All That’s Dead

31

King checked his watch, then nodded at the assembled officers. ‘So I want you in here, seven sharp tomorrow. Till then, try and get a decent night’s sleep — no boozing it up. I need you all at your best.’ He pointed at the door. ‘Off you go, then.’

Most of the team stood: some trying to look grim and determined, the rest clearly delighted at getting to go home at last. Support staff, plainclothes, and uniform, all bustling out through the door. Leaving only Milky, Steel, Tufty, Heather, King and Logan as it swung shut again.

Briefing over, King slumped down on the edge of a newly vacated desk, as if he’d been wrung dry. ‘Sodding hell...’

Steel popped her feet up. ‘Everything’s going great, then?’

He turned to Rennie. ‘And you didn’t find anything?’

All the way through the briefing and he hadn’t made eye contact with Logan once. Had barely spoken to him since the ‘Parliamentary Arithmetic’ rant in the car.

Rennie shrugged. ‘Between us we’ve covered all of Haiden’s known associates and none of them have a clue where he is. Or if they do, they’re not telling.’

Sitting beside him, Tufty nodded. ‘There’s two worth keeping an eye on, if that helps? Really shifty when we spoke to them. Lots of tattoos too.’

Must be this season’s Alt-Nat look.

Logan pulled out a chair and sat. ‘Jacob McCain said he wasn’t allowed to visit Haiden in prison any more, because,’ making quote bunnies, ‘“Mhari” wouldn’t let him. She thought Haiden’s old friends were a bad influence.’

‘Pfff... She’s no’ exactly a wee fairy princess herself!’

‘Does sound like a pattern of control, though.’

There was a single clap and they all turned to look at a smiling Rennie.

‘Speaking of Fairy Princesses, and straying off topic for a moment, are you all remembering it’s Lola’s big birthday party this Saturday? Everyone’s invited.’ He looked at them in turn, eyebrows raised. No reply. ‘Anyway, Mistress Fizzymiggins wants to know how many people want to make their own magic wand and fairy wings, so she can get enough glitter in.’

King pinched his face closed for a moment. ‘Can we stick to the abductions and attempted murders for now? Please, Sergeant? Can we do that?’

‘Ah. OK.’ Doing his best to sound casual. ‘I suppose that’s sensible.’

Milky filled the ensuing silence. ‘Harmsworth and me didn’t get anything from the guys on Haiden’s cell-block either. Half wouldn’t know Wednesday from a line of coke, and t’other half wouldn’t talk to us if their mum’s life depended on it.’

‘Aye, naebody likes a clype.’

Logan frowned at Steel. ‘Not you too. Got enough of that from Ian McNab.’

‘Before we drift too far from the point, again,’ Heather checked her notebook, ‘we should concentrate on the local Alt-Nat groups. Someone’s bound to know something.’

‘What about tracking down our fake Mhari Powell?’

Tufty: ‘I know! I know! We could go through all those social media accounts my algorithm found — the ones she’s posting from under aliases and stuff — see if we can figure out where she works, who her friends are?’

‘Good.’ King nodded. ‘Make that your number one tomorrow. I want a list of people to interview. Maybe they’ll be a bit more forthcoming than Haiden’s criminal mates.’

Steel: ‘Search her house too. Bound to get a warrant now we know she’s a faker.’

‘Then that’s your number one. And make sure you’ve got a dog unit with you.’

‘Hey!’ Heather. ‘What about my Alt-Nat theory?’

‘Definitely. Take Milky and hit them up tomorrow. I want a list of groups on my desk by nine. Then go speak to everyone you can ID.’

She looked at Milky, then sucked on her teeth for a bit. ‘Yeah... Might not be the best of ideas, Boss. Alt-Nats tend not to like the English very much, and Milky is a bit...’ Heather made a seesaw motion with her hand, ‘let’s call it “ethnically distinctive”.’

Milky laid it on thick: ‘Gi’oar, ya daft apeth!’ Then an evil smile. ‘If they don’t like the English, I’ll bloody well give them English.’

‘That’s settled then.’ Steel stood and stretched, showing off the pasty dead thing passing for her stomach. ‘Are we done now, oh Great Mint-Scented Leader? Only some of us have wives to get home to.’

A pause as something pained scratched at King’s features. He shook it off. ‘Yes. Fine. Go. All of you.’

She shot him with both finger guns. ‘Later, lumpty-numpties.’

Tufty, Rennie, and Milky scuffed out after her, Heather bringing up the rear.

The door clunked shut behind them and King shook his head. ‘Well, that was a fun day.’

Logan stood and had a stretch of his own. ‘Look on the bright side: up till now, Mhari Powell, or whoever she is, has been playing us all for idiots. At least now we know.’

‘Excuse me if I don’t throw a parade.’ King picked himself off the edge of the desk, still not making eye contact. ‘I spoke to Inspector Pearce: no sign of the white Nissan Micra.’

‘They’ll have seen the media coverage, dumped the car somewhere, and got the hell out of Aberdeen. You’d have to be thick as mince to hang about after all this.’

King scrubbed at his face, shoulders bowed. ‘Maybe France was a double bluff? They make us think Haiden’s running away to Calais on the ferry; only they know we’ll find out it’s all fake, because he’s sitting in her car on Netherkirkgate, right in front of a security camera; so we think they’ll never really sneak across the Channel; when, in fact, that’s exactly what they’re planning to do?’

‘Bit convoluted, isn’t it? Anyway, Mhari didn’t know we were on to her until Hardie made his idiotic announcement at the press conference. Far as she was concerned, they were getting away with Plan A.’

He sagged a bit further. ‘True.’

Outside, the wailing cry of another siren on its way to something horrible faded in the distance.

Logan stepped in front of King. ‘Are you sulking with me, because I won’t tell you how I voted in the referendum?’

