The Missing and the Dead (56 page)

Nicholson’s voice rose above the roar of the engine. ‘You can open your eyes now, Sarge. We’re here.’

The thirty limit flashed past and she stood on the brakes, taking them down to a more respectable thirty. Then poked the button switching the swirling blue lights off.

A graveyard with plenty of room went by on the left.

Rain battered the Big Car, sounding like a million tiny hammers.

She pulled up outside the church. ‘What’s the plan?’

Logan hit the button again. ‘Shire Uniform Seven to Tango Bravo One Two. Safe to talk?’

‘You made it?’

‘By the skin of our teeth. Any news on the suspects?’

‘Still in the baker’s. Been ten minutes.’

‘What about the one on the phone?’

‘On his third fag, stomping up and down the pavement, jabbing his elbows about as he talks. Looks like he’s giving someone a bollocking … Oh ho. Hold on. He’s hung up and got a set of keys out. … Making for the van. … Come on, Chuckles, do it for Uncle Ed …’

Nicholson bounced up and down a couple of times in the driver’s seat.

‘He’s in. Repeat, Chuckles has got in behind the wheel.’

Logan stuck a hand out and shoved Nicholson back into her seat. ‘What about the other three?’

‘Still in the … Nope, that’s them coming out now. Lots of paper bags and Styrofoam cups.’

Nicholson slipped the Big Car into gear. ‘Here we go …’

‘Which way’s the van facing: south, or north?’

‘They pull out now, they’ll be on the road to Strichen.’

‘OK, they’re not going to do a three-point turn in a removal van. You’re unmarked, right? When they go, I want you ahead of them. We let them get half a mile then you block in front and we block behind.’

‘Chuckles has started the van. OK, we’re heading out first … Nice and slow … He’s following.’

‘Tell me when you’ve cleared the end of town.’

‘There’s four of them, what if they’ve got guns?’

‘You want me to go first?’

‘You saying Traffic’s full of Jessies? … OK, that’s us cleared the limits on the Strichen road. Chuckles is right behind.’

Logan gave Nicholson the nod. ‘Nice and easy.’

She pulled the Big Car onto the High Street.

Little grey houses, all in a straight line, slipped past the windows. Sulking beneath the hammering rain. At the bottom of the road, they took a left, following the sign for Strichen. Past another couple of houses, then around the corner and out into the countryside.

The road stretched out ahead, the boxy black bulk of the removal van sticking out like a lump of coal between fields of waving gold.

Logan pressed the button. ‘Tango Bravo One Two, that’s us cleared the limits. We have visual. Closing on you now.’

‘Roger that. Slowing to a halt. … And we’re blocking the road. Chuckles has stopped.’

Nicholson accelerated, taking them right up behind the van, then slamming on the brakes.

Logan poked the siren button, letting it wail as he unleashed his body-worn video from its elastic band. ‘Let’s do it.’

Out into the downpour. He wedged the peaked cap firmly over his ears – froze for a second and winced as it caught the lump on his head – grabbed a yellow high-vis from the rear seat and hauled it on as the rain trickled down the back of his neck.

Nicholson scrambled out the other side, pulling on her coat as they sploshed through the puddles either side of the removal van. Up to the cab.

The guy behind the wheel, Chuckles, didn’t move. Kept his hands at ten to two. The three men sitting next to him did their best to look relaxed. Nothing to see here. Move along.

The two-person crew of Tango Bravo One Two appeared in their high-vis. Four against four.

Logan reached up and knocked on the driver’s window.

A pause.

Rain thumped out a tattoo on Logan’s peaked cap. Pattered against his fluorescent-yellow shoulders.

Then the window buzzed down.

A smile pulled Chuckles’s cheeks into rosy apples. ‘Something up, Officer?’ Not a local accent, but still Scottish. Dundee maybe? Not sing-song enough for Fife. Big lad, his head almost scraping the top of the cab. Long brown hair. Green overalls.

‘This your vehicle, sir?’

‘Nah, I’m just the driver. Know what it’s like with these removal firms, eh? All we do is drive about and hump the heavy stuff from A to B.’

‘And your name?’

‘And it’s always at the top of the stairs, isn’t it lads? The heavier the bit of furniture, the more flights you’ve got to lug it up.’

His mates nodded. Made agreeing noises that weren’t actually words. All of them in green overalls, all of them big enough to give Constable King Kong McMahon a thump for his money. Larry, Curly, and Moe.

