Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

King glanced over his shoulder from one of the visitors’ chairs, wearing that same uncomfortable look. He gave Logan a quick grimace, then faced front again. Sitting in the other chair, Jane McGrath humphed at him.

Logan nodded at the florid-faced Hardie, sat behind his desk like an angry toad. ‘You wanted to see me, Boss?’

Mr Toad glowered. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Following up some leads.’

‘How am I supposed to strategise for this sodding press conference with you off gallivanting? You’re meant to be supporting this investigation.’

Tosser.

‘That’s exactly what I am doing.’ Logan closed the door and leaned against it. ‘So go on then: “strategise”.’

Hardie pointed at Jane. ‘Well?’

She folded her arms. ‘We need to get our statement out about DI King’s involvement with his terrorist cell.’

‘It wasn’t a terrorist cell!’ King turned to face her. ‘And I wasn’t involved, I went to a couple of meetings to impress a girl. That’s all.’

‘I still can’t figure out why the Scottish Daily Post didn’t expose you yesterday... but I can assure you they’re going to do it today. We need to break this before they do. Steal their thunder.’

Logan made a rocking gesture with one hand. ‘Maybe. But I don’t think Barwell’s going to drop that bomb today.’

They all stared at him as if he’d grown horns.

Then Hardie put on a speaking-to-stupid-people voice. ‘Professor Wilson’s hands turned up in the post , Logan.’ He held his own up and wiggled the fingers. ‘His hands .’

‘Yes, but we’ve got a suspect: we’ve got CCTV footage of the man who posted the hands to the BBC. We’re making progress.’

Jane sighed. ‘That doesn’t change—’

‘If you’re Edward Barwell, when are you going to put the boot in: when the investigation’s making progress, or when it’s stalling? Because all investigations stall at some point, we all know that. It’s how things work.’

She nodded at Hardie. ‘Even more reason to get it out there now, while we’re on top of the news cycle — not being buried by it.’

‘Hmmm...’ Mr Toad steepled his fingers. ‘Detective Inspector King?’

‘I didn’t do anything.’

Logan shifted against the door. ‘We’re trying to find out who this guy is, but it wouldn’t hurt to put out his picture and an appeal for witnesses.’

‘Witnesses?’ Jane scowled at him. ‘Now you’re just changing the subject!’

‘Exactly.’

There was silence as, hopefully, they let that sink in.

Then Hardie sat back in his chair. ‘You said you were following up leads. What leads?’

‘I’ve got Tufty trying to ID whoever sent that first tweet, and Rennie and I have been looking into Councillor Matt Lansdale’s disappearance. See if it’s linked to Professor Wilson’s.’

‘And is it?’

‘No. Lansdale’s divorced, disgraced, and depressed. Chances are he’s either embezzled council cash and done a runner, or tried to end his own life. Maybe succeeded, but the body’s not turned up yet.’

‘Hmm...’ Obviously not convinced.

‘There’s no sign of a struggle at his flat — no forced entry, no blood — and if he’d been abducted, his hands would’ve turned up in the post by now, wouldn’t they? Professor Wilson’s did.’

Jane poked Hardie’s desk. ‘This doesn’t help us with the current news cycle.’

‘No, but it means we can eliminate him from our inquiries and journalists can stop asking stupid questions that make us look like idiots for not considering it.’

Silence, as Hardie swivelled in his chair. Then he nodded. ‘We keep our statement about DI King in reserve for now. But at the very first sign of things “stalling”, you tell me and we release it, understand?’ He pointed at Logan and King. ‘Understand?’

‘Totally.’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ Hardie checked his watch. ‘It’s three oh seven. Press briefing is at four. And if either of you even thinks about disappearing off on a sudden “urgent mission” I’ll slap a formal complaint on your record before you’re halfway out the door.’ He jabbed a finger at the door. ‘Now go. Do something useful.’

The canteen’s dishwasher chugged and churned away to itself, the only other sound coming from the vending machine as a spotty support officer got it to give up a can of Irn-Bru. Buzzzzz, clang, rattle. Tsssssst. Glug, glug, glug. Belch . Then she gave Logan and King a wave, before sloping her way out of the canteen again.

King folded over his wax-paper cup of coffee and puffed out his cheeks. ‘You would’ve thought he’d be happy, wouldn’t you? We’ve got a suspect. On camera!’

Logan shrugged. ‘That’s what happens when you climb the greasy ladder — every rung is slick with politics and blame and potential career-ending slip-ups. Not saying that’s an excuse, mind.’ He took a sip. ‘Where do you want to start?’

‘Urgh...’ King stood. ‘Suppose we should check on the idiots interviewing Professor Wilson’s colleagues.’

‘Probably.’ Logan followed him out into the stairwell. ‘Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ve already talked to our Jiffy-bag posting scumbag?’

King grunted. Shook his head. ‘When do I ever get lucky? I tell you, it’s—’ His phone launched into ‘Fairytale of New York’ and his whole body caved in on itself, as if someone had let the air out of him. Shane MacGowan’s booze-soaked voice echoed in the stairwell.

‘You going to get that?’

‘Gah...’ He yanked his phone out. ‘WHAT?... No, I don’t have to, Gwen. I don’t have to at all. You lost that privilege when—’ He turned away from Logan. ‘Over my dead body!’

The sound of feet clattered down the stairs from somewhere above.

‘No, Gwen, you listen to me for a change: I paid for that flat and you—... Oh for God’s sake.’

The feet got louder.

‘You know what? I don’t care what your friends say.’

Rennie burst around the corner, battering towards them from the floor above, clutching a file to his chest, pink cheeked, a big grin on his face, eyes wide. ‘We got him, we got him, we got him!’

Logan stared. ‘No.’

King turned. Lowered the phone. ‘Sergeant Rennie, did you just say what I think you said?’

‘We got him.’

‘YES!’ King poked at his phone’s screen, then stuffed it in his pocket. ‘Where?’

‘Ah... Not “got him” , got him, but we know who he is. A sergeant from Highland and Islands called — recognised the guy in the hoodie from that video we sent out.’

Silence.

Logan hit him. ‘Any chance you could actually tell us?’

‘Our boy’s one Haiden Lochhead, twenty-six, Aquarius.’ Rennie held up the file. ‘Form for assault, drugs, robbery, and demanding money with menaces. And he’s on the lam — ram-raided a jewellery shop in Elgin, got six years. Did a runner from the work placement programme a month ago.’ Eyebrows up. ‘And get this: his dad? World-famous , violent, independence-at-any-cost dickhead, Gareth “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead!’

King frowned. Leaned back against the wall. ‘Like father, like son.’

And finally they had somewhere to start looking.

If Haiden Lochhead’s dad was a violent Alt-Nat tosser, maybe King was right. Maybe Haiden was just carrying on the family business?

Logan pointed. ‘Rennie: get a lookout—’

‘Already got one. Kinda redundant as our Haiden’s on a recall order, but “a belt-an’-braces stop yir brikks fae fa’in doon”, as my dear old nan used to say.’