He still wouldn’t look at him. ‘Course not.’

‘Because that would be childish, and really counterproductive given all this Alt-Nat nonsense flying around.’

‘I know, I know. It’s just...’ And finally, King met his eyes. ‘It’s just with Gwen, and the case, and Edward Bloody Barwell, and Hardie...’ A sigh. ‘Sorry.’

‘Are you sure you want to keep going with this one? You could recuse yourself, if you like. Tell them you’re stepping down to avoid distracting from the investigation. Take some time and sort things out at home.’

‘They’d never let me run another high-profile case if I did that.’ He rubbed at his face again. ‘And what’s left to sort out? Gwen hates me, Logan. I mean she really, really loathes me. You’ve seen how often she phones to have a go. Gloating about her affair. Telling me how she’s turning the kids against me. Making sure I suffer...’ There was a tiny, unhappy laugh. ‘I can’t even leave her: I’ve got nowhere to go.’ His whole body deflated a bit, as if someone had let the air out of his life. A deep breath didn’t seem to help. ‘Pub?’

‘Can’t.’

‘Come on, let me buy you a couple of pints as an apology for calling you a Unionist.’

‘Love to, but I’m babysitting the monsters tonight.’

‘Yeah. Raincheck.’ King shrugged as if it didn’t bother him one way or the other. ‘You’re right, by the way: Hardie’s press conference was pretty much guaranteed to set them running. The man’s an idiot. Haiden and Mhari will be miles away by now.’

Haiden runs his hands across the dashboard again, fingers skimming the glove compartment’s latch. Nice wee car this. Bigger than it looked on The Italian Job. Shame it’s a bit manky.

But when you’re stealing something from long-term parking, you can’t go nicking a flash motor. Nah, you want something that’ll go unnoticed.

He grins across the car at Mhari, who, let’s be honest, is bloody stunning. She’s swapped her mousy-librarian costume for a tight pink T-shirt and sexy low-rise jeans, flashing a strip of beautiful tanned stomach that makes his groin tighten every time he looks at her. Those little leather driving gloves she’s got on, gripping the steering wheel like it’s his cock and he’s been naughty. She’s done that thing with her hair as well, from lank to exotic and oooh...

He adjusts himself through his trousers.

She smiles. ‘Steady, Tiger.’

Oh yeah, they are so going to do it later.

But for now, concentrate on the mission, Haiden. Make sure she knows you’re not just a pretty face. ‘Where we going to send the package this time?’

She thinks about it as the backwoods of Aberdeenshire slip by the car window. ‘The BBC worked wonders with Wanky Wilson. Let’s send it there.’

‘Yeah.’ He nods. ‘But maybe we should try ITV this time? Or Channel Four? Sky? You know, whip up a bit of competition?’

She reaches across the car and squeezes his leg with those leather gloves. ‘Genius. See, that’s why you’re in charge, Babe.’

Squeeze higher, Mhari. Please, squeeze higher...

But she doesn’t. The hand goes back to the steering wheel instead.

Ah well. Just have to wait till later and hope his balls don’t explode before then.

Haiden reaches into the footwell and picks up the claw hammer. Bit rusty, but it’d do the job. Slaps it against his palm. Frowns at it. ‘You know, we should’ve done that with Lansdale. Sent his bits to the media.’

‘How were we supposed to know no one would open his post? Politicians are meant to have assistants, or a secretary, or something.’

‘Yeah... Shame he died before we could film him, though. Jesus, the state of his face! Would’ve frightened the crap out of them Unionist bastards.’

‘Hey, we learned, didn’t we? We learned. And this next one?’ She squeezes his thigh again. ‘Going to be perfect.’

Bloody disaster, that’s what it was. But, then, had it ever been anything else?

Frank unscrewed the cap again and took a swig from his halfy of Co-op own-brand vodka. It went down like burning petrol, spreading its fire.

He’d actually found a parking space outside the flat for once. Not that it would be his flat for long. The lights were on up there. Flat 2R, with its sodding dreamcatcher in the window and the double glazing that needed replacing, and the rusty bracket where the last lot’s TV aerial used to be. The dirty granite strung with black cables, because BT couldn’t be arsed wiring the place up properly. And her...

Here’s to Mr and soon-to-no-longer-be-Mrs King.

He toasted the window and took another swig. The blaze spread, numbing the base of his skull in the way only vodka could.

‘Home, sweet sodding home.’

Should really go in. Been out here long enough, stoking the boiler. Getting ready for the inevitable fight.

Maybe he should—

His phone rang in his pocket. Not the dreaded ‘Fairytale of New York’, but the bland, generic ringtone that came as default.

Frank pulled it out and squinted at the screen, still sober enough to read it with both eyes: ‘UNKNOWN NUMBER’.

Hmph.

He answered it. ‘King.’

A small pause, then a familiar voice slithered its way into his ear. ‘Detective Inspector King, it’s Edward Barwell. Scottish Daily Post.’

Of course it was. After a day like today, how could it not be? One last kick in the crotch before going home to the wife.

Well, you know what? He’d had enough. ‘Bye.’

He was halfway to hanging up, but Barwell wasn’t giving up that easily — voice thin and tinny through the speaker. ‘Sure you don’t want to give your side of the story?’

‘I did that at the briefing, remember? Now, if you don’t mind—’

‘Oh, you got your “I was just there trying to impress a girl” thing out, but that doesn’t really cover what you did, does it?’

Course it did.

Didn’t it?

He put the phone against his ear again.

‘See, I know way more about you than you think. And I’m betting way more than your colleagues do.’

Frank turned in his seat, searching the street. A long terrace of flats, most of them the same shade of dirty granite as his own. A builder’s merchant opposite, all dark and plastered with warning signs. Parked cars crammed along both sides of the road. The shadows starting to lengthen, but the sun still hot enough in the sky to make the air above the bonnet shimmer.

