The Missing and the Dead (19 page)

Tufty scrambled out of his seat. ‘But, Sarge, I want to go on the dunt, can’t someone else …’ He must have finally recognized the look on Logan’s face, because he swallowed. Cleared his throat. ‘I mean, “Yes, Sarge.”’

‘Damn right you do. And soon as you’ve found her, I want those actions completed.’

‘Right, Sarge.’ He grabbed his peaked cap and his equipment belt and legged it, nearly colliding with Nicholson on her way back in.

‘Hoy, watch it!’ She jerked to a halt, Syd’s tea swinging in one hand, the milky contents tidal-waving from one side of the mug to the other as he scrambled past. ‘Idiot.’ She handed it to Syd as a barrage of ‘excuse me’s came from the corridor behind her.

The Operational Support Unit lumbered into the room. Four of them, all dressed in black, all looking as if they’d been carved from granite. One even had to stoop to get through the door.

He peered at Logan for a beat then stuck his paw out. ‘You’ll be McRae, then?’

It was like shaking a bench vice – the thick fingers dwarfed Logan’s hand, crushing it. ‘Sergeant Mitchell?’

‘Rob.’ He nodded at his fellow mountains. ‘Baz, Davy, and Carole.’ They waved. ‘Sorry we’re late – “Bohemian Rhapsody” came on as we were pulling up. Can’t pass up something like that, can you?’

Logan pulled the briefing sheets from the folder and handed them out. Front page: a photo of Gerbil and one of Klingon, along with a potted bio of each. Gerbil’s red hair was cut in some weird 1920s throwback style – a number one at the sides, bowl haircut with extra fringe on top. Wide face. Little eyes. Klingon’s dirty blond mop of curly hair hung in spaniel curls around thin, suspicious features. A wet, pouty mouth. Thick-rimmed glasses. ‘We have a warrant to enter and search the residence of one Colin Spinney. He and his associate, Kevin McEwan, have a
lot
of form for dealing. You’ll find the list of recent intel on page two.’

Everyone dutifully turned the page.

‘Property is number thirty-six Fairholme Place. Page three has a photo of the house and a map. Any comments, questions, or concerns?’

Silence. Then Carole put her hand up. ‘What kind of door we looking at?’

Logan went back into his folder and came out with the Method of Entry form. ‘Brown UPVC with glazed panels.’ He passed it over.

She skimmed the form, a crease between her eyebrows. Then nodded. ‘You want to snap the lock, Rob, or pop the whole thing in with the Big Red Door Key?’

‘Hmm …’ A frown creased Sergeant Mitchell’s slab of a face. ‘Any chance they’ve barricaded the door?’

Logan shook his head. ‘Doubt it. It’s Spinney’s mum’s house.’

‘Oh.’ Those huge shoulders dipped a bit. ‘Shame. Been ages since we’ve used the chainsaw. OK, we go with popping.’

Carole’s hand was up again. ‘What about dogs? Kids? Firearms?’

‘None that we know of.’

‘Sweet.’

Logan produced the last bit of paperwork. ‘Now, I need everyone to read the warrant and sign it on the back. Then we’ll go do this dunt.’

‘Right, stop here.’ Logan hauled a baggy red hoodie on over his stabproof vest. The bulky padding made it look as if he’d put on two stone. Like the cuddly chunky-monkey Steel claimed to miss so much. A green baseball cap completed the look.

The OSU van pulled in to the side of the road. The thing was all big and white, with ‘POLICE’ down the side in reflective lettering. Riot grille raised. Not exactly subtle.

Sitting opposite, Deano buttoned up an oversized checked shirt. Then pulled a pair of grey joggy bottoms on over his black trousers.

Nicholson sniffed. ‘You both look ridiculous.’

‘Thanks.’ Logan hauled the van’s side door open and hopped out onto the pavement. His fold-down seat snapped back up like a shot going off. ‘OK, I need everyone to set their Airwaves channel to Shire Event Two. No chatter on open comms. Soon as we know someone’s home, we’ll give you the shout.’

Deano climbed out after him, then thumped the door shut and waved as the van pulled away. He followed Logan up the narrow alley joining Harvey Place and Victoria Place. ‘Sarge?’

‘You should have gone before we left the station.’

The sun pounded the tarmac and the houses all around. The smell of freshly cut grass sharp and green on the warm air.

‘No, Sarge. We need to talk about Tufty.’

Out onto Victoria. Quick check left and right, then across the road. ‘What’s he done now?’

