Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

Down below, the last chunk of cockpit was wheeled away for storage.

‘So how did you know Professor Wilson?’

‘Is he really dead?’

Logan shrugged. ‘Hope not.’

Zander rubbed his goatee on the cat’s head, setting it purring. ‘Made the mistake of hiring Professor “Acquired Taste” Wilson for Witchfire , thought it’d be good to have a genuine constitutional scholar involved: bring a bit of authenticity to the way society operated in the film. Just because it’s alternative-history, doesn’t mean it has to be fake nonsense.’ His expression soured. ‘What a pain in the arse that man was.’

‘Yeah, I’m hearing that a lot.’

‘Could start a fight in a bowl of soup. And not lumpy soup either: consommé. I bet you could boil socks and he’d—’

Logan’s phone burst into ‘If I Only Had a Brain’ again, and he slumped. Pulled the damn thing out. ‘Sorry, I’d better...’ He answered it. ‘Rennie, if you’ve called up to nag, don’t. We’ll be in when we’ve—’

‘Boss, there’s a package turned up at the BBC. You need to get over there, ASAP!’

Yes, because that didn’t sound like he was being set up for something horrible, did it?

‘What kind of package?’

‘Didn’t say, but I know King’s on his way now. Lights and music, so it must be a biggie!’

A package delivered to BBC Scotland. Well, if King was hotfooting it over there, then it had to be connected to the Professor Wilson Case. And if it was connected, then Logan had to get there sharpish too. Because the scapegoat’s scapegoat had no intention of letting the original-issue scapegoat screw things up and land him in it.

‘OK, OK. I’m on my way.’ He hung up and slipped the phone back in his pocket.

Zander’s shoulders curled forward, the cat clambering up onto them. ‘I’m guessing Gilbert and Sullivan had it right about a policeman’s lot?’

‘Got to go. Can you...?’ Pointing through the door and down a bit, where the Visual FX department probably was.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after the little lad for you. Make sure he stays out of trouble.’

‘Yeah, good luck with that.’ Logan made for the door. ‘And don’t let him have any more caffeine!’ After all, things were bad enough as it was.

A large Jiffy bag, torn open at one end, sat on the desk. And not just any old desk, this was the one used for on-camera interviews. The one with a grainy out-of-date photo of Aberdeen in the background — the ugly warty lump of St Nicholas House still clearly visible in the shot, even though it’d been torn down years ago.

The tiny studio was barely bigger than a single bedroom, with ancient audiovisual equipment piled up against the walls, filling the space behind the remote-operated camera where it couldn’t be seen. Lights hung from a ceiling rig, all of them angled to point at the Jiffy bag, making it glow against the grey Formica. A sickly shade of yellow-orange.

Logan had a squint at the address label, laser printed onto a plain white sticky square:

Professor N Wilson,

C/O The Muriel Kirk Show

BBC Scotland

Beechgrove Terrace

Aberdeen AB15 5ZT

Muriel Kirk adjusted the sunglasses perched on top of her greying hair and bounced from foot to foot, as if she was about to climb into the ring and punch someone. A visual reinforced by the trainers, joggy bottoms, and ‘I RAN THE MELDRUM MARATHON!’ T-shirt. Not an ounce of fat on her.

Her producer was a saggy man with a receding hairline, grey beard, and blue cardigan — even in this heat. Sweat shone on his top lip as he fiddled with his cardie pockets.

King popped an extra-strong mint, crunching as he stared at the package. ‘And no one else has touched this?’

Mr Cardigan shook his head. ‘It came in the morning post, but it was addressed to Muriel and she’s not on air till one, so—’

‘Yes.’ Muriel Kirk rolled her shoulders. ‘It’ll have been touched by the postie, Al on reception, Graham here, and me.’ Her eyes shone. ‘ I was the one who opened it.’

Logan got out his notebook. ‘Right, well. We’ll have to take statements and—’

‘Hold on, I need to get Barry in here.’ She stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled: deafening in the small space.

The heavy studio door creaked open and in came what had to be Barry, a camera on his shoulder, one eye pressed to the viewfinder, the other screwed shut as he framed the shot. ‘And we’re rolling.’

Muriel turned to the camera and pointed at the Jiffy bag, putting on a voice that was nearly an octave down from the one she’d just been using. A lot more refined too. ‘When this package arrived at the BBC Scotland studios in Aberdeen earlier today, everyone thought it was simply another piece of mail.’ She reached for the package. ‘But when I opened it—’

‘Wait, wait, wait, wait!’ King barged in front of Barry, blocking the camera. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘You’re kidding, right?’ Muriel bounced on her feet again, limbering up. ‘This is going to be the lead story on the lunchtime news. We’re—’

‘No. No you’re not. This is an ongoing investigation!’ He stuck a hand in the middle of Barry’s chest and pushed him towards the heavy door. ‘Come on, you: out .’

Barry peered from behind his camera. ‘Muriel?’

King jabbed a finger at her and Captain Cardigan. ‘You two as well. This is a police matter. Off you go.’

She curled her hands into fists. ‘But this is our studio. It was addressed to me !’

‘And I want to thank you on behalf of Police Scotland for bringing it to our attention.’ He gave Barry a shove, sending him staggering backwards. ‘Now: out.’

‘Graham, are you going to let them throw us off our own story?’

Cardigan fluttered his hands. ‘Perhaps we should all calm down a bit and discuss this like—’

‘Quite right.’ Logan pulled on his best all-in-this-together voice. ‘That sounds like an excellent idea. But first, can you do me a favour and dig up any CCTV you’ve got of the package being delivered? That’ll be a huge help.’ Ushering Cardigan out of the door. ‘Thanks.’

‘Oh. Yes. I suppose...’

Logan turned to Muriel. ‘And Mz Kirk, I know it’s hard, but we’ve got to be extremely careful about DNA and cross-contamination. I’ll have a word with the Chief Superintendent and see if we can get you exclusive coverage, OK? OK.’

‘But—’

Guiding her out. ‘You’re helping us make a real difference, thanks. That’s great.’

Soon as she was outside, Logan pulled the door shut and snubbed the lock. Then frowned at the remote-operated camera facing the desk. Held a hand out to King. ‘Give me your jacket.’

‘What?’

‘Your jacket: I need your jacket. Please.’

‘Oh for...’ But King shrugged his way out of it, showing off the stains beneath the arms of his shirt.

Logan draped it over the camera and dropped his voice to a whisper — in case they had the microphones activated. ‘They were only doing their jobs.’

‘Bollocks.’ Not even trying to keep his voice down. ‘God save us from bloody journalists.’

Then King snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves and turned the package on the desk, so the open end faced them. Reached inside.

No, no. no!

Logan grabbed his arm. ‘What the hell are you doing? We’re not exactly in sterile conditions here!’

‘It’s been opened at least once.’ King shook his arm free. ‘You really think they’ve not filmed the thing already?’

‘Are you insane ?’