Was Barwell out there? Watching him? Some paparazzi scum sitting next to him taking shots with a telephoto lens? ‘DISGRACED ALT-NAT COP’S SECRET ALKIE SHAME!’

He looked down at the bottle in his hand. Too late to worry about it now, then.

Frank gave them something to photograph: gulping down half the bottle. Let loose a little hiss as the numbness turned to tingling.

‘Don’t know what you think you’ve got, but it’s a lie.’

‘Sure you don’t want to say a few words to the great unwashed? How about to Robert Drysdale’s family? Want to say something to them?’

What?

‘Who the hell is... Drysdale?’

He swallowed.

‘Well, well, well: is that the sound of a penny dropping, I hear?’

‘No idea who you’re talking about.’

A laugh. ‘You keep telling yourself that. Meanwhile, I’ll be telling everyone the truth.’

Frank bared his teeth. Sat forward in the driver’s seat, half-bottle clenched in his fist. ‘Then I hope you’ve got a bloody good lawyer, cos I’m going to sue your rag for every penny it’s got!’ He jammed his thumb on the ‘End Call’ button. Slammed the phone down on the passenger seat. Bellowed out a howl of rage — flecks of spit spattering the windscreen.

He knocked back a hefty swig of vodka. And another one. Then another, draining it.

Screwed the top on like he was throttling that rancid wee shite, Barwell. Twisting the black metal till Barwell’s eyes popped out of his greasy little head. Banged the empty bottle down beside his phone.

Hauled himself out of the car and slammed the door hard as he could.

Stood there staring at it for a moment.

You know what? No way he was suffering an evening with Gwen nipping at his head the whole time. Not without a lot more vodka inside him.

And that’s exactly what he was going to get.

32

Logan hung up his fleece, took off his boots, and put a hand on the banister, looking up towards the top floor. ‘Hello? Anyone home?’

No reply.

‘Cthulhu?’ Sing-songing it out. ‘Where’s Daddy’s favourite kittenfish?’

Still nothing.

Hmph.

He wandered through into the living room. No sign of anyone there either. ‘Hello?’

A muffled shriek from outside.

Ah, that explained it then.

Logan stepped out through the open patio doors, onto the patio — the paving slabs warm beneath his socks.

Tara stood in the middle of it with her hands over her eyes. God knew why, but she was wearing a ridiculous homemade tiara that looked as if she’d cobbled it together from half a ton of pipe cleaners, three gallons of glitter, and enough tinsel to strangle fifty department store Santas. ‘Eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven.’

Logan waved at her, even though she couldn’t see him. ‘Hello.’

‘Eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety.’

‘Is no one happy to see me at all?’

‘Ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three.’

Typical.

Welcome home, lovely Logan. How great it is to see you.

Pfff...

Cthulhu padded out from under a bush, tail in the air.

‘Ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six.’

He squatted down and Daddy’s Favourite Kittenfish bumped her head against his knee, purring and prooping. Doing the LOVE ME dance with her big fluffy white paws. ‘At least you’re happy to see me.’

‘Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine.’

‘Unlike the rest of these bumheads.’

‘One hundred!’ Tara snapped her hands down and span around, staring out at the trees and shrubs. ‘Here I come, ready or not!’

Logan scooped Cthulhu up, turning her tummy-side-up as she stretched out her furry arms and legs. He raised an eyebrow at Tara. ‘Do I even get a hello?’

‘Don’t distract the Seeker! I’m hunting... monsters!’ And with that, she charged off into the garden, growling.

They were all off their tiny rockers.

More shrieks from the undergrowth, then Naomi charged out, wearing a pirate costume and a ridiculous homemade tiara of her own, both arms in the air, waving a water pistol around in one hand and Captain Bogies in the other.

Tara lumbered after Naomi, not going anywhere near fast enough to actually catch her. ‘Bwahahahahahahaha!’

And neither of them bothered to even look in his direction.

‘Fine. I’m going to get a beer and you can all go poop yourselves.’

He carried Cthulhu inside, through to the kitchen, and plonked her down on the table. Opened the fridge — setting the huge collection of kids’ drawings pinned to it flapping — and dug out a tin of Stella.

Had to admit, the room had turned out better than expected: granite worktops, a good gas cooker, decent units, nice tiles. Head and shoulders above the bargain-basement kitchen he’d DIYed into place at the Sergeant’s House in Banff. Even if the worktop by the microwave was almost buried under an assortment of metal coat hangers, packs of multicoloured pipe cleaners, balls of tinsel, and jars of glitter.

He cracked the tab on his tin and froze.

Was that giggling?

He turned. Hunkered down. And peered in under the table.

Jasmine stared at him, eyes glittering, both hands over her mouth. Shoulders jiggling from the effort of keeping the giggles in. And her tiara was the most OTT of them all.

‘Evening.’ He pointed at the monstrosity on her head. ‘Why are you wearing a—’

‘Shhhh! You can’t tell Aunty Tara where I’m hiding!’

Not her as well...

Logan held up a hand and backed away. ‘I know, I know: “naebody likes a clype”.’

Tara stepped up behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest. Warm against his back in the sunshine as he finished off his tin of Stella. Naomi and Jasmine thundered about in the garden, Cthulhu sitting on a garden chair by the patio doors — staying well out of it.

Logan put his tin on the windowsill. ‘I take it you rotten sods have eaten?’

‘Don’t sulk.’ She kissed his neck. ‘I saved some tuna casserole for you.’

‘Should think so too.’

Naomi and Jasmine battered past, holding their oversized wobbly tiaras on top of their heads.

He turned and frowned at the lurid concoction sitting on top of Tara’s. ‘OK, I’ll bite: what’s with the fancy headgear?’

