Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

No. Logan most certainly didn’t.

‘I really—’

‘There’s something a bit sexy about her, isn’t there? She’s got that frisson of something almost animal in her magnetism.’

Don’t think about her naked. DON’T THINK ABOUT HER NAKED! Too late — the image was seared across the back of his mind again, in hideous pink-o-vision. And after all the effort he’d gone to, trying to forget...

Logan shuddered. ‘I’ve never noticed.’

Through another door into a stairwell. Up they went.

Tufty’s voice echoed in the enclosed space. ‘I noticed once. In the pub. But then she beat me about the head and neck with a packet of Quavers and that was that.’

Mr Clark gave Logan’s shoulder another squeeze. ‘And we’ll need to invent a good sidekick for you. It’s a trope of the genre, after all.’

‘Ooh, ooh!’ Tufty scurried up alongside. ‘I’d make a great—’

Logan jabbed him with an elbow. ‘Thanks for agreeing to help us find whoever posted that first tweet, Mr Clark.’

‘It’s Zander , Logan. Zander. You know that.’ At the top of the stairs he pushed out into another corridor, but a much fancier one this time: plastered and decorated, carpets on the floor, pictures on the walls. ‘And if Golden Slater Productions can help, it’s my pleasure.’ Zander opened a door marked ‘VISUAL FX’ and swept them into a large room, broken up into cubicled workstations.

No two were the same, as if there’d been a competition to see who could customise theirs the most. A pirate ship, a jungle, cowboys, aliens, My Little Ponies, cavemen...

Post-it notes and lines of coloured string covered the walls, intermingled with schedules, storyboards, concept sketches... Another display case full of awards over by the fancy coffee machine. A big screen nearly covered the end wall, filled with some very plastic-looking figures lumping their way through a scene. Like a really cheap video game.

Half a dozen people in shorts and assorted geekdom T-shirts were gathered around the storyboards, another four poking away at their computers.

Zander leaned in close to Logan, dropping his voice as if he was about to impart a state secret. ‘You’ve timed it well — we finished post-production on a hardcore sci-fi serial-killer thriller, last week. Spectacular stuff, redefines the genre.’

Oh ho.

Logan raised an eyebrow.

Zander rolled his eyes. ‘Not that kind of “hardcore”.’

Tufty wandered off, peering into the trophy cabinet, like Charlie getting his first glimpse of the Chocolate Factory.

And no, that wasn’t a euphemism.

Logan pointed at the computers. ‘So...?’

‘We’ve just started pre-viz on a steampunk blockbuster — which will completely blow both your socks off, then come back for your toes — meaning I’ve got about thirty / forty servers sitting idle you can play with. State of the art. Spared no expense.’ Then he turned, raising his voice so it carried across the room. ‘Hoshiko? Got a minute?’

A short, middle-aged woman in an American baseball shirt, jeans, and trainers looked up from where she was working on the storyboards. The slightest hint of a Japanese accent as she looked Logan up and down. ‘This them?’

Zander nodded. ‘Yup.’ He gave Logan a wink. ‘Hoshiko’s worked for Hayao Miyazaki, Peter Jackson, and Katsuhiro Otomo. I was so lucky to get her!’

She didn’t smile. ‘Damn right you were.’ Then she stuck her hand out to Logan, palm up. ‘You got an algorithm for me?’

‘Tufty?’

‘Hmmm?’ The daft wee sod was still staring at the trophies. ‘Are these really AVN and XBIZ awards?’

Zander popped his eyebrows up, and gave his head a little waggle. ‘Far be it for me to blow my own you-know-what, but there’s a fair few Prowlers and F.A.M.E.s in there as well.’

At that Hoshiko did smile. ‘We wiped the floor, every year we entered.’

‘Of course, that was back when we still had time to make adult films.’ Zander smiled at Tufty. ‘If you’re a big porn fan, I can probably dig you out a few comps on DVD if you like?’

Tufty spun around, face going a hot shade of pink. ‘Me? Porn? No, no, I was... I like to keep up with social trends and... Ahem...’

‘Nonsense, no trouble at all.’ He whipped out his phone and poked the screen. ‘Misty? Can you find me a copy of Crocodildo Dundee for one of our police officer guests, please?’

‘That’s really not... It...’ The blush had officially gone nuclear. ‘But...’

Now, the kind thing to do would be to change the subject and spare the wee lad any more embarrassment.

Nah.

Logan grinned. ‘Say “thank you” to the nice gentleman, Tufty.’

It looked as if the tips of his ears were about to combust. ‘Thank you?’

Zander spread his arms wide. ‘My pleasure. Now, Hoshiko?’

She hooked a thumb over her shoulder at a vacant workstation. ‘Come on, Porno Boy, we’ll get you set up, then you can tell me about this algorithm of yours...’

Zander’s office was huge — the meeting table that ran down the middle big enough to seat twenty. It was lined with movable electronic whiteboards and flipcharts, displays plastered in yet more storyboard drawings. He perched on the edge of a fancy-pants desk, with a large leather chair behind it, a couple of monitors on cantilevered arms, some flowers in a vase. The whole thing reeked of power.

A pair of small raggedy cats chased each other across the meeting table. Pausing every now and then to stare at Logan as if he might be edible.

But by far the most impressive thing about the room was the floor-to-ceiling window that made up one entire wall, overlooking Soundstage 1 in all its gloomy glory.

Zander caught one of the cats as it battered past, holding it against his chest so it could chew at his goatee. ‘When the oil industry took a tanking, I was able to get this whole thing for a song. Had to soundproof everything and expand out the back, but still. Much better than our last place.’

Logan looked down through the huge window. ‘Do you still see DI Insch?’

The dismantlers were loading the chunks of fighter cockpit onto trolleys and wheeling them away.

‘What, David ? Oh yes. He’s off doing second unit scouting for the new film. Iceland.’

Logan nodded. ‘Tell him I said, “Hi,” OK?’ Seemed a bit inadequate after all these years, but what else was there?

Zander’s reflection stepped up beside Logan’s in the glass, one of the cats perched in his arms, on top of his belly. ‘You think whoever sent that first tweet abducted Professor Wilson?’

‘Maybe. Whoever it was, they knew he was missing a day before we did, so...?’

‘Hmmm. It’s a shame Wilson was such a tit.’ A sigh. ‘You know, when I first came up to Aberdeen, I had a boss who called me an F.E.B. for two whole years. “I don’t know, ask the FEB.”, “Hey, F.E.B., get the teas in, yeah?”, “You know, Zander, you’re my favourite F.E.B.”’

Nope. Never heard of that one.

‘F.E...?’

‘“Fucking English Bastard”.’ Zander shook his head. ‘Said it was “only a bit of banter”. You try replacing “English” with “black”, or “Jewish”, or “gay” and see how bantery it feels then. Hate’s hate.’

‘Sounds like a lovely man.’

Zander waved that away. ‘Oh, I rose above it. Showed him there were no hard feelings last year by buying the company and firing him.’ A smile. ‘I know it sounds vindictive, but he was stealing equipment and sexually harassing the young man on reception. Only had himself to blame, really.’