Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

His eyes widened. ‘Oh yeah...’ Back to the phone. ‘Hi, uh-huh, we’re on our way there now, so tell her not to worry... No, there wasn’t anything suspicious about the length of that pause... Nope... OK, bye.’ Tufty hung up. Grinned. ‘Didn’t suspect a thing.’

If that was true, there was no hope for Police Scotland.

Logan pulled into the visitors’ parking area, stopping in front of an Avril Lavigne clone in skinny jeans, Converse trainers, ripped Nickelback T-shirt; pierced nose, ears, and eyebrow; and the kind of hair that would’ve got you locked up in less enlightened times. She had a clipboard and a little knot of lanyards with her. Big Colgate smile.

Oh God... She was going to be perky, wasn’t she?

Quarter past eight on a Wednesday morning was far too early for perky.

Logan killed the engine and climbed out into the sauna formerly known as Aberdeen.

Four huge grey warehouses were gathered around the car park, all snug and secure behind an extra-high chain-link fence, guardhouse, and heavy-duty traffic barrier. Each of the warehouses had a number painted on it — 1 to 4 — but the biggest of the lot was home to the company logo too. A huge woodlouse silhouette — at least twenty foot tall — rendered in shiny gold-coloured plastic. Never mind the rest of Altens, you could probably see the thing from Lerwick. If not orbit.

Tufty clambered out of the car, tucked his laptop under one arm and stared up at the buildings. ‘Ooooh... Cool.’

Avril bounded up to them. Oh, she was definitely perky. ‘Inspector McRae, and Constable Quirrel?’ She thrust the lanyards at them. ‘Great to have you here?’ The sentence went up at the end, as if it was a question. ‘Now, I need you to wear your passes at all times?’ Another not question. ‘Can you do that for me? That’s great?’

Like, totally ?

Was it wrong to have an almost unbearable urge to borrow Tufty’s pepper spray and give her a damned good seasoning?

Tufty made a little squeaking noise as he put on his lanyard. ‘This is so cool!’

‘I know, right? I love working here?’ She actually did a couple of hoppity-skippity dance steps. ‘Come on, guys, follow me to where the magic happens?’ Avril led the way to the main doors, holding them open and wafting them through into a wide room, decorated to look like an opulent cinema foyer.

Film posters lined the walls, the floor dotted with display cases full of movie props, awards, and trophies. A big mahogany-and-chrome reception desk dominated the space, with an old woman lurking behind it. Huge and pasty, with a round happy face, unnaturally brown hair. Arms like ham-hocks. Clutching a copy of Hello! magazine in her sausagey fingers.

Avril bounced around in a circle. ‘You should’ve been here last week, we had Joanna Lumley and Hugh Grant in for pickups?’ She put a hand on her heart. ‘Career highlight?’

The old lady looked up from her magazine. ‘Hey, Misty.’

Avril / Misty beamed at her on the way past. ‘Hey, Mrs Clark, got the boss-man’s visitors for him?’ She pointed at them. ‘You want anything from the canteen when I’m done?’

A big smile dimpled Mrs Clark’s cheeks. ‘Wouldn’t say no to a Tunnock’s or two.’

‘You got it!’ She pushed through a set of double doors, disappearing. Then poked her head into the room again. ‘Come on, guys?’

Yeah, definitely far too perky.

They followed her into a bland corridor, magnolia paint slapped on breeze-block walls, the polished concrete squeaking under Misty’s trainers. Grey doors lined the space, each one with a job or department title on a white plastic plaque. It all looked very... Hollywood.

Misty looked over her shoulder at them as she bounced along. ‘Mr Clark’s got a video conference with New Zealand at eight forty-five, so don’t be offended if I have to throw you out then? Nothing personal?’

At the end of the corridor, she swiped her ID through a card reader and ushered them into a cavernous space. You could’ve stored a jumbo jet in here and still had room for a dozen double-decker buses. The walls were that eye-nipping shade of green they used for special effects, but the space in between was filled with big chunks of scenery — what looked like the inside of spaceships, space stations, grungy futuristic street scenes and a weird red forest thing.

Misty marched them past a prison block to where a large man stood, facing the other way, hands on his hips as he watched a team of overalled techs dismantling some kind of fighter cockpit. Tall and wide with it, broad shoulders and a Peaky Blinders haircut styled into a greying shark’s-fin quiff. ‘Be careful with that, Quin! I don’t want to have to start again from scratch if this turns into a franchise.’

One of the dismantlers gave him a thumbs-up.

Misty pounced to attention beside the big man. ‘Mr Clark? I’ve got your visitors?’

He turned, a smile dimpling his cheeks. Definitely his mother’s son. Except he had a Vandyke with an elongated white goatee and red-framed glasses. ‘Logan McRae! As I live, breathe, and exude sheer sexual chemistry.’ He stepped forward and swept Logan up in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground. ‘How are you? God, that thing last year! Completely gobsmacking.’

Barbed wire twisted beneath the skin of Logan’s stomach, digging its metal spikes deep inside.

He had to force the words out between gritted teeth: ‘Let me go, let me go, let me go!’

‘Oh, yes, the stabbing! Sorry.’ Mr Clark let go and stepped back, grimacing. ‘Are you OK? Do you need something?’

Logan bent double, one hand pressing against his midriff, hot air burning in his lungs as he swallowed a couple of deep breaths.

‘I’ve got painkillers! Naproxen, Tramadol, Co-codamol, you name it.’ Mr Clark waved at their perky guide. ‘Misty, grab some Vicodin and a bottle of water, would you, honey?’

Logan raised a hand. ‘I’m OK, I’m OK.’ He straightened up, slow. Hissing all the way. ‘You caught me off guard, that’s all.’

Misty perkied at him. ‘It’s no trouble, really? I can totally go get you some?’

‘No. No drugs. Thanks. I’m good.’ Liar.

‘OK.’ She did a couple of bounces for Mr Clark. ‘I’m getting your mum some Tunnock’s? You want?’

‘Can’t: diet.’

‘All-righty then.’ She turned and skipped off, back the way they’d come.

Weirdo.

Mr Clark put a hand on Logan’s shoulder and steered him past a killer robot as Tufty scurried along behind. ‘Oh, Logan, Logan, Logan...’ The hand squeezed. ‘Anyway, about last year: you haven’t done anything about the film rights yet, have you?’

‘Well, serving police officers can’t really—’

‘I’m thinking a hundred-and-twenty-minute thriller with David Tennant playing you. Well, it’s him or Ewan McGregor.’

‘It’s just we’re not allowed to—’

‘What do you think about Tilda Swinton for Steel?’ They passed the weird red forest, with its asymmetric leaves and twisted scarlet branches. ‘Too tall? I think she’s too tall. It’s so great to see you again!’

Logan cleared his throat as they made for the nearest exit. ‘I didn’t get to thank you for the fruit baskets. They were—’

‘I love Helen Mirren, but then she brings all that Prime Suspect baggage to a crime drama, doesn’t she?’ Mr Clark pushed open a bland grey door and propelled them into another magnolia breeze-block corridor. Only this one was lined with whiteboards, covered in scrawled schedules and bits of storyboard. More grey doors. ‘Or how about Michelle Gomez? Because Steel’s got that...’ He made a theatrical gesture with one hand. ‘You know?’