‘Rennie’s daughter’s birthday party this weekend: it’s BYOT.’

‘Ah, so that’s what it stands for.’

She smiled. ‘Don’t worry, we made one for you too.’

Why did that sound like a threat?

The bedside clock glowed ‘21:00’, but even with the curtains drawn, daylight crept in around the edges. Jasmine and Naomi, in their respective jammies and beds, clutching their respective stuffed animals — Captain Bogies the filthy octopus for Naomi, Mr Stinky the threadbare bear for Jasmine.

Tara leaned against the door frame, wearing a huge smile. Probably very pleased with herself for talking him into wearing the monstrosity she and the kids had made. Which looked a bit like a cross between an explosion in a pipe-cleaner factory and a prolapsed Christmas tree. The others had been over the top, but his was definitely the over-the-topiest of them all.

Everyone stared at him as he turned the page and hoisted the pirate accent up a couple of yardarms.

Everyone joined in for the last bit, even Tara: ‘The End!’

Logan closed the book, stood and kissed Jasmine on the head. ‘Night Monster Number One.’ Then did the same with Naomi. ‘Night Monster Number Two.’

She held up her grubby octopus. ‘Don’t forget Captain Bogies!’

‘OK.’ Captain Bogies got a kiss on his head too. ‘Night Monster Number Three.’

He stopped in the doorway — ducking a bit so he didn’t lose his tiara on the architrave — and clicked out the light, leaving them with the rotating glow of a wee planetarium globe thing. Well, that and the sunshine oozing in around the curtains.

Tara blocked his way out, so he kissed her as well. She tasted of cherries. ‘Monster Number Four.’ That seemed to do the trick, because she backed away far enough to let Logan close the door behind him.

She reached up and adjusted his tiara. ‘Very fetching.’ A lopsided smile. ‘You make a good dad, you know that, don’t you?’ Then closed one eye and chewed on the inside of one cheek for a bit. ‘Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all?’

Oh-ho.

‘Well, there’s nothing to stop us getting a bit of practice in.’ He wrapped her up in a hug, complete with very wandering hands. Getting a laughing shriek for his troubles as she grabbed hold of his bum for a revenge grope.

Jasmine’s voice barged through the closed bedroom door: ‘GOD SAKE, YOU TWO. GET A ROOM!’

Which wasn’t a bad idea...

Sylvia’s voice purred in his ear. ‘And the sell-in’s great, Scotty. We’re talking potential top ten bestseller here.’

Scott grinned. A top ten bestseller: how cool was that?

Wait a minute... ‘Sylvia, does that mean we have to give the guy who wrote it more money?’ He stuck the phone on ‘SPEAKER’ and dropped it into his top pocket, freeing both hands to tip the remainder of his pear and Roquefort tarte tatin into the food recycling bin — well, you never knew when something like The Great British Bake Off might come calling. And lesser mortals than him had parlayed that into a lucrative media career, so why shouldn’t he?

‘You let me worry about that. Your name’s on the cover, you get all the fame and ninety-nine percent of the cash.’

‘Less your fifteen percent.’

A laugh. ‘Hey, a girl’s gotta eat, right?’

The kitchen, let’s be honest here, was an absolute triumph — lots of chrome and brushed steel appliances. A dark-maroon statement wall for the range cooker to sit against. Mahoosive fridge with separate wine cooler. But then the whole house was a monument to his superior taste, thank you very much.

Shame no one had thought to get in touch with Grand Designs when he was having it built. Could’ve been great on that.

‘And have you thought any more about: you — know — what?’

‘Yeah...’ He sucked a breath in through his teeth. ‘I’m not sure Strictly is a good fit for me. What about the charity single idea? Or... presenting something on TV, you know? Something with a bit of gravitas?’ He pulled the bag out of the recycling bin and tied the top edges together.

‘Scotty, you can’t just coast into a cosy media career off the back of four weeks in the Big Brother house any more. It’s not 2002 and you’re not Jade Goody.’

Damn right he wasn’t. ‘How about Celebrity Mastermind? I could—’

‘Are you insane? No one in the history of ever got a career boost from Celebrity Cocking Mastermind, have you seen the Z-list nobodies they have on that show?’

He carried the bag out into the hall — big, atrium style, with an Italian marble floor, huge rubber plants and citrus trees and the like. All of which had cost a small fortune. As had everything else in here, including the state-of-the-art home cinema setup in the lounge.

‘Listen to me, Scotty: you want the TV show and the turn on Desert Island Discs? You gotta do Strictly.’

Groan.

‘And while we’re at it, have you done that opinion piece for the Telegraph yet?’

‘I’m a bit... Look, Sylvia, are you sure this is the right direction for me? My dad’s SNP and he’s still not speaking to me after the last one I wrote.’ Scott walked through the porch. Smaller in scale — so you’d get the wow factor stepping out of it into the hall: see, he knew what he was doing when he briefed the architect — but still pretty damned grand as far as designs went.

‘Don’t be daft: “Why Scotland should be scared to go it alone” was terrific. Best thing in the whole paper.’

‘But—’

‘Scotty, darling, trust me. That “Tackling the Tartan Menace” shtick plays very well down here. London loves it. And where do you think all the casting decisions are made?’ She left an expectant pause, but there was no point answering the question, because they both knew it wasn’t Scotland.

‘OK, OK, I’ll write the piece.’ He checked his reflection in the gilt-edged mirror — not bad — unlocked the front door and stepped outside. ‘But if my dad disowns me, it’ll be your fault.’

A proper gravel driveway led down to the large wrought-iron gates, bordered by waist-high drystane dykes that cost an eye-wateringly large amount to put in.

The sun caressed the horizon, painting the sky with purple strokes, a smattering of clouds flaring fluorescent pink as the switch to twilight came... Hey, that was pretty good: ‘Painted the sky with purple strokes.’ Have to remember it for later, write it down when he got back inside.

