Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

She gave him a full dose of the evil eye. ‘Hoy!’

‘Good luck with that.’ Hardie turned on his heel, snapping his fingers above his head as he marched from the room. ‘Two o’clock sharp!’

As soon as the door banged shut, King collapsed into his seat, hands over his face again. ‘Aaaargh...’

Yeah, that pretty much summed it up.

Logan plipped the locks on his Audi and hurried across the furnace masquerading as Bucksburn station’s rear car park. Trying to avoid the stickier patches of tarmac.

Inside, it was a bit cooler, but not a lot. He limped his way up the stairs to Professional Standards, sweat prickling between his shoulder blades. Who decided it was OK for the weather to be so bloody hot? The temperature was never meant to hit twenty-six in Aberdeen — what was the point of living nearly a degree and a half north of Moscow if it was going to be twenty-six in the shade? Might as well live in a microwave oven.

At least the air conditioning was on in the main office.

Someone he didn’t recognise was lowering the blinds, cutting out the glaring sun and the lunchtime ‘rush’. The traffic was barely moving — crawling along Inverurie Road and bringing most of Bucksburn to a grinding halt. Then the blinds clunked down and it was gone.

Whoever-it-was waved at Logan and he waved back.

Yup, no idea at all who you are, mate.

Logan lumbered his way along the line of offices to the one marked, ‘FORENSIC I.T.’ A laminated sheet of A4 sat underneath it, covered in clipart cartoon characters depicting some sort of bloody Aztec ritual with the legend, ‘THE MIGHTY KARL CARES NOT FOR YOUR VIRGIN SACRIFICES: BRING CAKE!’

OK, so a packet of Rice Krispie squares wasn’t quite the same thing, but it was near enough. Right?

He shifted the pack to his other hand and knocked.

A slightly high-pitched voice sounded on the other side of the door. ‘Abandon all hope and enter.’

Logan let himself in.

The Mighty Karl’s domain was an eclectic collection of IT equipment, all of it labelled and most of it stored on the floor-to-ceiling shelves that lined the room. Laptops, desktops, evidence crates full of mobile phones and tablet computers.

More clipart cartoons were pinned up all over the walls and shelves. A halo of them made a wee shrine around a framed photo of Karl shaking hands with the First Minister. Only someone had given her a Post-it note speech balloon with, ‘OH KARL, YOU SEXY BEAST OF A MAN, YOU!’ on it.

The ‘Sexy Beast of a man’ sat at the workbench that bisected the room.

Perched on a high stool, with a thin grey cardigan on over his Police Scotland uniform T-shirt, thick-rimmed round glasses, and salt-and-pepper hair in desperate need of a cut, he was just a hookah pipe and a fez away from being the caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland .

He clambered down from his mushroom and beamed. ‘Logan of the Clan McRae! I heard rumours of your...’ His nostrils twitched and he curled forwards, peering at the packet in Logan’s hand. ‘Ooh, do these ancient eyes deceive me, or are you bearing votive offerings for my humble self? Hmmmmm?’

Logan popped the Rice Krispie squares on the desk and Karl snaffled them up, sniffing the wrapper.

‘Ah, the delights of puffed rice and assorted sweetly sticky things...’ A sigh, long and wistful. ‘I miss Norman, don’t you? He used to prepare decadent baked treats that would tempt even the most parsimonious of souls.’ Karl ripped the pack open. ‘I remember once he baked a batch of scones with Mars Bar bits, Gummy Bears, and jelly beans, that—’

‘Can I beg a favour?’

Karl tore off a sticky corner and popped it in his mouth, chewing through a big smile. ‘Mmmm... You have made sacrifice to the all-mighty, all-seeing, all-knowing Oracle, so ask away, Brave Traveller.’

‘I need you to track down some Twitter accounts for me.’

‘Names, addresses, inside-leg measurements — that kind of thing?’

‘As much as you can get.’

A nod. ‘Luckily, my dear Logan, the only things I have on this afternoon are a pair of tattered pants and a second-hand bobble hat.’ He sooked his fingers clean. ‘Consider your tweetists found!’

And with any luck they’d have whoever abducted Professor Wilson in a cell by the close of business.

Superintendent Bevan sat behind her desk, hands busy with a ball of multicoloured wool and a crochet needle. Making something that looked disturbingly like a huge willy warmer.

Logan tore his eyes away from it and settled in his seat. ‘I’m going to have to go over some of his cases, speak to a few of his colleagues to be sure, but I get the feeling DI King is telling the truth. It was a long time ago and he’s genuinely changed.’

She frowned for a moment, crocheting away, then nodded. ‘Better safe than sorry, Logan. Better safe than sorry.’

Yup, that was looking more like a willy warmer with every passing second. She’d got as far as the testicley bits... OK, no way that was appropriate for an office environment.

Logan cleared his throat. ‘Course, it would help if we knew what the Scottish Daily Post had on him. Be easier to manage.’

Bevan didn’t look up. ‘“Manage” is perhaps the wrong word. We’re not here to put a positive spin on things, we’re here to find the truth and resolve the situation. For good or ill.’

‘I don’t think he’s going to be a risk to the Professor Wilson investigation, anyway.’

‘I hope not, Logan. I really do. Politically, there’s a lot riding on this one and if DI King slips up...’ A pained expression pulled her mouth down. ‘Keep an eye on him for me, will you? Be his shadow for a day or two. Actually, better make it three, just in case. Because the fallout would be horrific .’

Not quite as horrific as what she was making. Those testicular bits were getting bigger...

Look at something else!

Anything else!

How about... that big frame on the wall, the one with the ancient green-and-white car and the speeding ticket?

‘Err... so you’re into classic cars?’ Pointing at it.

‘Hmm?’ She glanced up from her crocheted codpiece. ‘Oh, no. I keep that as a reminder. Oh, I used to love that Hillman Minx. Got done for speeding, when I was nineteen. Five K over the speed limit, so that’s about...’ Working it out. ‘Three miles an hour too fast? But the cops in Auckland were very strict about that kind of thing.’ More testicalling. ‘So I keep it as a reminder.’

Crochet, crochet, crochet.

OK...

‘Of what?’

‘I was nineteen, I was in teachers’ college, and I was in a hurry to get home after yet another day’s placement at Blockhouse Bay Primary School — “going on section” we called it, part of the training.’ A sigh. ‘So I broke the speed limit. And now look at me!’ She tugged at the ball bags, flattening them out. ‘It reminds me that we all make mistakes, Logan. We all deserve a second chance.’

Fair enough.

‘Like DI King?’

‘Exactly.’ She looked up from her willy warmer. ‘I don’t like our officers being savaged by the press, Logan. I don’t like it one little bit.’

‘Have you tried calling the journalist: see if they’ll tell you what they’ve got on King?’

‘Tricky. You give credence to the allegations just by questioning them. Next thing you know, the press is full of stories about how Professional Standards are investigating him. That, or accusing us of being involved in a cover-up.’ Creases appeared between her eyebrows as she added another layer to the crocheted horror. ‘I suppose , if you think you can pull it off? But try not to stir up more trouble than we’re already in, OK?’