The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

Disappearings. Concerned citizens taking it out on poor sods like us.’

      ‘Poor sods?’ She hauled out her list. ‘Says here you abused girls as young as seven over a twelve-year period.’

      Logan rocked back and forwards on the balls of his feet. ‘When’d you last get a supervisory visit, Mr Brussels?’

      The clock on the mantelpiece ticked into the silence. A small smelly terrier snored on its back in a tartan beanbag in the corner. A radio in another room, played saccharine boy-band pop. The floorboard creaked overhead as Nicholson crept about, pretending she was off to the toilet. Have to have a word with her about not sounding like an elephant in tap shoes.

      Steel puffed out her cheeks. ‘Come on, Markyboy, it’s like pulling teeth here. When’d you last get a visit from the Perv Patrol?’

      ‘Well …’ His eyes slid towards the zombie-grey gaze of the off television. ‘They said I wasn’t really a risk any more, so I could go to once every six weeks. To be honest, I miss the company.’ He stood. ‘Can I get anyone a cup of tea?’

      ‘Sounds like a load of old bollocks to me, Billyboy.’ Steel stuck her feet up on the low coffee table. Had a squint about. ‘Someone like you, passing up a sweet young thing in a school uniform? Nah, that’s no’ your style.’

      The man in the beige cardigan stared at her with striking blue eyes that lurked beneath heavy white eyebrows. ‘It’s William, not “Billyboy”, and I’ll thank you to get your feet off my furniture.’ Spine ironing-board stiff, grey hair swept back from a high forehead. ‘It’s bad enough you turn up at this ungodly hour, the least you can do is have the civility not to treat my home like whatever kind of pigsty you live in.’

      Logan stepped forward. ‘Perhaps—’

      ‘No, no, no.’ Steel held up a hand. ‘Billyboy’s got every right to moan if he wants to.’ She grinned at him with unnaturally white teeth. ‘“Pigsty”, because we’re police officers. Very droll. Your file didn’t say you were such a wit.’ She took her feet off the table. ‘What it does say is you’ve got a thing for wee girls. Four to nine years old, wasn’t it?’

      His face hardened – a granite slab with a hooked nose. ‘That was nothing more than scurrilous rumour. The whole trial was a farce from start to finish. A sick vendetta by a handful of ignorant troglodytes!’

      The sound of a toilet flushing rattled the pipes behind the wall.

      Steel pursed her lips – the wrinkles lined up to turn her mouth into a rouged cat’s bumhole. ‘Good enough for the jury to give you eight years, though, wasn’t it?’

      ‘Vile lies.’

      ‘What was it the tabloids called you? No, don’t tell me … Ah, got it: Dr Kidfiddler!’

      Yes, because that was helping.

      Logan took out his notebook. ‘Mr Gilcomston—’

      ‘Doctor. It’s Dr Gilcomston.’

      ‘Dr Gilcomston, has anyone threatened you? Implied they were going to attack you?’

      ‘Ignorance runs rampant throughout our society, Sergeant.’

      Steel rested her chin on her hands. ‘And no one’s tried to make contact?’ She fluttered her eyelashes at him. ‘Maybe, oh, I don’t know, someone like Neil Wood?’

      A pause. ‘If you’re implying I’ve got anything to do with that pervert, I resent it.’

      The lounge door opened and Nicholson stepped into the room. ‘Sorry about that. Must have been something I ate.’

      Gilcomston shuddered. ‘Well, I hope you cleaned the bowl after you. I have no desire to clean up your filth.’

      That halogen smile broke across Steel’s face again. ‘“Filth!” Another excellent police pun. You’re like Oscar Bleeding Wilde today, aren’t you, Billyboy?’

      Logan dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘All I’m saying is we might get on better if you weren’t so rude to everyone.’

      Steel settled into the leather settee, stretched her arms along the back. ‘No’ bad here, is it? Wonder how much this place cost?’

      It was a Victorian pile on Church Street with big bay windows and a garden to match. Hunting prints on the wall, pine cones and potpourri in the grate, beneath an ornate marble fireplace. Upright piano. Glass-fronted bookcase full of leather volumes. Standard lamps holding the night at bay.

      ‘Dr Gilcomston—’

      ‘Is a dirty scumbag. And he’s no’ a doctor either – got struck off after the conviction.’

      Nicholson folded her hands behind her back. ‘Am I on piddling duty again?’

      Steel drummed her fingers on the tobacco-coloured leather. ‘Got to play to your strengths.’

      She sighed. Wrapped her arms around herself. ‘People will think I’ve got cystitis.’

      The lounge door swung open and a large woman in a twinset sailed into the room like a lavender barge. Half-moon glasses on the end of her round nose. Only the pair of fluffy slippers, scuffing on the old woollen carpet, gave away the fact that she’d been roused from bed a little after one in the morning. She lowered a tray laden with scones and cups and a teapot onto the glass-topped coffee table. ‘Who’s got cystitis?’

      Steel hooked a thumb at Nicholson. ‘Been going all night like a leaky bathtub.’

      There was a small pause, then Nicholson rubbed both knees together. ‘Actually, sorry to bother you, but could I …?’

      ‘There’s one by the back door, or the top of the stairs on the left.’

      ‘Thanks.’ And she was gone.

      Mrs Twinset settled into a wing-backed leather chair. ‘Now, is this about these stupid threats?’

      Logan took out his notebook. ‘Threats, Mrs Bartholomew?’

      ‘Yes, threats. Thrust through my letter box, like some sort of takeaway menu. “You will burn in hell for everything that you have done. God will not save you. We are coming.” That kind of thing.’ A snort. ‘“We are coming.” Honestly, some people have no sense of propriety. Still, that’s the age we live in, I suppose.’ She picked up the teapot. ‘Now, shall I be mother?’

      Steel smiled. ‘That no’ how you got into trouble in the first place?’

      A chubby rumpled face peered out at them through the gap between the door and the frame. Streetlights thickened the dark circles beneath his eyes as he looked them up and down. ‘You got any idea what time it is?’

      Steel popped her wrist forward, so her watch poked from the end of her sleeve. ‘Yup. Now you going to invite us in for a chat, or are we going to drag you down the nick?’

      Nicholson climbed into the car. ‘How many’s that now?’

      Logan started the engine. ‘Eleven.’

      ‘Pfff …’ She sagged in the rear-view mirror. ‘Your old boss is … different.’

      DCI Steel paced up and down the pavement in front of the terraced houses, mobile phone clamped to her ear, puffing away on her e-cigarette. One hand flailed away, emphasizing whatever point she was making, even though there was no way whoever was on the other end of the phone could see it.

      ‘Oh, she’s that all right.’ Logan stretched the knots out of his neck. ‘On the plus side, we might have a new nickname for you.’

      Nicholson covered her eyes with one hand. ‘Sarge, I swear to God, if “Piddler” is the next word out of your mouth, I’m going to strangle you with your own limb restraints.’

      A grin. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’