Maybe he wouldn’t need someone to write the next book for him? Couldn’t be that difficult, could it? All you did was stuff one word down after the next till a book plopped out the other end. Any idiot could do that.

‘Now, about Strictly...?’

The gravel crunched beneath his feet as he made for the gates, skirting the brand-new, dark-blue, BMW Z4. ‘Not convinced.’

She put on her patient voice. ‘Scotty, darling, let me explain Agent Sylvia’s patented Showbiz Hierarchy of Needs. I’d love to get you a presenting job, but to do that I need to get you on Strictly first. After that we go for a guest spot on Corrie, then EastEnders, Doctors, Casualty. How about Saturday Kitchen? You like your food, right?’

‘Oooh, I could do that.’ He pulled the little remote from his trouser pocket and pressed the button. The gates swung open on silent hinges.

‘TV exposure is the oxygen our entertainment ecosystem thrives on. The more of it you breathe, the more of you they want.’

‘And what about Celebrity Pointless?’

A thinking sound, then, ‘Liking it.’

He dumped the bag in the green recycling bin. Straightened up.

Frowned.

Was that...?

‘Hold on, Sylvia.’

A sound. Sort of scuffing, like someone trying to hide their footsteps?

He stood there, head cocked to the left, listening...

The sun was setting, but it’d be twilight for at least another hour yet. Longest day — wouldn’t be properly dark till after eleven. And yet... the shadows gathered. Deep blues and purples, reaching out from the drystane dykes, blurring the detail. Hiding things.

Somewhere, off in the distance, a fox yowled.

‘You still there?’

Nah. It was nothing. Badger or a vole. That kind of doodah.

He shut the recycling bin’s lid. ‘Then there’s radio work, right? Bound to be something we could pitch to Radio Four.’

‘Not as good as TV, but all exposure is good exposure when you’re Feeding The Beast.’

Scott started up the drive again, clicking the remote over his shoulder as he crunched across the gravel. The gates swung shut with a reassuring clang.

‘And there’s always my charity single idea! How does...’ He froze. There it was again. The scuffing noise. He inched his way around till he was facing the gates again, every single hair on his head standing to attention.

‘Scotty, you OK?’

‘Thought I heard something.’ He raised his voice at the growing shadows. ‘Hello?’ Trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’

Give Sylvia her due, she had his back, without so much as a pause: ‘Do you need me to call the cops?’

Silence.

Not even the fox.

Oh, what was he doing?

A laugh bounced its way out of him. OK, it was a bit high and nervous sounding, but if you can’t laugh at yourself being an idiot, who could you laugh at?

He shook his head and hurried back to the house. Not running, but not dawdling either.

‘Honestly, I genuinely terrified myself then.’

Soon as he was inside, he locked the front door, double bolted it and put the chain on too. Gave himself a little shake. ‘Sorry, sorry. What were we talking about again?’

‘Brainstorming PR opportunities with my very favourite client.’ Bet she said the same thing to all her clients. But it was still nice to hear.

Scott pushed through into the atrium — which, let’s face it, sounded so much better than ‘hall’. There was a bottle of Courvoisier XO in the kitchen. Big glass of that would go down very nicely indeed. Well, he deserved it, didn’t he? After nearly scaring himself to death.

‘Right, yes: so my charity single idea. I was thinking we could—’

A dull thunk reverberated around the inside of his skull and the room rushed at him like the incoming tide. Ringing in his... Knees buckle, not straight... Floor rushing up to meet him.

Darkness.

33

Sylvia frowned at the phone, sitting in its cradle on the kitchen countertop — hands-free, so she could enjoy a nice large Pinot Grigio and a dish of Kalamata olives. ‘Scotty?’

A thunk from the phone’s speaker, then a groan.

She rolled her eyes and popped another olive.

Honestly, why did male clients have to be such a pain in the proverbial? I want more exposure! I want on BBC Breakfast! I want on the One Show — though why anyone would want that was absolutely beyond her — Bake Off, Strictly, MasterChef, I’m a Celebrity, Saturday Kitchen, wah, wah, wah, why aren’t I more popular?

But when you’ve recently bought a two-bedroom flat in Kensington, you do what you have to in order to pay for it. Even if it meant polishing the egos of whiny wannabes like Scott Meyrick.

Sylvia took a sip of Pinot and frowned at the phone as scuffing and grunting came from the other end. He better not be having a phonewank at her...

‘Hello? Scotty?’

Some muffled rustling noises, then another groan.

Swear to God, if it wasn’t for her staggeringly huge mortgage she’d dump his whiny Z-list arse in a shot.

‘Very funny, Scotty. Now, can we get on with business?’

Then a woman’s voice, hard and Scottish: ‘Grab his legs.’

Sylvia sat up, put the wine glass down and turned the volume up. Pressed the ‘RECORD CALL’ button. ‘Scotty? Is everything OK?’

‘Right, you little bastard.’

A... what was that? It was too muffled to make out. She grabbed the phone, pressing it against her ear.

The next voice was a man’s, a thicker, coarser version of Scotty’s accent. ‘He’s coming round.’

There were people in her client’s house.

Oh — my — God...

And she was getting it all on tape.

‘SCOTTY!’

‘You hear that? It was a... There: in his shirt pocket?’ The man’s voice got louder. ‘Oh shite, he’s on the phone with someone!’

‘So what? Let them listen. All publicity’s good publicity, right?’

‘LEAVE MY CLIENT ALONE!’

Laughter.

Then moaning. A confused, ‘Wmnnnnghh... I...’ Scotty’s mumbling snapped straight to pure terror. ‘Who the—’ whatever he said next was muddy and indistinct, as if someone slapped their hand over his mouth.

The Woman: ‘So Scotland’s a “half-arsed nation of chippy wee wannabees”, is it?’