‘Your
name
, sir.’

‘Yeah, of course. It’s Russell. Russell McNee. Was I speeding or something?’

‘I need you to give me the keys and step out of the vehicle, sir.’

‘Come on, I wasn’t speeding, I know I wasn’t. This is—’

‘Keys. Please.’ Logan stuck his hand out.

No one moved.

Rain.

‘All units, be on the lookout for Terrence and Jon McAuley. Both have apprehension warrants for an aggravated assault on Saturday night.’

More rain.

This was it. Either they came quietly, or—

Moe – the one on the far side – broke. He yanked off his seatbelt and threw the passenger door open. It slammed into Nicholson, sending her crashing back into a barbed-wire knot of brambles. And he was off, jumping the fence and charging into the field of wheat.

It took less than two seconds for Nicholson to swear herself back upright and hammer after him, bowler hat tumbling off as she ran.

Closer … Closer … Closer … Then
thump
, she slammed into him and they went down in a tangle of arms and legs that disappeared beneath the surface of the wheat.

McNee looked down at Logan. Sighed. Then pulled the keys from the ignition and handed them over. ‘He always was an idiot.’

One of the officers from Tango Bravo One Two scrambled over the fence and waded into the field. He’d barely gone six feet before Nicholson emerged from the wheat, hauling her new captive up with her – both hands cuffed behind his back.

Don’t mess with Calamity Janet.

Logan jerked his head towards the removal van’s big black box. ‘You want to show me what’s inside?’

‘Not really.’ But McNee climbed down from the cab anyway, stomped around to the back roller doors, unlocked the heavy padlock. Then hauled on the lever. The door clattered up, revealing the back end of a brown Ford Ranger. Thick scrapes buckled and scarred the paintwork, the bumper all dented and barely hanging on. A set of metal ramps were secured against the van wall. Four ratchet straps fixed the battered four-by-four to tie-down points on the floor.

Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, well, well.’ No wonder they could never find the cars that did the actual ram-raiding.

McNee licked his lips. Dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Look: I drive the van. I do what I’m told. It’s the other guys who’re in charge.’

‘Aye, right. And where’s the cash machine you boosted from the Strichen Co-op last night? That in the back too?’

He ran a hand across his face, pulling it out of shape. ‘Knew it was going to be a bad day when I woke up this morning.’

A uniformed officer hurried across the car park behind Fraserburgh station, an Asda carrier bag dangling from one hand, the other pinning his peaked cap to his head. Rain bounced off the shoulders of his high-vis jacket, dripping off the hem like a personal waterfall. He gave the Big Car a quick nod as he passed, then disappeared through the back door into the place.

Sitting in the driver’s seat, Nicholson raised an eyebrow, mouth contorted into a half-smile, half-frown. Little red lines scratched around the side of her cheeks, each bearing tiny dots of dried blood like jewels on a necklace. ‘The Cashline Ram-Raiders,
and
the scumbag who shot Constable Mary Ann Nasrallah. Not bad for an old man.’

A grin cracked across Logan’s face. ‘Shut up and drive.’ He poked the Duty Inspector’s number into his Airwave handset. ‘Bravo India from Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

‘Go ahead, Sergeant.’

So he was still ‘Sergeant’, was he? Time to change that.

‘We’ve caught the Cashline Ram-Raiders.’

Nothing.

Nicholson pulled away from Fraserburgh station, joining the steady stream of lunchtime traffic.

‘You still there, Guv?’

‘You caught them?’

‘And done the preliminary interviews. Three of the gang are no-commenting, but the guy who drives the removal van has dobbed the lot of them in. Get the feeling they’ll reciprocate soon as they find out he’s shafted them.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘Three hours ago, about a mile south of New Aberdour. Got backup from Mintlaw Traffic.’

The houses thinned, then disappeared in the rear-view mirror.

‘And it’s definitely them?’

‘They do the raid with a stolen car, race off to where they’ve got a big removal van waiting, down some quiet wee country road, and they load the four-by-four into the back using a pair of metal ramps. Strap the car down, close the door, and drive the van back the way they came. Any police pursuit wheechs right past them like a bunch of numpties with all lights blazing.’

Blue patches peeked through between the heavy clouds. A rainbow marked the death of the fallen rain.

‘Logan, that’s excellent. Really, excellent.’

