All That’s Dead

22

The voice belted out at full volume: ‘Fit like, loons and quines? It’s six o’clock, which means you’re listening to OMG it’s Early!, with me, Rachel Gray. Glad you could join us.’

Gnnn...

Logan forced his eyes open, and blearied at the ceiling, one hand searching for the bloody alarm-clock-radio.

‘It’s going to be another scorcher out there, so let’s get in the spirit with some Alicia Lewis, and “Summer’s Ashes”.’

Tara reached across the bed and hit him, voice mushy and sour. ‘Make it stop!’

‘Take it away, Alicia!’

‘Trying...’ Where the hell was the button?

A horribly cheery hand-clap-and-guitar thing bounced out of the speaker.

She hit him again. ‘Makeitstop, makeitstop, makeitstop!’

‘Baby, can’t you see it’s you and me, and we’re burning?

It’s time we—’

His finger found the button and blessed silence rolled back into the bedroom.

Oh God...

Logan slumped. Groaned. Rubbed at his face. Ground the grit out of his eyes.

Six in the sodding morning.

It felt as if someone had emptied a bin bag into his mouth and then set fire to it. The pounding in his head matching time with the lurching of his stomach.

Who the hell thought flaming Drambuies were a good idea at one in the morning?

He struggled his way out of bed and stood there, drooping, scarred and slightly out of focus in the bedroom mirror.

His reflection grimaced back at him. ‘I hate mornings...’

Logan fastened the epaulettes to his T-shirt’s shoulders on the way to the front door, then bent down and rubbed Cthulhu’s head as she wound herself around his legs. Probably leaving a trail of grey and brown on his itchy police-issue trousers.

Still, at least the rest of him was clean.

She gave an extra loud purr as he got to her ears.

‘Better be nice to Aunty Tara today, she’s in a grump. And be nice to Daddy when he gets home too — it’s going to be one of those days, if—’

His phone launched into its generic ringtone and when he pulled it out the words ‘SUPT. BEVAN’ loomed in the middle of the screen. Great. Because that was bound to be good news.

Logan groaned, then answered it. Doing his best to sound happy to hear from her. ‘Boss, I’m on my way in. You need anything?’

Her New Zealand accent was slightly cooler than usual. ‘I do indeed, Logan. You, in my office. Please.’

Yeah, that didn’t sound good. He stepped out of the front door. ‘Be right there. Call it fifteen minutes if the traffic’s...’

Buggering hedgehogs of doom.

Not even twenty to seven yet, and the driveway was flooded with sunlight, dappling its way through the trees to make leopardskin patterns on the lock block. Birds singing like sarcastic bastards in the trees. Mocking the big empty space where his Audi should have been. But wasn’t. Because he’d left it at Divisional Headquarters last night.

Wonderful.

A strange cat sashayed along the top of the garden wall, as if it was wearing high heels.

He’d have to either get a bus into town, or wake Tara up and plead for a lift.

Oh, she was going to love that.

‘Logan?’

‘Sorry, Super, better make that half an hour.’

‘I see.’ A pause. ‘And when you come in, remind me to discuss your timekeeping as well.’ She hung up.

‘Urgh...’ He bent backwards, wincing up at the bright blue sky. ‘I really hate mornings.’

Right, just had to hope that Superintendent Bevan was ‘morally flexible’ when it came to accepting caffeine-based kickbacks. Logan shifted both wax-paper cups of coffee into one hand and knocked on her door.

‘Come in?’

He did, closing it behind him and placing one of the cups on her desk. ‘Got you a latte, by way of an apology.’

‘Punctuality matters, Logan.’ She peeled back the plastic lid and peered inside. ‘The shift starts at seven, and if you can’t... Ooh, are those sprinkles?’

‘And marshmallows.’ He lowered himself into one of her visitors’ chairs. ‘You wanted to speak to me?’

‘We don’t approve of bribery in Professional Standards.’ Bevan took a sip. Smiled. ‘But I’ll make an exception this time.’ She pointed at a copy of the Scottish Daily Post, sitting next to her in-tray. ‘Did you see the papers this morning?’

OK...

‘Not yet. Why?’

‘Still nothing about DI King’s past.’

‘Really?’ He helped himself to her copy, flicking through it. Sex scandals, embezzlement, some footballer’s drink-and-drugs shame, a banker caught with an underage girl, a politician caught lying — as if that was even news these days. But Bevan was right. Not so much as a whiff of King. ‘That’ll change. DCI Hardie’s putting out the press release about it at the briefing today.’

Little wrinkles marred her forehead. ‘Ah...’

‘Put it this way: the story’s a landmine. We don’t know when we’re going to step on it, but sooner or later we will. With any luck, a controlled explosion will put the damn thing out of commission.’

‘The thing is — and I don’t mean to cast aspersions here — but it might have been better if you hadn’t let Haiden Lochhead get away.’

‘We didn’t “let” him anything. They pulled our backup and he did a runner. It was bad luck.’

The wrinkles deepened. ‘I’m sure Professor Wilson will think so.’

‘Yes, I said that.’

‘And Detective Inspector King?’

Good question.

‘I genuinely think he’s doing his best.’ A shrug. ‘He can be a little preoccupied with his marriage breaking up, but his work doesn’t seem to be suffering for it.’

‘And yet...?’

‘You know what the job’s like. It’s a pressure cooker full of raw sewage on cases like this.’

She smiled. ‘This another one of your landmine metaphors?’

‘Technically it’s more of a simile.’ Logan returned her newspaper. ‘Does he have a history of anything... worrying on his service record that I don’t know about? Something not in his official file?’

‘Such as?’

‘Something I should be looking out for, so I don’t end up going down with the ship.’

The smile twitched. ‘Landmines, pressure cookers, and shipwrecks. Chief Superintendent Doig never said you were such a clichémonger.’ Bevan went in for a slurp of latte, giving herself a small creamy moustache in the process. ‘I believe you when you say DI King’s a good man, Logan. It’s not his fault life’s handed him this particular basket of ticking time bombs.’ She shook her head. ‘You’ve got me doing it now.’

Logan shifted in his seat. ‘So, I’m putting my career on the line because...?’

‘Keep me informed, Logan. I want this one to end well for a change.’ She pulled over her keyboard and pecked away at it with a couple of fingers. ‘And please try to be on time tomorrow!’

‘Yes, Boss.’ He gathered up his coffee and let himself out, before she changed her mind.

The PSD office was half-full — people on the phone, people hunched over their computers, people chatting. Shona battering away at the laser printer, using a ring binder as a cudgel. ‘Work, you moronic, half-arsed, turd-fuelled excuse of a thing. Work!’

Clearly, now that all the birthday paraphernalia had been tidied away, it was business as usual.

Rennie backed in through the doors, carrying a tray laden down with greasy paper bags from the baker’s. ‘It’s rowie time: get ’em while they’re hot!’

Pretty much every phone conversation was brought to a rapid halt as the assembled horde swarmed Rennie and his offerings, helping themselves in a barrage of muttered thanks, before heading off to their desks to chomp and munch. Leaving no one but Logan and Rennie standing.

He proffered the tray in Logan’s direction. ‘Wasn’t sure if you were coming in or not, but I got you a Cardiologist’s Delight just in case.’

‘Ooh, ta.’ Logan helped himself to the bag with ‘CD’ scrawled on it, the paper nearly transparent with grease. He pulled out a pair of hot rowies with a slice of plastic cheese and two sausages sandwiched between them. It popped and crackled as he bit into it, mouth flooding with melted butter and porky goodness.

Rennie opened the remaining bag and produced two more rowies, twisting them apart to reveal the jam and butter liberally spread on the inside surfaces. ‘Heard you were out on the lash with King and Hardie last night.’

‘Don’t remind me.’ He grabbed the tomato sauce as they passed Shona’s desk, applying a liberal squirting of crime-scene red. ‘Last I saw of Hardie, it was gone midnight and he was spattering his shoes with an extra-large doner with chilli sauce and garlic yoghurt.’

‘Ooh, pukearama.’

‘Nope: too drunk to get much of it in his mouth.’ Logan ripped another bite of his arterial monstrosity, the sweet tomato sauce rounding the whole thing out. ‘Mmmmnngghhinn nngggginggg?’

‘Maybe?’ Rennie settled into his seat and took a dainty bite, shoogling the mouse with his other hand to wake up his computer. ‘I looked into Haiden Lochhead. Word is: that jewellery shop he ram-raided? Wanted the cash to—’

‘Buy explosives so he could blow up a Duke of Sutherland statue?’

A disappointed pout. ‘You knew.’

‘Anything else?’

Rennie checked his screen. ‘Grew up around Ellon, moved to Auchterless when he was eight and his dad got out of prison for the third time. Family holidays at Cruden Bay. Lost his wee brother in a fishing accident — boat sank, Haiden barely made it to shore alive. Took three days for his brother’s body to wash up.’ Another dainty bite. ‘They let his dad out of Barlinnie for the funeral. Lochhead senior was doing a three stretch for breaking his lawyer’s legs with a crowbar at the time.’

Logan wiped a dribble of sauce off his chin. ‘To be fair, we’ve all fantasised about that.’

‘Haiden dropped out of community college after a couple of months, went to work for his uncle Sandy’s building company. Uncle Sandy’s got form for aggravated assault, drugs, and was eventually put away for helping his brother, “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead, execute—’

‘A property developer.’ Another big bite.

That got him a look. ‘What’s the point my going digging, if you already know all this stuff?’

‘Keep going, you’re doing fine.’

‘Uncle Sandy got into a fight with an ex-special-forces guy from Guildford for, and I quote, “being an English twat”. So the aforementioned “twat” battered him to death in the prison laundry.’ Rennie did some more nibbling. ‘All in all, a lovely family. Bet they’d make a great episode of Jeremy Kyle.’ He frowned as Logan stuffed in the last lump of Cardiologist’s Delight. ‘You know what gets me about people like good old Uncle Sandy? Always banging on about Bannockburn and Culloden and the clearances. My great gran lived in Clydebank — World War Two, the Luftwaffe come over and bomb the crap out of the place. The only house left standing in the whole street is hers. Next night, they come back and finish the job. And is anyone suggesting we chuck the Germans out of Scotland? No. Because no one alive today was responsible for that.’ He shook his head. ‘We’ve forgiven them for what happened in 1941, but we’re still holding grudges from 1314?’

Logan sooked his fingers clean. ‘What about known associates?’

‘Was going to do it this morning, but DS Gallacher says King’s got someone on it already.’

‘Fair enough.’ A sigh. ‘So, we’re basically clueless until someone spots Haiden Lochhead.’ Great. Unless Tufty had managed to find something online? And if not, a boot up the bum might motivate him. ’Grab your hat, we’re off to see a weirdo.’

Rennie blew a short, wet raspberry. ‘Be quicker getting out and walking.’

The rush-hour traffic crawled along Queen’s Road, the trees hiding Rubislaw Quarry barely shifting in the passenger window.

Logan inched them forward another car’s length. ‘Don’t whinge.’

‘I said we should’ve gone Auchmill Road, but nooo, you said out to the ring road and back would be faster.’

‘I can get another sidekick, you know.’

‘What, like Steel?’ Rennie smirked. ‘Yeah, good luck with that. I’m the best of the best, the rest are just...’ a frown, ‘something that rhymes with best, but means the opposite.’

Another car length.

‘So — and I say this as the best sidekick you’ll ever have — that team-building night you went on with DI King and DCI Hardie...’

Logan glanced at him. ‘What about it?’

Pout. ‘Why didn’t I get an invite?’

‘Because you’re a soggy sack of sharny socks, that’s why. And you’re not of inspector rank, or above.’ Not to mention being a pain in the hoop.

‘Hmmph. You’re the so-called “elite” Brexiteers are always going on about, aren’t you?’ One side of Rennie’s face creased for a moment. ‘Depressed? Obsessed? Molest?’

If this was a top-of-the-range sidekick, God knows what a bargain-basement one would be like.

A wail of sirens erupted from somewhere behind them, followed two seconds later by flickering blue lights in the rear-view mirror. The cars following Logan’s Audi parted to let a patrol car through — blues and twos going.

Logan pulled over too, and as soon as they were past — pulled out after them, poking the switch that set his own lights and siren going. Raising his voice over the din: ‘In case they need our help.’

‘The rest are just a pest!’

Idiot.

The parting traffic meant he could finally put his foot down, accelerating to a heady thirty-five miles an hour.

‘Get on the blower, find out what we’re chasing.’

Rennie twisted around and fumbled at the back seat, coming out with a Police Scotland fleece in the usual shade of furry black. He dug an Airwave handset from one of the pockets. ‘Alpha Whisky Six Three Two, to Control, safe to talk?’

A sigh gurgled out of the speaker. ‘What can we do for you this time, Sergeant Rennie?’

They burst out onto the roundabout with Anderson Drive, a pair of matching eighteen wheelers bookending the dual carriageways on both sides. Some idiot in a Lexus 4x4 tried to sneak out behind one of them, then slammed on the brakes as the patrol car zipped past. Did exactly the same thing a second later as Logan’s Audi followed.

Why couldn’t people learn to drive?

Rennie grabbed for the handle above his seat as they jinked onto Queen’s Road again. ‘We’re following a patrol car down Queen’s Road, looking to give assistance. Can you detail the shout?’

‘Elderly I–C-One Male on Whitehall Place is hurling excrement at passers-by.’

Rennie grimaced across the car at Logan. ‘And is it his own or...?’

‘He’s apparently got several large carrier bags with him, if that helps?’

‘Ah. Yes. OK.’ He pulled his eyebrows up and showed Logan all of his teeth. Mouthing, ‘Do you want?’ in silence.

Not a chance in hell.

Logan shook his head.

Rennie nodded and pressed the Airwave’s talk button. ‘Control? You know, I’m sure the first responders don’t need Professional Standards muddying the waters. Right? Breathing down their necks.’

‘More comfortable throwing it than having it thrown at you, eh?’

‘You’re breaking up, I can’t... it... hello?... hear...’ He made hissing noises into the handset, then tossed it onto the seat behind him. ‘Yeah, let’s not do that.’

Logan killed the siren and flickering blue lights, as he merged with the slow-moving traffic again. ‘Not that I wouldn’t have helped out if I was needed.’

‘No. No. Me too. Definitely.’

Big granite buildings crept past on the left. Mostly offices now, but the occasional one still kept as a private residence for people with utterly shedloads of money. Jammy sods.

Logan followed the Golf in front past one of the swanky boutique hotels. ‘What happened about those lookout requests, by the way?’

‘Lookout...’ Rennie looked at him, mouth hanging open. Then, ‘Oh, the ones on Haiden Lochhead! Aha. Yes.’ A nod. ‘From Land’s End to Lerwick, we’ve had about sixty-four reported sightings. All of which will be from the kind of nutters who frequently mistake their own knees for Lord Lucan and Shergar.’

‘Local forces looking into them?’

‘And bitching mightily about it.’ He gave a big pantomime sigh. ‘I don’t know why we bother asking the public stuff. Don’t get me wrong: they’re not all idiots, but it’s a sodding large percentage. I tell you—’

His Airwave gave its three point-to-point bleeps and he jumped in his seat. ‘Eek!’

A muffled, ‘Control to Alpha Whisky Six Three Two, safe to talk?’ burst out into the car.

Rennie turned and fumbled for the handset, holding it like a pinless grenade as he took the call. ‘If this is about the auld mannie with bags full of jobbies, I’m not interested.’

‘Have you got Inspector McRae with you?’

A sly expression slunk its way across his face, making him look a bit like a sunburnt weasel. ‘Depends. Who wants to know?’

‘One: tell him to sign out an Airwave handset. I know he’s been off on the sick, but that doesn’t mean he’s exempt from carrying one.’

