Free The Missing and the Dead by Stuart MacBride

other side of the police van, marching back and forth with one squelchy shoe. ‘… oh no you don’t. I
told
you he was missing. I
told
you to get a lookout request and … No, no, no, no, no: this is
your
cock-up, sunshine, not mine.’
    Brilliant.
    As if today could get any worse.
     
    The cliffs were washed with blood, shadows long and dark as the sun sank into the North Sea. Painting the grass in shades of amber and gold. Glinting on the chain-link fence.
    Nicholson tucked her hands into the armholes of her stabproof, covered now with a clean high-vis waistcoat. Shrugged her shoulders up round her ears and kept them there, peaked cap wedged on top of her head. ‘Getting a bit nippy.’
    Logan rocked on the balls of his feet. Shoulders back. Hands clasped behind him. Chin up. ‘No slouching.’
    A double line of blue-and-white ‘P OLICE ’ tape stretched between the end of the chain-link fence and the telegraph pole on the other side of the road. A handful of rusty cars were parked in front of the cordon, their drivers and passengers sitting on the bonnets, cameras and microphones hanging idle. Waiting. The Sky TV outside broadcast van partially blocked the entrance to the wastewater plant, a journalist in a fleece and serious expression doing a piece to camera. The BBC doing the same a couple of hundred yards behind them.
    ‘Feel like a right turnip.’ But Nicholson stood upright anyway. ‘Stuck here like a pair of willies while everyone else is off doing proper police work.’
    ‘Pair of
Wallies
. Not willies.’
    ‘I know what I said.’ She turned back to the patrol car. ‘Don’t suppose we’ve got any of those nice padded jackets in the boot, do we?’
    A sigh. ‘Go on then.’
    An unmarked car came to a halt on the other side of the barrier tape and the nightshift Duty Inspector climbed out. Held up his hands as a swarm of lenses turned in his direction. When he spoke, the words came out as a thick roll of bunged-up vowels. ‘We’re not making any comment at this time. Thank you.’ He turned his back on them, ducked under the tape and marched up to Logan. Kept his voice low. ‘Bunch of vultures.’ A waft of Vicks VapoRub and menthol sweets.
    ‘Guv.’
    Inspector Fettes tucked his peaked cap under his arm. His hands were huge – completely out of proportion with the rest of him – and covered with freckles. His cheeks and nose were a freckle playground too, reaching all the way up his forehead to a magnificent mop of red hair. He nodded at the road, where it snaked off down the hill. ‘Inspector McGregor still down there?’
    ‘You taking over?’
    ‘Got enough on my plate running the division as it is. Wendy can hold the fort here till her shift ends. Wanted to make sure I’m up to speed before she heads home.’
    Logan’s phone vibrated in his pocket. ‘Sorry.’ He pulled it out – an email from the support officer in Elgin, listing all the young girls reported missing in the UK for the last two years, filtered for hair colour. None of the photographs worked on his phone. ‘Bloody typical.’
    ‘Problem?’
    ‘Someone’s emailed through photos of all the missing girls on file, but they won’t display.’ He gave the side of the phone a slap. It didn’t help.
    Of course, the photos only mattered if she’d actually been reported missing …
    Inspector Fettes sniffed. Dabbed at his nose with a hanky. ‘Still, I suppose it’s not
really
our problem any more, is it?’
    ‘Like they’d trust us with a murder.’ Logan put his useless phone away again. ‘No: the Major Investigation Team turns up an hour ago, in a blaze of flashing lights and sirens, and takes it off our hands. Thanks for your help, now sod off and go guard the scene for the rest of the night.’
    ‘Tossers.’
    ‘Exactly what I was thinking, Guv.’
    Another sniff. ‘Speak of the devil …’
    A battered Vauxhall grumbled up the hill from the swimming pool, and rattled to a halt next to the patrol car. Sat there