All That’s Dead

35

The last bars of something far too raucous for this time of the morning screeched and hollered out of the car radio as Logan turned onto Queen Street. Sunlight glittered on the granite buildings, made the concrete glow, sparkled in the looming windows of Divisional Headquarters. A handful of miserable people trudging along the early morning pavements on their way to work.

The DJ laughed. ‘I know, I know, but it’s growing on me. Got the news, travel, and weather coming up at seven. And we’ll be going live to Aberdeen Divisional Headquarters for a special exclusive report on Scotty Meyrick’s abduction last night.’

‘Oh... sodding hell.’

‘If you’re out there listening, Scotty, everyone here wants you to know we’re thinking of you at this difficult time. Stay strong!’

‘Yes, because that’ll do him a huge amount of...’

The armada of journalists who’d gathered outside DHQ hove into view — doing their early morning bulletins to camera. Serious faces for a serious story.

Logan slowed to have a bit of a nosy.

A big BMW van was parked just ahead, splattered with Sky TV branding, a paddling-pool-sized satellite dish on the roof. The side door rattled open as he passed and that wee hairy Philip Patterson hopped out, tissue paper stuffed into his collar so he wouldn’t get however many tons of makeup he was wearing on his shirt. A camerawoman clambered out after him, jostling up the walkway to the Front Podium.

Be sure to get a shot with the Police Scotland signage in the background, don’t want people to think you’re not really here...

‘Great.’

‘Anyway, you’re listening to OMG It’s Early!, with me, Rachel Gray. And now, here’s an oldie but a goodie: The Eagles and “Hotel California”. This one’s for you, Scotty!’

Yeah, not exactly appropriate.

PC Ugly was behind the desk outside the Chief Superintendent’s office again, hammering away at his keyboard as if going for a new world record.

King lowered himself into the seat one down from Logan’s, clean shaven, Hollywood hair slicked back, suit, shirt, and tie immaculate. As if he hadn’t turned up half-cut at the crime scene last night. He dug into a pocket and waggled a roll of extra-strong mints in Logan’s direction. ‘You look rough.’

Cheeky sod. But Logan took a mint anyway, sticking it into his cheek like a hamster.

King put the packet away. ‘They give you a time for the press briefing yet?’

‘No. You?’

‘Why would they tell me? I’ll be fired by then.’

Welcome to the Friday-morning pity party.

‘They’re not going to fire you just because Scott Meyrick got abducted. That wasn’t our fault.’

‘You’ve not read the Scottish Daily Post this morning, then?’

Logan turned in his seat. ‘Didn’t have time. You?’

‘Didn’t need to. I know what’s coming.’

Wonderful. So he’d been right yesterday — there was worse on its way. ‘What has Barwell—’

The office door opened and Superintendent Bevan stuck her head out. The smile she flashed wasn’t a hopeful one. ‘Ah, Logan. Good. Can you join us inside, please?’

He and King stood, but she waved at King to sit again. ‘Sorry, Frank, I need you to wait here for now.’

King’s smooth shaved cheeks darkened. ‘I see. That’s how it is.’

Logan patted him on the shoulder, then followed Bevan inside. Closed the door behind him, shutting out King’s hurt wee face.

Big Tony Campbell’s office was done out in the same Spartan fashion as the reception area outside. The only nods to decoration were the framed photos of Big Tony with various local VIPs and a couple of First Ministers. No whiteboards, no filing cabinets, no pot plants — just a big-ish desk with the man himself, Chief Superintendent of all he surveyed, glowering away behind it, a coffee table, and half a dozen comfy chairs. Only one of which was unoccupied.

Bevan settled into it, between Superintendent Young, and Jane McGrath: who looked at Logan as if he was something needing biopsied. Hardie sat on the other side of the coffee table with an unknown woman: grey-streaked shoulder-length hair, a proud chin, superintendent’s pips on the epaulettes of her dress uniform.

Scowls and frowns all round. And not one of them could look him in the eye.

Fair enough, it was going to be one of those meetings.

Logan nodded at each of them in turn. ‘Boss, Guv, Chief, Super, Jane...’ He raised an eyebrow at their mystery visitor. ‘Ma’am?’

She nodded at him.

It was Big Tony Campbell who broke the ensuing silence. ‘Three pro-union public figures in less than a fortnight, Logan. Three.’

Let the bollocking commence.

Logan put on his best reasonable voice. ‘We’re not the ones abducting them, Boss.’

‘Is that supposed to be funny, Inspector?’

‘We’ve got lookout requests on the go, Mhari and Haiden’s photos distributed to every force in the UK, three teams going door-to-door, we’re doing a fingertip search of—’

‘And then Jane comes in and shows me this!’ He slapped a hand down on a printout. ‘Well?’

Nope. No idea.

Jane leaned forward, waving a copy at him. ‘Robert Drysdale? You giving me insomnia at two in the morning, remember that?’

‘I remember, because I wasn’t in bed, I was still working.’

Bevan cleared her throat, little wrinkles furrowing her brow. ‘Logan, how did Robert Drysdale’s name crop up in your investigation?’

‘Why? Who is he?’

Everyone turned to look at the newcomer.

She nodded. ‘Very well.’ Slightest hint of a Glaswegian accent, hidden under a public-school upbringing. ‘But this goes no further than this room, am I clear?’

Now they were all looking at him instead.

Yeah, whatever this was, it wouldn’t be good.

‘OK...’

‘Robert Drysdale was a member of the People’s Army for Scottish Liberation, twenty-nine years ago. He went missing in November that year and his body turned up a week later in an abandoned bothy outside Strichen.’ A dramatic pause, as if what she’d just said meant anything to Logan. ‘Someone had hammered thirty galvanised clout nails into his arms, legs, chest, and head. They were seventy-five millimetres long, so they went in a fair distance.’ She reached into a leather satchel at the side of her chair, coming out with a series of photographs. Handed them to Logan.

The first picture showed a dark, manky little room, with holes in the plaster, another in the ceiling, dust and dirt, streaks of bird shit on the walls. A naked man filled the middle of the shot, strung up by the neck from an overhead beam, arms tied behind his back. The photographer’s flash had caught the nailheads, making them shine like stars against his blood-darkened skin. Whoever took the shot obviously had a flair for the dramatic, because they’d caught the graffiti on the wall behind the body in perfect horror-film style.

One word, in dripping red paint: ‘JUDAS!’

The next six shots were close-ups of the bruises and contusions, the rope around his neck, the nails... They stuck out about five or six millimetres from the flesh, the nailheads on top of their shiny metal stalks like sinister mushrooms.

Last one in the set: an abandoned bothy on a mountainside somewhere. Broken windows, guttering hanging off, rough stonework, corrugated steel roof. The landscape smothered in snow.