‘The STORM actions. He’s done the actual work, he’s just a bit … lackadaisical when it comes to updating the system.’

‘“Lackadaisical”? Hark at you with your big words.’

They headed right, keeping on up the hill. The wee traditional houses on the other side of the road petered out, exposing a straight run of grass down to the cliffs and the sea beyond. This side of the road, a shoulder-high wall kept a swathe of raised lawns in place. Big Eighties-style bungalows sitting well above street level.

‘Maybe, you could cut him a little slack? I know you’re pissed off about the Graham Stirling case, but that’s not Tufty’s fault.’

True. But still …

The 35A bus grumbled past, heading for the hedonistic delights of Elgin.

Logan tucked his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. ‘A boss once told me, there are two kinds of people in this world – carrot people, and stick people.’ To the left, a set of steps were cut into the wall between two of the properties. He took them. ‘You and Janet are carrot people. Tufty couldn’t be more of a stick if he tried.’

‘Probably …’ Up the stairs, along the path, up another set of stairs. Deano was beginning to look a bit puffed. Not surprising. It was baking hot, and the silly sod was wearing two pairs of trousers. ‘But try slipping Tufty the carrot every now and then, eh? If all he ever gets is stick, he’ll end up one big lump of gristle and bruises.’

‘Thought you were his tutor, not his mum.’

‘You want him thinking, “Sod this, I could go work offshore instead”?’

Fair point.

Another set of steps.

‘OK – next time he does something right, I’ll give it a go.’ The stairs came to an end and they emerged onto Provost Gordon Terrace. ‘Talking of carrots, Janet wants to know why she’s not got a nickname. Thinks it’s because she’s a girl.’

This bit of the street was a line of semidetached houses down one side, and the strange front/back gardens of the houses with the raised lawns they’d walked past on Victoria Place. Parking areas and garages and caravans and wheelie bins.

A nice area. Blighted by the presence of two drug-dealing tossers in the next street.

Down to the end of the road, then through a little alley and onto Fairholme Place.

Deano tipped his head at one of the semidetacheds. ‘That it?’

‘Yup.’ To be honest, they all looked alike: two storeys of grey harling with grey pantile roofs. Two windows upstairs. Two down – one belonging to a built-out porch. The only distinguishing feature being that Klingon’s mum had painted her garage door a revolting day-glo purple.

Logan and Deano wandered down the street, hands in pockets. Not a care in the world. Two mates out for an afternoon stroll. Nothing to see here. All nice and innocent.

Deano sniffed. ‘Janet say what kind of nickname she wanted?’

‘I think it’s meant to be up to us.’

‘Clock the car parked outside Klingon’s house. That not Gerbil’s?’

A shabby Honda Civic hatchback with alloy wheels and a red go-faster stripe running across the white paintwork. The passenger door had obviously come from another car – it was a rusty orange colour. A buckled bumper on the rear driver’s side.

‘Yup. We’ve got movement inside too. Top floor, left.’

‘What about … “Killer”? Or, we could go sarcastic with “Cuddles”?’

‘Given the way she makes a cup of tea, we should call her Crippen.’ Logan slipped the Airwave out of his hoodie pocket. Knelt as if he was about to tie his shoelace. Pressed the button. ‘Operation Schofield is go. Silent approach.’

Sergeant Mitchell’s voice crackled out of the handset.
‘And there’s me with “Ride of the Valkyries” all ready to pound out the PA speakers.’
Deep breath.
‘Spartans, tonight we dine in Banff!’

Logan put his Airwave away and looked up at the house. The only way into the back garden was through, or over, the six-foot-high gate. And going by the big yellow padlock on it,
through
wasn’t really an option. ‘You want front or back?’

‘Rock, paper, scissors?’

Logan held out his fist next to Deano’s. ‘Three, two, one.’

‘Aw …
pants
.’ Deano pulled up his joggy bottoms and marched across the drive, past the garage and jumped for the top of the fence. Struggled and wriggled over it as the OSU’s van roared around the corner.

It screeched to a halt right in front of Klingon’s mum’s house, the doors sprang open, and Sergeant Mitchell’s team piled out. All done up in their riot gear – crash helmets, elbow and hand pads. Shin guards. Faces obscured behind visors and scarves.

They swarmed over the low garden wall. One of them had the hoolie bar – like a three-foot long metal ice-axe with two prongs on the other end. Another clutched the small red battering ram by its carrying handles. That had to be Mitchell: he was nearly six inches taller than everyone else.