Logan’s shoulders tried to drag him down, along with the groan that accompanied it.

‘Second: DCI Hardie says he wants to see him in his office ASAP. Only he used a lot more words than that, many of which I can’t repeat in an open-plan office.’

Oh joy of fabulous joys.

‘And thirdly: tell Inspector McRae it’s nice to have him back. Even if he hasn’t bothered popping past to say hello yet.’

Rennie nodded. ‘Will do.’ Then returned Satan’s Telephone to his pocket with a grimace. ‘Wonder what’s crawled up Hardie’s backside and set up base camp. Maybe he’s got a hangover from going on the lash with you last night and wants to take it out on someone?’

‘Try not to sound so pleased about it.’

‘Pleased? Moi?’ A grin. ‘So, given the choice: being shouted at by Hardie, or helping out with that jobbie-flinging grandad, which one sounds better?’

Either way, he probably wasn’t going to like what was thrown at him.

23

King’s incident room felt a lot smaller today, which probably had something to do with the extra desks, chairs, whiteboards, and computer kit that had been squeezed into it. A row of support staff were battering data into the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System so it could churn out actions. Because following orders from DCI Hardie and all the monkeys further up the tree wasn’t bad enough, now they got to do what a computer program told them as well.

A couple of plainclothes were on the phone, but other than them and the HOLMES team, most of King’s new seats were empty.

He was at the front of the room, drawing up some sort of roster on the smaller of the assembled whiteboards.

Logan joined him. ‘Nightshift make any progress?’

A grunt. ‘Take it you saw this morning’s papers?’

‘No mention.’

King shook his head. ‘Don’t know if I should be pleased or not. This thing’s been hanging over me that long...’ A deep breath and a frown. ‘Nah. If it’s going to come out, better it’s on our terms, not Edward Sodding Barwell’s.’ Sounding as if he was trying really hard to believe it.

Rennie slunk in, almost completely silent as he padded over to loom behind one of the plainclothes officers. The boy had definitely been practising that.

King picked up a copy of that morning’s Aberdeen Examiner and slapped it against Logan’s chest. ‘What the papers are full of is Professor Wilson.’

Logan unfolded it, smoothing out the front page. A photo of Wilson at some white-tie do sat beneath ‘WERE PROF’S MISSING HANDS DOMESTIC TERRORISM?’ Logan shuddered. ‘God, I hope not.’ Clearing his throat and reading the article out loud. ‘“Prominent Leave and Unionist campaigner Professor Nicholas Wilson, brackets sixty-eight, may have been the target of domestic terrorists, says a source close to the investigation—”’

‘Which is journo-speak for, “We made it all up, but let’s pretend the police said it.”’

Rennie leaned on the desk behind his victim. ‘Ever notice how Brexiteers always seem to be hardline Unionistas?’

‘Gah!’ The plainclothes officer nearly jumped out of his seat, turning to stare at him. ‘Where the hell did you come from?’

‘I mean, don’t get me wrong: I’m perfectly happy with us staying part of the UK, but even though Brexiteers think the European Union is undemocratic and crap, apparently the so-called United Kingdom is total peachy bananas. Scotland votes remain, England votes leave, and we all know what a gargantuan wank-shambles that turned into. How is it democracy when they don’t give a toss what we think? No wonder the Alt-Nats hate them.’

A small smile twitched at the corners of King’s mouth. ‘Don’t you have something useful to do, Sergeant?’

‘Already doing it.’ He stuck his arm out and made a big show of checking his watch, then raised his eyebrows at Logan. ‘His Holiness, the Detective Chief Inspector of Hardie, requested the delight of your company ASAP, remember?’

Logan ruffled the newspaper. ‘Look at it: they’ve got two pages of commentary on what the severed hands and “The Devil Makes Work” mean. Two pages. Everyone from a forensic psychologist to that knoblump off of Big Brother.’

‘Ooh, Scotty Meyrick? I liked him on that.’ Rennie poked Officer Jumpy. ‘What was his catchphrase again?’

King shook his head. ‘Apparently the Professor was meant to be appearing on Any Questions at the end of the week, so, as you can imagine, the BBC are taking a particular interest in the case. Hardie’s had to fend off the Today programme, the World at One, Jeremy Vine, and those shouty ones from Radio Five Live so far. I was on the receiving end of a twenty-minute rant about it after the morning briefing.’

That explained the summons.

‘So much for last night’s team-building, then.’

‘Which is exactly why Haiden Lochhead sent those hands to the BBC studio.’ King crunched his way through an extra-strong mint. ‘He’s got us under siege and eating our own young.’

Silence.

It wasn’t that King was wrong, it was just depressing to hear it out loud like that.

Rennie did another checking-his-watch performance. ‘Sorry, Guv, but you know what DCI Hardie’s like. And if you’re late, he might take it out on me, and none of us want that, do we?’

Logan settled back against the wall and folded his arms. ‘It doesn’t make sense, though. There’s Haiden, apparently thick as a bricky’s hod, but he’s orchestrated all this like sodding Moriarty.’

Rennie lowered his arm. ‘Maybe he’s only been playing thick, lulling everyone into a false sense of security till... BAM!’

‘Playing?’ A snort from King. ‘You know how they caught Haiden Lochhead for that jewellery shop ram-raid? Because instead of stealing a car to crash through the front window, like a normal person, he borrowed it from his aunt. Who wasn’t best pleased when the cops turned up on her doorstep. The man’s a moron.’

Yeah, Stephen Hawking he wasn’t.

Logan puffed out a long breath. ‘Maybe the Aberdeen Examiner’s right: this really is domestic terrorism and Haiden’s part of a cell. Maybe someone else, someone less thick, is telling him what to do?’

Rennie was mugging at his watch again. ‘Terrible though that thought is, Guv, if you don’t turn up at Hardie’s—’

‘What about known associates?’ King frowned into the middle distance. ‘Not Haiden’s, his dad’s. Say he knew them from his old man’s glory days, or he came into contact with them in prison? Someone with ties to the Alt-Nats?’

Worth a go. ‘So we send someone up to dig through HMP Grampian’s records for the three years Haiden was there.’

An evil smile took over King’s face. ‘And I know the very person.’ He pulled out his phone and dialled. Listened to it ring. Then, ‘Detective Sergeant Steel! You’ll be delighted to know that I’m giving you a chance to redeem yourself for yesterday’s fiasco... Yes, I thought you’d say that.’

Rennie shoogled his watch at Logan. ‘Guv? Please?’

Suppose he’d put it off as long as he could.

‘Might as well.’ Logan slouched out through the door. ‘It’s not as if today could get any worse.’

Hardie was still banging on about Professor Wilson and the media and the top brass. Crumpled there, behind his desk, face like a wet flannel draped over an unhappy frog.

Logan did his best to look as if he was paying attention, nodding his head from time to time and throwing in the odd agreeing noise, while the self-pitying whingefest rattled on and on and on.

How could one man expend so many words on saying so little?

Then there was silence, Hardie staring at him, as if expecting an answer to whatever it was he’d been talking about.

Nope, no idea.

Only one thing for it: Logan narrowed his eyes and tilted his head a bit to the side. ‘In what way, exactly?’

‘Oh come on, Logan, you know he’s going to—’

A tattoo of knocks rattled the office door. ‘Sarge? You in there?’

‘Why me?’ Hardie sagged even further. ‘Come!’

The door cracked open and Tufty stuck his head in, flashed his teeth at Hardie. ‘Sorry, Guv.’ Then turned to Logan. ‘Sarge, Rennie said you’d be in here and I wasn’t to disturb you, but it’s kinda urgent. Like super-duper card-carrying warp-factor-six-Mr-Sulu urgent.’

Hardie stiffened behind his desk. ‘Is this meant to be some sort of joke?’

‘Oh no, Guv, no joke here, no joke at all. Look!’ He held out his phone. ‘Someone posted a video online.’

Grainy footage filled the phone’s screen: a man cowering in the bottom of what looked like a... was that a chest freezer? The white walls were scraped and dented and smeared with what was probably blood. The man was curled up, lying on his side, because there wasn’t room in there to stretch out.

Oh crap.

Logan grabbed the phone and stared at it.

‘What?’ Hardie sat forward. ‘What is it?’

It was Professor Wilson: ankles tied together, elbows too, bloody bandages marking where his arms came to an abrupt axed end. Eyes screwed shut, as if he was afraid to see whoever it was filming him. Which would be Haiden Lochhead.

Wilson’s voice screeched out of the phone’s speakers. ‘Please! Please, I haven’t seen anything! I can... I can just go away, forget this ever happened. Please!’

The camera moved in, till his face filled the screen.

‘You don’t have to do this! I’ll do whatever you want!’ Sobs jerked through his body, making him twitch and writhe. ‘I’m... sorry! Whatever... I did, I’m... I’m sorry!... Please... please let me... go... PLEASE!’

Professor Wilson’s face froze on the screen, streaked with tears and blood as the clip came to an end. It was replaced by a bunch of screengrabs for other videos: if you liked that, then you’ll love this! According to the stats underneath it, the Professor Wilson footage had over thirty thousand views and six thousand likes.

Logan blinked. ‘God...’

‘What is it, Inspector McRae, I demand you tell me!’

He slid the phone across the desk and Hardie picked it up. Jabbed at the screen. Face crumpling as the video started playing again.

‘Please! Please, I haven’t seen anything! I can... I can just go away, forget this ever happened. Please!’

Tufty’s fingers curled in mid-air, as if longing for the return of his mobile. ‘Twenty-six seconds long, posted at six fifteen this morning. It’s going viral — people are sharing and reposting it everywhere.’

Because they weren’t already screwed enough as it was.

‘You don’t have to do this! I’ll do whatever you want!’

Logan scrunched his eyes closed and groaned.

He’d been wrong. Today could get worse.

24

Jane McGrath paced up and down the length of the meeting room table. ‘This is bad. This is very, very bad.’

It was big enough for about twenty people, if you seated them around the outside of the doughnut of desks. More, if you made them sit in the middle too. Instead of which, they had to make do with a Superintendent Young — who looked as if he’d just discovered his mother doing unspeakable things with a goat, a Detective Chief Inspector Hardie — slumped in his seat like an abandoned beanbag, a Detective Inspector King — crunching his way through a packet of extra-strong mints like a reincarnated racehorse, and Logan.

Young held out a hand as Jane made another pass, blocking her way. ‘Sit down, for goodness’ sake. Wearing a groove in the carpet tiles isn’t helping anyone.’

‘I mean, it was very bad before, but now it’s thirty thousand times worse!’ She glanced at her phone. ‘No, make that forty-two and a half thousand times. Forty-two thousand, five hundred, and eighty-nine views: how are people still “liking” this? Who the hell presses “thumbs up” on a torture video?’

Young glared at Hardie. ‘I want that footage taken off the internet and I want it taken off now.’

‘Oh, it’s too late for that.’ Jane poked at her phone. ‘Right now it’s getting shared and tweeted and posted to Alt-Nat message boards all over the sodding planet!’

Hardie straightened up a little. ‘We’re doing everything we can, but—’

‘Then do more!’ Young’s jaw tightened. ‘And this investigation requires direct supervision.’

‘Exactly what I was thinking.’ Hardie poked a finger in King’s direction. ‘I want hourly updates on your progress.’

But before King could complain, Young was giving them all the steely-eye. ‘From this point, DCI Hardie will be taking over as Senior Investigating Officer.’

‘Quite right. And progress needs to be...’ Hardie’s mouth clacked shut and his eyes widened, face going an unhealthy shade of puce. ‘Wait, what?’

‘This case has become too high-profile to have a DI in charge.’

Spluttering finally gave way to, ‘But—’

‘This is now the division’s number one priority!’ Young bashed a fist down on the tabletop. ‘Clearly the Chief Superintendent has to retain a level of detachment, for the inevitable PIRC review, but if he was here,’ getting louder with every word, ‘I’m sure he would encourage me to start kicking people’s backsides until something sodding happened!’

Silence.

King cleared his throat. ‘We’re doing everything we—’

‘Oh no you don’t.’ Hardie stuck his nose in the air. ‘If you and McRae hadn’t let Haiden Lochhead escape last night, we wouldn’t be sitting here!’

King just stared at him, eyebrows pinched up in the middle. The proverbial puppy given a kicking by its master.

‘DCI Hardie, I’m authorising you to bring in a dozen officers from the rest of the division. More from other divisions if need be.’

King nodded. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Which was when Young turned to face Logan. ‘I’d expected more of you, Inspector McRae. I really had.’

Logan kept his voice as flat and level as possible. ‘I think, given the circumstances, you and I should have a wee discussion in private, Superintendent. Don’t you?’

Narrowed eyes and gritted teeth, then a forced, ‘Fine.’ Young snapped his fingers. ‘The rest of you: out.’

There were a few shared looks and raised eyebrows, then one by one Hardie, King, and Jane slunk from the room, shutting the door behind them, leaving Logan and Young alone.

Young stood, flinging his hands out to the side. ‘It’s a complete and utter bollocking disaster!’

As if somehow that was all Logan’s fault.

‘When you were in Professional Standards, what would you have said if a senior officer threatened and bullied members of his command?’

‘That’s not the point!’

‘That’s entirely the point.’ Logan put on his professional not-angry-just-disappointed voice. ‘Ranting and raving at people — you know better than that.’

‘Gah! This is what I get for letting you talk me into not firing King in the first place!’

‘I talked you into it?’

Young crumpled into his chair again. ‘The media are ripping holes in us that get bigger every day, Police Scotland are breathing down my neck, and the Scottish Tossing Government want an official briefing! And you know what that means.’

A sigh. ‘You still can’t go about bellowing at members of your team.’

‘Do you have any idea how bad this makes us look?’

Logan turned the disappointment up a notch. ‘Do you really think Police Scotland needs another bullying scandal? Have we not lost enough senior officers already?’

‘WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?’ Tiny dots of spittle flared in the sunlight.

‘A couple of deep breaths might help?’

Outside, the sound of a patrol car siren wailed into life, then faded as they drove off to whatever emergency was underway.

The seagulls cawwwwed.

Someone outside in the corridor laughed.

Then Young slumped back in his seat. Looked away. ‘Is he up to it? King, is he... unbiased?’

‘Look at it from his point of view — if he cocks this up, even accidentally, his career’s over. He’ll be pilloried in the media, probably never work again. He needs a result.’

‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’ A sigh. ‘Did you hear about our beloved Chief Superintendent, Big Tony Campbell? He’s retiring next month, and guess who he’s passing the baton to?’

‘I didn’t know he was retiring.’ Logan pointed. ‘Are you...?’

‘No. Apparently no one who’s actually worked here is worthy. They’re lumbering us with some high-flier from G Division.’

Of course they were. Because clearly, if you weren’t from Clydeside, you weren’t a real police officer. God forbid one of the parochial neeps got put in charge.

‘Oh. Lucky us.’

Young grimaced. ‘Her handover period officially starts next week. Might be nice if we had all this tied up before she gets here, don’t you think?’

‘We’re doing the best we can.’

Young stood again, and put a paternal hand on Logan’s shoulder. Gave it a squeeze. ‘I know. I know. Just... do it quicker.’

Logan scuffed along the corridor, heading for DCI Hardie’s office. Why didn’t they have air conditioning in here? OK, so it was Aberdeen and in the winter you needed sixteen jumpers, gloves, and a woolly hat, but still. Global warming meant—

His phone dinged and buzzed in his pocket — incoming text message.

According to the screen it was from ‘CLAP HANDS, HERE COMES TUFTY!’

The little sod had done something to his phone, it was the only explanation.

Idiot.

