The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

because that was the last place a burglar would look.

      He pinned the phone between ear and shoulder, picked the key up and slipped it into the back-door lock. ‘It’s OK, I’m letting myself in now.’

      The kitchen was in darkness. ‘Mrs Bairden? Hello?’

      Silence.

       ‘Oh my God, she’s dead, isn’t she?’

      ‘Mrs Bairden? It’s the police, are you OK?’ He clicked on the light. Yellow and blue tiles on the walls, grey faux-marble worktop, white units.

      Through into the hall. Click. Photos on the walls, leading up the stairs: an overweight little girl playing with a big hairy dog, the same girl in school uniform with missing front teeth, then getting older, married, looking more tired and more worn down as she aged.

       ‘Why did I have to come to Edinburgh …?’

      ‘Mrs Bairden? Hello?’

      Up to the landing.

      Light seeped out under the bathroom door, the drone of an extractor fan, muffled by the door.

      Logan knocked. ‘Mrs Bairden? Are you in there?’

      He tried the handle. Locked.

       ‘I’m so stupid …’

      Another knock. ‘Mrs Bairden?’ He stuck his ear against the door. Was that a voice? Barely audible under the extractor fan’s incessant buzz. ‘Mrs Bairden, I’m coming in.’

      Logan pulled a handful of change from his trouser pocket. Took a two-pence piece and slotted the edge of it into the little twiddly thing beneath the handle. Twisted it left till the lock went clack.

      The door swung open, revealing a small bathroom clarted in pink floral tiles. A salmon-coloured suite. And a very pale old lady – naked in the bathtub, surrounded by filthy water. Thin grey hair. Sunken cheeks. One shoulder hunched. The left side of her mouth drooping.

      Logan stuck the mobile phone on mute. Popped it on the pink cistern, next to the Spanish flamenco-dancer toilet-roll cosy. And knelt beside the bath. Put two fingers against Mrs Bairden’s neck.

      Then grabbed his Airwave and called for an ambulance.

       ‘… join us after the break when Josie and Marshal have to decide who’s—’

      Logan poked the remote and the voice-over idiot on the TV was replaced by canned laughter on some mediocre sitcom.

      The Fraserburgh station canteen was empty, except for him and the furniture. The blinds on the round window pulled tight, jaundiced light seeping through from the street outside.

      His cheapo lentil soup wasn’t too bad with a good slug of chilli sauce – pilfered from the back of the cupboard. The bottle had ‘ERIN’S ~ HANDS OFF YOU THIEVING SODS!’ printed across it in angry black Sharpie letters. As if that was going to do any good.

      Leave food lying about in a police station and you deserved everything you got.

      A bleep from his Airwave. ‘Anyone in the vicinity of Cruden Bay, we’ve got reports of an IC-One male threatening to commit suicide …’

      He ripped a chunk off the slice of toast and dipped it in the soup. Butter made round shiny slicks on the surface.

      A dog-eared copy of the Aberdeen Examiner lay open on the table in front of him. Big two-page spread about the first day of Graham Stirling’s trial. ‘FAMILY’S AGONY OVER “SICK CLAIMS”’ and a big photo of Stephen Bisset, taken before Stirling got his hands on him. A smiling, unremarkable man, in a blue jumper and white shirt. Side parting and a cheesy grin. Holding a baby in his arms. His teenaged kids stood at his shoulders, with matching eyes, smiles, and long black hair: ‘HAPPY FAMILIES: LEFT TO RIGHT DAVID (17), STEPHEN (41), BABY DAVINA (3 MONTHS), AND CATHERINE (14)’.

      Logan flipped the page to an opinion piece about a woman who’d scalded her husband with chip fat. Had another dunk of toast in his soup. Scanned an article about the drive-by execution of three gang members down in Liverpool. Another about a member of the Scottish Parliament caught thrashing out a ‘private member’s bill’ in the women’s toilets after hours.

      His Airwave bleeped, then DCI Steel’s gravelly tones ground out of the speaker. ‘Laz? Where the hell are you?’

      Great – couldn’t even eat his cheapo soup in peace.

      He thumbed the button. ‘Busy. What do you want?’

       ‘How come I can’t find anything in this warren you call a police station? Where are the marker pens?’

      A spoonful of lumpy lentil. ‘Hector nicks them all.’

       ‘Who the hell is Hector? I’ll kick his bum for him.’

      ‘Too late for that: he died years ago.’

       ‘Hilarious. Where’s the damn pens?’

      ‘And now he haunts the corridors of Banff station, terrifying probationers and anyone foolish enough to venture upstairs after dark … Wooo-oooo-ooohhhh-ooo!’

      Silence.

      He crunched on a mouthful of toast.

       ‘You finished?’

      ‘What? Not my fault. He’s the station ghost, and every time a pen goes missing, it’s Hector’s fault. Try the old VIPER room on the top floor, next to the shower room. There’s usually a box up there.’

       ‘When you getting back? I need to go round all the registered stots, fiddlers, nonces, and paedos in the area.’

      ‘So? You’ve got every spare body in the northeast: go visiting. Knock yourself out.’

      ‘Need me some local knowledge.’

      ‘Your team—’

       ‘Are a bunch of numpties. Wouldn’t trust them to interview their bums for love bites. So …?’

      More soup. ‘Depends if I get free later. I’ll let you know.’ Ha, no chance. ‘Got to go.’

      Another dollop of stolen hot sauce. Definitely improved the taste.

      The door opened behind him. ‘Sarge.’

      He looked back over his shoulder and gave a one-spoon salute. ‘Syd. How’s the menagerie?’

      A shrug. ‘Enzo’s OK, but Lusso bit Dino. Right on the bum.’ Constable Fraser’s black, police-issue fleece was frayed around the collar and sleeves, the thick leather dog lead draped across his shoulders and clipped together behind his back. Like BDSM braces. Black-and-white checked ‘POLICE’ baseball hat on his head, the brim worn and hairy on one side. The less than subtle waft of Eau de Labrador. ‘Don’t know what he’d been doing, but he probably deserved it.’

      Logan stared at him. ‘Your dog bit Deano? He bit Constable Scott? When did this happen?’

      ‘What?’ Syd curled his top lip, pulled his chin back into his neck. Then the frown slipped from his face. ‘Ah, OK, no, not Deano, Dino. D.I.N.O. My Alsatian. He likes to wind the other two up.’

      Thank God for that. Logan hissed out the breath he’d been holding. The paperwork would’ve been horrendous.

      Syd clumped over to the kitchen that took up one corner of the large room. Stuck a Tupperware box in the microwave and set it humming.

       ‘I need a car over to Market Street, Macduff. Reports of an elderly woman in distress wandering the street.’

      Nicholson’s