The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

      Should’ve been raining. Should’ve been hammering it down from a slate-grey sky, wind battering the bus and whipping the trees.

      Logan’s phone went again. Not the ‘Imperial March’ for a change: unrecognized number.

      His thumb hovered over the button. Pressed it. ‘Hello?’

      Steel’s voice bellowed into his ear. ‘How could you possibly screw this up? Simple, open-and-shut case. What the hell’s wrong with you?’

      ‘It wasn’t my—’

       ‘Do you have any idea what the Big Brass are doing right now? They’re getting a dirty big stake sharpened, so they can ram it up my backside and roast me on an open fire!’

      ‘I didn’t—’

      ‘All the man-hours we put into that investigation and it’s ruined!’

      ‘There’s still the DNA evidence. It’ll—’

      ‘YOU TOOK STIRLING TO THE BLOODY CRIME SCENE!’ Silence. She was probably counting to ten. Then she was back, sounding as if she’d dropped something heavy on her foot. ‘Hissing Sid’s screaming cross-contamination. Never mind sending the bastard down, we’ll be lucky if we get out of this without Graham Stirling suing our arses off! It’s—’

      Logan hung up.

      Three seconds later, his phone started ringing again. Then the Airwave handset joined in.

      He turned them both off. Rammed them deep into his fleece pockets.

      Opened another tin of beer.

      So much for celebrating.

       14

      The sound of happy-clappy piano and guitars dragged Logan up from the depths, hurling him into Wednesday morning.

       ‘And we’ve got more smashing hits of the Eighties after the news and weather with Bernie.’

      He slumped back on the bed, one hand over his eyes while the other fumbled for the alarm-clock radio.

       ‘Thanks, Clyde. Merseyside Police confirmed this morning that one of the women killed in the drive-by shooting in Liverpool on Sunday was Mary Ann Nasrallah, an undercover police officer. We’ll have more on that later this morning. Next, the hunt for missing sex offender Neil Wood enters its second day as—’

      Logan slapped the radio into silent submission.

      Should’ve switched the damn thing off before crashing last night.

      Something dark and spiky throbbed behind his eyeballs. It coated the back of his throat with grit and bitterness. Made everything taste of cheap supermarket whisky. Then it sank its teeth into his bladder.

      Unnngh …

      The world was a sharp and queasy place as he lumbered through to the toilet.

      Then back to bed again.

      To hell with the day.

      The padlock tumblers squeak beneath his blue fingertips. The hasp falls to the ground, followed by the lock as he pushes the door wide.

      Its hinges creak like a coffin lid and he steps into the foetid darkness.

      ‘Stephen?’ The word comes out in a plume of breath, pale as a ghost. ‘It’s OK, you’re safe now …’

      No he isn’t.

      The torchlight swings its yellow septic eye across stacks of poles and saws and chains, logs and a cast-iron stove. Settles on a pile of filthy blankets.

      Don’t do it.

      But his hand reaches out anyway. What choice does it have?

      He grips the barbed-wire fabric and pulls.

      ‘Stephen?’

      The body lies on its side, curled up on a wooden pallet that’s stained crimson and black. The gaps between the slats are dark and hollow, like the gaping mouth. Gums torn and ragged where the teeth had been ripped out. Fingers bent and twisted, as if someone had taken a hammer to them. Thick strips of silver duct tape wrapped over the eyes. Dried blood caked around the empty groin and filthy buttocks. More blood across the swollen chest. Chains around the wrists and ankles, heavy and rusted.