He thumbed out a reply:

Before he got his phone halfway to his pocket it ding-buzzed in his hand again.

IT IS I, TUFTY!:

Oh for God’s sake...

SEND.

Hardie’s office loomed up ahead.

The door was open, so everyone could see him: worrying away at his cheek with one hand, the phone pressed to his ear with the other. Face scrunched up. Teeny beads of sweat shining on his forehead, but maybe not from the heat.

His sidekicks were there: DS Robertson erasing things from one of Hardie’s whiteboards, in all her dark-haired and jowly glory; while DS Dawson strutted about on his mobile, doing his best to look efficient, as if that would fool anyone. Big-nosed, hair-gel-wearing idiot that he was.

‘Yeah... Yeah, I know that, but don’t tell me, tell Superintendent Young... Yeah, I thought that might.’

The only one out of place was King. He heaved himself up from the visitor’s chair, face all creased.

No one seemed to notice him leaving, not even Hardie — he just kept worrying away at his face, curling forward over his phone: ‘I don’t know, Stacy, as long as it takes, OK?... Yes, I appreciate that, but look at it this way: you don’t have a choice.’

King stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. Slumped against it and closed his eyes. ‘God...’

Logan went for cheery and upbeat. ‘On the bright side, at least we’re not the sole scapegoats any more.’ That had to count for something.

‘Oh, if I know Hardie, he’ll find a way to Teflon anything bad so it lands smack-bang on me.’

Logan’s phone ding-buzzed, yet again. Then again. And again. And again. And again.

Bloody Tufty wouldn’t take no for a telling, would he?

King opened his eyes and pointed. ‘You not going to get that?’

‘It’s just Tufty, wingeing on because I said he couldn’t play a henchman in a film.’ He turned and led the way down the corridor. ‘And there’s another bright side: now we know we were right about Matt Lansdale’s disappearance. If Haiden had abducted him not only would Lansdale’s severed hands have turned up, there’d be a video too.’

King took a deep breath and sighed it out, shoulders rounded as he scuffed along beside him. ‘I suppose. At least that’s something.’

Who said soon-to-be-murder investigations didn’t have their lighter moments?

Beever popped a pellet of chewing gum, munching as she wheeled her postal trolley along yet another magnolia and glass corridor. Earbuds in, Green Day’s American Idiot rocking out, cos everyone loves a bit of retro every now and then. Plus it was way political.

Gotta admit it was kinda cool — turning Marischal College into the council’s main offices. The building was old as balls, all ornate and spiky granite, and way better than the ugly tower block thing they used to be based in. OK, so when she told her mates she was going to work here they all rolled their eyes so hard it looked like Sonja’s were going to fall out of her ears, but you know what? While they were off doing their work placements in nail salons and hairdressers, Beever was in the seat of power. Where the city’s cogs and wheels turned to make stuff happen.

And OK, so she was only delivering the mail, for now, but that’s what internships were like, yeah? You worked your way up. And Beever was going all the way to the top, baby.

She had a plan.

The school’s careers adviser said you had to dress for the job you want, not the job you got. So Beever turned up every morning, ten minutes early, in a smart-as-shit shirt and tie, neat black trousers, and tasteful trainers, cos who wouldn’t want to promote that?

Oh yeah.

‘Jesus of Suburbia’ accompanied her around the Council Tax Department. ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’ was the soundtrack to dropping off a box from Amazon and a stack of brown envelopes for Trading Standards. ‘Give Me Novacaine’ for the Finance Department. ‘Letterbomb’ in the lift with Fat Doris — which wasn’t her real name, it was really just Doris, but she was big enough for around eight people, stuffing a yum-yum into her gob and moaning on her mobile about how she couldn’t get a date. ‘Homecoming’ for the trek to Customer Service. And by the time ‘Whatsername’ dwannnnnged to an end she was in the new councillors’ bit. A bunch of temporary offices, squeezed into Marischal College while they sorted out the Town House’s leaky sewage problem. Cos you can’t run a city from somewhere that stinks like a greasy paedo’s Y-fronts. Which meant, for now, this was where all the big decisions were made.

How cool was that?

Beever slipped her earbuds into her pocket and dumped her gum in the nearest pot plant. Slapped on the professional smile she’d been working on. Yeah, the braces were a bit of a drawback, but you couldn’t be a politician without straight teeth, could you? Who wanted to vote for someone with a busted-piano-keyboard smile? No one, that’s who.

She made her way from office to office, making polite chit and polite chat. Look at me! Look how young and keen I am! Why yes, I am planning on studying politics when I go to university. But completely not overplaying it.

Envelopes. Parcels. Jiffy bags. You name it: she delivered it. No mistakes made here, thank you very much. Not on Beever’s watch.

One more letter to go and she was done. Time for an ice-cold Diet Coke in the canteen with Lewis — who wasn’t nearly as cute as he thought he was.

Beever held the final envelope up and bared her teeth at it. Ooh, that wasn’t good. The address was written in green ink and you know what that meant: it’d been written by a nutter. Her dad swore on the Sunday Post that green ink was a clear sign of being dangerously fruit-loop mental.

Still, that was Councillor Lansdale’s problem, not hers.

She knocked on the door, but there wasn’t any answer.

No shock there. According to the papers he was totally the victim of some sort of Alt-Nat conspiracy, but Mrs Onwuatuegwu in Finance swore on a stack of Take a Breaks that he’d done a midnight flit with one of the temps in Waste and Recycling. And apparently the temp was twenty years younger than him. Total shudderfest, right?

No wonder the dirty old pervert got mail from nutters.

Beever grabbed the green-ink envelope and let herself in.

Not a huge room. Kinda a slap in the face, to be honest, considering how nice some of the other temporary offices were. Didn’t even have any pot plants or paintings — just a photo of Councillor Lansdale, standing there in all his saggy middle-aged glory, shaking hands with the Lord Provost.

Lansdale was one of those shirt-and-tie-with-a-jumper-on-top-under-a-suit-jacket kinda guys. Never met him, but he couldn’t have looked more #MeToo if he tried. Bet he was the kind of guy who...

Beever stopped.

Sniffed.

What the hell was that funky smell?

She dumped the green-ink envelope on top of the pretty much overflowing in-tray.

It was, you know, like if you go away on holiday? Only you forget to empty the fridge, and when you get home the bacon’s green and there’s mould growing on the leftover corned beef?

A bunch of packages sat in the middle of the desk. Two Amazon boxes and a trio of Jiffy bags.

Big fat bluebottles crawled all over one of the bags, more feasting on whatever that brown yuck leaking out the bottom was, soaking into the leather desk blotter.

God, complete horror show.

She inched closer. Nostrils twitching.

That mouldy corned-beef stink was definitely coming from the Jiffy bag: rank and dark, catching in the base of her throat like she was going to blow chunks any minute — Weetabix and banana everywhere.

Whatever was in that bag it wasn’t good. Wasn’t good at all.

Beever swallowed hard. Then picked up the desk phone and called Security.

25

It was getting crowded in King’s MIT office as Superintendent Young’s promised extra bodies milled about, making the place look untidy. Far too many of them for the manky wee room. Which meant Logan had to squeeze and ‘pardon me’ his way over to where King stood staring at one of the two new whiteboards.

‘God, it’s like a rugby scrum in here.’

‘Hmm?’ King kept his eyes on the board. Someone had stuck photos of Professor Wilson, Haiden Lochhead, and his dad, Gaelic Gary, to the white surface with little magnetic dots in cheerful colours. Red lines connecting the three of them, a printout of the crime scene report, and lots and lots of question marks. ‘Thing is, what if there isn’t a connection?’

‘The fact Haiden posted Wilson’s hands to the BBC does kinda suggest there is.’

‘Not what I meant.’ King poked Haiden’s photo with a finger. ‘If he targeted Wilson just because he’s a high-profile anti-independence figure, then there’s no real connection connection, is there? Maybe they never met at all, and who Wilson is isn’t as important as what he represents. He could be anyone. Haiden doesn’t—’

‘Boss?’ It was Heather, mobile phone clamped to her chest. ‘There’s some woman downstairs in reception, won’t give her name. Says it’s urgent and she has to speak to you.’ A shrug. ‘Well, you or Inspector McRae.’

Interesting.

Logan raised an eyebrow at King. ‘Perhaps we’d be better together?’

He got a scowl in return. ‘I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.’ King pushed his way through the crowd, making for the door. ‘H: Make sure everyone’s got something productive to do.’

‘Boss.’

King stopped on the threshold and looked back at Logan. ‘Well? Are you coming or not?’

Fair enough.

Logan skirted a knot of plainclothes officers and joined him. ‘Wonder what this mystery woman wants.’

‘Bet it’ll be a waste of time.’ King shoved the door open and they stepped out into the corridor.

And froze.

Steel was meandering away from them, mobile phone pinned between her shoulder and her ear, leaving her hands free for a big cup of coffee and a Danish pastry. Nibbling and sipping as she went. ‘Did he?... Yeah... Well, that’s what happens when you smear Nutella on—’

‘You!’ King pointed at her. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Oops. Call you in a sec.’ She balanced her Danish on the coffee’s lid, stuck her phone in her pocket, turned, and graced them with a pastry-flaked smile. ‘Just coming to see you, Guv.’

‘You’re supposed to be in Peterhead, interviewing Haiden Lochhead’s cellmates!’

‘No I’m not.’

King’s eyes bugged. ‘I told you to go!’

‘No, you said “someone has to go speak to Haiden’s cellmates”, so I sent DC Harmsworth. He’s a miserable git anyway, might as well give him something to be miserable about.’

He just stared at her.

Another nibble of pastry. ‘I can start recording our conversations, if that makes things any easier?’

‘Fine.’ He marched past her, heading for the stairs. ‘Then you can make yourself useful: with me. Now!’ He battered through the double doors, leaving Logan and Steel alone in the corridor.

She puffed out her top lip and made a squeaky farting sound with it. ‘He’s always like this when he’s not getting his leg over. See if you can talk him into having a surreptitious wank for all our sakes.’

Now there was a mental image nobody wanted.

‘Do you have to wind him up the whole time?’

‘Part of my roguish charm.’ She fell in beside Logan on the way to the doors. ‘So where we going?’

‘Reception. Anonymous visitor.’

‘Cool. You and Kingy go ahead and I’ll stay here and finish up my—’

King’s voice boomed out from the stairwell. ‘I SAID NOW, DETECTIVE SERGEANT!’

She squinted one eye shut. ‘Or maybe we should just have him fixed? Our neighbour’s Collie went from The Hound of the Baskervilles to Lassie Come Home when they whipped off his nadgers.’

To be honest, it was probably worth a go.

Mhari Canonach Powell was waiting for them by the ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?’ posters — Haiden Lochhead glowering out at her as she fidgeted with her lank off-blonde hair. She’d dressed in dowdy shades of beige and grey, and plastered her face with makeup — foundation, blusher, eyeshadow, and bright scarlet lipstick. The resulting mask almost managed to conceal the bruises that had been clearly visible yesterday evening.

Logan waved at her and she blinked back at him, eyes shiny and pink. On the verge of tears. Then the front door opened behind her and she flinched. Shuffled to one side, eyes down, as a grubby hairy man in a filthy pinstriped suit staggered in and lurched up to the desk.

Mr Pinstripe banged on the glass, his remarkably posh voice raised to a near shout. ‘Hey! Hey you, there! Officer Woman Thing!’ More banging. ‘Some rotten bugger’s stolen my script!’

Logan tried again. ‘Miss Powell?’

‘He’s gone. Haiden’s gone and it’s all my fault!’ She produced her phone and poked at it, then held it out so they could see the screen. Looked like a text message, but the text was too small to make out the words from here. ‘You see? He’s gone!’

King snatched the phone from her. Turning away as she reached for it. Reading out loud: ‘“Don’t expect me home tonight: I’m in Dover. Gonna get the next ferry to France. You’ll never see me again.” Only he’s spelled “France” with an “S”.’

‘Please, it’s my phone...’

King scrolled to the next one. ‘“Why couldn’t you back me up when the police came? Why didn’t you send them away? Do you want them to arrest me?” All caps for that last bit and three exclamation marks.’

Mhari reached for her phone again. ‘Please!’

‘“After all I’ve done for you. I thought you loved me. You said you loved me. How could you let them nearly catch me?” Nearly with two “E”s.’ King’s finger scrolled and scrolled. ‘There’s a lot more where that came from.’

She scrabbled for the phone, but he held it up, out of reach.

‘It’s mine! Give it back!’

Steel sighed. ‘Come on, Kingy, don’t be a dick.’

‘It’s evidence. So—’

Logan yanked the phone out of King’s hands and passed it to Mhari. ‘I’m sorry. Look, we need to ask you some questions. Can we do that?’

She clutched the phone against her chest, and backed away from King. The first tear broke free and rolled down her cheek.

‘Hey.’ Steel held up her hands. ‘It’s OK, it’ll be you, me, and the boy here. Detective Inspector King will wait outside.’ Scowling at him. ‘Won’t you, Detective Inspector?’

They stood there, staring at each other.

Logan put a hand on King’s arm, kept his voice low. ‘Come on, Frank, she’s not going to tell us anything if you’re there.’

King bared his teeth at Steel, then pulled out his own phone, turned, and marched away. Letting himself through the security door. ‘Heather? Get on to Port of Dover Police and the Border Force — Haiden Lochhead’s trying to hop a boat to France...’ The door clicked shut, cutting the rest of it off.

Good riddance.

They were definitely going to have to have a chat about his behaviour before someone made a complaint.

But in the meantime...

Logan smiled at Mhari. ‘Come on, we’ll have a sit and a chat, and DS Steel will get us all a cup of coffee. And a nice pastry.’

A bluebottle buzzed against the room’s window, banging its head off the glass behind the drawn blinds. Its big black body was a fuzzy silhouette against the glowing white, making it look the size of a small Labrador.

On this side of the blinds a row of locked filing cabinets ran along one wall, a small table, and four plastic chairs taking up the rest of the space — Mhari on one side, Logan opposite, Steel sitting between them. All with wax-paper cups of Wee Hairy Davie’s best Colombian roast and a pastry on a napkin. Mhari’s and Steel’s were fancy apricot-and-custard-Danish concoctions, but Logan had been lumbered with an Eccles cake — because hell hath no fury like a grumpy detective sergeant sent to the canteen to fetch coffee and pastries.

Mhari fiddled with her wax-paper cup, sniffing back the tears. ‘It was... it was like we were two bits of Lego, you know? We clicked together like that and stayed.’ She wiped at her eyes. ‘We love each other.’

‘Aye,’ Steel nodded, ‘I know the feeling. Me and Susan were the same.’

‘I don’t mean to annoy him, or make him angry, I don’t. But sometimes I can’t help it.’

Steel patted her arm. ‘I’m sure none of that’s your fault.’

‘He loved me and now he’s gone and I’ll never see him again...’ Bottom lip trembling.

‘You know what? Some men are just like that.’ She glanced at Logan. ‘It doesn’t matter how good you are, doesn’t matter what you do, there’s always going to be something that sets them off.’ Another pat. ‘It’s not you. It’s never you. It’s something inside them.’

Mhari shrugged.

Logan had a go. ‘Some men are always looking for an excuse to hit someone.’

Her hand fluttered up to the bruises beneath the caked-on makeup. ‘I walked into a door. Haiden always says I’m clumsy...’

Logan glanced at Steel.

She shook her head.

He nodded back. ‘Did Haiden ever mention Professor—’

His phone ding-buzzed in his pocket: incoming message. Then again. And again.

‘Sorry.’ When Logan pulled it out the caller ID ‘IT’S-A ME, TUFTY!’ sat in the middle of the screen. ‘I should probably—’

The thing launched into ‘Space Oddity’ and ‘BEHOLD THE MAGNIFICENCE OF TUFTITUDE!’ replaced the last ID.

