Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

Steel and Milky followed him to the counter.

The lady counting out change didn’t look up from her coins. Not even when King knocked on the safety glass.

‘Hmm?’ The auld mannie behind the counter blinked at them. According to his nametag — ‘HELLO, MY NAME IS ANDREW’ — they were supposed to ‘ASK ME ABOUT TRAVEL INSURANCE!’ He pursed his lips. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s a queue, so can you—’

King slapped his warrant card against the glass. ‘I need to speak to the manager. Now .’

Mrs Bag-For-Life gave it another wave. ‘Bloody disgrace, that’s what this is!’

Mrs Chins nodded, setting her wattle swaying. ‘We were here first!’

Andrew peered at King’s warrant card, then over King’s shoulder at Logan, Steel, and Milky. ‘Oh. Right. I’ll get Geraldine.’

Mrs Bag-For-Life raised a walking stick and took a wee hurpley step forward — brandishing it like a cutlass. ‘Someone needs to teach you a bloody good lesson!’

‘You tell them, Babs!’

Steel turned and smiled a cold hard smile. ‘Hands up everyone whose road tax, council tax, and TV licence are up to date.’

Silence.

Then everyone developed a sudden and profound interest in whatever was on the nearest shelf.

Steel nodded. ‘Aye, thought as much.’ She leaned in close to Logan and dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Got that one from a Hamish Macbeth book.’

A row of small monitors took up most of the Co-op’s CCTV room, mounted to the wall above a narrow workbench littered with paperwork and a rack of hard drives. Barely space for the single office chair, the woman sitting in it, King, and Logan. Steel and Milky peering in from the corridor outside.

The woman swivelled her chair and plucked a wireless keyboard from on top of the hard drives. Late thirties, with a fashionable haircut, suit and tie. ‘HELLO, MY NAME IS GERALDINE’ above the word ‘MANAGER’. She poked at the keys and the screen in front of her jumped to a frozen shot of the shop floor, the camera pointing towards the front doors. Newspapers on one side, a display of fruit and crisps on the other, sandwiches in a chiller... ‘I set it to play from when he comes into the store.’ Geraldine tapped the screen, where a blurry figure was just visible through the automatic doors. ‘This is the chap here.’

She pressed another key and the scene came to life: the doors slid open and in walked a man wearing the standard-issue hoodie-and-baseball-cap security-camera-avoidance outfit. He’d made the extra effort and donned a pair of sunglasses as well, for that exotic out-of-town look. So no way of making an ID of his face. The baggy grey clothes were pretty indistinct too. One thing was certain, though: whoever he was, the guy was massive . And it wasn’t fat, either. Going by the way he moved, arms out from his sides, elbows turned, he was lugging a lot of muscle around. Broad of shoulder and short of neck. A Tesco carrier bag, with something bulky inside, dangling from one hand.

Geraldine moved her finger to where the sandwiches lurked. ‘You can see Linda there, following him around.’

A security guard appeared from behind the lunchtime deals and followed Mr Hoodie towards the camera.

‘Standard operating procedure for anyone dressed in this season’s Shoplifter Chic.’

The pair of them disappeared off the bottom of the screen.

Click , they were caught on another camera, walking past the fruit and veg — Mr Hoodie acting all casual and calm, Linda, the security guard following at a discreet distance.

‘Down fresh produce...’ The camera jumped again. ‘Past tinned fish...’ Another jump. ‘Dried goods...’ One more. ‘And into our Post Office zone.’

The camera was positioned behind the counter, catching Mr Hoodie as he stopped at the ‘PLEASE WAIT HERE’ sign.

An old man was being served — his moustache twitching with concentration as he filled out a form. The woman helping him was a furry blob in the bottom left corner, only the top of her head visible. And all the time, Mr Hoodie stood there, still as a lamppost. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t check his watch. Just stood there.

King folded his arms. ‘Cool customer.’

Captain Twitchy Moustache handed over his form and shuffled away out of shot, then Mr Hoodie stepped up to the counter. Put the plastic bag down in front of him.

‘We haven’t got sound, I’m afraid,’ Geraldine wrinkled her nose, ‘but Shauna says he was definitely Scottish. Asked her to send the package first class.’

On the screen, Mr Hoodie’s mouth moved in complete silence, then he placed the plastic bag on the scales. Took it off and slid it through the access window.

The woman-behind-the-counter reached for the bag. Opened it. Slid the Jiffy bag out onto the counter in front of her and applied the postage sticker.

‘Clever boy.’ Logan pointed. ‘He never touches it.’

The woman crumpled up the plastic bag and passed it back through the opening, where Mr Hoodie stuffed it straight into his pocket. Leaving no physical evidence behind. Other than the Jiffy bag, which was, according to the lab, pretty much sterile.

He counted out a handful of pound coins and the woman scooped them up. Then he smiled at her, nodded, waved, turned and walked away.

Geraldine poked at her keyboard again, tracing his route back the way he’d come — camera to camera, the security guard following him at a discreet distance — to the front doors. They slid shut behind him and he was gone.

The security guard shrugged, then sloped off to lurk in wait for someone else.

‘And that’s it, I’m afraid.’

‘Hmmm...’ King scowled at the final image. Then turned to the door, where Milky was still watching. ‘Go round the other shops, hoover up all the security camera footage you can. Where’s DS Steel?’

‘Gone for a vape, Guv.’

‘Oh for... Fine . Tell her I said she has to find out who’s in charge of CCTV for the shopping centre. See if we can track this bastard to a car or something.’

A nod from Milky. ‘Guv.’ Then she scurried off.

Logan pulled out his notebook and wrote down the names of the security guard and the woman on the Post Office counter. ‘We’re going to need to talk to Linda and Shauna.’

‘I thought you might.’ Geraldine stood. ‘They’re in the break room, waiting for you.’

A colourful collection of watercolours dotted the three break room walls that weren’t covered in beige lockers. Two round tables, some plastic chairs, a fridge, and a microwave. Nice. The air sweet-sharp with the scent of lemon floor cleaner.

Linda the security guard was squarer in real life, her shoulders and forehead making it look as if someone had built her out of Lego blocks. Shauna, the lady whose back had featured in the CCTV footage, looked different too. Going by the expression on her face, her front half hadn’t enjoyed itself for at least the last thirty years.

The pair of them sat opposite Logan and King, Shauna picking her teeth, Linda folding and unfolding her arms, as if she didn’t quite know what to do with them.

King doodled a circle on his notebook. ‘And you didn’t recognise his voice at all? Maybe he’d been in before and—’ His phone blared into life and he dug it out. Frowned at the screen and grimaced. Then put it face down on the table. ‘Sorry about that. Where were we?’

Shauna finally worked whatever it was free and pinged it away under the table. ‘No, I didn’t recognise him. We get a lot of regulars in, but he was... a bit strange? Weirdly still , you know: immobile. Like he was made of plastic or something.’

‘And he didn’t say anything—’

This time it was Logan’s phone, belting out its generic ringtone. He pulled it out while everyone stared at him. The words, ‘SUPT. BEVAN’ sat in the middle of the screen.