A metallic sound. Followed by muffled pleas.

The Man: ‘Spite’s a terrible thing, Scotty. Real terrible.’

The Woman: ‘Hold him still.’

A scream belted out of the speaker, high-pitched and terrified and wine-curdling. Sylvia wrenched the phone away from her ear, knocking over her glass. It shattered against the worktop, Pinot Grigio going everywhere as the screaming went on and on and on and on...

She dug her other iPhone from her handbag and dialled 999.

Come on, come on, come—

‘Emergency services, which service do you require?’

‘Police! Get the police out there now!’

Mhari pulls down her facemask and grins at him.

Haiden checks his own white oversuit — speckled with tiny red dots, but hers is caked, bright scarlet all the way from her gloves to her elbows. More on her chest.

His stomach does a wee spin to the left, then the right, but he swallows it down.

Jesus...

She snatches a fancy-looking bottle from the kitchen countertop, twists off the top with her bloody gloves, raises the brandy in salute. ‘Slàinte mhath!’ Then swigs straight from the bottle. Holds it out to him.

Yeah, maybe not.

‘He got any whisky?’

She jerks her head towards the open kitchen door, where the lower half of Scotty Meyrick is slowly inching past, legs barely moving as he tries to crawl away. Not getting very far. Leaving a thick smear of scarlet on the marble floor. ‘He’s a Unionist wanker, course he hasn’t.’

Mhari wiggles the bottle at Haiden and he shrugs, then takes it. Lowers his mask.

‘Slàinte mhòr.’ He takes a big scoof of brandy. Shudders as the sweet grapey liquid hits the back of his throat. Forces it down. ‘Gah...’

Mhari puts her bloodstained hand on his white-suited chest. ‘Oh, baby, we’re nearly done. We’re so close.’ Then she steps in close and kisses him, her breath like petrol from the brandy. ‘Soon we can do anything we like.’

Now that’s more like it. He smiles, slow and sexy. ‘Anything?’

She laughs, then grabs him and kisses him again — deeply this time, with lots and lots of tongue. Breaks for air and stares through the open door at Scotty Meyrick’s half-arsed escape crawl. ‘But first we have to take care of our new friend, before the cops get here.’

34

Two patrol cars sat on the wide gravel drive, blocking in a fancy BMW Roadster. The one nearest the massive, garish, house still had its blue-and-whites on, the flickering disco of misery reflecting back from the wall of glass that fronted the property.

The sign by the gates was a slab of granite with ‘CAIRNHARN COTTAGE’ on it, which was a bit of an understatement. Scotty Meyrick’s house was huge. One of those places that got featured in property supplements as ‘HOME OF THE WEEK!’ — had to be at least five bedrooms in there; landscaped gardens; the edge of a tennis court poking out behind one corner of the house.

Logan pulled his Audi into the only gap left and climbed out.

Not often you got to describe a night in Aberdeenshire as ‘sultry’, but this probably qualified. The air, thick and sticky. Smelling of dust and something... chemical. Like the warm verruca-plaster scent of chlorine. Which probably meant there was a pool as well.

A pair of security lights cracked on as he crunched his way to the house, flooding the gravel with their harsh white glare.

Logan stopped outside the front door, pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, and let himself in.

Big porch, a line of jackets on a row of hooks. Large mirror on the wall opposite, because God forbid you should step out of your front door looking anything less than your fabulous best.

The porch opened on a massive hall, more like a hotel lobby than someone’s house. The marble floor was speckled with dark red, a pool of it in the middle of the room. Bloody handprints. Bloody footprints. Not as much as there’d been in Professor Wilson’s kitchen, but still...

Whatever Mhari and Haiden had done to Scotty Meyrick wasn’t good.

A thick streak of scarlet stretched away towards the cavernous living room, as if their victim had tried to escape, but barely made it to the open doors.

A lone PC stood with her back to the room, all done up in the full stabproof-and-high-viz kit, talking into her phone. ‘No, there’s no sign of the householder. Dundee Bill and Smithy are out searching... Uh-huh... OK.’ She groaned and sagged. ‘Inspector McRae? Why do we need some Professional Standards toss—’

Logan cleared his throat. Nice and loud before she could hang herself.

She froze. ‘Oh God, he’s behind me, isn’t he?’

‘He is. And since we’ve got off to such a great start, perhaps you can tell me why there’s no one out there stopping every Thomas, Richard, and Harold barging into our crime scene?’

‘Got to go.’ She hung up and turned, pulling on what was probably meant to be an ingratiating smile. It didn’t go with her wide turnip face. ‘Inspector McRae! Great to see you up and about again. You know, after what happened last year.’

‘I want this scene secured, Constable.’

‘Ah... Well, the thing is, we don’t even know if it’s a proper crime scene yet, because—’

‘Scott Meyrick, who’s been quite clear about his anti-independence stance, was abducted while on the phone to his agent.’ Logan counted the points off on his fingers: ‘She heard screaming, the floor’s covered in blood, and, let me guess, he’s nowhere to be found?’

Pink rushed up Constable Turnip’s cheeks. ‘Yes.’ The pink darkened. ‘I mean, yes, sir. Boss. Guv?’

‘Good. Now we’ve got that cleared up, get this sodding crime scene secured!’

She scurried off towards the front door, phone clamped to her ear again. ‘Guthrie, whatever you’re doing, stop it and get back here. Nosferatu’s Ninjas have arrived...’ Banging the door behind her as she vanished into the porch.

Unbelievable.

OK, so giving her a hard time wouldn’t exactly help to dispel Professional Standards’ reputation as ‘a bunch of sinister bastards’, but if you presented your backside for kicking you couldn’t complain when someone took a run up and planted their boot square between your cheeks.