He flipped back to the first shot. ‘There are definitely similarities. Scott Meyrick had “spite” painted on his living room wall, “the Devil makes work” was on the note with Professor Wilson’s hands, and Councillor Lansdale got “three monkeys”.’ Logan frowned at the newcomer. ‘You think Mhari and Haiden are taking inspiration from a thirty-year-old murder?’

She shrugged. ‘When your Media Liaison Officer,’ pointing at Jane, ‘mentioned Robert Drysdale this morning, I recognised his name from a cold-case review Strathclyde ran not long after I joined.’

‘Let me guess: Drysdale informed on one of his fellow PASLers? “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead found out and they made an example of him.’

‘Robert Drysdale’s real name was Detective Sergeant Martin Knott. He joined the PASL as part of Operation Kelpie.’

A murdered undercover cop.

Great: things weren’t just worse, they were a hell of a lot worse.

Bevan sighed. ‘So you can see why, when his name came up...?’

Big Tony stuck a fist on his desk. ‘If we’ve got a chance to put someone away for DS Knott’s murder, I want to know about it.’

‘We’re doing everything we can, Boss.’ Logan had another squint at the photos. ‘But until we find out where Haiden and Mhari are hiding, or where they’re keeping their victims?’ Why did Drysdale have to be an undercover cop? Come on: options. Think. How do we work through this one? ‘We... can try fronting up Haiden’s father again? Give him a grilling about the murder? If he was involved, maybe he’ll want to boast about it?’

‘Why on earth would he do that?’

‘He’s got less than four months to live, Boss. What’s he got to lose?’

Hardie clearly felt it was time to make his presence felt, crossing his arms and nodding as if he’d been in charge all along, instead of sitting there like a sack full of damp pants. ‘Good. Go. Keep me informed. But be back here by twelve — we’ll have to brief the press about Scott Meyrick.’

Logan turned to Superintendent Bevan and raised an eyebrow. She nodded.

‘Will do.’ He’d almost made it to the door, when:

‘Inspector McRae?’ The new superintendent was staring at him. ‘You didn’t say how Robert Drysdale’s name came up.’

Ah. No, he hadn’t. And it would have been nice if no one had spotted that little omission.

‘I can’t remember. Someone must have mentioned it last night.’ Liar. But DI King was in enough trouble already, without Logan pouring unleaded on the fire. An innocent shrug. ‘It was pretty late.’

She pointed at the door. ‘OK, then.’

Big Tony’s voice boomed out as Logan slipped into the reception area: ‘And make sure you find something!’

Logan clicked the door shut and... Where was King?

The row of seats was empty, just Mr Ugly The Receptionist in here, clattering away on his keyboard.

Logan waved at him. ‘What happened to DI King?’

‘Phone call.’

Either that or he’d gone AWOL with a half-bottle of vodka...

DHQ wore the muffled silence of early morning — ten to eight, so dayshift uniform were all out keeping Aberdonians from doing horrible things to other Aberdonians. All the major teams had done their daily briefings and sodded off, leaving the place to the support staff and the handful of officers who’d found an excuse to hide inside rather than go traipsing about in the blazing sun. Which would be tempting, if it wasn’t for Chief Superintendent Big Tony Campbell’s parting words.

Logan was reaching for the door to the MIT incident room when it banged open and Tufty bustled out into the corridor, a pink folder tucked under one arm.

‘Sarge!’ He flashed Logan a smile and a wee wave. ‘Cool. About Mr Clark’s steampunk film, are you one hundred percent definitely certain I can’t be in it?’ Making with the big puppy eyes.

Not this again.

‘You’re a police officer.’

‘Yeah, but I could go to Comic-Con and be on panels and people would dress up like my character and I’d be completely funky and I’d never ask for anything else ever again! Promise.’

Logan stared at him.

‘Oh noes.’ His shoulders sagged. He shuffled his feet. Cleared his throat. Then raised his folder. ‘Well, suppose I’d better get this over to the media office then.’ And scuffed away, like a kicked dachshund. ‘Pity poor Tufty...’

Bless his little Starfleet socks, but that lad was a complete and utter weirdo.

Logan let himself into the incident room. It was probably the only busy office in the whole building — phones ringing, support officers answering them, overlapping conversations as details were taken and notes made. The HOLMES team busy hammering data into the system, the printer in the corner churning out action after action. Milky had perched herself on the edge of someone’s desk, flipping through paperwork on a clipboard while Heather commandeered a whiteboard — humming ‘Uptown Girl’ to herself as she printed the names of Alt-Nat groups on it in big red letters.

Steel lounged in an office chair, feet up on the desk, a butty in one hand and a wax-paper cup in the other. A little island of laziness in an ocean of police work. As usual.

Logan marched over there and loomed at her. ‘Thought you were searching Mhari Powell’s house?’

She didn’t bother swallowing or covering her mouth as she chewed. ‘Waiting on a dog unit.’ Steel dipped her butty in her coffee, and took another bite. ‘Think you could stop with the abducted Unionists now? Only every time we make any progress on this sodding case, you turn up another one.’

He gave her leg a smack. ‘Feet off the desk. Supposed to be setting an example.’

Dip. Munch. Honestly, she masticated like the back end of a scaffies’ wagon. The only things missing were the mechanism for tipping wheelie bins into the hopper and the smell of split bin bags. ‘Aye, that’ll be shining.’

Hopeless.

Logan had another look around the office. ‘Where’s King?’

Steel dipped her butty again, a broad smile on her face. ‘I’ve never had one of these before. Very nice.’ Then crammed a soggy brown lump of it into her gob. ‘Did you meet her then? The new head honcho. Or is it honchesse? Honchetta?’

‘Nope.’ He dug out his phone and gave King a ring.

‘Superintendent Pine, from G Division, AKA: Darkest Strathclyde, AKA: The Evil Empire. Kinda shaggable if you’ve been on the razz all night, and don’t mind the greying hair and Jimmy Hill chin. No idea what her arse is like, though.’

Grey-streaked hair, proud chin, superintendent’s pips...

‘Was that her?’ Suppose it had to be. ‘Didn’t seem too bad to me.’

Still no response from King.

‘Word is she can unhinge that huge bottom jaw of hers and swallow babies whole.’ Steel tried to do much the same thing with the last chunk of her butty, all drippy with coffee. Cramming it in. Grinning as brown dribbled down her chin.

Urgh...

He was about to hang up when, ‘King?’ crackled out of the phone at him.

Logan turned his back on Steel, before she did anything else revolting. ‘Where are you?’

‘Calling to give me the bad news, are you? How long have I got to clear out my desk?’

