Colin Bloody Miller!’ Logan pulled out his phone and poked at the screen. Listened to it ring. ‘Pick up, you rancid little…’ A click. ‘Colin? Why the hell didn’t you tell me you’d tracked down DI Bell’s Spanish family?’
Miller tutted a couple of times, then, ‘You used to be a lot more polite on the phone.’
‘You should’ve told me he had another family in Villafff…weren…’
‘Villaferrueña. It’s a middle-of-nowhere teeny-wee village. Population about a hundred and fifty? Boring. You’d love it.’
‘This is an ongoing investigation!’
‘Aye, and you can read all about it in tomorrow’s Aberdeen Examiner. Now, if there’s nothing else, I’m away to that nice butcher in Rosemount to pick up some steaks for tea. You know how Isobel loves a good slab of meat when she’s been post-morteming all day, but.’
‘Colin!’
A laugh rattled down the phone. ‘I know stuff you don’t. If you want to play quid pro quo at some point, you know where to find us.’ Then the connection went dead. He’d hung up.
‘Damn it.’ Logan lowered his phone.
Rennie looked across the car at him. ‘We could get a warrant?’
‘Yes, because we’ve done such a great job of that recently.’ Logan shook his head. ‘You know what? Not my case: not my problem. DCI Hardie can deal with it.’
The identikit houses and identikit streets drifted past the car windows as Rennie made for the dual carriageway again. ‘Guv? That reporter– the one who looks like a really thin bloke – she said, “was the Ellie Morton case connected to Stephen MacGuire going missing?”’
‘And?’
‘Who’s Stephen MacGuire?’
Good point.
‘No idea.’ Logan pulled up a web browser on his phone and thumbed in the name. Set it searching.
A link to the Clydebank Herald and Post website came up and he followed it. Waiting for the page to load. ‘Here we go.’ The headline ‘FAMILY’S FEAR FOR MISSING STEPHEN’ filled the screen. Scrolling down revealed a photo of a small blond boy, smiling a gap-toothed smile. Lots of freckles. A dark-purple birthmark spread itself across one cheek and along the side of his nose.
‘“Stephen MacGuire, brackets four, went missing from outside his East Kilbride flat at half past eight this morning.” Blah, blah, blah. “‘A wonderful little boy who lights up every room he walks into,’ said his distraught mother, Janice, brackets twenty-three.”’
Rennie nodded. ‘Any word of a stepdad?’
‘No, but the mother’s partner says, “Stephen would not just wander off, I am sure someone must have taken him.”’
‘There you go – it’ll be him. The partner.’
‘“We are desperate to get our beloved son home. Please, if you have any idea where Stephen is, get in touch with the authorities before it is too late.” Why do newspapers have to make everyone sound like robots? “Before it is too late.” Who talks like that?’
Another nod. ‘It’s always the mum’s new bloke.’
Logan put his phone away. ‘Don’t see how a kid getting abducted in East Kilbride has anything to do with a wee girl snatched from Tillydrone.’
‘All that “Stranger Danger” stuff is a waste of time. We’d be better off teaching kids to run away from their stepdads.’
‘…appealing for any information on missing four-year-old, Stephen MacGuire. Stephen was last seen outside his home on Telford Road at eight thirty-two this morning…’
God, it was a lovely day. Not so nice back home with its wind and rain, of course, but out here? With the mighty Cairngorms rising on either side of the road, purpled with heather? The majestic Scottish sky a bright saphire blue? The sun shining down on natives and tourists alike? Who wouldn’t love this?
‘…distinctive port wine stain birthmark on his left cheek. Stephen was wearing blue jeans, a red sweatshirt with a panda on it, brown trainers, and a light-blue jacket…’
The sign went past on the left, ‘FÀILTE DON GHÀIDHEALTACHD ~ WELCOME TO THE HIGHLANDS’ above a stylised illustration of the landscape, complete with trees and a shining loch.
Lee grinned as his trusty old beige Volvo grumbled past it at a sensible 58 miles per hour: some wag had added a wee Nessie to the loch. Had to love the imagination of these people.
‘…morning. Police are keen to trace anyone who was in the area at the time, especially the drivers of a green Citroën Picasso and a grey Nissan Micra…’
An idiot in a BMW overtook him, even though there was clearly a coach-load of day-trippers coming the other way. Roaring past, then slamming on its brakes to screech back into the left lane. Idiot. It was people like that who caused accidents.
‘…following statement.’
A rough woman’s voice replaced the newsreader’s more professional tones. ‘While we can’t rule out a connection with the disappearances of Ellie Morton in Aberdeen, and Lucy Hawkins in St Andrews, I have to say that it’s very unlikely.’
Aw, bless.
‘We have a considerable number of officers out searching the area as we speak, but I have to stress: if you saw Stephen MacGuire this morning, or have any idea where he is, I urge you to come forward and talk to us.’
It was all rather sweet, really. Pointless, but sweet.
‘Stephen’s family are obviously very distressed at this time, so if you have any information, please get in touch by calling one zero one. Help us bring Stephen home.’
And the newsreader was back. ‘Sport now and Aberdeen are looking to bring home three points from their Ibrox fixture this weekend. The Dons have been riding high since the start of the season and—’
Lee switched the radio off.
A full-scale manhunt – well, full-scale child-hunt – was excellent news. Nothing like a bit of publicity to whet people’s appetites.
He took his eyes off the road for a brief moment and looked in the rear-view mirror – at the pet carrier in the boot, partially covered by a tartan blanket. ‘Did you hear that, Stephen? You’re famous!’
A pair of watery green eyes blinked back at him through the pet carrier’s grille door. Freckles and tears on the wee boy’s pale cheeks. That distinctive port wine birthmark. The chunk of duct tape across his mouth.
‘Isn’t that exciting? All those policemen out looking for you? I bet they’ll have your picture on the lunchtime news and everything.’
Stephen
