Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

Haddock plus batter plus potatoes, plus salt, plus vinegar, equals genius.

He crunched through a perfectly golden finger of deep-fried potato, then leaned forward, into the gap between the front seats. ‘There’s something else we’re going to need to talk about before the briefing.’

‘It’s not—’

‘Just so we’re prepared. There’s no way Edward Barwell’s going to pass up the opportunity.’

Milky dipped a chip in her little splat of mayonnaise. ‘Who’s Edward Barwell?’

King tightened his grip on the steering wheel. ‘No one. He’s—’

‘Journo.’ Little bits of batter fell down Steel’s front as she chewed. ‘ Scottish Daily Post . He’s the one dug up that dirt on Kingy’s Alt-Nat terrorist past.’

The only noises were the engine, the fluttering roar of air passing by the windows, and Steel munching.

Then Milky turned in her seat. ‘He what? Wait: what terrorist past?’

King glared at Logan in the rear-view mirror. ‘How did she find out? You’re supposed to be—’

‘Oh no.’ Logan held up a greasy hand. ‘Don’t look at me!’

Steel smiled. ‘Nah, I keep my ear to the grindstone, Kingy. Works wonders.’

More silence.

Milky stared at him. ‘Guv?’

King took a deep breath, shoulders dropping an inch. ‘I was going to tell you all before the briefing.’

‘You were an Alt-Nat terrorist ?’ She hit him: not a playful slap — a full-on back-hand wallop, right in the chest. Voice hard and bitter. ‘ I’m English! Yorkshire’s in England , remember? And you want to chuck me out country?’ She hit him again. ‘Going to burn down me house as well?’ Once more for luck, putting her weight behind it.

‘Ow! Can we not do this now. Please?’ Staring across the car at her. ‘It was nothing . It was years ago. I never did anything .’

Steel stuffed in a mouthful of chips. ‘That’s the spirit!’ She turned a mushed-potato grin on Logan. ‘Glad I came now: Wednesdays are usually a lot more boring than this.’

The pool car rumbled up the ramp and onto the Rear Podium car park. Tucked around the back of Divisional Headquarters, the rectangle of tarmac was a suntrap, bordered on two sides by the bulk of DHQ, the mortuary on the third, and the rear of King Street on the fourth — a wall of dirty granite, punctuated by sash windows and black downpipes.

King took the only available space, next to the smokers’ station with its overflowing bin, cigarette butts littered around it like tiny dead bodies after a massacre.

As soon as he hauled on the handbrake, Milky wrenched open the passenger door, face like a squeezed pluke, jaw clenched as she clambered into the sunlight.

King scrambled out after her. ‘Oh, come on, Milky, it was years ago!’

She kept her face turned towards DHQ. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a report to write.’

Milky marched across the shiny black tarmac to the building’s doors, yanked them open and stormed inside.

Steel leaned across Logan, looking up at King. ‘You made a right cat’s arsehole of that one, Kingy.’

His mouth moved for a bit. Then he shrugged. ‘She’ll come round. Eventually.’

Milky reappeared in the doorway, grabbed the open doors and, turning inside again, slammed them shut behind her.

Steel sucked air in through her teeth. ‘Aye, don’t hold your breath.’

King hunched his shoulders. ‘Is there any way we can speed up the ID process?’

Noticeboards lined the corridor, between the doors, covered in memos, thank you cards, and yet more bloody motivational posters. As if everyone working in Divisional Headquarters was hell-bent on doing a crap job, if not for a photo of some baldy lump in a high-viz vest, grinning away beneath the words ‘COMMUNITY FOCUSED!’

Steel sniffed. ‘Public appeal.’

Not this again. Logan shook his head. ‘We’ll get swamped by every well-meaning half-wit out there.’

‘Aye, but it’d be quicker.’

King nodded. ‘We need to...’ He scuffed to a halt, staring down the corridor.

DCI Hardie was standing in his office doorway, staring back at them. Then he stuck out one hand and made a come-hither gesture. His face a hard, angry scribble. ‘DI King.’

A little groaning noise escaped from King, followed by a very quiet, ‘Crap.’

‘A moment of your valuable time, please.’

King stood up straight. ‘I was just—’

‘In my office. Now! ’

Steel patted him on the back. ‘Been nice knowing you.’

A deep breath, then King raised his chin and marched off.

Hardie pointed past King at Logan and Steel. ‘And you two: go do something useful for a change!’ Then he stepped aside, so King could enter the office, gave them one last glare, and slammed the door closed.

Steel puckered her lips. ‘Yeah... He’s dead.’

And then some.

‘In the meantime...’ Logan turned on his heel. ‘Go chase up the media department. And the other stations too. We need to know who posted that sodding package.’

She made little wrinkles between her eyebrows, then shrugged. ‘Ah, why no’.’ Stuck her hands in her pockets and shoved through the double doors into the stairwell. ‘Still say we should do a public appeal!’ And she was gone.

Right.

He took out his phone and sent Tufty a text:

Any news on that first tweeter yet?

No response.

A couple of uniforms giggled their way down the corridor, clutching something in a brown paper bag. When they saw Logan the laughter died and they ramrodded past him, arms swinging as if they were expecting to salute a flag at some point. And as soon as they reached the doors at the far end, the giggling started up again.

Still nothing from Tufty.

‘You better not be asleep, you lazy wee sod...’

He poked the ‘CALL’ icon and listened to it ring instead.

And ring.

And ring.

And ring.

‘You has reached the Tuftinator! A message you may leave, after the bleep.’

‘What’s happening with that first tweeter — have you found anything yet, or are you sitting on your backside up there watching porn? Because if you are—’

‘Guv.’ Rennie appeared at Logan’s shoulder. No noise, nothing. Just suddenly: Rennie, standing there with a blue folder under one arm.

‘Gah!’ Logan flinched. ‘Are you on castors or something?’ He hung up.

‘They don’t call us the Rubber Heelers for nothing.’ A grin. ‘Saw you pull into the car park. Quick heads-up: DCI Hardie is on the warpath, so steer clear, OK?’

‘Too late.’

‘Our beloved Superintendent Bevan has decided that since Professor Wilson’s hands have turned up in the post, you could probably do with a... well, you know: hand.’ He snapped to attention and saluted. ‘Sergeant Simon Rennie, reporting for duty!’ Then slumped. ‘Anyway, you wanna grab a coffee? I’m parchified. I can fill you in on Matt Lansdale on the way?’

Might as well.

Logan headed back down the corridor. ‘Matt Lansdale?’

Rennie loped along beside him. ‘Journalists keep asking about him? “Is Professor Wilson’s disappearance linked to Matt Lansdale’s?” You wanted me to look into it?’

Ah, that Matt Lansdale.

They pushed through into the stairwell and the smell of boiled cabbage, fried chips, and sweaty feet.

Rennie held up his folder. ‘I dug out the files. Councillor Matt Lansdale was reported missing last Wednesday morning by one of his colleagues.’ He opened it as they started down the stairs and passed a printout to Logan.

It was a photo of a saggy-faced man in his fifties, thinning on top and squidgy of nose. The kind of man who looked as if he’d knock back three pints of lager then start banging on about immigration.