The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

But Tufty …

      God’s sake. It was like having a five-year-old. Three assaults, two burglaries, and a purse-snatching, all needing following up.

      He clicked on the first assault, wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder, and battered a remark into the system, fingers sparking across the keyboard.

      Follow this up ASAP – this action has been open too long. I want it updated!

      Finally, someone picked up in Fraserburgh and a rough male voice echoed out of the phone: ‘Billy Broch’s House of Horrors, how may I direct your call?’

      ‘Sergeant Smith, is that any way to answer the station telephone?’

       ‘Knew it was you by the number. What’s this I hear about you and your numpties turning up a body?’

      ‘Dead child.’

       ‘Aw, no … Sorry. No one said.’

      ‘What are you and your hired thugs up to the night?’

       ‘They inflict you with an MIT yet?’

      More footsteps, stomping overhead. ‘They’ve commandeered most of upstairs. And the night shift. Can you get a couple of bodies down Fraserburgh harbour? I need a door-to-door on the boats – looking for any intel you can get on Charles “Craggie” Anderson. Went missing a week ago. No sign of him or the Copper-Tun Wanderer.’

       ‘You coming to see our cashline-machine-shaped hole later?’

      ‘Planning on it. Anything else?’

      The sound of air being sucked between teeth. ‘Let’s see. New today: two potential bail violations, three domestics, couple of complaints about that traveller camp outside Rosehearty, handful of break-ins, and we’re looking for a druggie who’s been snatching handbags. Otherwise it’s same old, same old. What about your drugs raid? You still needing Constable King-Kong McMahon?’

      ‘On hold. Going to try again Wednesday, if they let me.’

      A knock on the door. A muffled voice: ‘Sarge?’

      ‘Come in, Tufty. Got to go, Bill. Try and behave till I get there, OK?’

       ‘No promises.’

      Logan hung up as Constable Quirrel sidled into the room. ‘Well?’

      He glanced back over his shoulder like a really bad sneak thief. Dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Tenses in the cellblock.’

      ‘Old one or the new one?’

      ‘Ah …’ A grimace. ‘Forgot to ask.’

      ‘… and don’t get me started on that prick Dawson!’ Nicholson paced the scuffed grey floor, her hands jabbing out at random angles as she went. She marched straight through one of the two open, thick, blue metal doors and into the darkened cell beyond. Turned and stamped back into the room again. ‘Do you know what he said to me? Do you?’

      The new cellblock was a low-ceilinged room that smelled of lemon-scented cleaner and flaky pastry. The cells empty and immaculate, barely used since they were installed a decade ago, but still kitted out with their thin plastic mattresses and stainless-steel toilets. Waiting for the day when they had enough staff to open it up again. As if that was ever going to happen.

      Logan leaned against the door through to the garage, Deano the one through to the older part of the building while Tufty handed out the pastries. ‘No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell us.’

      ‘He said—’

      ‘On second thoughts, don’t.’ Logan pointed at the office chair behind the custody desk. ‘Sit. Deep breaths. And calm down.’

      ‘But, Sarge, he—’

      ‘Down. Arse in chair. Now.’

      Whatever she said under her breath, it probably wasn’t polite, but she thumped down in the chair and folded her arms.

      ‘Thank you.’ Logan helped himself to a bite of maple pecan twist. Talking with his mouth full. ‘For better, or worse, we’re lumbered with these guys. Some of them will be tossers, some of them won’t. But I don’t want any of you lowering yourselves to that level, am I understood?’

      Pink bloomed across Nicholson’s cheeks. She stared at her boots.

      Deano sighed. ‘She’s only letting off steam.’

      ‘I don’t care. And that goes for all of you. We are a professional modern police force. I will not have you letting B Division down by acting like sulky children.’

      The response was a barely audible, ‘Yes, Sarge,’ from Nicholson. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

      Logan nodded. Had a sip of tea. Hot and milky. ‘Now that we’re all calm and grown-up again, what did he say?’

      ‘Sexist scumbag thought I was going to make the tea for them!’ Nicholson ripped a bite out of her apple turnover, getting flakes of pastry all down the front of her black T-shirt.

      Tufty handed her a mug. ‘What did you do?’

      ‘Smiled sweetly and said, “Yes, Guv.”’ Her shoulders dipped. ‘What was I supposed to do? Kick off in the canteen?’

      Logan nodded back towards the older part of the building, where the main office was. ‘You want me to have a word?’

      She grimaced. ‘Think that’s going to help me get into CID? Constable Janet Nicholson, chippy feminist?’

      ‘Maybe not.’ But that didn’t mean they were going to get away with it. Logan took another bite of pastry. ‘I’m off to Fraserburgh after. Might do Peterhead too, depends if anything comes up.’ He pointed at Deano. ‘You and Tufty keep hitting the harbours. Janet, take the other car and drift by Alex Williams’s place every half-hour. Can’t stop the two of them getting back together, but we can let Alex know we’re watching.’

      A nod. ‘Sarge.’

      ‘When you’re not there, do a general sweep of the area. Everyone needs to remember that we’re the ones keeping the peace here, not some MIT bunch of bum-weasels.’

      The patrol car slid into New Pitsligo, the grey buildings and grey streets washed with amber streetlight. Going the long way round to Fraserburgh. Taking a detour through the wee town’s side streets. Peering into front and back gardens. Doing exactly the same thing he’d told Nicholson to do. Being seen. Flying the flag for community policing. Letting people know he was out there.

      Singing along to whatever tune popped into his head as the car radio crackled and bleeped with snippets from the investigation going on at Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool. Fingertip search of a cliff, by torchlight. Someone was off their rocker.

      And still no sign of anything turning up.

      Back onto the A950. Then a left onto the Strichen road. Blackened fields. Clumps of trees looming from the shadows. Stars like tiny LEDs sprinkled across treacle. The moon a ball of darkness with a faint sliver of white on one edge. A flock of sheep, their eyes shining like vampires’ in the headlights.

      His Airwave bleeped, cutting off a spirited rendition of the Birds Eye Steakhouse Grills advert: ‘Hope it’s chips, it’s chips …’ He took one hand off the wheel and clicked the button. ‘Go ahead, safe to talk.’

       ‘Sarge, it’s Janet. Been past Alex Williams’s – they’re both sitting in the lounge, watching the TV. You’d think butter wouldn’t melt. I mean, after what Williams did …’

      ‘I know. Keep an eye out. I’m winning that bet – no one dies.’

       ‘See if someone tried to do that to me? I’d have their kneecaps off.’

      ‘No one gets