Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

Yeah. Thanks, but no thanks.

He pressed ‘IGNORE’ and switched his phone off.

King raised an eyebrow.

Logan shook his head.

King sighed.

Shauna wiped her damp finger on her uniform shirt. ‘Look, can I go now? Only Andrew gets all stressed if he’s left on the counter by himself.’

‘We’re done here anyway.’ King’s smile wasn’t even vaguely convincing. ‘Thank you both for your help.’

Their chairs’ rubber feet scronnnnked on the lino as they scraped them back and stood. A couple of awkward smiles. Then Shauna and Linda sloped off to work again.

Soon as the door shut behind them, King slumped. ‘So close...’

Logan pointed at King’s phone. ‘Who was it?’

‘DI Hardie. You?’

‘Superintendent Bevan. So much for two and a half hours.’

‘Yeah.’

Scronnnnk.

Logan followed him out into a bland corridor, the painted breeze-block walls scarred with scuffs and bashes. Past a couple of cages full of crushed cardboard boxes. ‘We can say we had our phones turned off because we were interviewing witnesses. It’s not lying, because mine is and we were.’

King’s phone dinged, and he frowned at the screen. ‘Voicemail.’

No doubt a message of encouragement from DCI Hardie.

They pushed through the double doors on to the shop floor. A handful of people were in filling their trolleys and baskets — one of the lippy auld wifies stocking up on cat food and spiced rum, while the other worried away at half a dozen scratchcards.

Logan and King didn’t stop to say hello on the way to the exit. But as they passed the drinks aisle, King stopped. Patted his pockets.

‘I’ll meet you outside — want to get some more mints.’

And why did all those bottles of wine and spirits make him think of that?

Logan nodded, and walked out through the doors, pausing only to wave at Linda, on guard by the ‘MEGA LUNCH-DEAL!’ sandwiches, crisps, and drinks.

‘Bloody hell...’ The midday heat hit him like an iron, sizzling away at his eyes and ears. And that was underneath the covered walkway; in the full glare of the sun it would be unbearable.

He stuck to the shadows. Turned to look in through the Co-op window as a pair of kids rattled past on scooters. And there was King, marching towards the checkouts with two half-bottles of vodka in one hand and a four-pack of extra-strong mints in the other.

King froze, then juggled his purchases into one hand so he could dig out his phone and pull a pained face at the screen. Closed his eyes and moved his lips as if he was swearing away to himself. Then answered it.

Two half-bottles of vodka. Both the perfect size to hide in your jacket pockets if you were—

‘Fit like, Limpy McMoans-A-Lot?’

Great. Steel.

Logan turned. ‘Can you at least pretend you care about—’

‘Guess what I’ve got, go on: guess.’ She wiggled her eyebrows at him. ‘Guess!’

‘Worms?’

‘I found a nice man called Johnny. Johnny works the security cameras for all the shopping centre’s communal areas.’ She pointed at one of the shiny black half-globes, protruding from the walkway’s ceiling like a kraken’s eye. ‘Wave hello to lovely Johnny.’

She did, but Logan didn’t.

‘Aye, and guess what me and Johnny found when we went looking through yesterday’s footage?’

Logan stared at her. ‘You didn’t .’

The grin turned a little bit obscene. ‘We sodding well did !’ Steel whipped out her phone and poked at it. ‘Got him to email me the footage. Our boy might be able to manufacture a forensic-free abduction scene and Jiffy bag, but know what he didn’t bank on?’

She turned the screen to face Logan.

On it, a muscle-bound lump of a man marched past Marks & Spencer, walking towards one of the cameras. Mid-twenties. Not the prettiest of guys, with a heavy forehead and wide jaw. Wearing a grey hoodie. Something in a plastic bag, tucked under his arm. He reached into his hoodie’s pocket, took out a pair of sunglasses, put them on. Then did the same with a baseball cap. Pulled his hood up. And his transformation into Mr Hoodie was complete.

‘They stuck a new security camera on the Citizen’s Advice Bureau yesterday morning, cos some manky scummer keeps smearing shite all over their windows. If our boy, Chuckles, had posted those hands on Monday, he’d’ve got away with it.’

Logan looked up from the screen to the grinning Steel. ‘I could sodding well kiss you.’

‘Aye, well, better no’.’ Deadpan. ‘Don’t want you undermining years of dedicated lesbianism.’

They had him. They had an actual face for Professor Wilson’s abductor. ‘We need to get this out to every station, in every division in Scotland.’

‘No’ be quicker doing a public appeal?’

She had a point.

‘Maybe, but if we can find out who he is before the brass put on a press conference, we’ll—’

‘Your boy King might not get his arse handed to him in a damp paper bag?’ She peered over Logan’s shoulder at the Co-op. ‘Ahoy-hoy, thar he blows.’

And there he blew — slouching out through the automatic doors with no sign of his vodka or extra-strong mints, still on the phone, one hand massaging his forehead. ‘Yes, Boss, but—... I know that... Yes. But if you’ll just— OK...’

Steel leaned in closer to Logan, not bothering to whisper. ‘Think he’s getting a spanking? Sounds like a spanking to me.’

‘Do you always have to make everything worse?’

‘Part of my charm.’

King stopped. Sighed. ‘Yes... I will. Yes.’ Another sigh. ‘Bye.’ He hung up and thumped back against one of the walkway’s pillars. Didn’t look at them. ‘ Apparently , the Chief Superintendent isn’t happy about Professor Wilson’s severed hands being all over the one o’clock news, so he kicked Superintendent Young’s backside about it. And Superintendent Young kicked DCI Hardie’s backside. And now DCI Hardie is kicking mine.’ King deflated even further. ‘God’s sake...’ He gave Logan a pained look. ‘They’re holding a press conference at four. Our attendance is mandatory.’

‘No need to look so glum, Kingy-boy.’ Steel slapped his shoulder. ‘It’s your lucky day: Roberta Steel to the rescue! Again .’

His eyes widened. ‘You mean... we got a face ?’

‘Now let’s talk about the extra-large fish suppers you’re buying us all for lunch. As a wee reward for my detectivey genius.’

The dual carriageway wheeched past the pool car’s windows as DI King drove them into town, the soft comforting smell of hot batter and sharp-spined vinegar thick in the air, even with the windows open.

Milky leaned across from the passenger seat, a couple of golden chips in her hand. ‘Sure you don’t want any, Guv?’

He shook his head. ‘Not hungry.’

Sitting in the back, Steel sooked her fingers sort of clean and dug her phone out. Squinted at the screen. ‘That’s Tufty sent the video out to everyone and her dog in Police Scotland.’ A chunk of haddock went the way of all flesh as she chewed with her mouth open. ‘Dirty wee scumbag says he’s having beef Wellington in the studio canteen.’ She stuffed in some more chips. ‘All right for some.’

King nodded. ‘Better make sure the media department get a “have you seen this man” done up before the press conference.’

Logan took a bite of pickled onion, chasing it down with a nugget of crispy batter. Whoever invented fish suppers was a genius. Sod haggis, this was Scotland’s proper national dish, not some unmentionable mush of sheep innards stuffed into another bit of sheep innards, with four tons of herbs and spices added so you didn’t have to taste what you were actually eating.