Partners in Crime: Two Logan and Steel Short Stories. Stuart MacBride

the end of his Santa hat and something inside went ‘click’. Little coloured lights winked on and off inside the fur. Like it wasn’t undignified enough in the first place.

      Then again, given the alternative...

      Steel nodded. ‘Much better.’

      A deafening HONNNNNNNNNNK! belted through the air behind them and a massive eighteen-wheeler loomed in the rear-view mirror, lights flashing.

      She peered over her shoulder. ‘Well, don’t just sit there: you’re holding up traffic.’

      Mrs Griffith scrubbed a soggy hanky under her plump red nose, getting rid of the twin lines of silver. She sat on the couch in an over-warm living room, her pale-pink twinset and pearls looking all rumpled and out of kilter. As if she’d got dressed in the dark then fallen down the stairs a couple of times. Her chocolate-brown hair was starting to go grey at the roots, watery eyes blinking behind Dame Edna glasses. A big woman who wobbled when she sniffed.

      A Christmas tree sat in the corner of the room, decorated with scarlet bows, gold dangly things, and white lights – very tasteful. A mound of presents sat on the floor, beneath a thin layer of fallen pine needles, much more professionally wrapped than the Frankenstein’s monsters in DI Steel’s office. The mantelpiece was covered in cards, and so were the sideboard and the display cabinet by the large bay windows. Popular couple.

      Allan underlined the words ‘MISSING SINCE LAST NIGHT’ in his notebook. ‘And your husband’s never gone off like this before?’

      She blinked and shook her head. Not looking at him.

      Couldn’t really blame her. When you call the police to help find your missing husband, you probably don’t expect a uniformed PC to turn up wearing a flashing Santa bobble hat.

      ‘And he didn’t mention anything that was bothering him?’

      Mrs Griffith sniffed again, blinked, then stared up at the ceiling as the sound of a toilet flushing came from the floor above. Nice house. Fancy. Three bathrooms; four bedrooms, one en-suite; dining room; living room; drawing room; kitchen bigger than Allan’s whole flat; conservatory; dirty big garden hidden under a thick blanket of snow. Had to be at least knee deep out there.

      ‘Well, it’s early days yet. Might just have got stuck in the snow, or something. Did you try his work?’

      Mrs Griffith stared down at the crumpled hankie in her thick fingers. ‘I... I phoned the hospital all night, just in case he’d ... you know, with the icy roads... An accident.’ A single drip swelled on the tip of her nose, clear and glistening in the lights from the tree. ‘Then I tried his work first thing this morning...’

      It was the most she’d said in one go since they’d got there.

      ‘I see.’ Allan made a note in his book. ‘And where does your husband work?’

      She tortured her hanky for a bit. ‘He doesn’t.’ The drip dropped, splashing down on the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘The man I spoke to, Brian, he was Charles’s boss. He said... He said Charles was made redundant three months ago. Said they couldn’t keep everyone on with the economic downturn.’ She gave a little moan in the back of her throat. ‘Why didn’t Charles tell me?’

      Clump, clump, clump, on the stairs, then the living room door opened and DI Steel shambled into the room, hauling up her trousers with one hand. ‘Sorry, went to the panto last night. Too many sweeties always go right through me. You know what they say: you don’t buy chocolate buttons, you just rent them.’ She collapsed down on the other end of the sofa, then patted Mrs Griffith on a chunky knee. ‘Went for a rummage through your bedroom while I was upstairs, knew you’d no’ mind.’

      Mrs Griffith opened her mouth, as if she was about to disagree, then closed it again. ‘What am I going to tell the children?’

      Steel wrinkled her lips and raised one shoulder in a lopsided-shrug. ‘You sure there’s nothing missing? Clothes, toothbrush, razor, stuff like that.’

      ‘He wouldn’t just run out on Jeremy and Cameron and me. He dotes on those boys, nothing’s too good for them.’ Her eyes flicked towards the pile of presents under the tree. ‘Something must have happened. Something terrible...’

      ‘Found this stuffed under the mattress.’ The inspector produced a big clear plastic envelope thing, with ‘Ho-Ho-Ho! HAPPY SANTA SUIT!’ printed in red and white on a bit of card. The hanger was stuffed inside, but there was no sign of the costume. ‘Your Charlie like to dress up for a bit of kinky fun?’

      Mrs Griffith sank back in her seat, eyes wide, one chubby hand pressing that soggy hanky to her trembling lips. ‘No! Charles would never do anything like that.’

      ‘Shame. Partial to a bit of the old “naughty nun” myself.’ Steel patted her on the knee again. ‘Any chance of a cuppa? Digging through other people’s drawers always gives us a terrible drooth.’

      A bit of flustering, then Mrs Griffith hauled herself up from the couch and lumbered off to the kitchen, sniffing and wobbling.

      Allan waited till the kitchen door clunked shut, before leaning forward. ‘You’ll never guess – the husband was made redundant—’

      ‘Three months ago, aye, I know.’

      ‘How did—’

      ‘Found a P45 in his bedside cabinet, along with two Playboys, one Big-’N-Juicy, and a stack of receipts.’

      ‘Oh.’ Allan stuck his notepad back in his pocket.

      ‘Something a wee bittie more interesting too…’ She produced a slip of yellow paper and waggled it at him. ‘It’s—’

      The door thumped open again and Mrs Griffith backed in, carrying a tray loaded down with china cups, saucers, and an ornately painted teapot.

      Steel smiled. ‘That was quick. Don’t suppose there’s any chance of…’ She peered into the tray as Mrs Griffith lowered it onto the coffee table. ‘Chocolate biscuits. Perfect.’

      ‘I didn’t know if you’d want. What with…’ Pink rushed up Griffith’s cheeks, clashing with her twinset. ‘Your digestive problems.’

      The inspector helped herself, talking with her mouth full. ‘I’ll risk it.’ Chomp, chomp, chomp. ‘Your husband ever mention someone called Matthew McFee?’ Crumbs going everywhere.

      ‘Em…’ She fussed with the teapot, eyes down, the pink in her cheeks getting darker. ‘I don’t think so…’