stephen Bisset had responded to Stirling’s personal ad, seeking sex with what he believed to be a pre-operative transsexual and—’

      ‘LIAR!’ A young man was on his feet in the public seating area. Shoulder-length black hair, black tie, a shirt that still had the creases from where it had been folded in the packet. Thin face flushed and swollen around the eyes. Spit glowing in the sunlight. ‘YOU’RE A LIAR! MY DAD WOULDN’T DO THAT!’

      The Sheriff cracked her gavel against her desk, three sharp raps. ‘Mr Bisset, I won’t tell you again. While the court is sympathetic to your distress, it—’

      ‘YOU’RE A LIAR!’

      The