‘Oh for God’s... How is he doing that?’ Logan pressed ‘IGNORE’ set his phone to silent and stuck it on the table. Smiled an apology at Mhari, tried to pretend he couldn’t see Steel rolling her eyes. ‘Where were we? Yes. Did Haiden ever mention Professor Wilson to you?’

‘He... didn’t like him. Wilson was always in the papers, and on the telly, banging on about how Scotland couldn’t survive without England.’ She took a sip of her coffee, leaving a blood-red smear of lipstick behind. ‘One time, Wilson was on the Today programme, saying Scotland should be grateful we’re allowed any MPs in Westminster at all and Haiden... I don’t know. He flipped. Started screaming and swearing at the radio. Grabbed it and smashed it to pieces on the work surface. You know? Hammering it down, over and over again, shouting about how this is our country. Ours.’

Steel ripped a bite out of her pastry, setting free a little spray of flaky bits as she chewed and talked at the same time. ‘Was that when Haiden went after him?’

‘He...’ Deep breath. ‘He said he was going to teach Wilson a lesson. I thought, you know, he’ll beat him up, or something. Show him what happens when you moan about Scotland like it’s a diseased piglet hanging off the English teat.’

‘When was this?’

She looked away. ‘Sunday night. I... I didn’t hear him come in again, so it must’ve been late.’

‘Notice anything different about him?’

‘You don’t understand: Haiden had to stop Professor Wilson spreading his lies. He’s a propagandist for the Imperial Aggressors. It’s people like him and the Unionist media that are holding this country hostage!’

Wow. All delivered with the unblinking zeal of a cult member.

Logan sat forward. ‘Did he say where he’d been?’

‘We have to rise up and be the nation again! They’ve kept us down for too long now. We can’t let them...’ She trailed off, staring at Logan’s phone as it buzzed and skittered on the tabletop. The words ‘It’s Tufty-Time!’ flashing on the screen.

‘Sodding... Enough.’ He switched the damn thing off and jammed it in his pocket.

King wouldn’t be the only one getting a talking to about his behaviour.

Logan let out a long slow breath. Stuffed the anger down. Smiled at Mhari again. ‘Do you have any idea where Haiden took Professor Wilson?’

She shook her head.

‘Any idea where he’s hidden him?’

More shaking.

‘Any idea at all?’

‘He wouldn’t tell me.’ The tears overflowed her eyes, little jagged sobs making her rock in her seat. ‘And now... now he never... he never will!’

Logan punched the code into the lock for the door to reception, holding it open for Mhari to shuffle through.

She dug a hankie out of her grey sleeve, blotting her eyes and cheeks. Sniffing as she looked up at him. ‘If you find Haiden, you won’t tell him, will you? You won’t tell him I told you where he was?’

‘Promise.’ Logan walked with her to the exit, Steel scuffing along behind. ‘If you think of anything else, if you remember anything, doesn’t matter how small, you can call me at any time.’ He handed Mhari his business card. ‘And if Haiden gets in touch, tell him he needs to speak to us, OK? We want to stop him getting in any more trouble.’

She nodded. Wiped her eyes again, apparently forgetting how much makeup she had on — the hanky removing enough foundation to reveal the skin beneath. The greens and purples of a well-established bruise. Then Mhari took a deep breath and walked out through the doors.

Soon as they’d closed behind her, Steel sagged. ‘Pfff... Talk about drinking the Kool-Aid. I mean, I’m all for independence, but by the Sainted Crotch of the Hairy Jesus.’

‘Think she knows more than she’s saying?’

‘Yeah. But what are we going to do, waterboard her?’ Steel curled her top lip. ‘Better no’ say that too loud — don’t want to give Kingy ideas.’

Outside, Mhari stopped, turned, and waved at them through the glass.

They waved back.

Her hand fell to her side, then she walked away. Down the stairs and off towards Broad Street. With her bruised face and bruised heart.

Logan sighed. ‘Might be worth sticking a grade-one flag on the house.’

‘Don’t know about you, but see if I was Haiden Lochhead? No way I’d be coming back. Off to the land of burgundy, brie, and baguettes I jolly well sod.’ Steel shook her head. ‘Soon as that video hit? Welcome to Splitsville, man.’

‘Splitsville?’ He smiled at her. ‘What on earth have you been watching?’

‘I’m down with the cool kids.’ A scowl. ‘And speaking of someone who isn’t...’

King barged through the door into reception, face dark and twitchy as he hurried across the floor towards them. ‘Nine-nine-nine call from Council Headquarters: there’s a suspicious package at Councillor Lansdale’s office.’

That was all they needed.

‘Bomb threat?’

‘Worse. It’s postmarked last Thursday, the day after he went missing. And it stinks of rotting meat.’

And just like that, a bomb would’ve been better. ‘Sodding hell.’

‘And we all know what that means.’ King pointed at Steel. ‘You: get round there and take possession. I want it back here and analysed ASAP.’

She curled her lip. ‘When you say “it stinks”, do—’

‘And no delegating! Take Milky with you: I want everyone who touched that package IDed, interviewed, fingerprinted. DNA if you can talk them into it. Every single one of them gets their alibi checked.’ He paused, but she didn’t move. ‘Go!’

‘Gah... Bloody hell.’ Slouching away, muttering to herself as she pushed out the doors and into the sunshine. ‘Arrogant, condescending, badger-wanking, cock-trumpet...’

The door thunked shut and King massaged his forehead. ‘Does that woman ever do what she’s told without a fight and a serious bollocking?’

‘No. And there’s someone else needing one.’ Well, two someones, but they’d have to take turns. And right now it was DI Frank King’s. ‘What the hell is wrong with you? You can’t seize someone’s phone like that.’

‘Those messages from Haiden—’

‘She’s a witness, we need her cooperation! This isn’t a TV cop show: there are procedures, rules. And I don’t care how much pressure you’re under, you don’t get to do whatever the hell you feel like! You want her phone? You get a warrant, or you ask her permission. You — don’t — just — take — it!’

‘I...’ He pulled his chin in. ‘Her phone’s evidence in an ongoing—’

‘No. You need to listen to me, Detective Inspector: your balls are on the chopping board with this case, all it’ll take is one formal complaint from Mhari Powell for Hardie to cut them clean off.’

Pink spread across King’s cheeks. He looked away. ‘All right, all right. I get it.’

‘Make sure you do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for round two.’ AKA: Tufty’s turn. Logan pulled out his phone and turned it on again. Twenty unread text messages and four voicemails, all with the word ‘TUFTY’ in their caller ID. He pressed the ‘CALL’ button and walked away from King. Grinding his teeth as it rang and rang.

‘Sarge!’

‘Tufty! What in God’s name do you think you’re—’

‘Sarge! Boss! Guv! I’ve—’

‘I don’t care if you’ve been offered the role of Leading Sodding Lady, you’re supposed to be a police officer so start acting like one!’

‘Leading...? No, no; it’s—’

‘This bumbling cutesy act has to stop! We’re investigating a bloody—’

‘WILL YOU PLEASE LISTEN TO ME!’

Right, it was time for a serious boot up the arse.

But before Logan could lace it up, Tufty was back again: ‘I got a hit off my algorithm. I know who sent that first tweet about Professor Wilson.’

Oh for God’s sake.

‘It was Haiden Bloody Lochhead! We worked that out yesterday, you complete and utter—’

‘It wasn’t him.’

What?

Logan swallowed. ‘It wasn’t?’

‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! I texted and I texted and I left messages and I texted again.’

‘I swear to God, Constable Quirrel, if you don’t tell me who sent that tweet, I’m going to hunt you down and stuff your—’

‘It was Mhari Canonach Powell. Only she’s not Mhari Canonach Powell. Not the real one, anyway.’

Logan stared out through the front windows, where Steel was marching off towards Marischal College. The same direction Mhari had disappeared in.

‘Sarge, you still there?’

‘How can she not be the real one?’

‘I did a search. The real Mhari Canonach Powell’s registered address is a residential psychiatric facility two miles outside South Shields.’

‘So she’s mentally ill?’ Which explained the swivel-eyed Alt-Nat rant about Imperial Aggressors and the English teat. ‘Give them a call, tell them she’s escaped.’

‘She’s not a nutter, Guv, she’s one of the nurses. Studying to be a psychologist. Hold on, I’ll send you a photo from her Facebook.’

Logan’s phone announced an incoming text from ‘FEAR THE TUFTY!’ It was a photo: a gaggle of women in their twenties, all wearing very skimpy tops, very short skirts, and very high heels. All making pouty duck-faces. If you screwed up your eyes, the one in the middle — wearing a sash with ‘BIRTHDAY GIRL!’ on it — sort of looked a bit like Mhari, but it clearly wasn’t her.

‘Maybe she’s the one taking the photo. Did you think about that?’

Tufty’s voice was thin and tinny through the phone’s speaker. ‘It was Mhari’s twenty-third birthday party. In Newcastle. Last night. And here’s one of her getting arrested at that anti-Trump rally...’

Another text, this time from ‘IT’S TUFTALICIOUS!’ In it, the woman from the first picture was dressed in jeans and a ‘NO TO FASCISM!’ T-shirt, grinning at the camera as a police officer led her away in cuffs, surrounded by people with anti-Trump placards.

King tapped him on the shoulder. ‘What’s going on? Why do you look like something horrible’s happened?’

Logan turned away from him, back on the phone again. ‘Well... maybe it’s someone with the same name?’

‘Yeah, if it was just “Mhari Powell”, but with that middle name? No chance. This is the real one: one hundred percent, stake my rubber duckie on it. And that’s not a euphemism.’

‘Buggering...’

Logan barged out through the main doors onto the sun-baked concrete slabs outside DHQ.

He limp-ran to the top of the stairs, standing there looking down at Queen Street. The parked cars. The ‘shoes of all nations’ display in the windows of McKay’s. The granite lump of Greyfriar’s Church, up by the junction. The glittering spines and twirls of Marischal College beside it.

Where the hell was she?

King skidded to a halt beside him. ‘What’s got into you? Why are—’

‘It’s not her!’ He hurpled down the stairs and along the pavement, heat pounding down on his black-clad shoulders. Came to a halt at the junction. A bus rumbled past, followed by a small flurry of bicycles. A crowd of office workers, bustling along the pavements, determined to spend as much of their lunch hour out in the sun as possible.

No sign of Mhari, or whoever the hell she really was.

King grabbed him. ‘Will you tell me what’s—’

‘She’s been lying to us the whole sodding time!’ He did another three-sixty, scanning the crowds. ‘Where did you go?’ One more time around, but she was long gone. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’

26

The only light in the room came from the bank of TVs that covered nearly a whole wall. All showing various views of Aberdeen city centre and the surrounding areas. A couple of CCTV operators sat at the central bank of controls, fiddling with joysticks to move the cameras, hunting for the con artist formerly known as ‘Mhari Powell’.

Inspector Pearce — mid-forties with a haircut that was a bit too mumsy for her, or anyone else, come to that — pointed at one of the back-wall screens. It showed the junction between Queen Street and Broad Street as Mhari marched into shot. ‘She crosses the road to here...’ The inspector moved her finger to another screen, showing an alley lined with tall granite buildings — a pub, and some shuttered shopfronts. Mhari appeared again, a definite spring in her step. ‘And this is waiting for her on Netherkirkgate.’

It was a rusty white Nissan Micra, last seen parked outside Mhari’s house in Pitmedden. The car sat on double yellows in front of what used to be Craigdon Sports, facing the camera. Meaning the driver was clearly visible.

King whistled. ‘Haiden Lochhead. Sodding hell.’

‘He was parked there about fifteen minutes by the time she turned up.’

Great. Haiden Lochhead, the scumbag they’d set up a nationwide manhunt for, had been sitting right there, barely a three-minute walk from Divisional Headquarters. That would go down well when the top brass found out.

Logan winced. ‘You’d better get back to Port of Dover Police and tell them they can stop searching the ferries and docks.’

‘Oh God...’ King sagged against the wall. ‘They’re going to love that.’

Mhari jumped into the passenger seat and grinned across the car at Haiden, then pretty much leapt over the gearstick to give him a serious snogging.

Pearce sniffed. ‘Any idea who she really is?’

‘Not a sodding clue.’

Snog over, Mhari sat down again, scarlet lipstick all smeared. Then Haiden started the Nissan and drove off the edge of the screen.

‘We pick the car up on Union Street.’ Pearce frowned, naming the streets as the picture jumped from camera to camera, following the Nissan. ‘Past Market Street, Trinity Centre. Right onto Huntly Street. Next time we see it it’s on Carden Place.’ The car chugged past and out of sight. She clicked a button and the screen went blank. A pained smile. ‘Sorry.’

King stared at her. ‘They can’t just disappear!’

‘There’s only so many roads covered by CCTV and ANPR. We’ve got a flag out, though: if the Automatic Number Plate Recognition system picks them up, we’ll know. Till then?’ She shrugged.

Wonderful.

Logan groaned. King covered his face with his hands, swearing under his breath.

Pearce shrugged again. ‘Nothing I can do.’

They were so screwed. ‘She was right here and we let her walk out the front door.’

Pearce patted him on the shoulder. ‘I can offer you a nice slice of coconut macaroon cake, if that helps?’

Yeah, it’s a crappy wee car, but it’s not so bad when you get used to it. Kinda fun, really. Maybe that’s why he’s in such a good mood? Or maybe it’s cos they’ve put one over on those moron coppers.

Muppets.

Or maybe it’s because he’s with her.

Haiden smiles across the Nissan Micra at Mhari. God, it’s amazing how she does that — one minute she’s looking like a librarian spinster, the next like she could suck a golf ball through a garden hose. Sexy and beautiful and smart as a whip.

What she sees in a lump like him is anyone’s guess, but by Christ he’s gonna enjoy it while he can.

She reaches out and puts her hand on top of his as he changes the gears. All it takes is that one wee gesture, and his cock’s like a crowbar.

He grins at her. ‘We did it!’

‘No, Haiden, you did it.’

‘No, you did it.’

She squeezes his hand, then reaches further and puts her hot little hand on his thigh. ‘You were right, baby: they think you’re in Dover, on your way to Calais, and we, my dear Haiden, are free!’

Damn right.

‘Nothing we can’t do, cos we’re a team.’

Her hand drifts up. ‘Go team us!’

Oh yeah. ‘Go team us.’

This time, when she moves her hand, she cups his erection through his jeans. That little bit of pressure making him moan.

Then Mhari turns and looks over her shoulder at the rear seat. Rubbing him as she does. ‘Have you got the...?’

Focus, Haiden. Don’t disappoint her. ‘In the boot: two rolls of duct tape, six foot of electrical cable, box of gloves, decorators’ masks, overshoes, paper oversuits. And check the glove compartment.’

She does, keeping her other hand at its business as she rummages through the usual driver’s manual and service history crap. Then pulls out the carrier bag, opens it, and peers inside. ‘Ooh, pretty.’

‘Knew you’d love it.’ Soon as he saw it, he knew. Cos he’s a damn good boyfriend, no matter what his bitch ex-wife said.

Mhari lets go of his cock to slip the hunting knife from its sheath. Eight inches long, serrated down one side and polished to a glittering shine. She grips it in her left hand and takes hold of him again, licking her cherry-red lips. Squeezing and rubbing till he’s breathing heavy. ‘Baby, we’re going to have so much fun tonight!’

Oh yes, they definitely are...

Logan found King out front, perched on one of the grimy concrete wall / planter things that lined the stairs down to Queen Street. Sitting there, with his back to the station, face to the sun. Shoulders slumped, face hanging. He didn’t look up as Logan sat beside him, just sighed. ‘Well, that’s it, we might as well march ourselves up to Hardie’s office and resign now.’