And where the hell was the cordon? The bloodstains on the floor should’ve been taped off by now. Sodding amateurs.

He squatted down a couple of inches past where the splatter ended. A lot of blood, but not a life-threatening amount. Well, at least not bleeding-to-death threatening.

Maybe Haiden and Mhari had planned something more, but had to cut it short? After all, according to Scotty Meyrick’s agent the two of them knew she was on the phone, listening as they did whatever it was they were doing to him. Knew she’d phone the police. Knew that patrol cars would be racing over here, lights and sirens blaring. Knew their time was running out...

Logan stood and followed the blood smear to the lounge door.

This room was massive too: the front wall, solid glass, looking out at the patrol car and its flashing blue-and-whites. A big sound system against one wall, a collection of tan leather couches, a big glass-and-chrome coffee table, far more pictures of the house’s owner than was healthy — even for a committed egomaniac.

‘Ostentatious’ was the word that sprung to mind.

The only things spoiling Scotty Meyrick’s nouveau-riche narcissistic look-at-me-I’m-famous theme were the St Andrew’s cross spray-painted across a large projection screen in dripping blue aerosol and the word ‘SPITE!’ graffitied on the opposite wall, taking in several of the ego-photos.

They knew the police were on their way, but they still hung around to do that...

Foolhardy, reckless, or maybe they just didn’t give a toss any more? Not now Hardie had outed them to the whole world. And there was no way that didn’t make them a lot more dangerous.

Hardie was such a stupid—

‘For God’s sake!’ DI King’s Highland accent boomed out in the hall. ‘Get out my bloody way!’

‘Please, Guv: I’ve got to do crime scene management or Inspector McRae will have my ovaries.’

See? Applying boot to backside had the desired effect.

‘Oh for...’

There was a pause — presumably that would be PC Turnip making King sign in — then the man himself lurched into view. He wasn’t his usual dapper, if slightly sweaty self. A bit rumpled, to be honest.

King stopped in the doorway to the living room, rubbing a hand across his blue-stubbled jaw as he frowned down at the blood smear. His suit looked as if he’d slept in it, purple bags under his pink eyes. He stuffed a mint into his mouth, crunching it down with a grimace. ‘Got here as soon as I could.’

A waft of aftershave made it across the room to where Logan stood. Sharp and overpowering.

Logan backed away a couple of paces, but it followed him. ‘Scott Meyrick. That’s three Anti-Nat, Pro-Union figures missing in eight days. I think Haiden and Mhari are escalating.’

King rubbed at his stubble again. ‘We’re going to have to wait at least two hours for a Scene Examination team. Had to draft one up from Tayside, because all ours are out at another sodding arson attack.’

‘Thought we had top priority? They told us we had top priority!’

‘A man died, Logan. Burned to death in the flat above his pub.’

‘Bloody hell...’ No wonder they couldn’t get anyone out here.

‘Yup.’ King puffed out his cheeks and took another look at the smeared blood. ‘Think Scott Meyrick’s hands are going to turn up in the post? Or his cock?’ King gave a small lurch to the side. He caught it fast enough, but it was still visible. ‘Or Christ-knows what.’

Maybe that explained all the aftershave?

Logan stepped in closer and sniffed. There was something underneath it. Something sour, lurking between all those extra-strong mints. ‘Have you been drinking?’

Those pink eyes narrowed. ‘I had one. One drink, with my wife, over dinner.’

One drink? With the wife that completely hated him? Yeah, that sounded plausible.

King stuck out his chest. ‘What?’ Then he shook his head and marched into the room, pretty much collapsed into one of the leather couches. Scowled up at the vandalised projection screen. ‘We’ve got two options. One: Haiden and Mhari are abducting their victims, mutilating, killing them, and dumping the bodies. Two: they’re actually trying to keep them alive for some reason.’ The words were slow and crisp, as if he was forcing the slush out of them first. But not quite managing.

One bottle, more like.

‘They sent us a video of Professor Wilson pleading for his life in a chest freezer, remember?’ Logan sighed. ‘This is probably the most high-profile case you’ll ever work on, Frank. The media are picking over every single thing we do and so are our bosses. You can’t turn up for work with a drink in you. Not now, not ever.’

‘Oh come on! How was I supposed to know I’d get dragged out here at...’ he peeled back his sleeve and peered at his watch with one eye — the other squeezed shut, ‘eleven o’clock?’

‘Suppose not.’ But that didn’t make it right.

King gave himself a bit of a shake. ‘So where are they keeping them? Where do Mhari Powell and Haiden Lochhead have access to?’

Oh for God’s sake.

‘We’re looking into that, already, remember?’

‘Urgh...’ He scrubbed at his face again.

Maybe more than one bottle. And probably something a lot stronger than wine.

‘Go home, Frank, you’re not helping the case or yourself by being here.’

King wouldn’t look at him. ‘Robert Drysdale.’

‘What about him?’

A long pause while King pursed his lips and frowned, as if he was working up to some big secret. ‘He’s... Yeah.’ Whatever it was, the moment passed. ‘Don’t suppose it matters now.’ King sagged back and stared at the ceiling. ‘You ever think about jacking it all in, Logan? About marching up to Hardie, Young, and all the rest of those useless tossers and telling them where they can stick this buggering job?’

All the time. Especially today.

Logan hooked a thumb at the patrol cars outside. ‘Come on: go home. I’ll get someone to drive you.’

‘Doesn’t matter what I do, I’m screwed. Can’t erase the sins of the past.’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘They’re going to tear me apart, Logan. They’re going to crack open my bones and feast on the bloody marrow.’

Probably.

‘We’re doing everything we can.’

‘I was doomed from the moment I decided Cerys was the one for me. My first real love... Sixteen years old and that was my life. Ruined.’

Logan helped him up. Close in, like this, the smell of alcohol was eye-watering. ‘It’ll look better in the morning.’

