Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

King had his phone out again. ‘What about Gaelic Gary?’

Rennie reached into his folder and produced a sheet of paper with a magician’s flourish. ‘One address. For I am a top-of-the-range sidekick, remember?’

King grabbed it. ‘Get a car, we can—’

‘No.’ Logan dug his keys from his pocket. ‘We’ll take mine it’ll be...’ The media briefing. Four o’clock. Sodding hell. ‘We can’t . Press conference is in twenty-three minutes. You heard Hardie.’

King doubled over and strangled a scream.

Couldn’t blame him.

Logan poked Rennie. ‘Get on the grapevine — I want everything you can find about Haiden Lochhead: last-known address, acquaintances, access to property, past associates, everything. Talk to whoever did him for the ram-raid, his CJ social worker, and anyone else you can think of. And do the same for his dad too.’

‘Guv.’ Rennie turned tail and scurried away up the stairs.

‘HOY! LEAVE THE FILE, YOU TWIT!’

‘Oops.’ He scurried down again. ‘Sorry.’ Handed it over. Pulled a face. Then set off on scurry number three.

Swear that lad had been dropped on his head when he was wee. Several times.

Logan opened the folder: printouts and forms with a single photo lurking behind everything else. A mugshot from Peterhead police station, going by the ID number on the magnetic board Haiden Lochhead was holding, complete with his full name and the date. Definitely the same man from the security footage.

‘Here.’ Logan handed the photo to King. ‘Think this’ll put a smile on Hardie’s face?’

‘Let’s go find out.’

The briefing room was packed, every seat in front of the dais stuffed full of journalists, the back of the room a dark forest of camera lenses. All of them staring at Hardie as he did his little turn. Which, thankfully, meant they weren’t all looking at Logan, or King, or even Jane McGrath with her perfect makeup, hair, and suit. Her professional smile was a bit pained, though.

Someone had set up a projection screen behind the podium, showing off the Police Scotland logo as Hardie soldiered on. ‘... confirm that the human body parts delivered to the BBC Scotland offices this morning do belong to Professor Wilson.’

The hungry hordes shifted in their plastic chairs, licking their lips. Getting ready for the feeding frenzy. No wonder they called it a ‘press pack’, they looked desperate to separate someone off from the herd and tear them apart.

And knowing Logan’s luck, it wouldn’t be Detective Chief Inspector Hardie.

Look at him, sweating away up there on his hind legs, regurgitating the same bland nonsense they vomited out at every press conference: ‘We are appealing for anyone who may have seen this individual to come forward.’

That mugshot of Haiden Lochhead, from Peterhead station, appeared on the screen behind him, but cropped so you couldn’t see the board with his name on it.

The pack breathed in, tasting the air.

‘If you do see him, do not approach him. Call nine-nine-nine.’ Then Hardie nodded and sank back into his seat.

Jane stood. ‘Thank you, Detective Chief Inspector.’ She looked out at the salivating animals. ‘Any questions?’ A flurry of hands shot up and Jane pointed at one of them. ‘Yes: Anne.’

A young woman with curly blonde hair lowered her hand. ‘Anne Darlington, BBC. Do you have a name for the individual you want to talk to?

‘We do, but we’re not releasing it at this time. Donny?’

Donny looked as if he’d dressed in the dark, forgotten to shave, and might have died sometime in the last thirty-six hours. ‘Donald Renlinson, Scottish Independent Tribune . DCI Hardie, is it true that Professor Wilson’s disappearance is linked to that of sext-scandal councillor, Matt Lansdale?’

Hardie pulled up his chin. ‘Our officers have looked into this and we can confirm that there’s no connection between the two men. We are, however, concerned for Councillor Lansdale’s safety and urge him to get in touch.’

And then Edward Barwell raised his hand, a smug smile on his smug face. It went with his smug haircut and Rupert Bear waistcoat. Everyone on the dais stared at him.

Jane cleared her throat and moved her finger somewhere less dangerous. ‘Yes: Muriel.’

If being passed over bothered Barwell, he didn’t show it. If anything, his smile got smugger.

Yeah, that wasn’t a good sign.

‘Muriel Kirk, BBC Radio Scotland.’ She’d swapped her joggy bottoms and ‘I RAN THE MELDRUM MARATHON!’ T-shirt for a sober suit. ‘There was a note with the hands, “The Devil makes work”. Have you identified why the killer included it? What was the significance of sending Professor Wilson’s hands to me at the studio?’ Milking it.

King took that one: ‘We think it was to gain as much media attention as possible. So I think it’s safe to say that you’ve helped him achieve his goal.’

Muriel narrowed her eyes at that. But before she could open her mouth, Jane’s magic finger had moved on again:

‘Yes: Phil.’

‘Phil Patterson, Sky News.’ Small and hairy, like someone had shrunk a Royal Navy Action Man in the wash, only without the baggy sailor suit. ‘Can you tell us if this individual has killed before? Is he a danger to the public?’

‘We can’t comment on any previous convictions.’

Hardie nodded. ‘But I would like to repeat — if you see him, do not approach him, call nine-nine-nine.’

Barwell still had his hand up.

Jane sighed. ‘Edward?’

Here we go...

‘Edward Barwell, Scottish Daily Post .’ Dramatic pause. ‘DCI Hardie, clearly the investigation is going well. Does this mean that Detective Inspector Frank King has your complete confidence and support?’

Silence from the table. Hardie shifted in his seat.

Yeah, because that didn’t speak volumes, did it?

Barwell raised an eyebrow. ‘Detective Chief Inspector?’

Logan poked his elbow into Hardie’s side, hissing the words out the side of his mouth as quietly as possible. ‘Say something!’

Pink flushed across Hardie’s cheeks. ‘ All my officers have my confidence and support, Mr Barwell. What a ridiculous question. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have an investigation to run.’ He stood, motioning for Logan and King to join him as he marched away. Throwing a ‘Thank you’ over his shoulder at the assembled journalists.

Jane clapped her hands together. ‘Thank you, everyone. See me after for photographs of the man we want to talk to.’

The squeal of seats scraping against the grey terrazzo floor filled the room as people got to their feet, conversations breaking out between the press pack, everyone staring at Logan and King and Hardie as they pushed through the door into the police-only part of the station again.

Soon as the door shut, Hardie curled his hands into fists, keeping his voice down, even though they were the only ones in the corridor. ‘Bloody hell!’

Logan leaned against the wall. ‘Not wanting to criticise, or anything, but there’s no way they’re not going read volumes into that big long pause.’

His cheeks darkened. ‘Well what was I supposed to do?’ Then Hardie stomped away a couple of paces, turned around and stomped back again. ‘That wee shite Barwell was playing me! I don’t signal my support, I’m undermining King and the investigation. I do and he can batter us about the head with it when he makes his big terrorist-cell reveal!’

King grimaced at the ceiling tiles. ‘It wasn’t a terrorist cell!’

Hardie stared at him. ‘I think you’re probably best keeping your mouth shut at this moment in time, don’t you?’ A deep breath. ‘Logan, we need to find this Haiden Lochhead and we need to find him now . I’ll free up more men. You can have an extra block of overtime, but — I — want — him — found!’ And with that, Hardie stormed off, muttering to himself.