Mitchell swung the Big Red Door Key back and up, then hammered it forwards, right into the middle of the UPVC door – right above the letterbox, between the glass panels. It went right through, collapsing the whole middle of the door, leaving nothing but the outer frame behind.

Then Mitchell flattened himself to the wall and the other three bundled inside.

‘POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!’

He dropped the Big Red Door Key and charged in after them.

Nicholson stepped down from the van. ‘Beautiful sight, isn’t it, Sarge?’

‘Few better.’ Logan pulled the hoodie over his head and chucked it into the van. ‘Listen, about the … The round of teas and coffees we did on Monday night …’

‘Ah.’ She bared her teeth for a second. ‘Yes.’

‘I think it’d probably be best if you and I never talked about it to anyone. Ever. Just in case.’

‘Is it true Dawson’s ended up in hospital?’

‘We’ll keep it as our little secret. OK?’ He cleared his throat. ‘So, what did you and the rest of the Wombles get up to last night? Anything I should know about?’

‘The usual. Spun a few druggies, dealt with a drink driver, two housebreakings, two counts of piddling in doorways. Thrilling stuff.’

‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

Logan pressed the button, talking into his shoulder. ‘Spank away, Maggie.’

‘We’ve had a call. Someone spotted Ian Dickinson getting off the bus, with a woman, in Cullen. You’ve got a lookout request for—’

‘Ian Dickinson? Five years old, brown hair, blue eyes? The same Ian Dickinson we found last Thursday? Has he gone missing again, or have they forgotten to take down the posters?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Was he with a big woman with curly hair and a walking stick?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s his mum. Maggie, do me a favour – get onto someone and make sure they cancel the lookout
properly
this time. And tell them to take down those damn posters.’

A second Transit van rumbled down the road. Parked behind the OSU’s sing-along wagon. Constable Syd Fraser waved at them from behind the wheel, then creaked open the van’s door. ‘Place secure yet?’

‘Working on it.’ He turned back to Nicholson. ‘Anything else?’

Nicholson shrugged. ‘Well, Deano and Tufty stopped a fight outside the Seafield Hotel. There was a break-in at the Spotty Bag Shop. Someone set fire to a bin on Castle Street. I investigated reports of a peeping tom on Melrose Crescent – no joy. And I picked up that old woman wandering up and down Market Street again. That’s two nights in a row. Said she couldn’t sleep in her bed because it was full of rats.’

Syd wandered over to a soundtrack of dogs barking in the back of his Transit. ‘What’s full of rats?’

‘Auld wifie thinks her bed is. Every night they crawl out of the walls and under her duvet. Says it’s driving her mad. I get her back inside and she gives me an earful of abuse about how nobody cares and we’re all bastards.
Again
.’

A sigh. ‘What idiot thought “Care in the Community” was a good thing?’ Syd leaned back against the OSU van. ‘What are we on for here: heroin? Bit of coke? Weed?’

Logan nodded. ‘Probably.’

‘Good. As long as it isn’t Valium. Enzo’s not been trained to find Valium.’

Nicholson smiled. ‘Aye, aye, getting the excuses in early, are we?’

Logan’s Airwave bleeped.

‘Operation Schofield sont arrivé. Deux hommes dans des handcuffs.’

He smiled. Pressed the talk button. ‘Couldn’t remember the French for handcuffs then?’

‘Everyone’s a critic. Rejoice, sinner, for thy crime scene is secured.’

He fixed the Airwave to the clip on his stabproof vest. Picked his peaked cap from the van and settled it on his head. ‘Right, Syd, time for the hairy boys to shine.’

And please, dear God, let them
find
something.

Gerbil and Klingon sat side by side on the grubby couch. The whole place was grubby – carpet, walls, curtains. Even the ceiling had its own collection of stains. Filth streaked the floor around the couch, as if whoever usually sat there couldn’t be arsed getting up to use the bin, just tossed it where they sat.

Sergeant Mitchell stood behind Gerbil and Klingon, a hand on each of their shoulders. The pair of them doing their best not to make eye-contact with anyone else in the room.

A sagging coffee table sat in the middle of the carpet, a set of digital scales and a spoon parked on a red-top tabloid: ‘NONCE ON THE RUN ~ D
ID
M
ISSING
S
ICKO
W
OOD
C
LAIM
A
NOTHER
V
ICTIM
?’

Logan pulled on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. ‘Right, you want to save us the bother and tell us where the stuff is?’