‘No. No, it really won’t.’

Logan sat back on the sofa and stifled a yawn.

Tayside’s Scene Examination team had cordoned off the blood spatters in the hallway, and now half a dozen of them were giving the crime scene laldy, all dressed in their scrunchy white SOC suits. Fingerprinting, swabbing, and photographing things.

For some reason, their Transit van — parked right outside the living room window — wasn’t the usual filthy grey with obscene slogans written in the dirt. Instead it was a pristine shade of recently cleaned white. They’d have to watch that, if any of the other divisional SE teams found out, they’d get drummed out of the Scene Examiners’ union.

Another yawn.

Urgh...

Should’ve gone home when King did. Or at the very least, when the Tayside team finally turned up. No one could say he hadn’t showed willing.

One of the SE team ducked out from under the tape cordon and padded across the marble on his blue-bootied feet. Stopped right in front of Logan, still wearing the full goggles-facemask-and-gloves outfit. Nodded back towards the bloodstains. You could’ve cut marmalade and sawn through jute with his accent: ‘Got some good fingerprints off the floor around where the body was.’

‘Body?’

‘Aye, body. You can tell from the blood patterns.’ He pulled down his facemask and gave Logan a lopsided smile. ‘I love blood patterns, me. Every little scarlet dot, shimmering like a ladybird, tells a story. You just have to ken how to read it.’

Logan smiled. ‘I know a forensic soil scientist you’d love.’

‘Ace.’ A nod. ‘So, I’d say our victim was standing when they were hit first — there’s fine particulates on the wall and the rubber plant at head height. Then he hits the floor — more blood, but radiating outwards, a few stray hairs caught between the tiles. Some smearing. And that’s when they cut him.’

‘They cut him?’

‘Oh yeah. He’s lying on his back, right? And they have a go at his face with something. You can tell, cos it’s quite a gusher to start with, so his body’s acting like a stencil. He tries to haul himself in here, see the slug trail?’ Pointing at the drag marks. ‘Then they haul him to his feet and frogmarch him out. By then it’s more dribbling than anything, so they’ve maybe packed the wound with something? You can see the foot-scuffs in the dribbles. And it’s definitely dribble, not flobble, cos it’s come straight down with a wee splash.’

Logan stared at him.

‘What?’

‘Normally, I have to batter Scene Examiners over the head with a stick to get even the vaguest predictions out of them.’

‘Oh, the official report will be full of caveats and bet-hedging, but we’re all mates here, right?’ He rocked on his blue-bootied heels. ‘So, Scotty Meyrick, eh?’

Had to hand it to Haiden Lochhead and Mhari Powell — to break in, overpower their victim, mutilate him, vandalise the living room, and vanish into the night taking him with them, before the police could turn up... That took skill. And planning.

The tech sucked on his teeth. ‘Never really liked him on the telly, bit too slick, aye? But he talked a lot of sense in them Telegraph articles. The trouble with Scotland is a bunch of numpties saw Braveheart and now they think if we could only sod about the hills in kilts all day, flashing our arses at the English, somehow everything will be all right.’

Logan stood, checked his watch: twenty to three. ‘How much longer do you think?’

‘I mean, Scotland voted to stay in the EU because we know it’s better to be part of something bigger, right? So why the hell would we want to leave the UK? Bigger’s always better.’ A cheeky wink. ‘Ask any woman.’

Logan blinked at him. Then handed over a business card. ‘If anything urgent comes up, call me.’

‘Will do, Chief.’ He gave himself a wee satisfied chuckle as he wandered off towards his precious bloodstains. ‘“Ask any woman.” Priceless, Leonard, priceless.’

Looked as if Tayside’s policy on hiring weirdos was every bit as robust as Aberdeen’s.

Logan picked his way past the cordon and out into the night.

No moon. Nothing but the glow of every light in Scott Meyrick’s house blazing away beneath a blanket of indifferent stars. The Dundee lot had marked out a common approach path with blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape, and Logan followed it as far as his Audi, bypassing one of the white-suited team, on their hands and knees in the gravel, working away with a high-powered torch.

Logan pulled out his phone, one finger hovering over the contacts list. Not even three o’clock yet. It wasn’t really fair to call Jane McGrath this early.

Then again, why should he be the only one up and worrying about this stuff?

He poked her name and his mobile rang, and rang, and rang, and rang, and rang and—

‘Gnnnn...? Wh... Urgh. Do you know what time it is.’

‘Yes.’ He leaned against his car. ‘The press are going to find out about Scott Meyrick soon. No way we can keep this quiet.’

‘I’m not an idiot, Logan, I’m well aware of that.’ A sort of half-yawn-half-gurgle noise came down the line. ‘His bloody agent held a press conference about thirty minutes after she called nine-nine-nine. It’s all over the twenty-four-hour news outlets.’

‘Oh for God’s sake...’

‘So you woke me up for nothing. And I’ve got to be on the BBC in... Aaaargh! Four and a bit hours!’

‘Sorry.’ No he wasn’t, but at least she couldn’t see him grinning. ‘Jane... off the record... hypothetically speaking—’

‘What?’ And just like that she sounded a lot more awake. ‘OK, you’re worrying me now!’

‘Have you ever heard of someone called “Robert Drysdale”?’

‘Who’s Robert Drysdale?’ An edge of panic was creeping in. ‘Why should I have heard of him? Has something happened?’

‘Call it “idle speculation”.’ All innocent.

‘Oh great. Thank you very much. How am I supposed to get back to sleep now?’

‘Well it’s—’

‘Going to be up all night worrying about Robert Bloody Drysdale! Gah!’ And with that, she hung up.

It was hard not to grin, it really was. After all, a problem shared...

Logan climbed into his Audi, clicked on the lights, and drove off into the night.