And he was ‘Logan’ again. ‘Couldn’t have done it without Constables Nicholson, Scott, and Quirrel. Proper team effort.’

Sitting behind the wheel, Nicholson beamed.

‘Then we’re on for drinks tonight. I may even spring for chips.’

‘Thanks, Guv.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Heading back to Banff now. Late lunch, then off patrolling again.’

A shaft of sunlight made it through the lid of grey, making the fields glow.

Nicholson glanced at him. ‘Did they get a replacement for Sergeant Muir then?’

‘No idea.’

‘Well, how are you going to make chips and drinks if you’re pulling a green shift?’

Good point. He pressed the button again. ‘Guv, you still there? Anyone standing in for Davey Muir tonight?’

‘Damn.’
There was a pause.
‘No, not yet. Let me have a rake around. Must be someone who needs the overtime.’

‘Thanks, Guv.’ Beer and chips … The smile died on his face. What about Helen? Assuming, of course, she was still there when he got back. It wasn’t her daughter, why would she hang around a wee town on the north coast of Aberdeenshire? No, she’d be off to the next abduction scene. Chasing the hope. Goodbye, Banff. Goodbye, Logan.

Couldn’t really blame her.

But it had been nice to have someone there for a change. Even if it was only for a—

Nicholson poked him in the arm. ‘Sarge, you OK?’ She pointed at the Airwave in his hand.

‘Hello? Logan? You still there?’

‘Sorry, Guv, thought I saw something.’

‘Logan, when you’ve eaten, I need you back in the station. You’ve got an appointment.’

‘I do? OK.’ That was news. ‘Anyone in particular?’

‘Chief Superintendent Napier.’

Again?

Typical: couldn’t even enjoy half an hour of success without the ginger whinger swooping down and spoiling everything.

‘He say what it’s about?’

‘Operation Troposphere.’

Great. Just great.

Nicholson pulled up outside the Sergeant’s Hoose. Cleared her throat, and kept her eyes dead ahead. ‘Sarge, is it true you’re … Well, that you and the dead wee kid’s mum are … You know?’

‘No. Now go get yourself some lunch and I’ll see you back in the station at quarter to.’

A small sigh. ‘Sarge.’

He climbed out into the sun. Leaned back into the car. ‘And get some Savlon on those scratches.’ Then thunked the door closed and watched the Big Car drive away.

Logan pulled out his phone and selected Steel ~ Mob from his contacts. Above his head, clouds chased each other across the dark-grey sky, wind whipping the weeds growing in the Sergeant’s Hoose gutters. Have to do something about that.

A plastic bag went tumbling by.

Then,
‘Aye, this is Steel. No’ answering the phone right now, but you can blah, blah, blah …’ Beeeeep
.

‘It’s Logan. Listen, Napier’s turned up at Banff station wanting to give me another bollocking about Operation Troposphere. Call me back, OK?’

He put his phone away, then let himself in through the front door. ‘Helen? You there?’

Silence.

Of course she wasn’t. She was on her way back to Edinburgh, looking for the next lead on her missing daughter.

His shoulders dipped a little.

Then thump, thump, thump, as Cthulhu pooked her way down the stairs. She wound herself around his ankles, purring and meeping.

‘Still got each other, haven’t we?’ He bent and scooped her up, turning her upside down and rubbing her tummy as she stretched out her arms and legs, rumbling like ball bearings in a tumble drier. ‘Who’s Daddy’s best kitten?’ He carried her down the hall towards the kitchen. ‘You are. Yes you are. You’re my pretty little girl.’

He pushed the door open and stopped.

Helen sat at the little table, with a mug of what probably used to be tea and a bottle of supermarket brandy. When she looked up her eyes were red, her nose too. She sniffed, wiped the back of a hand across her eyes. ‘Sorry.’

‘What happened?’

‘She’s not dead.’

Logan turned Cthulhu the right way up and lowered her onto the table. ‘I thought that was a good thing this morning?’

The cat stood where she was for a moment, then butted her head against Helen’s shoulder and thumped down to the floor. Wandered off with her tail in the air and her bumhole on display.

‘It is. It isn’t.’ She poured a slug of brandy into her mug, then took a sip. ‘Like being beaten up, every time.’

He sank into the chair opposite. ‘I’m sorry it’s not her. And I’m glad she’s not dead.’