The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

a scalp – a wig.

      He sprinted. Jumped. Almost cleared the bush. Crashed through the privet on the other side, head first. Tumbled.

      On his feet.

      There!

      He rugby-tackled her by the gate, his shoulder slamming into the small of her back, sending them both crunching onto the gravel. Sharp stones dug into his knees and side. The smell of dust and cat scratched into the air.

      And she SCREAMED. No words, just a high-pitched bellow, face scarlet, spittle flying, eyes like chunks of granite. Stubble visible through the pancake makeup that covered her thorn-torn cheeks. Breath a sour cloud of grey in the cold air. Hands curled into fists, battering against Logan’s chest and arms.

      A fist flashed at Logan’s face and he grabbed it. ‘Cut it out! I’m detaining you under—’

      ‘KILL YOU!’ The other hand wrapped itself around his throat and squeezed. Nails digging into his skin, sharp and stinging.

      Sod that. Logan snapped his head back, then whipped it forward. Crack – right into the bridge of her nose.

      A grunt and she let go, beads of blood spattering against his cheek. Warm and wet.

      He snatched at her wrist, pulled till the hand was folded forward at ninety degrees, and leaned on the joint.

      The struggling stopped, replaced by a sucking hiss of pain. Adam’s apple bobbing. Scarlet dripping across her lips. ‘Let me go, you bastard!’ Not a woman’s voice at all, getting deeper with every word. ‘I didn’t do anything!’

      Logan hauled out his cuffs and snapped them on the twisted wrist, using the whole thing as a lever against the strained joint.

      ‘Where’s Stephen Bisset?’

      ‘HELP! RAPE!’

      More pressure. ‘I’m not asking you again – where is he?’

      ‘Aaaaagh … You’re breaking my wrist! … Please, I don’t—’

      One more push.

      ‘OK! OK! God …’ A deep breath through gritted, blood-stained, teeth. Then a grin. ‘He’s dying. All on his own, in the dark. He’s dying. And there’s nothing you can do about it.’

       2

      The windscreen wipers squealed and groaned their way across the glass, clearing the dusting of tiny white flakes. The council hadn’t taken the Christmas decorations down yet: snowmen, and holly sprigs, and bells, and reindeer, and Santas shone bright against the darkness.

      Ten days ago and the whole place would have been heaving – Hogmanay, like a hundred Friday nights all squished into one – but now it was deserted. Everyone would be huddled up at home, nursing Christmas overdrafts and longing for payday.

      The pool car’s wheels hissed through the slush. No traffic – the only other vehicles were parked at the side of the road, being slowly bleached by the falling snow.

      Logan turned in his seat and scowled into the back of the car as they made the turn onto the North Deeside Road. ‘Last chance, Graham.’

      Graham Stirling sat hunched forwards, hands cuffed in front of him now, dabbing at his blood-crusted nostrils with grubby fingers. Voice thick and flat. ‘You broke my nose …’

      Sitting next to him, Biohazard Bob sniffed. ‘Aye, and you didn’t even say thank you, did you?’ The single thick eyebrow that lurked above his eyes made a hairy V-shape. He leaned in, so close one of his big sticky-out ears brushed Stirling’s forehead. ‘Now answer the question: where’s Stephen Bisset?’

      ‘I need to go to hospital.’

      ‘You need a stiff kicking is what you need.’ Biohazard curled a hand into a hairy fist. ‘Now tell us where Bisset is, or so help me God, I’m going to—’

      ‘Detective Sergeant Marshall! Enough.’ Logan bared his teeth. ‘We don’t assault prisoners in police cars.’

      Biohazard sat back in his seat. Lowered his fist. ‘Aye, it makes a mess of the upholstery. Rennie: find somewhere quiet to park. Somewhere dark.’

      DS Rennie pulled the car to a halt at the pedestrian crossing, tip-tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as a pair of well-dressed men staggered across the road. Arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders. Singing an old Rod Stewart tune. Oblivious as the snow got heavier.

      Their suits looked a lot more expensive than Rennie’s. Their haircuts too – his stuck up in a blond mop above his pink-cheeked face, neck disappearing into a shirt collar two sizes too big for it. Like a wee boy playing dress-up in his dad’s clothes. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘You want the court to know you cooperated, don’t you, Graham? That you helped? Might save you a couple of years inside?’

      Silence.

      Stirling picked a clot of blood from the skin beneath his nose and wiped it on the tattered fabric of his dress.

      ‘The DI’s serious, Graham, he’s not going to ask you again. Why not do yourself a favour and tell him what he needs to know?’

      A pause. Then Stirling looked up. Smiled. ‘OK.’

      Biohazard pulled out an Airwave handset. ‘’Bout time. Come on then – address?’

      His pink tongue emerged, slid its way around pale lips. ‘No. You and the boy have to get out. I talk to him,’ pointing at Logan, ‘or we go back to the station and you get me a lawyer.’

      ‘Don’t be stupid, Stirling, we’re not—’

      ‘No comment.’

      Logan sighed. ‘This is idiotic, it’s—’

      ‘You heard me: no comment. They get out, or you get me a lawyer.’

      Rennie’s face pinched. ‘Guv?’

      ‘No comment.’

      Logan rubbed his eyes. ‘Out. Both of you.’

      ‘Guv, I don’t think that’s—’

      ‘I know. Now: out.’

      Rennie stared at Biohazard.

      Pause.

      Biohazard shrugged. Then climbed out onto the empty pavement.

      A beat later, Rennie killed the engine and followed him. ‘Still think this is a bad idea.’

      Clunk, the door shut, leaving Logan and Graham Stirling alone in the car.

      ‘Talk.’

      ‘The forest on the Slug Road. There’s a track off into the trees, you need a key for the gate. An … an old forestry worker’s shack hidden away in there, miles from anywhere.’ The smile grew hazy, the eyes too, as if he was reliving something. ‘If you’re lucky, Steve might still be alive.’

      Logan took out his handset. ‘Right. We’ll—’

      ‘You’ll never find it without me. It’s not on any maps. Can’t even see it on Google Earth.’ Stirling leaned forward. ‘Search all you like: by the time you find him, Steve Bisset will be long dead.’

      The pool car’s headlights cast long jagged shadows between the trees, its warning strobes glittering blue-and-white against the needles. Catching the thick flakes of snow and making them shine, caught in their slow-motion dance to the forest floor.

      Logan shifted his footing on the frozen, rutted track. Ran his torch along the treeline.

      Middle of nowhere.

      He wiped a drip from the end of his nose. ‘Well, what was I supposed to do? Let him no-comment till Stephen Bisset dies?’

      The