The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

belt never gave him this much gyp. ‘Still don’t see why you want to join.’ Crunch, crunch, crunch. ‘Polo?’ Wiggling the pack at her.

      Past the junction and the road widened out into Castle Street with its much grander houses. Nicholson waved at an old woman having a sneaky fag outside the Castle Bar. ‘Come on, Sarge, you were CID for years. You know why.’

      Logan popped another Polo. ‘Yeah, in the old days, maybe. Now they hive off all the interesting bits of the job and give them to specialist groups. If you’re not on the Major Investigation Team you’re not going to catch a murder.’ He counted each one off on his fingers. ‘Then there’s Rape Teams, Violence-Reduction Teams, Domestic Abuse Teams, Drugs Teams, Housebreaking Teams, blah, blah, blah teams.’ A shrug. ‘All that’s left for CID is the boring crap no one else wants to do.’

      Right, onto Seafield Street. Climbing again, Banff Bay glinting in the rear-view mirror. The sky above, saltire blue. Unblemished by clouds or airplane-trail scars.

      ‘Didn’t stop you catching Graham Stirling, did it?’

      True.

      Logan smiled. ‘Forget CID, Janet. Divisional policing – that’s where all the cool kids are.’

      Her shoulders slumped a bit.

      The houses on the right were huge. He turned his head to watch them drift by. ‘How much do you think one of those cost?’ All fancy granite with cornices and bay windows and those raised blocks around the doors, windows, and gable ends. Grey slate roofs and manicured gardens. The occasional gnome.

      Nicholson sighed. ‘More than we’ll ever make.’

      ‘Don’t get me wrong, the Sergeant’s Hoose will be nice when it’s finished, but I’m tired of living out of boxes.’

      A call crackled out of the car’s radio. ‘Control to Bravo India, hello?’

      ‘Aye, aye.’ Logan turned the volume up. ‘Must be something big if they’re bothering the boss.’

      ‘Come on, Sarge, I don’t want to be one of those cops who spends their whole career in one place. Got a glass ceiling to shatter.’

      A woman’s voice came through the speakers, deep and smooth: ‘Bravo India to Control, safe to talk.’

      ‘Aye, ma’am, we’ve got another Cashline machine gone walkabout. Owner says they got aboot twenty-seven grand of stock as well. Broch Braw Buys, on Gallowhill Road, Fraserburgh.’

      Not another one.

      ‘Twenty-seven thousand pounds? Who’s he trying to kid?’

       ‘So he says, like.’

      ‘Sarge?’

      Past the bowling green, and the houses got a lot more councily. Semidetached with streaked harling walls and rusting satellite dishes.

       ‘Probably swinging for a hefty insurance claim. Get the scene secured and I’ll be there soon as I can …’

      Logan turned the radio down again. Have to pop past Broch Braw Buys later and see what was going on. But with any luck it’d be someone else’s problem by then.

      ‘Sarge, are you—’

      ‘How about this: I’m off to court tomorrow for the trial. You want to be in charge while I’m gone? I mean, you couldn’t be Duty Sergeant, but you could run the team.’

      Nicholson chewed on the inside of her cheek.

      ‘It’ll look good on your CV. You can start doing some of the briefings too. It all helps.’

      ‘Deal.’ She leaned forward, squinting against the sunshine at the cars droning towards them. ‘That boy on his mobile phone?’

      Logan shielded his eyes. ‘The ugly one in the blue Fiesta?’

      The Fiesta rumbled past, followed by three other vehicles. Then a tiny gap … Then a Passat.

      Nicholson’s finger jabbed one of the buttons mounted in the middle of the dashboard and the unit’s blues flickered into life. Another button and a short siren woop blared out.

      The Passat’s driver slammed the brakes on, slithering to a halt about six feet away. An auld mannie goggled out at them, hands curled into fists around the steering wheel, tartan bunnet all squint on his head.

      She gave him a nod, then pulled a U-turn. Put her foot down. The acceleration pushed Logan into his seat. Added its weight to the stabproof vest’s crushing fist.

      Cars parted before them, clearing the way through to the blue Fiesta with the ugly driver. The thing was shiny and polished, like new. Nicholson wheeched up right behind it and tapped the horn. The siren changed tone. Insistent. Demanding.

      Mr Ugly glanced back at them, his face a curdled mess through the rear window. A pause … then he pulled in to the kerb.

      Nicholson parked behind him. She fiddled with the Airwave clipped to the front of her vest. ‘Control, I need a PNC check on a blue Fiesta.’

      Logan reached into the back of the patrol car for his hat and climbed out into the sunshine. Shook one leg like a dog getting its belly scratched. Bloody police-issue trousers were made of burning ants and sandpaper. He did a slow walk around the Fiesta to the driver’s window. Rapped his knuckles on the glass.

      It buzzed down and Mr Ugly glared up at him. ‘What?’ The word came out like a gob of phlegm from a crooked mouth full of crooked teeth. Definitely a Birmingham accent. Thick eyebrows, broad face, dimpled chin, a spattering of angry red spots along the line of his jaw.

      OK. Going to be one of those.

      Logan unhooked the elastic band holding his body-worn video shut and slipped the front down, setting it recording. ‘You do know it’s an offence to use your mobile phone while driving, don’t you, sir?’

      A scowl. ‘I wasn’t using no mobile.’

      ‘We saw you, sir.’

      He faced the front again. Worked his jaw, making the fault line of spots ripple. A couple of volcanoes in the chain ready to blow. ‘Prove it.’

      ‘Name?’

      Silence. More tectonic activity. Then, ‘Martyn Baker, with a “Y”. Sixteenth December, Nineteen Ninety-Three. Thirty-eight Dresden Road, Sparkbrook. Birmingham.’

      Name, date of birth, and address. The crook’s version of name, rank, and serial number. Just like that. No stranger to giving his details to the police, then. Logan printed it all down in his notebook. ‘Stay in the vehicle, sir.’ Then around to the boot of the car and onto Control for a background check.

      Nicholson pulled on her peaked cap and sauntered over, thumbs tucked into the armholes of her stabproof, like Rumpole of the Bailey. She jerked her chin up. ‘Sarge? Car’s registered to a Martyn Baker—’

      ‘Nineteen Ninety-Three, thirty-eight Dresden Road, Birmingham?’

      ‘That’s him. AKA Paul Butcher, AKA Dave Brooks. Got a sheet two miles long: housebreaking, aggravated assault, possession of a Class A, possession with intent, beat the crap out of his girlfriend and his mum … Bit of a charmer, by all accounts.’

      ‘Certainly failed the attitude test.’ Logan looked back at the car. Baker’s narrowed eyes were right there in the rear-view mirror. Staring at them. ‘Any outstanding warrants?’

      ‘Not so much as an overdue library book.’ She shifted from foot to foot. ‘You want to do him for the phone?’

      ‘Denies it.’

      A snort. ‘Really? Law-abiding citizen like him?’

      The Airwave clipped to Logan’s chest bleeped four times: a point-to-point call. A quick glance and there was PC Scott’s shoulder