Steel nudged Logan with her foot. ‘See, what I like is the way the silky hazelnut coffee complements the crunchy-chocolatey-soft-buttery-bapness of the KitKat butty. That’s Heston-Blumenthal level genius, that is.’

He moved out of range, lowering his voice so Madame Lugs wouldn’t hear. ‘Will you get your arse in order, please? I’m not carrying this sodding case all on my own!’

No reply. Just silence.

‘Where are you?’

Still nothing.

The office door opened and in scuttled Tufty, rubbing his hands together. ‘Did I miss anything?’

‘Frank?’

‘They’re not firing me?’ Finally.

‘We need to speak to Haiden’s dad again. Something’s come up.’

‘Are they really not firing me?’

‘Really. Now can we go do our jobs?’

‘Erm... OK. I’ll... meet you down the Rear Podium?’

‘Good.’ Logan hung up. Hissed out a sigh. ‘Offering support’ wasn’t supposed to be the same thing as babysitting.

Tufty settled down behind his laptop, looking around as if he’d lost something. Patting his paperwork. Frowning. Lifting things up and putting them down again.

‘Aye well...’ Steel sooked her fingers and stood. Stretched her full length like a very manky cat. ‘Suppose I’d better be offski. Time and search-trained canines wait for no woman, no matter how sexy she is.’

Logan leaned against Tufty’s desk. ‘Have you found anything?’

He didn’t look up from his rummaging. ‘They were right here. I’m sure they were.’

‘Mhari Powell, Tufty: concentrate.’

‘Hmm? Oh right.’ He opened a desk drawer, pouted at the contents then closed it again. ‘I’m still going through all the social media accounts she’s been posting from, but I’ve IDed three Facebook friends who interact with her on a regular basis. Or, at least, they interacted with one of the people she was pretending to be. None of them with the same pretend person, though.’ Tufty pulled a printout from his in-tray and handed it over — a list of three names and addresses — then rummaged through his desk some more. ‘Still working on the rest.’

‘Hoy!’ Steel stopped in the doorway, turned, clacked her heels together and gave Logan a sarcastic salute. ‘Don’t forget: no more deid bodies while I’m out!’ And with that she was gone.

Logan pocketed Tufty’s list. ‘Keep at it. I want to know who “Mhari Powell” really is by the time I get back.’

‘Mmmm? Yeah, OK, Sarge...’ He went back to searching his desk. Raised his voice to address the whole room: ‘Has anyone seen my KitKat butty or hazelnut latte?’

Detective Sergeant Steel strikes again.

36

Ten past eight in the morning was not the best time to be driving across town to Dyce. The morning rush hour was like a diseased thing, crawling along on its belly, belching noxious fumes into the hot summer air.

Speaking of which: sitting in the passenger seat, King crunched down one more in a long line of extra-strong mints. A newspaper open in his lap, his window cracked open an inch — letting the scent of diesel exhaust invade the Audi’s interior as they followed a bus along Westburn Drive.

Logan inched the car forward another couple of feet. ‘Where did you disappear off to?’

A grimace. ‘Gwen called. Again. She’s got herself a lawyer and they’re citing my “unreasonable behaviour” as grounds for divorce.’ He gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘My unreasonable behaviour? I should be the one suing her: she’s the one having the affair! She’s the one been torturing me with it!’

And speaking of torture: ‘Robert Drysdale.’

King froze for a beat, then looked out the passenger window again. ‘What about him?’

‘That’s what I want to know.’

The Audi crawled forward a whole car length.

‘Why didn’t they fire me?’

‘Frank, I’m serious. Who was he?’ AKA: here’s some rope, please don’t hang yourself.

‘Hmph...’ King’s jaw tightened. ‘I grabbed a copy of this morning’s Scottish Daily Post on the way out the station.’ He picked the paper off his lap and opened it, stared down at the front page. A posed publicity shot of Scott Meyrick smiled back at him under the headline ‘FEARS GROW FOR REALITY TV STAR’.

‘I can’t help if you don’t talk to me, Frank!’

‘Edward Barwell’s “exposé” got bumped to a two-inch sidebar with “continued on page eleven”.’ King crumpled the paper into his lap again. ‘Nothing about Robert Drysdale.’

Silence.

Up ahead, the lights went red, as if anyone was moving fast enough to have to stop.

More silence.

Oh for goodness’ sake. ‘Was Robert Drysdale in the PASL when you were?’

King waved a dismissive hand. ‘There were lots of different cells, that was the point: so there wouldn’t be cross-contamination. We didn’t exactly get together for coffee mornings and bake sales.’ A sigh. ‘I’m tired of being a whipping boy for everyone and their hamster.’

‘Cells? And you say it wasn’t a terrorist organisation?’

This time the sigh brought with it a sad little smile. ‘I used to love being a police officer... Out on the beat, keeping people safe, banging up crooks and thugs. Now look at me.’

‘If you’re going to keep up the self-pity all the way to Dyce, you can get out and walk.’

‘It’s all right for you: you’re a decorated police hero with a Queen’s Medal, a hot girlfriend, a family, and a big house. All I’ve got is a cheating soon-to-be-ex-wife and a career circling the U-bend.’ He nodded. ‘Should march into Hardie’s office, hand in my resignation, and walk.’

OK, enough.

Logan thumped him on the arm. ‘What’s the point of running away? If people are picking on you: stand up for yourself!’

King turned to look out the window again. ‘Hmph.’

‘I’m right here with you, aren’t I?’

A long, slow breath. ‘I’m not going to survive this one, Logan. Be lucky if they just fire me. I’m done.’

Finally the lights turned green and they could crawl forward another car’s length.

‘In the words of Detective Chief Inspector Roberta Steel, as was,’ Logan put on the voice — gravelly and gin-soaked, ‘“You’ll no’ see the bright side with your heid jammed up your arse.”’

‘Yeah.’ King sagged in his seat. ‘She should hire herself out as a motivational speaker.’

Sunlight cascaded in through Ravendale’s windows, making the reception carpet glow with garish shades of brown, pink, and green. As if someone had gorged themselves on chocolate pudding, Ribena, and guacamole, before being copiously sick all over the care home’s floor.

The radio was on, playing something cheerful and bland as the same bland old man in his bland old cardigan behind the bland old desk hummed along, worrying away at a Sudoku book.

He looked up as Logan and King walked in and the smile of greeting faded from his face. ‘You again.’

King opened his mouth, but Logan got there first: ‘We’d like to speak to Gary Lochhead, please.’

‘Ah... Mr Lochhead isn’t having one of his better days, today.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, but we still need to talk to him.’