Logan brushed little bits of coconut off his black T-shirt. ‘It’s not our fault, how were we—’

‘Get it out of the way before the press conference...’ King’s face crumpled, both hands curling into fists. ‘The sodding press sodding conference!’ He sat up straight, putting on a revoltingly chipper voice, complete with cheesy fake smile. ‘Hey, everybody, did you know DI Frank King used to be in a terror cell? Well yesterday he allowed Haiden Lochhead to escape, and today, instead of arresting Mhari Powell, he watched her waltz right out of Divisional Headquarters. Isn’t that super?’ He sagged again. Groaned. Scowled at Logan. ‘I told you we should’ve confiscated her phone, but would you listen?’

‘How were we supposed to know she wasn’t the real Mhari Powell?’

‘Do you think anyone will care? They’ll just see me letting two Alt-Nat nutjobs get away with murder.’ A big shuddering sigh. ‘I’m royally and utterly screwed. And so are you.’

The scapegoat’s scapegoat.

‘It’s not our fault! We did a PNC check, we got her DVLA records. Everything said she was who she...’ Logan stared off into the distance. They couldn’t, could they? Maybe they could. He stood, a grin spreading. ‘Mhari Canonach Powell — the real one. She was arrested at an anti-Trump rally in Newcastle.’

King didn’t sound in the least bit interested. ‘Good for her.’

Logan poked him. ‘If they arrested the real Mhari Powell, they took her DNA. So what we need is a sample from the fake one!’

‘How are we supposed to...’

But Logan was already hurrying toward the main doors.

King’s voice rang out behind him. ‘Logan! Oh for God’s sake.’

Logan burst in through the doors, scrabbling for purchase on the floor as he took the corner too fast, trying not to collide with a middle-aged balding bloke in a three-piece suit and a screeching toddler on a leash.

‘Hoy!

‘Sorry!’ He kept going, almost slamming into the door through to the side of reception. Fumbling with the keypad entry system as King skidded to a halt behind him.

‘What on earth are you doing?’

Logan wrenched open the door and burst into the corridor.

Skittered to a halt, staring at the cleaner’s cart parked outside the little side office where he and Steel had interviewed the Mhari Powell who wasn’t. ‘No!’

He barrelled over to the open door. A large woman in a blue tabard and baseball cap stood in the middle of the small space, just about to tip the wastepaper basket into a black bin bag.

‘STOP!’

She turned and stared at him. ‘What? I empty bins.’

‘No. Please, put it down, OK?’ Hands up, as if he was negotiating with a gunman. ‘Put the bin down and step away from it. It’s all right, you’re not in any trouble.’

Her eyebrows went up. ‘But I always empty bins.’

‘Not this one you don’t.’ He eased forwards and took it from her hands. Clunked it down on the table. Then took a pair of blue nitrile gloves from his pocket and dipped inside. The first three goes of the lucky dip produced some used tissues, a crisp packet, and a banana peel. All of them got dumped in the cleaner’s bin bag. The fourth go produced a wax-paper cup from the canteen, still smelling of the coffee it’d contained... Sod. There was lipstick on it, but it was the wrong colour. But lucky dip number five was the winner: one wax-paper cup complete with bright-red lipstick smear.

Logan held it up like the Holy Grail and beamed at King. ‘We DNA test this, maybe we can find out who Mhari Canonach Powell really is!’

A polished plastic rubber plant loomed in the corner of the room, its leaves thick, green, and shiny. Logan and King sat in a pair of matching arse-achingly hard chairs. Waiting for the office’s owner to appear.

One wall was taken up by a massive whiteboard — covered in technicians’ names, with a list of case numbers under each of them. The single desk faced a large window, looking out over the Nelson Street lab, where every single workstation was personned by someone in a white SOC suit. Taking samples. Sticking things into machines. Battering away at keyboards. Writing things down on clipboards...

King puffed out his cheeks and pulled out his phone. Thumbed away at the screen. ‘Dr McEvoy’s doing this on purpose, you know. Making us wait.’

Logan shifted his grip on the brown paper evidence bag in his lap and had another look at the whiteboard. ‘Have you seen how many cases they’re working on?’

‘Not the point.’

Logan faced the front again. ‘While we’re waiting, what was that with Mhari Powell? Taking her phone.’

‘She’s not Mhari Powell, remember?’

‘That doesn’t make what you did OK, Frank. As far as you knew, she was just a member of the public and probably a victim of domestic violence.’ Logan shook his head. ‘You need to do something about your temper, or it’s going to get you into trouble.’

King actually laughed at that. ‘Are you remembering they’re going to stand up at the press briefing in...’ he checked his watch, ‘fifty minutes and tell everyone I used to be in a so-called “terrorist cell”? If whoever “Mhari Powell” really is wants to make a complaint, she can get in sodding line.’

Sigh.

‘Frank, I’m Professional Standards. I can’t just let you—’

The office door banged open and a short spiky woman in an unbuttoned old-fashioned lab coat bustled into the room. Bright-yellow shirt. Dark hair greying at the temples, pulled up in a bun and trapped within a blue hairnet. Severe glasses. Nose like an old-fashioned tin opener. She pointed at the evidence bag in Logan’s hand. ‘Is this it?’

He passed the thing over. ‘As soon as possible would be good.’

She arched an eyebrow and grunted, then snapped on a pair of purple nitrile gloves from the dispenser on her desk and opened the bag. Pulled out the wax-paper cup inside. Grunted again. Then returned it to the bag.

Logan tried an ingratiating smile. ‘Right now, if you can?’

‘You are joking, I take it?’ She pointed at the window and the bustling techs behind it. ‘These arson attacks have got us at full capacity for about the next three months.’

‘This takes priority, Dr McEvoy.’ King folded his arms. ‘And before you complain: check with DCI Hardie, Superintendent Young, or even the Chief Super. All the same to me.’ A shrug. ‘Young’s got his hobnail boots on for this case, so I see no reason why our backsides should be the only ones getting kicked.’

Dr McEvoy stiffened. ‘You people think we’re like Santa’s little helpers, don’t you? I’m at my overtime limit as it is. We can’t just—’

King’s phone sang in his pocket and he grimaced. ‘Sorry.’ He stepped away and answered it. ‘King... OK... But— No.’

Time to try a more diplomatic approach.

Logan settled on the edge of her desk. ‘It’s important, Lesley. This case? Hugely high profile. Everyone from Sky News to the Chief Constable is waiting for us to screw it up and there’s a man’s life on the line.’

She turned to face the window, looking out at her bustling minions. ‘I still can’t magic personnel out of thin air.’

‘Professor Wilson will die if we don’t find him soon. He’ll die.’

Dr McEvoy groaned again, her reflection in the window rolling its eyes. ‘All right, all right. I’ll see what I can do...’ She stomped over to the whiteboard and stared at it for a moment, then nodded. Back at her desk, she reached past Logan to poke a button on her big grey landline phone. ‘Jeffers, come to my office, would you?’

Her words were clearly being relayed through speakers in the lab, because they were just audible, muffled by the glass, with a half-second delay.

As one, all the technicians looked up from their lab equipment to stare through the window at the office, followed by a chorus of ‘Ooo-ooo-ooh!’ as one of their number slumped, then marched towards the door.

Logan nodded. ‘Thanks, Lesley.’

Over by the plastic rubber plant, King had one finger in his other ear. ‘Why is she— OK... Yes.’

There was a knock on the open door and the sacrificial Jeffers lurked on the threshold. His SOC suit wasn’t as pristine white as his colleagues’, instead a grimy grey patina smeared the end of his sleeves and his chest. Blue biro pen marks around his mouth. ‘Boss?’ Fidgeting with a fat round brush as he peered at them through little round glasses.

Dr McEvoy waved him into the room. ‘You’ve done your DNA training, haven’t you?’

‘Well, yeah, but I’m really more of a fingerprint—’

‘Excellent. Stop what you’re doing and get this analysed.’ She handed him Logan’s evidence bag. ‘I want it sequenced, checked, and back here ASAP. ASABP if possible.’

Jeffers peeked into the bag, worrying away at his bottom lip with his teeth. ‘Er... Is that a coffee cup? What if the coffee’s degraded the sample? What if I can’t—’

‘I have every faith in you. Now,’ she clapped her hands, ‘chop, chop.’

A little defeated noise escaped from his mouth, then he sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can do. But it’ll take a while to get the sample run against the database. Gimme... an hour?’

Dr McEvoy looked at Logan. ‘There you go, can’t say fairer than that.’

‘Thanks.’

King abandoned the fake greenery. ‘No, I understand. We’ll be right there.’ He hung up and hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘We’re needed at the mortuary.’

Logan stared at Jeffers. ‘We’ve got a press conference at two o’clock. Please: try and find something before then.’

All he got in reply was a shrug.

Which meant they were probably doomed.

27

Logan pushed through the door into the cutting room... Paused — King bumping into him as he stood there, sniffing.

Something rancid and rotten. A burst bin-bag stuffed with off meat. The extractor fans were going full pelt, but the stench was still eye-watering.

Isobel and Creepy Sheila stood in the middle of the room, arms folded, scowls on their faces as they glared across a cutting table at Steel. They were in scrubs and wellies, ready to go, but Steel was in her civvies, hands in her pockets, whistling something jaunty.

A Jiffy bag sat on the table between them, its underside discoloured and soggy looking.

Isobel raised her chin at Logan. ‘About time too!’ She jabbed an imperious finger in Steel’s direction. ‘Will you talk to your subordinate officer, Inspector McRae? She won’t sign the chain of evidence!’

‘Aye, I will.’ Steel held out her hands to Sheila. ‘Come on then; haven’t got all day.’

Sheila whacked a clipboard down on the cutting table and Steel signed it with a flourish and a biro. ‘See, no’ so hard, was it?’

King marched past Logan, into the room, looming over her. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’

‘They wanted to open the package without the two of you, Kingy. I said no. See? Team player, me.’

Isobel snapped on a pair of purple nitrile gloves. ‘Sheila, tell Mr Black we’re ready for him. The rest of you can suit up if you wish to remain.’

Steel held a hand up. ‘Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Sheila. Your Aunty Roberta will get the nice Mr Black for you.’ Then she turned and marched for the cutting room door, booted it open and stuck her head out. Deep breath. ‘GAV! GET YER ARSE OOT THAT CHUNTY, IT’S CLICKY-SNAPPY TIME!’

A deep crimson blush bloomed across Sheila’s cheeks as she handed Logan and King a set of Tyvek coveralls, dumped another one on the worktop, then bustled off in the other direction.

Steel swaggered over and struggled her way into the spare suit. ‘They never make these things long enough in the crotch.’ Hauling at it. ‘Like I’m sitting on a cheese wire.’

A wee round man appeared in the doorway, in full SOC getup, a huge digital camera strung around his neck. ‘I would just like to say that I wasn’t in the toilet, I was finalising a crime scene report!’

Logan pulled on his hood and zipped himself up. Tried not to smile.

Steel helped herself a pair of purple gloves. ‘Oh, aye? You left the bog like a crime scene? Filthy wee bugger.’

‘That’s not what I—’

‘Bet you didn’t flush either.’ She wiggled her way into blue plastic booties, grinning at Isobel. ‘Men, eh?’

Sheila returned with a couple of trays and some tools, laying them on the cutting table beside the Jiffy bag like last time. ‘Ready, Professor.’

‘Everyone: masks and safety goggles.’ And as soon as they’d complied, Isobel pointed at the photographer, snapped her fingers, then pointed at the Jiffy bag.

Gav harrumphed, then fired off a couple of shots. ‘I wasn’t in the toilet.’ He checked the camera’s screen. Nodded.

The camera clacked and bleeped as Isobel slit the bag open along the bottom and tipped the Jiffy bag up. A carrier bag slithered out onto the tray — the plastic filthy and dripping, sitting there, oozing brown watery liquid. The rancid meaty bin-bag smell increased about twentyfold. A stench so thick it was chewy.

Logan backed off a couple of paces, wafting a hand in front of his face. It didn’t help. ‘God...’

Steel curled her head away from the bag, voice choked: ‘Bet you’re glad I made them wait, now.’

King shuddered. The sliver of skin between his mask and the goggles was getting paler, little beads of sweat shining on his cheeks, the camera’s flash bouncing off his plastic goggles.

‘The bag has been knotted by its handles.’ Isobel pointed with a purple finger. ‘There may be some viable DNA inside the knot where it’s been kept away from the decomposition products, so I’ll make my incision here...’ She slit the bag open along its base, then tipped the contents out onto the tray.

King’s cheeks bulged and he gagged. ‘Oh... Jesus!’

Steel hissed, retreating to the other side of the room, one hand clasped over her facemask.

Logan’s stomach tried to claw its way up his throat and out of his body. He swallowed the bitterness down, but it tried to escape again.

Five... things sat on the tray, surrounded by their little stinking lake of yuck.

Isobel leaned in closer, her fingers smeared with brown and black as she teased the things apart. ‘The two flattened hemispheres are, or used to be, ears — the cartilage is still intact. This larger lump was a tongue.’ Then she prodded what looked like a pair of deflated testicles that had been marinated in HP Sauce. ‘And these were eyes, though clearly they’re in an advanced state of putrefaction.’ She looked up. ‘Mr Black, you’re supposed to be documenting this.’

‘Sorry.’ The flash clacked again, searing the slimy blobs of horror onto everyone’s retinas.

King’s cheeks bulged again. He tore off his facemask, turned, and ran from the room.

Isobel watched him go. ‘Well, that wasn’t very professional.’ Then prodded the remains again.

‘Urgh...’ Steel sidled up to Logan, keeping well away from the slithery mess on the tray. ‘Don’t know about you, but I’m going vegetarian for dinner tonight.’

Gav lowered his camera and peered at the Jiffy bag. ‘Professor? There’s something else in there.’

‘Is there indeed?’ Isobel reached in to pull whatever it was out. Shook her head. ‘It’s stuck to the lining.’ So she picked up her scalpel again and sliced the bag along the other two sides. When she folded them out of the way, it revealed a sheet of A4 paper — like the one that had come with Professor Wilson’s hands, only soaked through and filthy.

Whatever was printed on it wasn’t readable from where Logan was, and there was no way in hell he’d be wading over there to look.

Isobel frowned at the sheet, wrinkles deepening around her eyes. ‘I think it says... “three monkeys”.’

A nod from Steel. ‘See no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil.’

Oh great.

Logan cleared his throat. ‘The bits: are they... human?’

‘A reasonable question.’ Isobel prodded the squelchy lumps again. ‘Given the morphology, I’d be surprised if they weren’t, but we’ll need to run some tests to confirm it.’

Today just got better and better.

He nodded at the tray’s contents. ‘If someone did that to you, what’s the chance you’d still be alive afterwards?’

‘Unknowable.’

Creepy Sheila shrugged. ‘The ears and eyes would cause a degree of blood loss, but the tongue would bleed a lot when you cut it out. There are women in India whose dickhead husbands have mutilated them like that for trying to escape abusive marriages, and they’ve managed to survive. Aren’t men just great.’

Steel rocked on her heels, hands in her pockets again. ‘Which is why you should ask me about my radical lesbian feminist agenda.’ A nod. ‘I should get that on a T-shirt. “Ask me about my radical lesbian feminist agenda”. Save a lot of time at parties.’

Logan looked down at the stinking remains. ‘So Councillor Lansdale could still be alive?’

‘It’s—’

‘Unknowable.’ Isobel raised a hand. ‘Now, can we get back to examining the evidence, please? Some of us have children to pick up from school today.’

