Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

‘Oh for... Months ? How can it take months? Get your finger out!’

Lazy little sod.

A sigh hissed out from the speakers. ‘About six thousand tweets get sent every second, that’s five hundred and eighteen million, four hundred thousand a day. Fifty-five million Facebook updates. Ninety-five million photos added to Instagram. Every — single — day. That’s why months.’

Logan pulled up at the traffic lights, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel while a Lobsterwoman wheeled a buggy across the crossing, fag poking out of the corner of her mouth, phone in one hand. Ignoring her Lobsterchild as it hurled a crisp packet out into the sunshine, followed by a Capri Sun and what was left of a Mars Bar.

No way they could wait months for a result.

Fifty-five million Facebooks. Ninety-five million Instagrams. It was too much.

‘Sarge?’

‘Fine. Ditch Facebook and Instawhatsit. If our boy’s tweeting about Professor Wilson’s attack, he’s tweeting about other things too. Focus there.’

‘Pfff... OK, OK: I’ll reconfigure the search.’

‘And soon as you’ve set it up, get your bum back to the station. We’re not paying you to sit about talking nonsense with film people.’

‘But physics isn’t nonsense, it’s—’

Logan thumbed the button again, hanging up on him.

Rennie smiled. ‘Bet you’re glad you got yourself a top-of-the-range Simon Rennie sidekick, now, aren’t you?’

Swap one idiot for another.

‘Get a lookout request set up for Councillor Matt Lansdale. Maybe he hasn’t killed himself, maybe he’s done a Reginald Perrin?’

‘Already done it. Top-of-the-range, remember? Doubt we’ll get anything back, though. After all, who cares about a disgraced middle-aged missing city councillor?’ Rennie sniffed. ‘Could be anywhere by now.’

Look at the state of this shitehole.

Haiden kicks a lump of plaster, sending it skittering away like a rat across the bare floorboards. A crappy old room, the lathe sticking out of the crumbling walls like bones. Peeling wallpaper, the ugly pattern lurking beneath blooms of fungus-black and mildew-grey. Childish crayon drawings of crude stick-figures humping. Two windows, with chunks of broken glass poking out of their frames like jagged teeth. Letting the sunlight slash in. Casting thick dark shadows.

Bet there’s rats in here. Big ones.

The five dirty-white chest freezers make a line from the door, most of the way round the room, each one marked with red spray paint that’s run and dripped like blood: ‘THREE MONKEYS’, ‘THE DEVIL MAKES WORK’, ‘SPITE’, ‘JUDAS’, and ‘WALLACE’.

A little green light glints in the gloom as the compressor on ‘THREE MONKEYS’ kicks in again, humming away to itself. It’s the only one that’s turned on, cos there’s no point wasting electricity, is there? Environmentally responsible and all that.

Streaks and splots of rusty brown stain the white plastic surface around the lid.

Should really clean that up, but sod it.

The chest freezer next to it has the same kinda stains, but no rattle and hum. Instead, the sound of sobbing jags out into the hot stale air. Ungrateful sod should be thanking him. He propped the lid open, didn’t he? Wedged a bit of skirting board in there so there’s a wee gap for air to get in.

OK, so there’s a thick chain and heavy padlock stopping it from opening any further than about ten mill, but hey, it’s better than nothing, right? Any wider and the rats might get in.

Fat bluebottles waltz through the gap, their heavy bodies glowing in the sunlight.

Haiden kicks ‘THE DEVIL MAKES WORK’ with the side of his boot, hard enough to rock the whole thing on its feet.

A cloud of the little buzzing fatsos erupt from the gap, accompanied by a muffled scream.

Better.

He takes off one of his gloves and stuffs it in his pocket, pulls out his phone instead — thumbing through to the camera app. Unlocks the padlock.

The chain hits the floorboards with a clattering rattle as he yanks the chest freezer’s lid open.

More bluebottles, swarming up from what’s left of the man inside, bringing with them the cloying scent of stale meat, sharp piss, and dirty-brown shite.

Haiden holds his phone out, filming as Professor Wanky Wilson cowers away from the light. Not nearly enough space for him to stretch out, so he’s curled up on his side with his knees against his chest, wriggling around, onto his back.

Not so big now, is he? Lying there, bawling like a bairn, snot and tears all over his face, piss stains on his trousers, crap in his pants. Ankles and elbows tied with thick blue string. Bandages round the stumps of his wrists, darkened with dried and fresh blood.

Suppose it’s no wonder he’s shat himself.

Course, he’s not wearing a blindfold, but he’s got his bloodshot eyes screwed shut as he blubbers. ‘Please! Please, I haven’t seen anything ! I can... I can just go away, forget this ever happened. Please!’

Aye, right.

Haiden moves his phone closer, filling the screen with that terrified face.

‘You don’t have to do this! I’ll do whatever you want!’ A sob wracks him, making his chest jerk and spasm. The words short and breathless between tattered breaths. ‘I’m... sorry! Whatever... I did, I’m... I’m sorry!... Please... please let me... go... PLEASE!’

No chance, pal.

Haiden slams the lid down again and inside, Professor Wanky Wilson screams.

Tough.

Doesn’t take long to padlock the freezer again, making sure he doesn’t get fingerprints on anything. Cos he’s not stupid.

Then out — through the crappy hallway and into the fresh air.

Eyes closed, face turned to the warm sun.

Got to love summer...

Still, better get back to work.

He pulls the front door shut, all those brand-new Yales locking with a clunk. Leaves the crappy old house, with its second skin of ivy and brambles. Marches across what’s left of the front garden — if you can call a collection of rambling broom, nettles, and gorse a garden — to the ancient white Nissan Micra that’s parked next to a battered grey Transit. The van’s paintwork filthy and streaked with rust.

Haiden pops open the Nissan’s driver’s door and digs out his phone again, turning the brightness up so the video is visible out here.

Wanky Wilson’s voice crackles out of the phone’s speaker. ‘Please! Please, I haven’t seen anything ! I can... I can just go away, forget this ever happened. Please!’

He looks even smaller on the screen. More pathetic as he begs for his worthless lying little life.

‘You don’t have to do this! I’ll do whatever you want!’ Then the sobbing. ‘I’m... sorry! Whatever... I did, I’m... I’m sorry!... Please... please let me... go... PLEASE!’

Perfect.

Haiden nods. Smiles. Sticks his phone in his pocket. Gets in behind the wheel and pulls out onto the rutted track.

Wanky Wilson’s about to go viral, and it serves him bloody right.

The word ‘Enter’ grudged itself out through the wood.

Logan let himself into Hardie’s office.

The room had probably been designed to give an authoritative air of efficiency and probity, with its six filing cabinets, six whiteboards covered in ongoing cases, a top-spec computer, and a portrait of the Queen, but it came off a bit... sad instead. Lacking in character. Oh, he’d added some personal touches — a couple of citations, three or four photos of Hardie with various bigwigs... But they always seemed staged and uncomfortable, as if they were trying very hard to remember his name and whether or not he owed them money.