Authors: Stuart MacBride

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Thrillers, #Crime, #Suspense

The Missing and the Dead (69 page)

Logan handed her the Airwave. ‘For you.’

Steel stuck it to her ear. Stood. Marched off down the corridor. ‘What’s it say? … Uh-huh … Yeah … How long? … OK …’

A thickset nurse squeaked along the terrazzo floor and stopped right in front of him. He checked his clipboard. ‘You’re Sergeant McRae?’

As if Logan was going to be anyone else, sitting there in a damp Police Scotland uniform with sergeant’s stripes on his shoulders. ‘Is she all right?’

The clipboard got hugged against the nurse’s chest. ‘Right: so we’ve got Miss Mackie stable, but obviously there was a
lot
of water in her lungs. She’s developed pneumonia on the left side. And it was pretty manky water too. Because she already had a chest infection, we’re worried that this is going to exacerbate it. We’re pumping her full of intravenous antibiotics, but you need to know it’s very serious for someone in her condition.’

‘Can I see her?’

The nurse bared his teeth in a grimacing smile. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s really not a good idea right now. Probably better give it three or four hours.’

Logan sagged in his seat, let his head thunk back against the wall. Flinched as the gauze pads hit it. Blinked. Swore. Winced.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Not really. Is she …?’

‘We’re doing everything we can, believe me. She couldn’t get better care than she’s getting.’

Steel thumped back up the corridor and collapsed into the seat next to Logan’s. ‘What did I miss?’

The nurse squatted down in front of him. ‘You should go home and get some rest. You’ve got someone to look after you, haven’t you? You’ve had a couple of nasty blows to the head; need to make sure you’re not left alone in case you’ve got a concussion.’ A smile, broad and friendly. He patted Steel on the knee. ‘Maybe your mum will let you stay with her for a bit?’

Logan dumped his keys and phone on the coffee table, then slumped onto the couch. Yawned. Sighed.

Rain hammered the living-room window, the droplets turned amber by the streetlight outside, glowing against the raven sky.

So much for going out and celebrating.

A stilted trip to the pub, full of awkward silences, forced jovialness, and well-meaning assurances that Samantha was going to be OK. As if drowning someone in a minimally conscious state was going to be good for them.

Everyone dies in the end. The unlucky ones keep on breathing afterwards.

And Samantha couldn’t even do
that
on her own any more.

A small burp gurgled free, followed a breath later by a wave of fire, radiating up inside his chest and throat. Hadn’t even been nice fish and chips.

The rain fell.

Should really get up and close the curtains.

In a minute.

Cthulhu padded into the room as if she was wearing little fuzzy stilts. Hopped up onto his lap and dunked her forehead against his chest.

‘At least I’ve still got you.’ He rubbed her ear – she leaned into it, eyes closed, one long pointy tooth poking out the side of her mouth. ‘And the rest of the world can go screw itself.’

Graham Stirling was off to Fraserburgh station, to spend a night in the cells before the courts opened tomorrow morning. Where he would lie and wheedle and wriggle.

Should have drowned the little sod when he had the chance. Held him under the water till he stopped struggling and his face turned blue. Leave him lying dead on the bottom of the pool with the stones and the silt, staring up into whatever hell he ended up in.

Charles Anderson was right, some people didn’t deserve the law.

Logan picked up his phone, worked backwards through the call history till he got to Anderson’s number. Pressed call.

It went straight to voicemail – didn’t even ring. Probably no point leaving a message: not if Anderson had destroyed the SIM card as promised.
‘Aye, you’ve got Craggie, I’m no here, but leave your name and number and I’ll give you a call back when I can.’

Logan hung up.

Stared at the screen.

Cthulhu jumped down again and made for the bowls in the corner, crunching away with her tail in the air.

Helen’s number was right there.

His thumb hovered over the call button. What the hell?

It rang three times, and then her voice crept into his ear.
‘Logan?’

He cleared his throat. ‘Just wanted to make sure you got somewhere to stay.’

‘Are you OK? You sound … I don’t know.’
She sniffed. The words were strained, as if she was having to haul them up from somewhere dark and deep.
‘Sorry. Been a long day.’

‘I know the feeling.’

‘The girl in Gwent isn’t Natasha.’
Something broke, and the tears started.
‘They did a blood test and it’s the wrong type. I’m so
stupid
. I got my hopes up, I thought it was her, and now it’s all gone again.’

All that way for nothing. Helen could’ve stayed with him in Banff after all.

But that wasn’t the way the world worked.

Logan’s shoulders dropped another inch. ‘We found out who the little girl in the swimming pool was. They measured the stable isotopes in her bones and traced her back to Carlisle. She went missing four years ago. Her mum and dad are coming up to identify her tomorrow.’

‘That’s … good.’
A breath huffed down the phone, followed by another sniff.
‘I’m happy for them. They get to say goodbye.’

‘They were so grateful …’ A deep breath. ‘They’re wrong though. Someone tried to kill Samantha today. They drowned her, but the paramedics managed to start her heart again.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I thought she was dead. For fifteen minutes I thought she was dead. Hope hurts. It’s like a knife in the guts sometimes. But it’s better than that.’

Cthulhu finished crunching and hopped onto the coffee table. Settled down on Logan’s keys and washed her paws.

He huffed out a breath. Rubbed a hand across his eyes. ‘Anyway. Yes. I got Tufty to do some digging. You don’t need to worry about getting your hands on your ex-husband. Brian Edwards died two years ago in Middlesbrough. Hit-and-run.’

‘I see …’
The silence stretched.

‘Helen?’

What sounded like laughter got muffled.
‘I know it makes me a horrible person, but I’m
glad
. I’m glad he’s dead. I hope he suffered.’

‘He’d changed his name, got married again, had a couple of kids with a Spanish woman. He beat her up, so she kicked him out. Got sole custody of the children.’

A breath, then it must’ve clicked.
‘What about Natasha? Is she there? Is she OK?’

‘I don’t know, but I’ve got an address in Spain I can text you.’

‘Oh God, that’s brilliant news! Thank you!’
And the hope was back again, glowing in her voice like sunshine.
‘I’ll call the private investigator right away. Oh, Logan, what if she’s OK? What if my little girl’s not dead after all? Isn’t it wonderful?’

At least somebody could have a happy ending.

God knew it would be about sodding time.

Still …

He sagged back on the couch. ‘Helen, maybe you’d be better off finding someone else. Your PI didn’t even know Brian was dead. Doubt he could find his own bum in a kilt, never mind Natasha.’

‘Oh.’

Silence.

‘Look, I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.’ He let his head fall back and stared up at the pristine ceiling. ‘I’m having a bad day, that’s all. Sure it’ll be fine.’

The silence stretched.

‘Helen? You still there?’

‘Logan? Would you …’
She swallowed.
‘Would you like to come to Spain with me?’

About The Author

Stuart MacBride is the No.1 bestselling author of the DS Logan McRae series and the Ash Henderson novels.

His novels have won him the CWA Dagger in the Library, the Barry Award for Best Debut Novel, and Best Breakthrough Author at the ITV3 Crime Thriller awards. In 2012 Stuart was inducted into the ITV3 Crime Thriller Hall of Fame. He was crowned World Stovies Champion 2014.

He lives in the north-east of Scotland with his wife, Fiona, and cat, Grendel.

For more information visit
StuartMacBride.com

By Stuart MacBride

The Logan McRae Novels

Cold Granite

Dying Light

Broken Skin

Flesh House

Blind Eye

Dark Blood

Shatter the Bones

Close to the Bone