‘The pain’s so bad we’ve had to up his morphine.’ The receptionist looked left, then right, then over his shoulder, as if the KGB might be lurking nearby ready to steal his secrets. He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘You didn’t hear this from me, but the medical staff aren’t very optimistic about his prognosis. With patients in palliative care...’ A shrug. ‘We see a lot of this towards the end.’

Logan nodded. ‘We wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’

A pause, as Mr Bland chewed at the inside of his cheek. Then a nod. ‘Well, you can talk to him if you promise to keep it brief. He might not make too much sense though.’ Mr Bland picked up the desk phone and dialled. ‘I’ll get Denzil to see you through.’

The corridor outside number nineteen was a patchwork of light and shadow as the morning sun seared through the skylights.

King leaned back against the wall opposite Gary Lochead’s door. ‘What do you think, Good Cop, Bad Cop?’

Genuinely?

Logan frowned at him. ‘He’s dying, Frank. What are we going to threaten him with?’

‘True.’ He tilted his head to one side, eyes narrowing. ‘You know what? Maybe we could—’

The door opened and Denzil poked his hairy wee head out, bringing with him the sound of a radio tuned to the same station as the one in reception. A small, compact man, with powerful furry arms and a warm smile that faded into a concerned look. ‘OK. He’s stable, but he’s been in a lot of pain, so—’

‘Morphine.’ King loosened his tie. ‘We know.’

‘Right. Well, don’t tire him out, and I’ll be right here outside if... he needs anything. Or stops breathing. Or something like that.’

King pushed past him and into the room.

Logan gave Denzil an apologetic smile. ‘Been a long week.’ Then followed King into Gary Lochhead’s room.

The blinds weren’t quite fully drawn, and a shaft of sunlight fell across the hospital bed. A wall-mounted reading light was on, pointed towards Gary’s painting of that stone circle in the woods, making the colours glow. Shame it couldn’t do the same for the bloke who painted it.

He was slumped against his pillows, skin pale and shiny — like butter kept in the freezer. A full oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth, the clear plastic misted with vapour, and an IV line reached from a bag of something clear, through a feeder box, and into the cannula in the back of Gary’s hand. That would be the morphine, then. His NHS-blue blankets were rucked up at one side, showing off a liver-spotted leg, wishbone thin.

The cheery song on the radio burbled to an end, replaced by the kind of teuchter accent you could cut concrete with. ‘Aye, Aye, loons and quines! Gid Mornin’ Doogie’s got a wee bittie traffic update for yis. The A-berdeen bypass is closit Eastbound atween Parkhill and Blackdog fir a three-vehicle accident. So dinna ging that wye if yer—’

King switched the radio off and loomed over the bed. Voice hard and sharp. ‘Gary. We need to talk to you about Haiden.’

‘Gnnnnnghnnnph?’ Gary Lochhead’s head turned in trembling jerks and pauses, his pupils big as buttons, the mask muffling his words. ‘Haiden? Is that...?’

‘Sorry, no, it’s not.’ Logan pulled up one of the visitors’ chairs, positioning it level with Gary’s elbow, so he could see who he was speaking to. ‘Hi, Gary.’

‘Haiden, is that you?’

‘It’s not Haiden, it’s the police, we were here on Wednesday, remember?’

A shaky hand reached for Logan’s. ‘Haiden, they wanted me to clype on you, but I wouldn’t do it. I kept our secrets. I kept them...’

Oh, ho?

King widened his eyes at Logan, eyebrows up. Then he grabbed the other chair and squealed the rubber feet across the floor to the opposite side of the bed, sat, and pulled on a reasonable mid-Aberdonian accent. ‘Dad?’ He took hold of Gary’s other hand. ‘Dad, I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner.’

What?

Logan glared at him, making throat-slashing ‘Stop it!’ gestures.

But King turned the accent up instead. ‘Had to dodge the cops, yeah? You know how it is.’

A nod. ‘Buncha stupid bastards.’ Gary reached up with his free hand and slipped the breathing mask off, so it cupped his chin. Then trembled that hand down over King’s, making it the filling in a hand sandwich. ‘Is your mother OK, Haiden? You’ll look after her, for me, won’t you?’

‘Course I will, Dad.’ The lying sod was nearly squirming in his seat with excitement. ‘I did what you wanted. Got Councillor Lansdale, Professor Wilson, and Scott Meyrick.’

Logan leaned towards him, teeth bared, voice a hard hissing whisper. ‘This isn’t right!’

Gary gave King a shaky smile. ‘You’re a good boy.’

‘I took them out to the place, Dad. You remember the place? The place you told me to take them?’

‘I want to go home, Haiden.’

‘I know you do, Dad. I know. Shall we go past the place first? You remember the place?’

What started as a gurgling wheeze turned into a ragged coughing fit, painting the old man’s face an angry shade of purple as he rocked against his pillows, tears rolling down his cheeks. Until it finally hacked itself out in a painful mix of wheezing and groaning.

Logan’s whisper got louder and harsher. ‘Detective Inspector King, I’m warning you — this isn’t appropriate.’

King answered the same way: ‘You want Professor Wilson to die? That what you want?’

‘You know I don’t, but—’

‘Then shut up and let me do my job.’

The morphine pump bleeped and whirred, making Gary sag further into his pillows, the creases easing from his face a little. Breathing a little better. ‘I miss... I miss the family... holidays the most... We should... we should do that... again.’

‘Yeah, totally, Dad. But we’ll go to the place first, right?’

The wobbly smile returned. ‘You were so happy, running... up and down the beach with... with your kite... Remember Scruffy? You loved that wee dog.’

‘Describe the place to me, Dad, so I know you remember it.’

Logan stood. ‘OK, that’s enough.’

‘Come on, Dad, they say you’ve forgotten, but I know you remember it.’

‘And we’d have barbecues and... your mother would make potato salad... and Scruffy would always get the first sausage...’

‘Dad, focus.’ Voice harder now, running out of patience. ‘Where is the place?’

‘You used to love those summers, Haiden... You and Scruffy and Mum and me.’

‘I’m not warning you again, Detective Inspector!’

‘Gah!’ King pulled his hand away from Gary’s, wiped it on the blankets. ‘This is a waste of time, anyway.’ He stood, kicking his chair away as he buttoned his suit jacket and glared at Logan. ‘We can’t afford to sod about here any more. Wrap it up.’ Then he turned on his heel and stormed off, barging out through the door.

It banged shut behind him.

It wasn’t the sort of thing a member of Professional Standards was supposed to say about a fellow police officer, but DI King really was a massive arsehole.

Logan shook his head. Sighed. Looked down at what was left of “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead. ‘I’m sorry. If you want to make a formal complaint, we—’

‘Do you remember... when that dead porpoise washed up... on the beach and Scruffy... Scruffy found it and rolled in it? God, the stink...’

