The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

and a brand new iPhone too.’ Nicholson wiggled it at Logan. ‘When I was on the dole it was a red-letter day if I could afford to buy chips and pants the same week. Now it’s all smartphones and perfume.’ Back to their new friend. ‘Let me guess: you found it?’

      Kirstin’s head fell back so she was staring up at the warm blue sky. A breath hissed out. Her knees sagged an inch or two. ‘What do you want?’

      ‘World peace for me. Sarge?’

      Logan frowned. ‘I’m partial to Maltesers, myself.’

      ‘Look, I’ve got a little girl. Amy. She’s three, I swear on her life I never nicked nothing.’

      ‘Really? Then how come you match the description of the woman who pilfered a heap of perfume and makeup from Fisher’s the Chemists? And how come your handbag’s full of the stuff that got robbed?’

      ‘Told you, I found it.’ She stuck her hand out. ‘Now can I get me bag back?’

      ‘Sarge?’

      Logan let go of the thin pale arm. ‘Police Scotland thanks you for your cooperation, and for handing in the items you “found”. Very public spirited. We’ll try to return them to their rightful owners.’ He scribbled out another receipt. ‘Now, we’ve got to make a quick stop at the station – prior engagement – but after that, why don’t we all pop over to yours and see if we can’t turn up anything else you’ve “found” recently? Voluntarily.’

      Kirstin’s head drooped back again. ‘Sodding hell …’

       6

      Kirstin scowled up at him from the bench in Interview Room Two. Both hands in front of her, fingers knotting and twisting, while Nicholson leaned back against the wall behind her.

      The vertical blinds were closed, but the light was still painfully bright in the small room. The panic strip all shiny and unused. A creased chunk of flip-chart paper was pinned to one wall. Far more chairs than would ever be needed in an interview cluttered the grey carpet.

      Logan gave Kirstin a smile, then slipped out and closed the door behind him.

      Into the front hall, with its elaborate beige, brown, blue, and white tiles. They didn’t really go with the walls – white to the waist-high rail, then pastel blue above. The Response Level sign was just visible through the open door to the stairwell. Apparently, today’s terrorism threat level was ‘FABULOUS!’ in big block capitals.

      Bloody day shift …

      Logan replaced it with the official ‘MODERATE’ then punched his access code into the keypad to get through to the main office.

      It was all scuffed blue carpet tiles, magnolia walls, boxy plastic ducting, and slightly grubby ceiling tiles. Two desks, back-to-back, corralled in by blue fuzzy cubicle walls. Another barricade of the same blue fuzz separating the front desk – little more than a wide shelf with a roller shutter above it – from the reception area.

      Maggie had one of the small square locker doors open, so she could fiddle an Airwave handset into its charger. A tall woman in black trousers, shiny shoes and a pink silk blouse. Grey hair pulled back in a ponytail. Sharp, bird-like features. She twitched her head towards the front desk’s barricade, with its covering of posters and notices. ‘Where have you been?’

      ‘Saving society from a one-woman shoplifting crime-spree.’ He clunked open the filing cabinet in the corner and rifled through it. ‘Any messages?’

      ‘That horrible Detective Chief Inspector Steel called. Then Nelson Street: they say you can’t have the Big Car back till tomorrow—’

      ‘You’re kidding. Sick of not having a car with a proper radio in it.’

      ‘Well, you’ll have to sing along with yourself then, won’t you. They need to put in a whole new CCTV system.’

      ‘Again?’

      ‘Take it up with Sergeant Muir. I’m not the one who left Stinky Sammy Wilson unsupervised in the back. Oh, and Louise from Sunny Glen was on the phone an hour ago.’

      Logan froze, one hand on the thick manila folder marked ‘B DIVISION ~ STAFF APPRAISALS’. He cleared his throat. ‘Something wrong?’

      ‘Oh, no, nothing bad. She wants to talk to you about changing your girlfriend’s medication, that’s all.’ Maggie picked a couple of yellow Post-its from her desk and held them out. ‘Here you go.’

      So it wasn’t an emergency. Nothing bad had happened. The breath huffed out of him, leaving a metallic taste behind. As if he’d been sucking on copper wire. ‘Thanks, Maggie.’ He took the proffered Post-its. ‘Any chance you could order up some more Biros? Hector’s nicked all mine again.’

      ‘Hmmph.’ A small selection of today’s papers were draped over the partition of her cubicle. The Press and Journal had ‘STORMS BATTER NORTHEAST COAST’ in big letters across the front page and a photo of waves crashing over the harbour wall in Peterhead. Aberdeen Examiner – ‘WOODLAND RIPPER TRIAL OPENS’ stretched above a photo of Graham Stirling grinning away at a party somewhere. And the Daily Mail had gone for, ‘DRIVE-BY SHOOTING KILLERS ON THE RUN’ with a picture of a bus stop and blurry figures sealed off behind a line of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape. ‘LIVERPOOL POLICE LAUNCH NATIONWIDE MANHUNT FOR GANGLAND MURDERERS.’

      Maggie grabbed the Aberdeen Examiner and slipped it under her arm. ‘Right. I’d better get on. Bill’s stovies won’t make themselves.’ She pulled on a multi-coloured hiking jacket and picked up her bag. ‘Don’t forget to put in a good word for my extra five percent.’ She disappeared out the door to the tradesman’s entrance, humming what sounded like ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’.

      Took all sorts.

      And five percent? What planet did she beam down from? Lucky if she got three quid and a box of staples.

      He grabbed the appraisals folder, clanged the filing-cabinet drawer shut, then flicked through the Post-its. Groaned when he got to the one about Steel.

      ‘CALL DCI STEEL ABOUT GRAHAM STIRLING ~ URGENT.’

      Brilliant.

      He pulled out his phone and selected her name from the contacts list. Listened to it ring.

      Steel’s gravelly voice rasped in his ear. ‘About time. You all prepped for your testimony tomorrow? Cause if you’re no’, I’ll—’

      ‘Yes, I’m all prepped. It’s fine.’ He settled his bum against the photocopier.

       ‘Better be. Last thing we need is Graham Stirling back on the streets. You see what the press are calling him now? The—’

      ‘The Woodland Ripper. I know. It’s fine. Open-and-shut case. Graham Stirling isn’t going anywhere but jail for the next sixteen to life.’

      ‘Good.’ There was a sooking noise, then she was back. ‘Susan says are you remembering Jasmine has a dance competition Saturday? ’Cos you’re going whether you like it or not.’

      ‘Saturday?’

       ‘There an echo in here? Aye, Saturday. She’s been lolloping about the house for weeks, driving me and her mum mad. Don’t see why we should be the only ones to suffer.’

      ‘What time?’

      ‘Half twelve. I’ve got you down for a pair of tickets. That’s twelve quid you owe me. And before you ask: you’re no’ taking your mother.’

      As if.

      Logan’s shoulders dipped. ‘I can’t make half twelve. Saturday’s dayshift – won’t get off till three.’ He pushed through the