The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

beach.

      Bleep. ‘Anyone in the vicinity of Rosehearty? We’ve got a report of an assault ongoing outside the traveller camp …’

      Pause. Two. Three …

      Then someone caved. ‘Sergeant Smith to Control, on my way. Tell McMahon and Barrow to get their fingers out and join me there.’

      Past the aquarium – closed for refurbishment. A caravan sat in front of the temporary mesh fence encircling the oversized barnacle-shaped building, surrounded by orange traffic cones. A scruffy scarecrow in a filthy tracksuit sat on the caravan’s top step, smoking. Hand cupped around the cigarette, trying to hide its light from snipers.

      As if anyone would waste a bullet on Sammy Wilson.

      Logan pulled into the entrance, drifting slowly past the big red buoy that decorated the middle of the car park.

      His Airwave gave its point-to-point bleeps again, and DCI Steel’s voice growled out into the car. ‘How come you’ve no’ called me back yet?’

      ‘I’m busy.’ Logan slowed. Poked the button marked ‘LEFT ALLEY’ and a spotlight lanced out and caught Sammy Wilson full in the face.

      All bones and angles and taut sallow skin. Flecked with stubble, dirt and bruises.

      Sammy shrank back against the caravan, one arm up, covering his eyes.

      Logan wound down the window. ‘Evening, Sammy.’

      A wince. Then a sniff. And Sammy Wilson peered out from behind his grim sleeve. ‘Not doing nothing.’

      ‘Sure you’re not.’

       ‘Hoy! You still there?’

      ‘No. This is a recording. Leave a message after the beep.’ He let go of the talk button and pointed at the temporary fencing with its warning notices. ‘You’re not planning on doing something I’d disapprove of, are you, Sammy? Bit of breaking and entering, maybe? Wheeching bits of kit off the building site?’

      ‘Nah, I’d never. Nope. Not me. Not a thief and that.’

      Logan stared at him.

      He shrugged one shoulder. Stared down at his feet. ‘Suppose I could sod off.’

      ‘Probably for the best. Don’t want someone getting the wrong idea.’

      He hauled himself to his feet and scuffed away up Market Street, leaving a coil of cigarette smoke behind.

      ‘You can be a right dick, you know that, don’t you?’ Steel cleared her throat. ‘Anyway, it’s no’ like I’m asking for much: a wee hand to talk to your local sex offenders, that’s all.’

      ‘I’m not the one being a dick.’ He put the car in gear again, heading down Laing Street and along the front. ‘You’ve got the biggest team in the division. Use it.’

       ‘You want the murdering pervert who did this to get away? That what you want?’

      To the left, a hodgepodge of old-fashioned Scottish buildings faced out over the railing to the harbour walls and the still, grey mass of the North Sea. Some of them wore grey harling, some dressed granite, some painted white.

      ‘Shift finishes in half an hour.’

       ‘You’re no’ telling me that sodding off home for a Pot Noodle and a spot of onanism is more important than catching a wee girl’s murderer, are you?’

      ‘And I’m in court tomorrow.’

      Past the Macduff Arms, all shuttered and quiet.

       ‘Oh, don’t be such a big Jessie. It’s just a couple of sex offenders. No’ like we’ll be that long at it.’

      The Bayview Hotel had some sort of wedding reception going on – a knot of wobbly blokes in kilts smoking cigarettes and laughing on the pavement in front.

      ‘You’re authorizing the overtime, are you?’

       ‘Ah …’

      No one outside Bert’s. A couple of women getting money from the Bank of Scotland cash machine. Nothing doing at the Highland Haven Hotel.

      Nice and peaceful. Quiet. Like his Airwave’s speaker.

      Then the harbour gave way to industrial units and the bus depot.

      He thumbed the button again. ‘Well, are you?’

       ‘It’s no’ as easy as—’

      ‘This isn’t CID. We get sod all for the first half-hour of unplanned overtime, after that it’s on the clock. I’m not running a charity here.’

      The buildings faded in the pool car’s rear-view mirror. Banff twinkled on the other side of the bay.

      More silence from Steel. Then, finally, ‘OK, OK, overtime. You’re a greedy—’

      ‘I’m not greedy, I’m skint. You got any idea how much of a pay-cut came with the “development opportunity” you lumbered me with? I’m living on bargain-basement soup and pappy sliced white.’

      ‘That’s no’ my fault! How was I supposed to know Big Tony Campbell would stick you in a bunnet in the arse-end of nowhere?’ Her voice dropped to what was probably meant to be a sultry purr. ‘Come on: you and me, questioning sex offenders like the good old days.’

      ‘Yeah, well … Too late to do anything about it tonight anyway.’ Up and over the bridge into Banff.

      ‘Laz, Laz, Laz. Did you learn nothing from our time together? It’s never too late to rattle a nonce.’

      Nicholson leaned forward from the back seat. ‘I want to say thank you, again, for the opportunity to work on the Tarlair Major Investigation Team.’

      Sitting in the passenger seat, Steel took a long draw on her e-cigarette, setting the tip glowing blue. ‘Calm down, eh? No one likes a brown-noser.’ Then poked Logan in the shoulder. ‘Are we there yet?’

      ‘For the last time: we’ll get there when we get there.’

      A shrug. ‘No’ my fault you drive like an old lady, Laz.’

      Nicholson tapped Steel on the arm. ‘Erm … Why do you call him “Laz”?’

      ‘Short for Lazarus. You remember the Mastrick Monster? Laz here caught him. Got into a knife fight on top of a tower block.’

      ‘It wasn’t a knife fight.’

      ‘Who’s telling this story, you or me?’ Another puff. ‘Knife fight.’

      Nicholson frowned. ‘But why Lazarus?’

      ‘Cause our wee boy here got himself killed stone dead.’

      Her eyes went wide in the rear-view mirror. ‘What happened?’

      Logan shifted his grip on the steering wheel. Took the turning onto Duff Street. ‘I got better.’

      Steel sniffed. ‘Are we there yet?’

      ‘Shut up.’

      The short man blinked back at them from behind thick-framed spectacles. ‘I’m sorry?’ He clutched his dressing gown tight shut across his chest, hiding the patchwork of scars and shiny cigarette burns. Ran his other hand across the shiny top of his shiny head.

      Steel scooted forward, until she was sitting right on the edge of the armchair. ‘No’ a difficult question, is it, Markyboy? Where were you?’

      He puffed out his cheeks. Shrugged. ‘Here, probably. I don’t really like to go out much. After …’ Mark Brussels cleared his throat. ‘Well, it’s probably for the best. Probably. I mean, you hear stories, don’t you? People on the register