Ah well, before he left, might as well have a bash at what they came here for.

Logan settled onto the edge of the bed. ‘Gary, can you remember someone called Robert Drysdale? He was in the People’s Army for Scottish Liberation, same as you. Do you remember him?’

Gary reached for Logan’s hand — the skin hot and papery to touch. ‘Those summers were magic.’ His eyes glittered with unshed tears. ‘Look after your mum, Haiden.’

Even after everything he’d done, it was hard not to feel sorry for a dying old man.

Come on, what harm would it do?

Logan nodded. ‘I will... Dad.’

‘Maybe we can go to Uncle Geoff’s house again next summer? You, me, your mum, and Scruffy...’ He gave Logan’s hand a squeeze. ‘You always loved that house.’ Gary’s eyes drifted up towards the stone circle. ‘It’s a beautiful country, Haiden. Scotland is the best... it’s the best country in the world.’ He blinked away the tears. ‘Put down your roots and keep them here. We are this land. Never... never let them take it away from you.’

Logan shoved out through the front doors, into Ravendale’s car park. Where the hell was...

There — over by the care home’s battered minibus. Detective Inspector King. On his phone, pacing up and down with one finger in his other ear. ‘Have you spoken to those Alt-Nat groups yet, H?... Well why not? Get your sodding finger out!’

Logan marched over, the heat of the morning just adding to the fires. ‘What the bloody hell was that supposed to be?’

‘Hold on, Heather.’ He put a hand over the phone’s microphone. ‘I’m doing my job.’

‘Lying to a dying old man?’

King’s face darkened. ‘Lochhead knows, OK?’ Jabbing a finger towards the building. ‘He — knows!’

‘SO DO YOU!’

King retreated a step, pulled his chin in. Clearly not expecting a shouting at. ‘I don’t—’

‘Robert Drysdale. He was in the PASL when you were, wasn’t he? He wasn’t in a “different cell”. You knew what they did to him.’

He licked his lips, then raised the phone to his ear again. ‘Heather, I’ll call you back.’ Put his phone in his pocket. ‘Look, I never had any—’

‘Then why bring him up? Why pluck that name at random from the ether?’

‘I...’ King puffed out a breath. ‘OK: Edward Barwell calls me up last night, after work, and says he’s going to tell everyone about Robert Drysdale. That I should take the chance to set the record straight before he did.’

‘What record? What did you do?’

‘Nothing! I hadn’t even heard of Drysdale till then. I had to google him.’

Logan stepped closer. ‘Then why does Barwell think you were involved?’

‘I... I don’t know.’ King can’t have liked the scowl that got him, because he held his hands up. ‘I don’t! He’s trying to make it look like I’m involved in some way, but I wasn’t. I didn’t even know who Drysdale was till last night!’

They stood there, in silence.

Then Logan turned his back and walked to the edge of the car park, where an eight-foot-high chain-link fence separated Ravendale Sheltered Living Facility from the airport.

A Puma helicopter taxied into position, readying for takeoff. Ferrying those still lucky enough to have a job offshore, away for another stint on the rigs. Which, let’s face it, had to be easier than trying to hunt down violent Alt-Nat nutjobs.

Logan pulled out his phone and scrolled through the contacts till—

What the buggering hell?

The person he’d been looking for was now listed as, ‘THE TERRIFYING TUFTYSAURUS REX!’

Rotten little... He stabbed the button and listened to it ring.

‘Sarge? Got another name for you. He was going as “Inde-pun-dancer”, but his real—’

‘What the hell did you do to my phone?’

‘Your phone?’ If that was meant to be an innocent voice, it needed work. ‘Why would I have done something to your—’

‘You know what, I’ll bollock you later. Right now I want you to look up Gary Lochhead’s wife. Where is she?’

‘Aha, so, we’re playing “Hunt the wife”, are we? Let’s see what we can see...’ The sound of a keyboard being punished rattled down the line. ‘Aha: Tufty wins! You want me to text you the address?’

‘Is it near?’

‘Two miles outside Fyvie: Clovery Woods of Rest. They buried her there six years ago.’

So much for that.

‘OK: give me Gary Lochhead’s known associates. Not just the recent ones — go all the way back about thirty years.’

‘Yes, Sergeant, my Sergeant.’ More keyboard noises. ‘Did you know someone stole my KitKat butty and hazelnut latte? Bloody police station is full of... Got it.’

‘I want someone called Geoff, could be either spelling.’

‘No Gee-offs or Jeffs. But I have a Jeffrey, if that helps?’

Might do. ‘Does he own property in Cruden Bay?’

‘Let’s have a look.’ He bashed his keyboard again. ‘Jeffrey Moncrief. Jeffrey, Jeffrey, Jeffrey, wherefore art thou Jeffery...? Oh. He’s currently doing life in Barlinnie for stabbing an English shopkeeper sixteen times then setting fire to the remains. This was in Argyll and Bute. No chance of parole, because he keeps attacking prisoners born south of the border, down Englandshire way.’ A pause. ‘He’s what we, in the law-enforcement trade, call “a total dickhead”.’

There was a shock.

‘What about property? Does he own something in Cruden Bay?’

‘No mention on the Police National Computer.’

Sod.

‘Well... can we get the Land Registry to rush through a search?’

‘Maybe. Or...’ More keyboarding, this time accompanied by a hummed version of the Countdown clock theme tune. ‘Woot! We’re in luck! But only because I has a genius.’

Whatever came next was drowned out as the helicopter’s engines roared. It pulled forward, gathering speed, then heaved itself into the air on a rib-shaking clatter of blades — the whump-whump-whump fading as it climbed and turned, heading out over Dyce towards the sea.

‘Sarge? Hello? I said, “Aren’t you going to ask what flavour of genius I has?”’

‘Is it my-boot-up-your-bum flavour?’

A sigh. ‘You get more like her every day, you know that, don’t you? No, it’s searching-for-incident-reports-involving-Jeffrey-Moncrief flavour. And amongst the hundreds of entries, there’s sixteen call-outs to the same address in Cruden Bay. And yes, you may compliment the chef.’

‘You, my little fiend, have earned your bum a reprieve and a bag of Skittles too.’

‘Woot!’

‘KING!’ Logan ran for the Audi. ‘GET YOUR BACKSIDE IN THE CAR — WE’VE GOT SOMETHING!’

37

Fields and fences flashed by the Audi’s windows as Logan roared along the back road towards Balmedie. Lights flickering, siren wailing. He yanked the car out onto the wrong side of the road, changed down a gear, and stuck his foot hard to the floor, overtaking a little grey Skoda with what looked like nuns inside it.

Sitting in the passenger seat, King grabbed the handle above his door, phone in his other hand — pinned to his ear. Belting it out: ‘What?... Heather?... No, I can’t hear you!’