‘Gah...’ Steel shuddered on her way through the rear mortuary doors and into the sunshine. ‘Well that was fun!’

‘Whose fault’s that?’ He followed her up the stairs. ‘Yours, is whose.’

‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but you and Kingy are completely and utterly comprehensively buggered. And I mean massive-great-big-strap-on buggered.’ She held both hands out, about two foot apart to show how massive-great-big it was. ‘With lumps on.’

‘You didn’t sign the paperwork because you wanted us to smell that, didn’t you?’

Steel got to the top and turned a grin on him, blocking the way. ‘Team player, remember?’ She dragged out her e-cigarette and vaped up a big cloud of strawberry-and-lime. ‘Mind you, it’s a shame you convinced Hardie to stick his neck out, last press conference, and tell everyone Councillor Lansdale’s disappearance had sod all to do with—’

‘Yes, thank you; the thought had occurred.’

‘Rookie mistake, Laz. Never admit to anything, never confirm anything, and never volunteer for anything.’

‘You’re not helping.’

She patted him on the shoulder. ‘Look on the bright side: as a lowly DS I’m out of the spatter zone. All the jobbies will be flying in you and Kingy’s direction.’ A wink, and she sauntered out onto the Rear Podium car park.

The tarmac gripped at Logan’s feet, sun-softened and sticky as they made their way over to where DI King was bent double behind one of the patrol cars, hands on his knees.

He’d managed to wriggle free from the top half of his SOC suit, the empty arms dangling around his ankles.

Steel produced another bank of strawberry-and-lime fog. ‘Hope you’re no’ spewing your ring there, Kingy. Bunnets get enough puke to clean up as it is.’

He straightened up. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Looked over Steel’s head at Logan. ‘This press briefing is going to be a disaster.’

‘Oh aye.’

Logan glanced up at the bulk of Divisional Headquarters, glowering down on them in the blistering sunshine. ‘Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky and the building will burn down first?’

King paced from the filing cabinets in Hardie’s office to the whiteboard, to the filing cabinets, to the whiteboard. Hardie slumped behind his desk, hands covering his face.

Jane McGrath stared at Logan as if he’d just slapped her, then curled up in the other visitors’ chair, knees against her chest, arms over her head. ‘Noooo...’

Hardie peered out between his fingers. ‘So, let me get this straight: yesterday we told the world’s media that there was no connection whatsoever, and today Councillor Lansdale’s eyes, ears, and tongue turn up in a Jiffy bag?’ He covered his face again and muffled a scream. ‘For Christ’s sake!’

Jane sagged in her seat. ‘They’re going to eat us alive, they really are.’

‘I think we’re well within our rights to not tell them about it.’ Logan shrugged. ‘It’s an ongoing case. We haven’t even confirmed the body parts are his yet.’

Hardie peeked out again. ‘How could they not be his? They delivered them to his sodding office!’

King paused on the way past. ‘Are we sure we want to go out with the statement about my past now?’

‘Absolutely not.’ Jane shook her head. ‘I’m pulling the plug on that one. No statement.’

‘I think that’s—’

‘Hold on!’ Hardie lowered his hands. ‘We agreed this was the right time.’

‘It was the right time when we were ahead of the investigation! When we had a suspect and information and didn’t look like a bunch of utter morons.’

Bit harsh.

Logan turned to her. ‘We don’t look like—’

‘We told them there was no connection!’ She banged her fist off Hardie’s desk.

‘Because you swore there wasn’t!’

‘As far as I knew, there wasn’t! We didn’t know about the parcel. How were we supposed to know about the parcel?’

‘Don’t try to obfuscate this. You’re—’

‘Oh, what, we’re supposed to be psychic now? They sent Lansdale’s ears, eyes, and tongue to an empty office.’ Getting louder and louder. ‘It’s not my fault Mhari and Haiden are morons!’

They glared at each other for a couple of breaths.

Then Jane threw her hands in the air and treated the ceiling tiles to a rattling snarl. Then sagged in her seat again. Shook her head. ‘It’s too late to put a statement out. We should’ve done it right at the very start when I said we should. Now we’d need a breakthrough of massive proportions before we go anywhere near King’s past!’

Hardie grimaced. ‘Or a sodding miracle.’

As if they could ever be that lucky.

Reporters and cameras packed the press briefing, every chair taken, with more standing along the far wall and down both sides, all staring up at the podium as Hardie finished the official update.

Behind him, the screen displayed a pair of photographs — one of Haiden Lochhead, and one of whoever ‘Mhari Powell’ really was. ‘If you know these individuals, or have any information about their whereabouts, please: get in touch. You can make a real difference.’ Hardie nodded at Jane and sat down as she stood.

Her smile didn’t exactly look genuine. To be honest, she looked as if she was about to stab someone. ‘Now, any questions?’

An explosion of hands shot up, their owners shouting over each other, questions reduced to little more than a barrage of noise by the time they reached the podium.

Jane looked even more stabby than before. ‘One at a time! One at a time!’ She pointed. ‘Yes: Alan.’

The wee teuchtery man raised his iPhone. ‘Aye, fit aboot that video showing Professor Wilson in the chest freezer. Hiv you foond oot fa posted it?’

King stuck his chin out. ‘We are investigating that at the moment.’

‘OK, who’s next? Phil?’

‘Philip Patterson, Sky News. Sources tell me a suspicious package was delivered to Councillor Matt Lansdale’s office last week and that you’ve seized it as evidence. My source says it stank of decomposing meat. Does the package contain Councillor Lansdale’s severed hands?’

His fellow journalists turned to stare at him, hungry. Then back towards the podium in anticipation of a feed.

Hardie folded his arms. ‘I think we’ll let Inspector McRae answer that one.’

Rotten sod.

Logan frowned, as if considering the question. Also known as stalling for time. There had to be a way to wiggle out of this... Aha! ‘A package was recovered from Councillor Lansdale’s office this afternoon. Its contents are being examined at the moment, but I can confirm the package does not contain Councillor Lansdale’s hands.’ Which had the benefit of being one hundred percent true and completely misleading. ‘I won’t expand on that any further for operational reasons.’

The room exploded again — questions making a wall of jagged sound.

‘Anne Darlington, BBC. You claimed yesterday that Councillor Lansdale’s disappearance wasn’t linked to Professor Wilson’s. Are you now admitting you were wrong?’

‘We aren’t issuing any further comment on this aspect of our investigation for the time being.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Why are you so afraid of the truth, Inspector?’

‘We’re not “afraid of the truth” we’re doing our job. Next question.’

In the middle of the press pack, Edward Barwell stood, a big smile on his smug face. ‘I’ve got one for DI King.’

Oh God, here we go...

‘What do you think Professor Wilson’s family will say when they find out what you did?’

An audible ‘Oooo...’ went through the assembled journalists. Microphones, cameras, and phones swung around till they all pointed at Barwell.

King just stared.

‘What’s the matter, Detective Inspector: terrorist got your tongue?’

Fidgeting in the ranks.

You could taste the anticipation in the air — sharp and metallic. Everyone waiting for Barwell to stick the knife all the way in and twist it.

A deep breath, then King got to his feet. Cleared his throat. Looked out at the assembled ranks of cameras and microphones. ‘I have a statement I wanted to make before we started the briefing today, but it was felt that it might detract focus from the investigation.’ His right hand trembled. He clasped it in his left. ‘When I was sixteen, I did something very stupid in order to impress a girl...’

Barwell sat back down and grinned.

28

King drooped in his seat, arms hanging limp at his sides, looking as if someone had shot his puppy and made him eat it.

The waiting room outside the Chief Superintendent’s office wasn’t ostentatious — clearly Big Tony Campbell didn’t feel the need to flaunt his authority — nothing fancier than a desk and a couple of chairs, a pair of suspiciously healthy-looking house plants, and a spud-ugly assistant hammering away at a keyboard.

King gave another long, hissing sigh as the sound of raised voices came from behind the closed office door again.

Couldn’t make out any words, but the tone was clear: not — sodding — happy.

Logan thumbed a text message into his phone:

SEND.

King turned in his seat, fixing Logan with those shot-puppy eyes. ‘I think that’s the most humiliating thing I’ve ever had to do in my life.’

‘Hmm?’ He pulled a face, hamming it up. ‘Try changing a screaming toddler’s nappy, when you’re dressed as a “Silly Pirate” and she’s got explosive diarrhoea.’ A shudder. ‘I still get flashbacks.’

‘They’re going to fire me, aren’t they?’

‘Bright orange, and it went everywhere. Like one of those dye-packs going off in a duffel bag full of stolen money.’

That almost earned him a smile. ‘I know what you’re doing.’

‘How one wee girl managed to produce so much... liquid horror is beyond me. I swear to God, she pooped three times her own body weight in about fifteen seconds.’

Back to staring straight ahead. ‘Just because my career’s drowning, doesn’t mean yours should get dragged down with it.’

That’s the spirit.

‘They’re not going to fire you.’

‘I’m serious, Logan. Listen to them.’

More angry voices. What sounded like someone bashing the tabletop with a fist.

Logan put his phone away. ‘It was the smell, though. You think it was bad in the mortuary today? Four showers later and I could still smell it. Had to burn that pirate costume in the end.’

This time King really did smile, but it was a sad one. A ‘thank you for trying, but it’s terminal’ smile.

And he probably wasn’t wrong.

Hardie’s office had all the fun and joy of a wee-free funeral. He was sprawled in his seat, staring at the ceiling tiles, the desk in front of him littered with paperwork. King was curled over in one of the visitors’ chairs, with his head in his hands. Jane in the other one, massaging her temples, mouth downturned and moving, as if something alive was trapped inside. Leaving Logan to lean against a filing cabinet, scrolling through the home page of the Scottish Daily Post’s website.

Outside the window, a patrol car’s siren wailed into life. Then faded as whoever it was drove away from DHQ.

Lucky sod.

King looked up at Hardie. ‘But they’re supporting me? You’re sure?’

‘For now.’ Hardie’s face soured. ‘And only because Jane convinced them it’d look even worse to fire you.’

She held up a hand before King could say anything. ‘And don’t bother thanking me: I only did it because we can’t have people thinking we’ve been blindsided by this. We’d come across as weak and incompetent.’

King nodded, staring at his hands as Hardie sat forward.

‘But you have to understand, Frank: you’re no longer on thin ice here — you’ve gone crashing straight through. Right now you’re treading freezing water and the sharks are circling.’

A grimace from Jane. ‘And Edward Barwell is gleefully hurling chum into the water.’

Not exactly a heart-warming metaphor, but it summed things up pretty well.

A small awkward silence settled onto the room.

Finally Jane broke it. ‘What I don’t understand is why he sat there grinning through the whole thing. Surely Barwell should’ve been furious — he’s not printed his story yet, but there’s DI King telling the whole world, blowing his exclusive. But Barwell just sits there and grins.’

Logan clicked through to the next page. ‘He’s got something else. Has to. Something worse.’

She stared at him, rabbit-in-the-headlights style. ‘Oh God.’ Pointing at the phone in Logan’s hand. ‘Has he...?’

‘No, they’ve published the same front page they sent us.’ Logan turned the phone so she could see the web page, even if it was too small to read from there. ‘Went live on the website soon as the briefing started.’

‘It was premeditated, then. Soon as we screwed up, that was it.’

‘Arrrgh...’ King covered his face with his hands again. ‘I said we should’ve put the statement out first!’

Jane curled her lip at him. ‘Don’t be a revisionist dick, Frank. We’re the only friends you’ve got right now.’

Oh the delights of a happy team.

Logan put his phone away. Had a bash at soothing the waters. ‘Look, this was always going to come out sooner or later. We knew what we were dealing with.’

Hardie sat up and glared at King. ‘What does he have? What’s worse than this?’ Banging on the desk. ‘What did you do?’

Everyone stared as King wrapped his arms around himself, rocking back and forward in his seat. Back and forward. Back and forward. Back and forward. Shaking his head. ‘I don’t know. Nothing.’

There was a knock on the door and a spotty PC stuck her head in. She threw a pained smile in Hardie’s direction. ‘Boss? The Chief Superintendent wants to see you in his office again. Said it was kinda urgent.’

‘Urgh...’ Hardie scrubbed his face with his hands. ‘All right.’ A big sigh, then he levered himself out from behind his desk and towards the door. Pausing to pat King on the shoulder as he passed. ‘If I was you, I’d get out of here before the top brass change their mind. Go see if you can achieve something.’

‘Thanks.’ King waited till Hardie’s footsteps faded down the corridor, before standing. He turned to Logan. ‘I’m going to the toilet, and then, assuming I don’t drown myself or slit my wrists, we’ll grab a car and go speak to Haiden Lochhead’s ex-wife.’

‘OK, I’ll go chase up our DNA results.’

Soon as King had shut the door behind him, Jane collapsed in her chair like a dropped jellyfish. Dangling there making groaning noises. ‘Utter disaster.’

‘I don’t see what your problem is. Barwell was always going to publish his story, we knew that. It’s why I was assigned to support DI King. None of that’s changed. And King’s doing a good job.’ Actually, it might be best not to permanently nail his colours to that particular flagpole. Reel it back a bit. Logan shrugged. ‘You know, under the circumstances.’

She smiled and sat up. ‘Inspector McRae, I say this with the utmost respect, especially given your heroism last year...’ She took hold of his hand and gave it a squeeze, gazing deep into his eyes. ‘You’re an idiot and no one cares what you think.’

Logan stepped out into the suntrap masquerading as the Rear Podium car park. No sign of King yet. So he pulled out his phone and dialled Jeffers’ mobile. Listened to it ring for a while as he picked his way across the sticky black tarmac to his Audi.

Then, finally, the lazy sod picked up. ‘I didn’t forget, I swear, I’ve been doing them!’

That would be a first.

‘And?’

‘Er... Sorry?’

‘No, you numpty, what are the results?’

‘Oh, yes. OK, so I managed to isolate a good sample and I ran it through the database.’

Why could nobody get to the bloody point?

‘And what was the result?’

Silence.

Two seagulls fought each other for what looked like a puddle of dried sick behind a parked patrol car. Someone emerged from the mortuary and sparked up a cigarette.

And still no reply from the Nelson Street lab’s resident idiot.

‘Jeffers?’

‘Nothing. Sorry, I mean, there’s no match in the system.’

‘Oh for... Nothing at all?’

‘Not even a cocktail sausage. Whoever she is, her DNA’s not on our database.’

‘She has to be! You don’t go from law-abiding citizen to Alt-Nat torture groupie in one easy step. She’s in there somewhere, so run it again. And keep running it, till you find something.’

‘Erm...’ His voice took on an even more ingratiating tone. ‘I’m more of a fingerprint kind of guy, to be honest. I’m really good at fingerprints! If you want fingerprints doing, I’m all over it.’

Well, at least that was something. ‘So what happened when you ran the fingerprints on the cup?’

A pause. Then, ‘But you said to do the DN... Ah.’ He cleared his throat. ‘OK. Right. I... see what I did there. Sorry?’

‘Find something.’ Logan hung up, pinched the bridge of his nose.

Morons. Why was he always surrounded by—

‘Thought it was you.’

When he turned, there was Rennie, standing right behind him, wiggling his eyebrows. Proving the point.

Rennie pointed at the slab of concrete and glass over his shoulder. ‘Saw you from the office window.’

Swear that boy was on sodding castors.

‘Please tell me you’ve got some good news.’

‘Kinda. At least now we know Haiden’s not a serial killer.’

What?

‘Are you insane?’

