Free The Missing and the Dead by Stuart MacBride Page B

Aberdeen. Post mortem tomorrow.’
    ‘You got any idea how much a haircut costs these days? Don’t get anything like the same overtime I did in CID. And with the pension contribution going up …’
    ‘Right now it looks like a blow to the head. Something solid and cylindrical. Best guess: he bashed her head in with a metal pipe. Find out more tomorrow when they cut her open.’
    Logan screwed his hands together, knotting the fingers tight. ‘When I saw her lying there, all twisted in her school uniform … For a heartbeat, I thought it was Jasmine.’
    Steel draped an arm along the back of the bench. Gave Logan a little squeeze. ‘Don’t be such a big girl’s blouse. She’s home with her mum.’
    ‘Who’s SIO?’
    ‘Officially, our beloved Detective Superintendent Young is the all-powerful Senior Investigating Officer. But it’ll be Finnie’s face on the TV. Dead wee girl. Paedo on the run. Got to bring out the big guns for something like that.’ A sniff. Then she poked herself in the chest a couple of times with her thumb. ‘No prizes for guessing who’ll be doing all the work though.’
    ‘I’d put my money on whatever poor sod you’ve got running around after you.’
    ‘Damn straight.’ She blew out a breath. Pulled her shoulders back. ‘Right.’ Picked up the sheet of paper from her lap. Paused. Then thrust it at Logan. ‘I can’t. You read it.’
    He smoothed out the crumpled sheet. ‘“Dear Mrs Wallace-Steel, I write to inform you of the combined test results from your first-trimester nuchal translucency scan and bloodwork, taken on the”—’
    ‘Get to the point!’
    ‘Fine.’ Logan skimmed the page with his finger. ‘Blah, blah, blah … HCG is normal, but the PAPP-dash-A is elevated. Given Susan’s age, they’re going for a one in five hundred chance of the foetus having Down’s syndrome.’
    ‘Oh thank God.’ Steel let her head fall back and covered her face with her hands. Then sat up again, frowning. ‘One in five hundred. That’s good, isn’t it?’
    No idea.
    He manufactured a smile. ‘Course it is.’
    ‘Ha!’ She slapped him on the back. ‘You’re going to be a daddy again!’ The smile froze and Steel checked over her shoulder, as if someone might be lurking in the long grass. Her voice dropped to a raspy whisper. ‘But if your mum asks, it wasn’t you, OK? Someone else did the squirt-in-a-cup thing. Don’t want her going all stalkery over this one like she did with Jasmine. I’ve had verrucas easier to shake off than that woman.’
    ‘Tell me about it.’ Logan stood. ‘Look, any monkey in uniform could guard the cordon. And you’ve got heaps of bodies here.’
    ‘Want me to release you from your servitude?’
    ‘The whole team. Got a division to look after.’
    The tip of Steel’s artificial cigarette glowed. ‘One in five hundred.’ She grinned. ‘Ah, go on then. I’m feeling generous.’
    He marched back up the road. Tapped Nicholson on the shoulder. Lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Looks like tenses are on again.’
     
    Logan swivelled his chair left and right, phone in one hand, mouse in the other. Scrolling through his team’s actions on STORM. Waiting for the Sergeant at Fraserburgh station to pick up.
    The sound of telephones and stomping feet came from overhead. Like elephants in cheap machine-washable suits. A pair of them thundered past the open door to the Sergeants’ Office, trumpeting about getting a HOLMES suite set up and which of the bunnets was going to have to make the tea.
    Logan stretched the phone cord to its full length and reached out with his leg. Caught the edge of the door with his foot and shoved. It banged shut.
    A not-quite big enough room: two cupboards locked away behind white panelled doors; a pair of desks, back to back so the occupants could face each other over creaky black computers; some metal cabinets and overflowing in-trays. A line of body-worn video units winking their green lights at him as the mouse