Logan slowed for a sharp bend, throwing King against the door with the change of direction, then hit the accelerator again.

Flames of broom and whin crackled along the drystane dykes. A flickering strobe of fluorescent yellow and dark green.

‘What?’ He stuck the phone against his chest and grimaced at Logan. ‘Can we switch the siren off? Can’t hear myself think!’

‘You want to end up dead? Because if you do I can switch the lights off as well.’ They flew past a couple of tiny cottages.

‘Told you we should’ve taken the bypass!’

‘Eastbound’s closed for a three-vehicle RTC, remember?’ He slammed on the brakes at the T-junction, slithering to a halt on the double dotted lines. Then nipped out ahead of a muck-encrusted Transit, shifting through the gears like a rally driver. Slammed on the brakes again for a hard left, almost bouncing King out of his seat.

‘Gah!’ King braced his legs in the footwell. ‘Speak up H... No... I know I said that, but I need every hand we’ve got out to Cruden Bay.’ He glanced across the car. ‘ETA...?’

‘Twenty, twenty-five minutes.’

A nice long straight bit — the needle hitting ninety-six as Logan floored it. Swathes of barley whipping past. Nipping out to overtake a tractor.

‘Call it twenty-five minutes, H. But sooner you lot get there the better.’

A farmyard lunged up on the left — a huge eighteen-wheeler was in the process of pulling on to the road, the driver’s eyes going wide as he spotted them, his lorry juddering to a halt, air brakes squealing.

Logan jerked the Audi around it.

‘Car. Car! CAR!’ King scrunched his eyes shut and had a wee scream to himself.

He jinked the Audi back onto their own side of the road, about six foot away from ploughing straight through the Range Rover coming the other way.

A deep, shuddering sigh from the passenger seat. ‘OK, leave the siren on.’

‘We need to do a risk assessment. And see if DS Gallacher can get us a canine unit, OSU, firearms team: the works.’

‘There isn’t time for that!’ A frown. ‘Do you think there’s time for that?’

‘No, but we need to ask for all that stuff so at least we can say we tried if everything goes horribly wrong.’

‘Sodding hell...’ King switched his phone to the other ear. ‘Heather? I need you to see about backup: Dogs, Thugs, Guns, and anything else you can think of... Uh-huh... Uh-huh... Hold on.’ He stuck it against his chest again. ‘How sure are we?’

Cows stopped doing cow things to stare at the car as it howled past.

‘Eighty percent. Maybe seventy.’

Yeah, King didn’t look convinced by that.

Have another go: ‘OK, fifty / fifty?’

Another conflagration of gorse, the flowers a searing shade of molten gold.

King nodded, then stuck the phone to his ear again. ‘Call it forty / sixty, H. But it’s the best lead we’ve got... Yes, I know it’s the only lead we’ve got. Heather, get it done, OK?... Thanks.’ He hung up and bared his teeth in a pained wince as they wheeched through an avenue of trees. ‘It’s more like thirty / seventy, isn’t it?’

‘Better than nothing.’

A short row of bungalows on the left as they flew into Belhelvie — Logan standing on the brakes to take them down to a more sedate forty. In case someone’s cat had a death wish. Or child. Or grandparent.

Another T-junction, this one marked with a set of signposts. Left: ‘POTTERTON’, right: ‘BALMEDIE B977 1½’, a huge green and white CLAAS tractor rumbled across in front of them, hauling a trailer behind it. Soon as it’d passed, Logan nipped out, overtook it, then put his foot down again. ‘Maybe twenty / eighty.’

The A90 should’ve been quicker: after all, it was nowhere near as twisty-turny as the wee side roads, but there were a hell of a lot more vehicles on it. Some of which were clearly being driven by morons WHO WOULDN’T GET OUT OF THE BLOODY WAY!

Like the one right in front of them. And it wasn’t as if Logan could overtake them, not with all the traffic coming the other way.

He stuck his hand on the horn and held it there — blaring away in addition to the siren — until the moron in question finally took the hint and pulled their manky BMW over to the side of the road.

King took a deep breath as Logan hammered the speed up again. ‘OK, so what’s the plan?’

‘We get there, we wait for backup.’

‘And what if Professor Wilson, or Matt Lansdale, or Scotty Meyrick dies while we’re sitting on our thumbs?’

Good question.

Logan overtook a removal van. ‘Yes, but what if we barge in there, getting them and ourselves killed?’

‘Suppose.’ King looked over his shoulder, at the back seat. ‘What kit have you got in the car?’

‘What do you mean, “kit”?’

‘Taser, stabproof vests, extendable baton, pepper spray?’

‘It’s my car, not the Batmobile!’ Using the opposite lane to leapfrog a Citroën, a Kia, a Vauxhall, and a Transit with ‘EAT MAIR FISH!’ on the side.

‘You’ve got blues-and-twos.’

‘A couple of LED lights and a siren don’t make this an assault vehicle. And they only fitted them because it was cheaper than buying another pool car for Professional Standards.’ He roared past a filthy Toyota Hilux. ‘I’ve got a couple of high-viz vests, if that helps?’

‘What are we going to do, Health-and-Safety Mhari and Haiden to death?’ He scrunched his face up. ‘Come on, Frank: think.’ A pause as they slowed for another bout of traffic coming the other way. ‘OK. OK. No equipment. What about... a crowbar: something we could lever a door open or hit people with?’

‘Probably a wheel brace in the boot.’

‘OK, so that’s—’ His phone launched into something upbeat. He pulled it out and answered it. ‘Heather! Talk to me, H, what’s—’ A wince. ‘Oh for God’s sake.’ He turned to Logan. ‘Firearms team are stuck at the Bridge of Don — eighteen-wheeler from Peterhead hit a builder’s truck. Smoked haddock and scaffolding pipe all over the bridge. Fire Brigade and Air Ambulance on the way. Our Guns are backtracking round to Gordon Brae.’

‘What about our Operational Support Unit?’

‘H: what about our Thugs?’ He sagged a good three inches. ‘Couldn’t get any. Or Dogs. They’re all busy dunting in a dealer’s door outside Stonehaven.’

Of course they were.

‘Remember that risk assessment we should’ve done?’

‘Well it’s too late now, isn’t it?’ King turned away and focussed on his phone. ‘Where are the rest of you?... Uh-huh... Uh-huh...’ A sigh. ‘Well, do your best, OK?’ He hung up and slumped in his seat. ‘You want the bad news, or the worse?’

‘Gah...’

‘The only ones that made it across the bridge before the crash were Steel and Tufty. And they’re about as much use as a Plasticine bicycle.’

The traffic thinned out a bit and the speedometer needle crept up to ninety again.