‘Nah, look at it. “The Devil makes work”: you chop off the hands.’ Rennie mimed it. ‘“Three monkeys”: see, hear, and speak no evil; you cut out the eyes, ears, and tongue.’ Another mime, then a nod. ‘Serial killers don’t do “themes”, do they? They don’t re-enact grisly murders from the Bible, or the Spanish Inquisition, or Pingu. That’s just books and TV. Real-life serial killers fantasise about one thing, then spend the rest of their lives practising and refining it. Trying to make it perfect.’

‘And this helps us how, exactly?’

A shrug. ‘Well, if Haiden’s not a serial killer, he’s doing all this to make a point. Killing people who oppose Scottish Independence. That’s your basic domestic terror—’

‘No, no, no, no! We do not use the “D.T.” words in this Division. Say it too often and poof: SPEVU appear.’

Rennie scrunched up one half of his face, as if there was a bee trapped inside his hollow-point skull. ‘It’s a terrible name, isn’t it? SPEVU. Should be EVPUS: Extremist-Violence Prevention Unit, Scotland. They should’ve asked someone good with words to name it for them.’

Morons, morons, everywhere, with not a brain to think...

Logan folded his arms. ‘Haven’t you got anything useful to do?’

‘I could get cracking on Haiden Lochhead’s known associates, if you like? See if anyone’s heard from him, or knows where he’d hide out?’

‘Thought King had someone doing that already.’

‘Actually, yeah. Not so much.’

‘But I heard him tell DS Gallacher to do it.’

‘Trouble is she delegated the job to Detective Constable Anthony “Spaver” Fraser, renowned moron of this parish, who decided it was a waste of time talking to anyone from more than three years ago. And as Haiden’s been in HMP Grampian for the last three years...?’

‘Oh for God’s sake.’

‘Sorry, Guv.’ Rennie shrugged. ‘Face it, not everyone’s got a Top-Of-The-Range Simon Rennie Sidekick like you do.’

‘Fine. Go. Talk to them. But take someone with you for corroboration. Tufty could probably do with the exercise.’

Rennie groaned. ‘Not Tufty! He’s such a dweeb.’

‘Fine. Take Steel instead.’

He opened his mouth. Then closed it again. ‘Ah... Have I mentioned how much I like Tufty? Good officer. Excellent work ethic. Fascinating conversationalist.’

Aye, right.

‘And while you’re at it, go through Ravendale’s visitor’s log, talk to the receptionist. I want the names of everyone who’s been to see Gary Lochhead since he got there.’

Another groan, this time accompanied by a rolling of the eyes in proper stroppy teenager fashion. ‘Guv.’

King shoved out through the back doors, popped a mint in his gob and crunched it as he made his way over. Face a bit pinker and shinier than it had been in Hardie’s office. Eyes a bit more bloodshot. He nodded at Logan. ‘You ready?’

Rennie stood up extra straight. ‘Caught your statement at the press conference, DI King. Very good.’ He raised a fist in salute. ‘More power to your elbow.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ King’s face darkened. ‘Are you taking the piss, Sergeant?’

‘Nope.’ He backed away, hands up. ‘I’d better be... Yeah.’ Then turned and legged it as King stood there and glowered after him.

Logan took out his keys. ‘Think I’d better drive.’

The car dealerships on Wellington Road slid past on either side as Logan took the dual carriageway south.

King, in the passenger seat, crunched his way through yet another mint. Barely five minutes out from DHQ and he’d polished off nearly a whole packet, rubbing at his chest as if he had heartburn. ‘I checked with Inspector Pearce — still no sign of Mhari’s white Nissan Micra on the ANPR. So either they haven’t left Aberdeen, or they’ve got another vehicle.’

Of course they had.

Logan tightened his grip on the wheel. ‘See, this is why I was against going public about Mhari. Soon as it’s all over the media, she knows we’re on to her. But no, Hardie has to have something positive to tell the press.’

Another mint disappeared. ‘Because he knows this is going to come back and bite someone on the arse and he sure as hell won’t let it be him.’

‘What I don’t get is: why didn’t they post a video of Councillor Lansdale on the internet? Haiden and Mhari did one of Professor Wilson, so why not Lansdale?’

‘Far as Hardie’s concerned, we’re expendable.’

Logan overtook an eighteen-wheeler labouring up the hill past the half-arsed Aztec pyramid that doubled as Shell’s headquarters. At least for now. ‘Maybe Lansdale didn’t survive, so they dumped his body and tried again with Professor Wilson?’

King sighed. ‘I meant what I said about not dragging you down with me.’

‘I know. But I’m not—’

‘Fairytale of New York’ blared out from King’s pocket. Again. He screwed his eyes closed. ‘Leave me alone!’ The song played and played and played. King groaned, sagged in his seat. ‘Used to think that was the best Christmas song ever.’ A bitter laugh. A sigh. ‘I met Gwen in New York, Christmas Twenty-Twelve, at a charity bash for the NYPD. Got married six months later and picked this for our first dance.’

His hand drifted to an inside jacket pocket — not the one Shane MacGowan was currently singing in — and stroked something. Maybe that was where he kept his half-bottles of vodka?

A sad smile. ‘Thought it was romantic and ironic. Never guessed it would be so sodding prophetic.’

The song faded away, leaving them in silence.

Aberdeen had thinned out a bit, trees taking the place of warehouses and office blocks.

‘Eight point one million in stolen bullion.’ King let his hands fall into his lap. ‘You think it’s still out there?’

Logan frowned across at him. ‘I thought they only stole two point six?’

‘If they didn’t cash it in, if it’s still lumps of gold, then it’s worth eight point one now. Perhaps Gary Lochhead’s still sitting on it. You heard him — they never charged anyone for the robbery, and they never recovered a penny of it either.’

‘If I was dying of lung cancer in a ratty wee care home, I’d be out there spending it. Not rotting away like a plastic bag full of body parts.’

King shook his head, eyes wide. ‘Eight point one million. The things you could do...’

They took Stonehaven Road at the next roundabout, the grey-brown bulk of The Aberdeen Altens Hotel slipping past on the left — looking more like a prison than HMP Grampian did. Then Cove went by the window.

King broke the silence, obviously doing his best to sound casual. ‘You heard anyone boasting about shagging a married woman?’

‘No.’ Logan put his foot down as they finally passed through the limits, joining the main road south. ‘Would it help? To know?’

Yet another mint met its fate. ‘Least then I’d know who to punch. And—’

His phone launched into ‘Fairytale of New York’ again.

‘AAAAAAAARGH!’ He yanked it out and jabbed his thumb down on the red ‘Ignore’ button three or four times, before switching his phone off and ramming it back into his pocket.

Maybe, just once, Logan could be partnered with someone who wasn’t suicidal, homicidal, or some combination of the two?

But he wasn’t going to hold his breath.

29

Logan parked in front of number sixteen. Not the prettiest bit of Stonehaven, by any stretch, but not the worst either. Boxy, hutch-like houses faced off across the road — two down, one up, going by the windows, with linked garages joining the whole lot together, making a string of slightly grubby harling with steep, peaked, grey pantiled roofs. It looked a bit like a Toblerone that’d been left in the fridge too long.

Number sixteen’s garage was surrounded by scaffolding, its brand-new pitched roof featuring a man in green overalls nailing pantiles into place. The up-and-over door was gone, the hole where it’d been now filled by studwork for a door and a window, all filled in with builder’s paper.

Stepping out of the Audi’s air-conditioned interior was like being grabbed by a very large hot fist. And squeezed.

King blinked in the punishing brightness, then pulled on a pair of sunglasses, hiding those bloodshot eyes. The front door was tucked away at the side of the building, near the garage. He marched down the driveway to it, squeezing past a blue people carrier, and rang the bell. Turned to Logan. ‘How much you want to bet she’s got tattoos on her neck and—’

The door opened, and a middle-aged woman scowled out at them with hostile eyes and red hair. She looked them both up and down. Curled her lip as if she didn’t like what she’d seen. ‘You took your time, didn’t you?’ She hauled in a deep breath and bellowed back into the house. ‘CINDY!’

Logan tucked his peaked cap under his arm. ‘Did we?’

‘Should’ve been here, telling us before you told the rest of the sodding world.’ Another deep breath. ‘CINDY!’

A voice boomed out from somewhere inside the house. ‘WHAT?’

‘DOOR!’ Mrs Shouty folded her arms. ‘What if that moron, Haiden, tries to abduct his little boy? What if he tries to murder us all in our beds? What about that?’

‘Has he?’ King stepped forward, eager. ‘Have you seen him? Has Haiden been in touch?’

‘That’s not the point. You police don’t care, do you? You swan in here and—’

‘What?’ The grumpy woman from the prison photographs appeared behind her, little flecks of yellow on her broad face that looked disturbingly zit-like against the flushed cheeks. More paint on her orange overalls. Her hair — red like Mrs Shouty’s — was mostly hidden beneath a Rosie-the-Riveter headscarf. She scowled at them in exactly the same way her mum had. ‘Oh it’s you, is it?’

Logan stuck out his hand. ‘Cindy Lochhead?’

Mrs Shouty stuck her chin out. ‘It’s Cindy Norton, thank you very much. She gave up that moron’s name when she divorced him. And good riddance.’

‘Quite right too.’ King poured on the charm. ‘Mrs Norton, I know it’s a pain, but I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a cup of tea, is there?’

‘You’re trying to get me out of the way, aren’t you?’

A you-got-me shrug. ‘Well, we—’

‘Let me tell you: that boy was nothing but trouble for my Cindy! She was a good girl before he came along. Everything that went wrong in her life was his fault.’

Cindy Norton rolled her eyes. ‘Mum—’

‘She was going to go to university for God’s sake, till he got his grubby...’ a little shudder rippled through Mrs Shouty, ‘seed inside her.’

‘Mum, please, I can—’

She raised a hand. ‘Oh, I love my grandson, don’t get me wrong. I love him like he was my own, but Cindy had a future! She—’

‘MUM!’

That produced an outraged look.

Cindy waved her away. ‘Go on, sod off for ten minutes and let me speak to them, OK?’

A withering silence, then, ‘Fine.’ She turned and stomped away, nose in the air. ‘But I’m not making tea for useless, lazy policemen!’

Probably just as well. That would be the kind of tea that came with a free order of sputum.

Cindy sniffed at them, grimaced, then turned and marched off down the corridor, leaving the door open. ‘You can have ten minutes. That’s it.’

They followed her along the hall, past the open lounge door where an older man slumped in T-shirt and shorts on the couch, watching a daytime soap on the telly. He didn’t look up as they went by.

Into the kitchen — small and bland, with fitted units that looked as if they were the height of fashion sometime in the seventies. Mrs Shouty stood by the fridge, glowering at them as Cindy opened the back door and ushered King and Logan out into the garden.

Big bushes, a plum tree in the corner laden with unripe fruit, yellowy grass. Everything wilting in the heat.

Cindy made for the side of the scaffolding-shrouded garage.

Logan caught up with her. ‘Has Haiden been in touch?’

She ducked through a sheet of plastic strung between two scaffolding poles and disappeared.

So much for cooperating with the police.

He ducked in after her.

They’d divided the inside up with plasterboard walls, but hadn’t got around to the doors yet, leaving a tiny kitchen, wetroom, and living room on show.

‘Miss Norton, can we please...’

She kept going, into the living room. A ladder was fixed to the far wall, leading up to a hatch in the roof, where, presumably there was an attic bedroom. Because otherwise there’d be nowhere to sleep.

It wasn’t the only ladder in here — a stepladder sat near one wall, a large pot of paint set on top of it.

Cindy picked up a brush and dipped it in the pot. ‘Don’t mind Mum, she’s just pissed because they’d nearly finished paying off the house and now, instead of a new kitchen, they’ve had to extend the mortgage to pay for all this.’ The brush left a thick, warm yellow line across the white plasterboard. Not quite the same colour as in Logan’s house, but close enough.

He had another go: ‘Has Haiden been in touch?’

‘I saw he’d escaped. Did a runner from some prison-programme bakery thing? He never could stick at anything.’

‘Your mother seems to think he’ll try to abduct your son.’

‘Haiden?’ A small laugh. That got bigger. And bigger. Till she was bent double with it, paintbrush dripping onto the chipboard at her feet. Then she sighed, straightened up, and wiped the tears from her eyes. Stuck her brush in the pot again. ‘He wouldn’t dare. Wouldn’t even care. He’s never shown any interest in Marty.’

King folded his arms, chest out, feet apart. ‘Do you know where he might be?’

Another sigh. ‘I really loved him, you know? At first. Two years older than me, had a motorbike and a job and cash to throw about. Thin as a whippet, but not in a weedy way: like he was tightly coiled and ready to spring. A greyhound. Always had the best weed.’ More paint on the wall.

Logan watched her block out a ragged rectangle of indoor sunshine. ‘It’s important, Cindy.’

‘Mum thinks I was driven snow, till Haiden came along. He wasn’t the first boy I let finger me after Geography. Or the first one I went shoplifting with. Or got stoned with. Or...’ A very dirty smile spread across her face, then she filled in a bit of plasterboard she’d missed. ‘Course, the longer I was with him, the more the veneer wore off. It’s all well and good shagging a bloke who’s a bit thick, but when you’ve finished you want someone who can engage you intellectually. You know? All he could ever talk about was “English imperialism” and how we needed to “take our country back”.’ Cindy shook her head. Slapped on more paint. ‘And they weren’t even his opinions, they were his dad’s. You couldn’t even debate him on them.’

King tried looming again. ‘So you haven’t seen Haiden.’

‘Not since Marty got into my handbag and ate all my birth control pills, because some idiot at school said it’d get him high.’ She jammed the paintbrush in the pot then punished the wall with it. ‘After I’d finished making Marty puke them up, I stuck him in the car and we went right up to Peterhead so he could see what happens to stupid boys who don’t think.’

Nothing like growing up in a happy family where the parents loved each other, was there?

Logan raised his eyebrows at King, who nodded.

Cindy turned and stared at them, paintbrush raised like a knife. ‘Look, Haiden married me because I made him. Because I was pregnant. He bailed on us because he’s a dick. The only use that man is to Marty is as an object lesson.’

Well, it’d been a longshot anyway.

Logan dipped into his pockets for a business card and wrote his mobile number on it. ‘If Haiden gets in touch—’

‘I won’t have Marty making the same mistakes I did. Mum’s right, I was going places. Doing well in school. Next thing you know, I’m a teenaged mother without a standard grade to my name. Now I’m going to evening classes, getting my qualifications.’

King tilted his head on one side. ‘Did Haiden ever mention Professor Wilson, or a woman called Mhari Powell?’

The red of Cindy’s cheeks darkened. ‘Mhari? Never heard of her.’

Yeah, that was a lie.

‘Are you sure?’ Logan pulled out his phone, flicked through to the photo of Mhari Powell they’d shown at the briefing earlier. He held it out. ‘You don’t recognise her at all?’

Cindy barely looked at it. ‘Said so, didn’t I?’

‘Maybe you heard Haiden talking about her?’

She stabbed the paint and assaulted the wall. ‘I — don’t — know — her!’ Bash, slash, bash. ‘Jesus...’

‘OK.’ King nodded. ‘What about Councillor Matt Lansdale?’

She paused. Frowned. ‘Lansdale... Wasn’t he that tosser who was big in the local “No” campaign? All condescending and slimy about how Scotland isn’t big enough or clever enough or hard-working enough to go it alone?’ A snort. ‘Yeah, now I think about it, Haiden’s dad hated the guy. Was going to send him a bomb in the post, but they banged him up for shooting that property developer, didn’t they?’

King’s face sagged a bit, probably realising that this’d all been one huge waste of time. ‘Is there anything you can tell us? Anything about where he might be hiding? Any favourite haunts?’

