The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

sagging under the weight of snow. More falling from the sickly dark sky.

      Stirling’s feet clumped about in Rennie’s shoes, the scuffed black brogues and white socks looking huge beneath the torn sundress and laddered tights.

      Up the other side, through the ferns – brittle foliage wrapping around Logan’s trousers, leaving cold wet fingerprints. ‘Why him? Why Stephen Bisset?’

      ‘Why?’ A shrug. The torchlight glinted off the handcuffs’ metal bars, secured behind his back, fingers laced together as if they were taking a casual stroll along the beach. ‘Why not?’ A small sigh. ‘Because he was there.’

      Logan checked his watch. Fifteen minutes. Another five, and that was it: call this charade off. Call in a dog team. Get the helicopter up from Strathclyde with a thermal-imaging camera. Assuming Steel could pull enough rank to get them to fly this far north on a Friday night in January.

      They stumbled on between the silent trees. Fallen pine needles made ochre drifts between the snaking roots, the branches too thick to let the snow through.

      He stopped, pulled up his sleeve – exposing his watch again. ‘Time’s up. I’m not sodding about here any longer.’ He grabbed the plastic bar in the middle of the handcuffs and dragged Stirling to a halt. ‘This is a waste of time, isn’t it? You’re never going to show me where Stephen Bisset is. You want him dead so he can’t testify against you.’

      Stirling turned. Stared at Logan. Face lit from beneath by the torch, like someone telling a campfire horror story. Tilted his head to the left. ‘You see?’

      Logan stepped away. Swung the torch’s beam in an arc across the trees, raking the needle-strewn forest floor with darting shadows …

      A sagging wooden structure lurked between the trunks, in a space that barely counted as a clearing, partially hidden by a wall of skeletal brambles.

      Stirling’s voice dropped to a serrated-edged whisper. ‘He’s in there.’

      Another step. Then stop.

      Logan turned. Shone the torch right in Stirling’s face, making him flinch and shy back, eyes clamped shut. Then took out his handcuff key. ‘On your knees.’

      A thick stainless-steel padlock secured the shack’s door. It had four numerical tumblers built into the base, its hasp connecting a pair of heavy metal plates – one fixed to the door, the other to the surround. Both set up so the screw heads were inaccessible.

      Logan flicked the torch beam towards Stirling. ‘Combination?’

      He was still on his knees, both arms wrapped around the tree trunk, as if he was giving it a hug. Hands cuffed together on the other side. Cheek pressed hard against the bark. ‘One, seven, zero, seven.’

      The dials were stiff, awkward, but they turned after a bit of fiddling. Squeaking against Logan’s blue-nitrile-gloved fingertips. Clicking as they lined up into the right order. The hasp popped open and he slipped the padlock free of the metal plates. Slipped it into an evidence bag.

      Pushed the door.

      Almost as stiff as the padlock wheels, it creaked open and the stench of dirty bodies and blood and piss and shite collapsed over Logan. Making him step back.

      Deep breath.

      He stepped over the threshold. ‘Stephen? Stephen Bisset? It’s OK, you’re safe now; it’s the police.’

      Bloody hell – it was actually colder inside the shack.

      The torch picked out a stack of poles and saws and chains. Then a heap of logs and an old tarpaulin. Then a cast-iron stove missing its door. Then a pile of filthy blankets.

      ‘Stephen? Hello?’

      Logan reached out and picked one of the poles from the stack. Smooth and shiny from countless hands over countless years. A bill hook rattled on the end, the screws all loose and rusted. ‘Stephen? I’ve come to take you home.’

      He slipped the hook under the nearest blanket and lifted.

      Oh Christ …

      Outside. The cold air clawed at the sweat peppering his face. Deep breath.

      Logan rested his forehead against a tree, bark rough against his skin. The smell of pine nowhere near strong enough to wash away the shack’s corrupt stench.

      Don’t be sick.

      Be professional.

      Oh God …

      Deep breath.

      ‘I …’ His throat closed, strangling the words. Pressed his forehead into the bark so hard it stung. Tried again. ‘I should kick the living shit out of you.’

      Stirling’s voice oozed out from the darkness. ‘He’s beautiful, isn’t he?’

      The phone trembled in Logan’s hands as he dug it out and called Steel. ‘I’ve found Stephen Bisset.’

      There was a whoop from the other end. Then, ‘Laz, I could French you. Is he …?’

      ‘No.’ Though if he ever woke up, he’d probably wish he was. ‘I need an ambulance, and an SEB goon-squad, and a Crime Scene Manager, and someone to stop me stringing Graham Bloody Stirling up from the nearest tree.’

       3

      Big Tony Campbell slung his jacket over the back of his chair and slumped down. Aberdeen City’s Divisional Commander, the Big Boss, Arse-Kicker In Chief: a large man, with broad shoulders and hands to match. His bald head gleamed in the last rays of a dying sun, seeping across the rooftops of the city and into the office. The only hairs loyal enough to cling on above the neckline were his eyebrows – heavy, black, and bushy.

      He pointed to the seat on the other side of the polished wooden desk. ‘Sit.’ Then swivelled around and hunched down, giving Logan a perfect view of his shirt coming untucked from the waistband of his trousers. Exposing a swathe of thick dark fur.

      Logan settled into the nominated seat and stifled a yawn, covering it with his hand as Big Tony Campbell re-emerged with a bottle of Highland Park in one hand and two crystal tumblers in the other. They went on the desk.

      A healthy portion of whisky glugged into both glasses, then the Divisional Commander handed one over. ‘They tell me Stephen Bisset’s going to live.’

      Logan licked his teeth – rough and unbrushed. ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Might’ve been better if you’d arrived too late.’ His fingers hovered over the folder that sat in front of the computer. He didn’t touch the manila surface, as if it might be infectious. ‘Castrated, teeth ripped out, chest slashed open and “implants” forced inside, repeatedly raped … Never mind all the broken bones.’ The corners of his mouth curdled. ‘A non-elective sex change courtesy of Jack the Ripper. Still …’

      He raised his glass and Logan did the same. Clinking the two together, before taking a sip.

      Warmth slid all the way down into Logan’s belly, leaving smoky footprints behind.

      The Divisional Commander spun his seat around till it faced the window. Gazed out over his domain as darkness claimed it. Took another drink. ‘Your boss tells me you’re not really cut out to be an Acting Detective Inspector.’

      ‘Does she now?’ Backstabbing cow …

      Well, unless this was promotion time? Time to stop acting up and make the step for real. With the pay rise that went with it. OK, so he wouldn’t get overtime any more, but swings and roundabouts. Logan sat up straighter in his chair. ‘Actually, sir, I think she’s—’

      ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ the Divisional Commander held up a hand, ‘it’s not that you can’t