The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

was more important to save Stephen Bisset’s life!’

      ‘I see.’ Moir-Farquharson turned to the jury. ‘So, yet again, ladies and gentlemen, Sergeant McRae decided to ignore procedure, bend the rules, and cut another corner.’

      ‘To recap: once more, we have only your word for it, Sergeant?’

      Deep breaths. Calm.

      Logan stared straight ahead. ‘Graham Stirling refused to show me where the shack was, unless DS Rennie and DS Marshall remained behind at the car. My choices were to go with him, or let Stephen Bisset die.’

      A sigh. A shake of the head. Then a turn to the jury. ‘Bending the rules, yet again.’

      ‘I had no choice! And he knew the combination to the padlock, he—’

      ‘You make a disturbing habit of ignoring procedure, Sergeant McRae. How do we know that your sense of right and wrong isn’t similarly compromised? How far will you go to obtain a conviction?’

      ‘Objection!’

      ‘I put it to you, Sergeant McRae, that you nominated Graham Stirling as being responsible for Stephen Bisset’s disappearance and manufactured the circumstances and evidence to fit.’

      ‘That’s not true. We found evidence that Stephen Bisset had responded to Stirling’s personal ad, seeking sex with what he believed to be a pre-operative transsexual and—’

      ‘LIAR!’ A young man was on his feet in the public seating area. Shoulder-length black hair, black tie, a shirt that still had the creases from where it had been folded in the packet. Thin face flushed and swollen around the eyes. Spit glowing in the sunlight. ‘YOU’RE A LIAR! MY DAD WOULDN’T DO THAT!’

      The Sheriff cracked her gavel against her desk, three sharp raps. ‘Mr Bisset, I won’t tell you again. While the court is sympathetic to your distress, it—’

      ‘YOU’RE A LIAR!’

      The young woman sitting next to him grabbed his arm, trying to pull him back down into his seat. She had the same dark hair, the same thin face. ‘David, don’t …’

      ‘DAD WASN’T A PERVERT!’

      Another three raps. ‘That’s enough, Mr Bisset. This court isn’t—’

      ‘MAKE HIM TELL THE TRUTH!’

      ‘Clerk, I want this man removed.’

      And all the way through it, Graham Stirling didn’t move. He sat there, still, silent. Blinking slowly. A million miles away as his victim’s children were escorted from the room.

      ‘Are you denying that you threatened to kill Graham Stirling, Sergeant McRae?’

      Logan’s fingernails dug into the pale wood of the witness stand. ‘I did not threaten to kill him.’

      ‘Really?’ A look of surprise. ‘So you deny saying, “I should kick the living shit out of you.”?’

      Tick. Tick. Tick …

      ‘Sergeant?’

      ‘I don’t remember. I’d just discovered Stephen Bisset. He’d been—’

      ‘How about this one. Did you, or did you not tell your superior officer, “I need an ambulance and someone to stop me stringing Graham Bloody Stirling up from the nearest tree”?’

      Logan hunched over the sink. Drips fell from his face, making ripples in the water that spread out in overlapping rings. He dug his hands into the basin again and sploshed more on his face. Cold against his skin. Leaching away the burning heat.

       Bastard.

      The court toilets were clean enough, filled with the scent of air-freshener and disinfectant.

      Another faceful of water. Letting it drip back into the bowl. All those overlapping circles, knotting together then fading away, leaving nothing behind to show that they’d ever existed.

      His phone buzzed on the surface between the sinks. Then the ‘Imperial March’ sounded.

      DCI Steel.

      Ignore it. Let it go to voicemail.

      The toilet door thumped open and the Procurator Fiscal marched in: short grey hair combed forward above scowling eyebrows. His military moustache bristled, the mouth behind it chewing through the words in a booming Glaswegian accent that was far too big for someone who barely scraped five foot four. ‘What the sodding hell was that?’

      ‘What was I supposed to do, lie under oath?’

      ‘Of course not. But … It …’ In four steps he was at the nearest cubicle door. It got a kick with a highly polished brogue. A pause. Then the Fiscal ran a finger along his moustache, as if making sure everything was in order. ‘They’ve effectively killed Stirling’s confession. After that little farce, it’s going to be ruled inadmissible.’

      Logan grabbed a handful of green paper towels, stacked by the broken hand-drier. ‘I didn’t have any choice, OK?’ Scrubbed his face with the gritty green sheets. Dropped them in the bin. ‘If I’d stuck to procedure, Stephen Bisset would be dead now. He’d probably still be missing, lying out there, rotting in a shack in the middle of the BLOODY FOREST!’ Logan closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed, screwed his face up. Breathed out. ‘Sorry.’

      The Fiscal made a hissing noise, as if he was deflating. ‘You could’ve recorded his confession on your mobile phone. Could’ve used your Airwave to broadcast it. Something.’

      Logan’s head fell back, thumped against the wall. Did it again. And once more for luck. ‘I know.’

      ‘Yes, well, I suppose Descartes was right: hindsight is a treacherous mirror. We just have to hope the DNA evidence convinces them.’

      Sitting next to the sink, Logan’s phone started in on the ‘Imperial March’ again. He let his hands fall at his sides. ‘You going to need me again?’

      The phone rang out onto voicemail.

      The PF cleared his throat. ‘I think you’ve probably done enough.’

      Logan’s phone burst into song as he was thumping down the stairs. Not the ‘Imperial March’ this time, but the theme tune to the Muppets. He checked the screen: ‘NICHOLSON’.

      His thumb jabbed the button. ‘Is it important? Because now’s really not a good time.’

       ‘Sarge? It’s Janet. Thought you’d like to know – we got the Big Car back.’

      He made it to the ground floor. ‘Janet, I genuinely couldn’t give less of a toss if—’

      ‘Smells fusty though. Like something’s died in there.’ Her voice went all whispery. ‘Look, about the teas and coffees last night … I kind of … feel a bit, you know, guilty.’

      ‘Sod them. I will not have a bunch of MIT scumbags treating anyone on my team like a glorified Mrs Doyle.’

       ‘Yeah, but … they’re working a murder enquiry, and from what I heard most of them spent half the night impersonating a Soyuz rocket.’

      He slipped out of the side entrance, onto Marischal Street, avoiding the media scrum at the High Court’s front doors. ‘And?’

      A pause. ‘It’s a wee girl, Sarge.’

      Someone beeped their horn. There was a taxi parked in the middle of the road, blocking traffic while it picked up a fare.

      A wee dead girl … Nicholson had a point.

      Perfect: more guilt.

      ‘If it makes you feel any better, they weren’t going to achieve anything last night anyway.’ He crossed over to the