Right, no way they could do this without backup. They’d have to find bodies from somewhere else and hope they’d be enough.

Logan poked at the dashboard’s console — bringing up the address book from his phone. ‘Scroll through that lot till you get to “Stubby”.’

King did, then poked the call button.

Ringing belted out through the speakers, competing with the siren’s din.

Until, finally: ‘Whatever it is, I didn’t do it.’

‘Stubby? It’s Logan.’

‘I know who it is: the name “Sinister Bastard” came up on my—’

‘I need backup, ASAP. My firearms team is stuck in Bridge of Don behind twenty tons of smoked haddock and a mangled builder’s truck.’

‘Firearms? Can’t give you Guns, but I can give you Thugs. Where and when?’

Logan hauled the brakes on, slithering to a halt at a junction marked ‘BRIDGEND ¼ ~ CRUDEN BAY 2’. More morons on the other side of the road, heading south, completely ignorant of the fact that flashing lights and a bloody siren meant GET OUT OF THE WAY.

He looked at King. ‘How do you pronounce the cottage?’

‘“Kee-ow-nn-tri-ey.” Ceann is “head” in Gaelic, and tràigh is “sand”, or “beach”. So Beachhead, give or take.’ King checked his phone. ‘GPS is showing three point one miles.’

‘You get that, Stubby? Ceanntràigh Cottage, south end of Cruden Bay. ASAFBCWP!’

Finally, a minibus coming the other way slammed on its brakes and flashed its lights. Logan held up a hand in thanks and roared across the junction, picking up speed.

‘FB and CW? Wow. OK, we’re on our way.’

‘Thanks, Stubby!’

‘Glen: grab Ted and the wee loon, we’re—’ She hung up.

The Audi shot past not so much a village as a tiny collection of houses, then out through the limits into open countryside. Yellowy grass in parched fields, miserable sheep lolling about in the morning sun. All very flat and open.

Logan overtook a fat man on a scooter. ‘Peterhead station’s about... fifteen minutes north? Ten if they really go for it.’

King looked up from his phone and pointed. ‘Right, there!’

He wrenched the car into the turn, the rear end skittering out on the dusty tarmac, and onto a single-track road. The sign said ‘WEAK BRIDGE’, the narrow road hemmed in on both sides by waist-high stone walls. The Audi got some air in the middle... bumping down on the other side.

King bounced in his seat. ‘You want to wait for this “Stubby” person to show up?’

A hard ninety-degree left, between what looked like a school and a farmyard.

‘We’d be insane to go charging in without backup. Haiden’s built like a pit bull, only without the winning personality. And they’re armed.’

A graveyard, its serried ranks of granite headstones glittering in the sunshine.

King shrugged. ‘Just knives.’

‘Trust me: knives are bad enough. I should know.’

‘Fair enough. Left, here.’

Another ninety-degree turn, swiftly followed by a hard right.

King checked his phone again. ‘Not far now.’

They flashed across a junction, and onto another single-track road. Golden swathes of wheat pressed in on the tarmac. A sliver of North Sea visible on the left where the land dropped away.

Logan accelerated up the hill. ‘So, it’s agreed: we get there, we block the road and we wait for Stubby.’

‘OK.’ A nod. Then King’s eyes bugged, free hand grabbing at the dashboard. ‘Sheep! Sheep!’

Logan stamped on the brakes, wheeching around the big fat ewe wandering down the side of the road.

‘Jesus, that was close.’

The words, ‘NELSON ST. LAB’ appeared on the dashboard screen a second before the Audi’s hands-free kit rang.

King let go of the dashboard to press the green button. ‘Hello?’

‘Inspector McRae?’ Jeffers, their three-quarters-useless DNA analyst.

‘He’s driving.’

Logan shook his head. ‘We’re a bit busy, Jeffers!’

The car crested the brow of a small hill, and the jagged boundary between land and sea was laid out before them. Sunlight sparkling on the bright blue water.

‘I lifted a perfect thumb and forefinger off that coffee cup, but there’s no corresponding prints in the system.’

‘Literally right in the middle of something.’

King pointed through the windscreen at a tiny bungalow perched on the headland near the cliffs, down a dead-end dirt track. ‘Ceanntràigh Cottage. That’s us!’ It sat near the end of Cruden Bay beach, well away from anything else. Isolated. The perfect location for laying low and hiding the people you’d abducted and mutilated. A rusty Mini was parked out front.

Logan slowed to a crawl. ‘You sure?’

‘Look, there’s a car.’ King licked his lips. ‘Do you think it’s them? I think it’s them.’ A grin. ‘We’ve got them!’

The dirt track petered out in front of the cottage, with its grey slate roof and dirty harling walls. A whirly washing line with no clothes on it. What probably used to be a garden, but had turned into a wobbly rectangle of parched grass and dandelions. No other way in or out.

‘Anyway,’ Jeffers’s voice crackled out of the speakers again, ‘so I had a word with Dr McEvoy about the DNA, and she showed me how to expand the search parameters against the national database.’

Blah, blah, blah.

Logan pulled on the handbrake. ‘Can this wait?’

‘Well, it could, I suppose, but thing is: now we know who Mhari Powell really is. Well, we do and we don’t, but it’s a result, isn’t it?’

Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘Come on, then: who is she?

There was a pause. Then, ‘You’re probably not going to like this...’

38

Oh man...

Haiden rolls off Mhari and lies there, breathing hard, sweat cooling in the air.

Jesus. Yes. Hoo...

Wow.

He grins at the ceiling.

Aye, the room’s a bit twee, but then what do you expect? Place is ancient. With its lace doilies, old-fashioned furniture, wooden walls in need of a paint — chipped and scarred from, like, decades of use. Bed’s good, though.

He reaches out a hand and pats Mhari on her naked stomach. ‘That was... that was... bloody great!’

‘You’re welcome.’ She wipes between her legs with his T-shirt. To be honest, it needed a wash anyway. And let’s face it, no way he could grudge her, not after that.

‘Wow...’

She climbs out of bed and pads over to the window, looking up the hill. You could never get tired of ogling that pert round arse, or the firm high tits, or that wee tufty triangle between her legs. Where the magic happens.

He stretches, all the knots and aches and worries of the last two weeks melted away. ‘God, I wish I still smoked.’

‘It’s not good for you, baby.’ She slips on her pants — red with wee black hearts on them — then wrestles herself into a black bra. How come bras were so difficult to put on? See if it was men had to wear them? We’d sort that shit out so it’s comfy. No twisting your arms behind your back like you’re being handcuffed by the cops. She smiles at him, and honest to God he can feel the warmth spreading through his cock again. Cos she can do that.

He adjusts himself under the duvet. ‘We got any beer?’