‘Pfff... I remember him wanking on about family holidays in Cruden Bay? And they went to Loch Lomond to see some folk festival every year too. And stone circles. The whole bloody family was obsessed with stone circles.’ She put the brush down. ‘He’s killed them, hasn’t he? Haiden’s killed Wilson and Lansdale. I always knew he’d end up killing someone.’

‘So he was violent, then?’

Another laugh. ‘What, to me? I’d have ripped his nuts off and made him eat them.’ She shook her head, as if trying to dislodge the ridiculous image. ‘No. Haiden would never hit a woman. Not a chance in hell. Wouldn’t dare.’ She picked up the brush and got back to work. ‘His harridan mother beat that shit right out of him when he was wee.’

Logan started the Audi’s engine and they sat there as the air conditioning’s cooling fingers massaged the oppressive heat away.

Cindy’s mum, Mrs Shouty, stood in the doorway to number sixteen, glaring out at them.

‘What do you think?’

King fastened his seatbelt. ‘She’s definitely lying about not knowing Mhari.’

‘Yup.’

‘Jealous Haiden’s found someone else? You know what women are like.’

Logan frowned at him. ‘Bit misogynistic.’

‘You’ve never been married, have you?’ He pulled out his phone and turned it on again. ‘OK, you explain it.’

‘Maybe she and Cindy were friends? Want to nip out and see if the mother recognises her?’

‘Not really.’ But then his phone started to ding and buzz as all the texts, voicemails, and emails that’d been sent since they drove out of Altens arrived in a rush. A grimace, then he dumped it on the dashboard and produced a ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN?’ poster from his jacket pocket. Got out of the car. Then clomped over to where Mrs Shouty stood and held it up.

Logan dug out his own phone and gave Rennie a bell.

‘Wassap, boss man?’

‘How you getting on with Haiden’s associates?’

There was a disappointed hissing noise. ‘Imagine a sleeping bag full of angry bees and you’re not far off it.’

‘They not cooperating?’ Suppose that was only to be expected. Haiden’s mates were hardly likely to be the most civic-minded members of the local community.

‘Not so you’d notice, no.’

Outside, at number sixteen, it looked as if Cindy’s mum was giving DI King a bit of a shouting at.

‘How many more have you got to go?’

‘Pffff... About a dozen? Everyone says they’ve not seen him in ages. Even before he went to prison.’

‘Hmmm... What about Ravendale?’

There was a pause, and what sounded like muttered swearing. Then, ‘Just on my way to do it now, Guv.’

Yeah, right. And the moon was made of marshmallow.

King clearly thought he’d been shouted at enough for one day, because he about-faced and stomped towards to the car, ramming the poster into his jacket. Face like a ruptured haemorrhoid.

Suppose they should really head back to the office now and...

Logan frowned. Hardie was probably right about steering clear of Divisional Headquarters until they’d actually achieved something. ‘Rennie? Email me the list and who you’ve seen so far. Might try one or two on our way in.’

‘Will do.’ Then he lowered his voice to an angry whisper. ‘And may I just say, before you go, that I owe you one for saddling me with bloody Tufty!’

That was worth a smile. ‘It’s good for you. Builds character.’ He hung up as King yanked the passenger door open and threw himself into the seat. ‘Let me guess...?’

‘Never seen her, we’re all a bunch of useless bastards, and we should be ashamed of ourselves.’ He hauled on his seatbelt. ‘Why do we bother?’

Logan frowned at the house, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

‘Well?’ King clipped on his seatbelt. ‘What are we waiting for?’

‘Seems a bit... odd, doesn’t it? Haiden’s ex says he would never hit a woman.’

‘So?’

‘How come Mhari Powell has a black eye?’

‘Because people change. Because he’s spent three years in prison. Because he’s a violent dickhead.’ King stared across the car at him. ‘Or maybe Mhari bastarding Powell lied about that as well? She lied about everything else.’

True.

Cindy’s mum was still glowering at them from the open front door. She must have seen Logan looking, because she raised both middle fingers in the Audi’s direction, teeth bared in a snarl.

He pulled away from the kerb, making for the main road north again. ‘I love it when members of the public help with our inquiries. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.’

30

King looked up through the windscreen as Logan parked in front of the block of flats. ‘This us?’

Whoever built it either didn’t have much of an eye for architecture, or hated buildings and everyone who lived in them. Four storeys of bland grey harling, punctuated with white-framed windows and a flat roof. The only decorative touch was the narrow concrete portico that sulked above the entrance. Not exactly welcoming.

Logan checked Rennie’s email. ‘Robert Cockburn, AKA: Gonorrhoea Bob. Previous for drugs and assault. Did six months in borstal with Haiden. Not long finished a two stretch for a racially motivated attack.’

King got out of the car. ‘Want to bet he’s got tattoos on his neck?’

Turned out King was right: ‘Gonorrhoea Bob’ had a thistle on one side and a spider’s web on the other. Daggers, skulls, and saltires on the back of his hands. Probably a ton more lurking beneath his crisp white shirt, black tie, suit trousers, and trainers. Hair Brylcreem-oily and parted on one side. Looking so buttoned-down he was liable to pop at any moment.

His flat was the kind of spotless that usually came with a diagnosis of OCD, every surface gleaming, the air thick with the sharp plastic smell of lemon-scented polish. The mismatched collection of charity-shop furniture had probably never been cleaner in its life.

Gonorrhoea Bob nodded and blinked at them. ‘I know, and I’m sorry, but I was a different person then. The man that I was died when I accepted Jesus into my heart.’

King settled onto the couch. ‘You kicked an Asian shopkeeper half to death for having a “Better Together” sign in the window.’

‘And I’ll have to live with that till the end of my days.’ His Adam’s apple bobbed like a vulture’s beak. ‘All I can hope is that I get the chance to redeem myself before I stand in front of Saint Peter.’

Logan pulled out his notebook. ‘When did you last see Haiden Lochhead?’

Tears sparkled in Gonorrhoea Bob’s eyes. ‘I don’t see anyone from those days any more. That was the old me. I changed when—’

‘When you let Jesus into your heart. We know.’

Sun sparkled on the surface of Duthie Park’s boating pond, the water a good bit greener than the River Dee on the other side of the road. A handful of couples were spread around the outside of the pond, chucking torn-up bits of sliced white while the ducks cackled their Sid James laughs. Bullying their way to the soggy morsels.

Ian McNab slouched on a bench, in black tracksuit bottoms and a replica Aberdeen Football Club shirt. Peaky Blinders haircut. Big rampant lion tattoo all the way up one arm. Fag in one hand, the other rocking a pushchair back and forward a few inches — its occupant asleep. A small child hurtled around and around the bench, shrieking and waving his arms, dressed as a mini version of his dad, only without the tattoo.

McNab looked up at Logan and King, then shrugged. ‘Yeah, I saw Haiden on the telly.’ He pointed at them with his cigarette. ‘He was on this screen thing behind you pair of poofs. Mind? You were sitting there like someone just shagged yer mum wi’ a flagpole?’

King tried his looming trick again. ‘Has he been in touch?’

It had the same amount of success on McNab as it had on Cindy Norton. Sod, and indeed, all.

‘In touch wi’ me? Naw, Officer, I’m no’ allowed to consort wi’ known criminals, am I? Condition o’ ma release. Staying oot a prison for ma bairns, like.’ Sounding more bored than contrite.

The kid made another circuit. ‘Look at me, Daddy! Look at me!’

McNab didn’t. ‘Aye, very good, Timmy.’ He took a long drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke at King. ‘Anything else I can help you poofs with?’

Logan had a go. ‘If Haiden went into hiding, where would he hide?’

‘Naw, that’d be cheating. First rule of hide and seek: naebody likes a clype.’ McNab closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and smiled at the sun. ‘Now be good wee poofs and bugger off. I’m trying tae work on ma tan here and yer blocking the light.’

Jacob McCain ran a hand over his shaved head — not so much a fashion statement as an unavoidable necessity, going by the paucity of blue stubble up there — and loaded another box of cheese into the chiller cabinet from the cage at his side. He wore a long-sleeved high-necked white T-shirt beneath his blue stripy tabard, twin bands of tattoos just visible in the gap between his cuffs and his thick black gloves. Not the tallest of men, and not the broadest either. But there was... something imposing about him. Something dangerous. As if asking where the hummus was might get you stabbed.

King held out Mhari’s picture again. ‘Come on, Jacob, at least pretend to look at her.’

McKinnon’s Family Market — ‘Bargantuan savings since 1998!’ — on Holburn Street wasn’t going to challenge Asda, Tesco, or Sainsbury’s any time soon. It was more of a strip-light and tin-can, pile-’em-high and sell-’em-for-a-moderate-markup kind of place. Somewhere you could get knock-off Lithuanian KitKats and Tundidor’s Tasty Caramel Wafers, all in lookalike packaging.

Jacob dumped another thing of Bulgarian cheddar on the shelf. ‘Don’t need to. I know the bitch.’

Finally: someone prepared to admit it.

‘You know her name?’

‘Mary. Only she spelled it the Gaelic way, with an “H” and an “I”.’ Armenian Edam joined the ranks of cheese. ‘Was a fashion for that, back in the good old days, yeah? Gaelic-ing up your name so you’d look more committed to the cause. Driving the English out.’ He shook his bald head. ‘Utter bitch, like.’

Logan handed him the box of Spanish Bleu. ‘Did Mhari say anything about herself. Where she came from?’

‘Only met her once.’ He slit the box open with a Stanley knife and banged the contents one by one onto the shelf. ‘Went up to visit Haiden in Peterhead, didn’t I? Took him some fags. And there she was, the sainted sodding Mhari.’

A young-ish guy in a shirt and stripy blue tie stalked around the end of the aisle, holding a clipboard to his pigeon chest. Pale and clean-shaven. Like an intestinal parasite that had landed a middle-management job. He raised his voice, scowling along the dairy aisle at their bald informant. ‘Is there a problem, Jacob?’ Sounding about as friendly as prostate cancer.

Jacob shook his head. ‘No, Mr Cousins.’

‘Then why are the police in my store, Jacob?’

Logan raised a hand. ‘We’re in getting some supplies for the station. Jacob here was advising us on organic versus nonorganic dairy products.’

‘Oh.’ Pause. ‘Well, that’s all right then.’ He stood up to his full wormy five nine and fixed Jacob with what was probably meant to be a steely gaze. ‘Soon as you’ve finished here, get around to Cleaning Products and Pet Food. Someone’s dropped a litre-bottle of fabric softener and it’s all over the aisle.’

Another nod. ‘Yes, Mr Cousins.’

‘Good.’ He turned and marched off, heels clicking on the linoleum floor.

Soon as he’d gone, Jacob’s hands turned into fists for a moment. ‘Wanker.’ Keeping his voice low as he hammered cheap smoked cheese in plastic casings in beside the pre-grated mozzarella. ‘Rip your bastarding arms off and make you eat them...’ Then Jacob seemed to remember that he was standing there with two police officers, because he cleared his throat and looked away. ‘Just a joke, like.’

Not given Jacob’s record it wasn’t.

Logan picked up a packet of Cheese Rope. ‘So you actually met Mhari?’

‘What? Yeah, the fags. She wouldn’t let me give him them. “Haiden’s giving up,” she says, “he’s getting healthier for the cause,” she says.’ A wee growl, then a sniff. Then Jacob went into the cage for a box of Cheerful Cattle Spreading Triangles. ‘Next thing you know, I’m not allowed to visit him any more. Bitch said his old mates were a bad influence. We’re—’

Mr Cousins’ voice battered out through the supermarket’s PA system, echoing and distorted. ‘Jacob McCain to Cleaning Products and Pet Food. Clean-up on Cleaning Products and Pet Food.’

‘Gah!’ He hurled the box back in the cage and slammed the grilled front shut. ‘See if I wasn’t on licence?’ Then took hold of the cage and stomped off, pushing it in front of him as he went, the wheels squeaking like tortured gerbils.

Logan watched him go. ‘Five quid says Mr Cousins comes to some sort of very unfortunate and painful accident before too long.’

King leaned in closer. ‘And, to be honest, he’d sodding well deserve it.’

Couldn’t argue with that.

Tartan Tam’s was the kind of establishment that gave old-fashioned Scottish pubs a bad name. Small; dark; with a short bar featuring four pumps, a line of greasy optics, and a bored-looking woman hunched over a Scottish Daily Post. A puggy machine dinged and wibbled away to itself by the bar — enough flashing lights on it to give half the city seizures as it offered them nudges, lucky sevens, and lemons.

There wasn’t a surface in the pub that didn’t look sticky. That included the table Logan and King stood in front of, staring down at a guy with a teddy-boy quiff, pint of Guinness, a packet of dry-roasted, and a ‘F*CK THE ENGLISH!’ T-shirt.

He slouched in his bench seat, arms along the back. ‘So?’

King leaned his fists on the tabletop, trying for another loom. ‘Look, Mackers, have you seen Haiden or not?’

A shrug. ‘I’ve seen his handiwork. Get it?’ A smile and a wink. ‘Hand-iwork? Cos he chopped off that professor tosser’s hands?’

Logan pulled out his notebook. ‘You saw him do it? You were there at the time?’

‘Naw, in the papers, like.’ He took a swig of Guinness, chased it down with a couple of peanuts. Talking before he’d finished chewing them, grey and white residue sticking to his teeth. ‘Good for Haiden, though. Them Unionistas need a short sharp shock. With any luck he’ll go after the papists next. Then the immigrants: Pakis, Poles, and Darkies. Purge the whole fucking lot of them. Scotland for the Scottish!’

Rush-hour traffic filled the road before them, slowed to a crawl as they waited in the long, long line for Mounthooly Roundabout.

King was about as slumped as he could be without actually slithering into the passenger footwell. Looking out of the window as Aberdeen’s only pagoda crawled past. ‘God, that was depressing...’

‘Lovely people, Haiden’s friends.’

He scrubbed at his face with his hands. ‘Not everyone who wants independence is like that, Logan. Some of us just want a fairer country to live in. One that makes its own rules instead of having to bow and scrape to a parliament in Westminster we didn’t elect.’

‘Yes, well, technically we do elect them. United Kingdom, remember?’

King waved it away. ‘Rennie was right: all that talk about a “democratic deficit” during the EU referendum — that’s all we’ve had up here for sodding generations!’ He turned in his seat. ‘The last hundred years: do you know how many times England has picked the UK government? Every single time, but three. Three times we got the government we wanted and they didn’t. And even then it was because they couldn’t make up their minds who to put in power.’ A short bitter laugh. ‘And do you know how long one of those three times lasted? Six months — 1974.’

Great. A lecture.

Logan reached for the radio. ‘Told you before: no politics in the car.’

Something drive-timey rocked out of the speakers, completely at odds with the slug’s pace the traffic was actually moving at.

Closer to the roundabout. Closer. Closer...

King turned the radio down. ‘How did you vote in the referendum?’

‘What, the completely secret ballot that I don’t have to disclose to anyone?’

He curled his lip. ‘Yeah, I thought so. You’re a sodding Unionist.’ Imbuing the word with all the warmth of a puddle of yesterday’s cat sick.

‘Don’t be a dick.’

‘Logan, there’s five hundred and thirty-three English MPs and only fifty-nine Scottish ones. They could get together tomorrow and decide to rename Scotland “Whingey Tartanbaws McJockland” and there’s sod all we could do about it.’

Seriously?

‘They’re not going to change “Scotland” to—’

‘It’s just England pushing us around! Us and Wales and Northern Ireland.’ King’s face got more and more flushed with every declamation. ‘Making all the big decisions. Telling us what to do. Ordering us about. The West Lothian question’s a joke: they outnumber us nine to one!’

‘You finished?’ Preferably before you have an aneurysm.

King thumped back in his seat. ‘The UK isn’t a partnership, it’s an abusive relationship.’