‘You lie there and I’ll go see.’ Mhari gets dressed: tight pink T-shirt, camouflage cargo pants, sitting on the end of the bed to pull on her socks.

‘Oh, and if there’s any of last night’s pizza in the fridge...?’

‘Course, baby.’ Soon as she’s got her boots on, she’s standing in front of the window, looking up the hill again with a strange wee smile on her face. Then Mhari nods and walks out of the room, on a mission for her man.

Her man.

God, imagine that... All the guys in the world, Mhari could have her pick, you know? And she chooses him.

He grins at the ceiling again. ‘You’re a lucky sod, Haiden.’ Has another stretch.

Lot to do today: make a video of that tit Scotty Meyrick and get it online. Think about who’s gonna be next. Who’s gonna get themselves an all-expenses-paid trip to Chest-Freezer City. Maybe that git on the Scottish Daily Post? Bet they could do something special with him. Turncoat wee bastard. How do you go from, ‘a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to seize our country from the Westminster elite, to reclaim our soul and our destiny’ to ‘independence will destroy Scotland’? Just cos some English wanker buys the paper you work for? That’s your thirty pieces of bloody silver, right there.

Oh aye, Edward Barwell could be their Judas.

Yeah, Mhari would like that.

And there she is, standing in the doorway, holding last night’s greasy pizza box in one hand and a cold tinny in the other. She’s put on her hoodie and a waterproof jacket — like it’s going to rain. No way. Forecast is balls to the wall sunshine for at least the next week. Women, eh?

She passes him the box and he opens it. Not a lot left, but enough for a post-humping snack.

‘Cheers, Mhari.’ Big mouthful of ham and mushroom with extra mozzarella, all salty and earthy. Chewing with his eyes closed, it’s that delicious. Yeah, the base is a bit soggy, but in a good way, you know? He swallows and winks at her. ‘Early morning shag, a beer, and leftover pizza. A guy couldn’t get a better girlfriend. No way. Not possible.’ Another huge bite, talking through it, ‘Mmm, think I actually love this stuff even more the next day.’

She settled on the end of the bed and looked at him, head on one side. ‘Do you think we’ve made Dad proud?’

‘Whose dad, my dad?’ He sticks his hand out for the lager and she clicks open the ring-pull, takes a wee swig, then hands it over. Gotta love Tennent’s: it tastes of school holidays and Saturdays with Mum, and fizzy happiness. ‘Oh aye. Dad hates them English bastards more than he hates his lung cancer.’ Poor old sod, lying there in his hospital bed, dying. Haiden puts the tin down. Sighs. ‘Wish I could go see him...’

‘You know you can’t do that. I told you: it’s what the police expect. The care home would tip them off soon as you walked in the door, and that would be it.’

‘Yeah...’ She was right. She was always right. Didn’t make it hurt any less, though.

She pats his leg through the duvet. ‘Besides, I passed on his messages, didn’t I? Like a good big sister?’

He polishes off the last crust of pizza and washes it down with a scoof of lager. Stuffs down the belch that comes free with it. ‘But I wish...’ Hang on a minute. ‘Big sister?’

She points at the window. ‘Come look at this.’ Then stands, makes her way over there and leans on the sill.

‘No, wait, what? I don’t have a big sister. Had a wee brother, but he drowned. They found him three days later, down the coast from here.’ All pale and wrinkled. Wee black holes where the fish and crabs had been at him.

‘Come on, Haiden. Indulge me.’

Yeah, cos how can he ever refuse her. It isn’t possible.

He wriggles out of bed, and joins her at the window, takes a sip of his tinny. Course some blokes would be self-conscious, standing there like that, stark-bollock naked with everything on show, but not him. Nah, you spend as much time in the prison gym as he had, you wanna show that bad boy off. Brad Pitt’s a podgy slob in comparison. Aye, and that’s Fight Club Brad Pitt, too.

She points up the hill, where a white Audi’s parked, blocking the track down to the cottage. ‘You see that?’

‘How come you said “big sister”?’

‘That’s the police. They’ve come to get us.’

‘The what?’ Oh sodding hell. The police. She’s right; who else would block them in like that? Any minute now they’ll be booting in the door, and it’ll be all helicopters, and dogs, and big bastards with batons and guns. Escape! Make a run for it. Go. Go. GO. ‘We’ve got to—’

Something thumps into his back. Not as hard as a punch, more like a...

Then a crackling, ripping noise and shards of white-hot glass tear through his stomach and spine. Oh God...

Mhari leans in and kisses his neck, breath warm against his skin. ‘There we go.’

Everything tastes of hot batteries and raw meat as his throat fills, little red dots on the window as the bubbles pop between his lips.

Oh God...

He grabs for the windowsill and his tin of Tennent’s bounces off the floor, spilling out its contents in a froth of white-edged gold.

‘See, Haiden, they had me too young, Mum and Dad. She couldn’t cope, so I had to go live with her sister in Canada. Then they had you and suddenly they could cope. Strange that, isn’t it? How a wee boy is more “worth the effort” than a little girl?’

Oh God...

His knees don’t work any more. They give up and he hits the carpet next to the emptying tin. Only now the carpet’s slick with red. That’s not coming from inside him, is it? It can’t be: there’s way too much of it. Can’t be him. Please. Please don’t let it be him. ‘I didn’t... It...’

‘Shhh...’ She squats down beside him and strokes his head, like he’s a puppy. ‘It’ll all be over soon. OK?’

‘Why...?’

‘I’d love to stay and keep you company, but...’ She sucks air through her teeth. ‘Police.’ A smile. ‘It’s been fun catching up, though.’ Then Mhari stands, wipes the hunting knife on the duvet cover, slips it into its sheath as she walks from the room.

‘Don’t... don’t leave... me.’

Oh God...

Haiden forces himself over onto his front and grabs at the bed’s legs — dragging himself across the sodden carpet to the door. Following her.

The back door’s open, letting sunlight spill into the kitchen.

Come on, Haiden, you can do it.

He hauls himself along the wall.

Closer.

Come on, you’re not a quitter, are you? No. You’re Haiden Bloody Lochhead!

Oh God...

Can’t feel his fingers.

Every breath stinks of raw meat.

Come on, Haiden.

Into the kitchen, inching his way across the grubby cracked lino to the open door. Getting slower with every heave. Heavier. Till he can’t move any more.

Mhari’s there — marching across the patch of grass that separates the cottage from the cliffs. Not huge cliffs, safe enough to play on with your wee brother: soldiers, storming the gun batteries. She looks over her shoulder and waves at him, then disappears, swallowed by the boiling clouds of broom and gorse.

Please don’t leave me...

But she’s gone.

And he’s all alone.

And soon he’ll be dead.