Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

A uniformed PC stepped out from one of the doors further down the corridor, right in front of him.

Hardie threw his arms in the air. ‘Out the bloody way!’

The PC flattened herself against the wall, forcing an ingratiating smile as Hardie stormed past and out through the doors at the far end. Soon as they’d slammed shut behind him, she turned to Logan and King, hooked a thumb at the closed door, and made a wanking gesture with her other hand.

Then her eyes went wide, presumably because she’d finally realised who Logan was, and making wanking gestures about senior officers was probably frowned upon by Professional Standards. ‘Sorry.’ She made herself scarce.

‘Arrgh...’ King covered his face with his hands. ‘Hardie’s right: it was a trap.’

Of course it was.

‘Then let’s finish this thing before he springs it.’ Logan turned and marched off in the opposite direction to Hardie. Through the double doors and into the stairwell.

King followed him. At least, he did as far as the gents’ toilet. Stopped outside with one hand on the door. ‘I’ll catch up. Nature calls.’

Nature, or the two half-bottles of vodka he bought in Westhill?

Logan shook his head and kept walking.

North Anderson drive crawled past the Audi’s windows. Half four and the rush hour was already in full swing. What the hell happened to people working till five o’clock? Lazy sods should still be hard at it, not clogging up the bloody road system.

Was going to take forever to get to Dyce at this rate.

King scowled out from the passenger seat, crunching his way through yet more extra-strong mints, his face a little pinker than it had been back at the station. Eyes a little pinker too. ‘And you know what makes it even worse?’

Oh God, not this again.

‘You’ve got to let it go, Frank, there’s nothing you can do about it.’

‘What makes it worse is that now , if we put out the statement, it’ll look like we’re only doing it because Edward Barwell’s got us scared.’

They crept forward another car’s length.

‘He has got us scared.’

‘That’s not the point, he’s—’ The opening bars from ‘Fairytale of New York’ burst out of King’s pocket and he bared his teeth. Let the song belt out for a bit. Then sighed and answered it. ‘Gwen.’ He screwed his face closed, one hand coming up to cover his eyes. ‘Oh you have got to be kidding me... No... No, I didn’t... Because I didn’t.’

Yeah, it wasn’t easy pretending not to listen in, because what else was Logan supposed to do — get out and walk?

Mind you, might be quicker than sitting in rush-hour sodding traffic.

Anyway, don’t look at him. Eyes on the road.

‘For God’s sake, Gwen, I’m at work!... No!...’ Getting louder. ‘You know what? I’m not the one having the bloody affair, that’s why!’ He jerked the phone from his ear and hammered his finger into the screen. Slammed the phone down on the seat between his legs. Fumed at the passenger window.

She was having an affair. Well that explained all the angry phone calls.

Logan kept his voice neutral. ‘You want to talk about it?’

Please say no. Please say no. Please say—

‘No I sodding don’t.’

Phew.

The car crawled forward another couple of lengths. Six more and they’d get their turn at the Horrible Haudagain Roundabout.

King rolled his shoulders. ‘She’s sleeping with someone at work. And not someone at her work, someone at mine . Which she takes great bloody pleasure telling me at every bloody opportunity.’

Ooh... Ouch.

‘Any normal woman would run off and be with lover boy, but apparently that’s not vicious enough for her!’ He smacked a fist down on his leg. ‘No, it’s much more fun to call me up every five minutes and jab it in my face.’

‘Do you know who she’s—’

‘I don’t know and I don’t care. Whoever they are, they’re welcome to her.’

Fair enough.

According to the sign out front, Ravendale Sheltered Living Facility was ‘A HOME FROM HOME, WHEN PEOPLE NEED A HELPING HAND’. With its bland grey-and-brown blockwork and patches of beige harling, it looked more like a cross between a primary school and a bus station. The car park was ‘surprisingly’ free of cars, as if the residents’ relatives didn’t actually need to visit, because, you know, it wouldn’t do to interfere...

Logan pulled into a parking space as far away from the handful of other vehicles as possible. No point risking someone scratching his Audi’s bodywork with a carelessly opened door. That was the thing about car parks — people turned into animals.

He pulled on the handbrake, killed the engine, grabbed his peaked cap and Rennie’s file, then climbed out into the roasting sunshine. Within two breaths, sweat prickled across his shoulders, the heat grabbing at his lungs.

All that time spent moaning about last winter and all the ice. Could do with some of that now. Be nice to feel a bit less like a sodding ready meal.

He closed his door as King got out.

‘You OK to do this?’

King didn’t look at him. ‘I’m fine .’

Aye, right.

‘Because I can easily—’

‘I said I’m fine!’ And he marched off, across the car park to the reception doors. Yanking them open and barging inside.

Great.

Logan puffed out a long breath, grimaced, then followed him.

Ravendale’s reception area was every bit as bland as its exterior, only with more pot plants. The sound of some moronic game show oozed out through an archway marked ‘RESIDENTS LOUNGE’, showing a woeful ignorance of the possessive apostrophe. Someone else that looked as if they suffered from the same affliction sat behind the reception desk. Bland and grey, like the room, in a baggy cardigan and a comb-over that wasn’t fooling anyone but its owner.

He looked up and smiled a denture-perfect smile. ‘Welcome to Ravendale. How can I—’

King slapped his warrant card on the desk. ‘I need to speak to Gary Lochhead.’

Captain Comb-Over spluttered and fidgeted for a bit, squinting down at the ID. Then, ‘Ah. Right.’ He pulled on a pair of glasses and peered at it. ‘He’ll probably be in the residents’ lounge, so...’ His mouth closed with a plastic-on-plastic click as King marched off. ‘Oh, you’re going to see yourself there. Right.’

Logan gave Captain Comb-Over an apologetic wave and followed King into the residents’ lounge.

They’d clearly tried to tart the place up, make it homely and welcoming, but it hadn’t really worked. Horrible paintings besmirched the magnolia walls, created by someone with about as much artistic talent as a drunken horse. A beige carpet, mottled with stains. Dusty plastic pot plants. A ceiling-mounted projector casting a slightly fuzzy game show onto one wall, the red and green not really lining up the way they should — subtitles barely legible. The cloying scent of air freshener trying to cover something sharp and yellow. The unmistakable hot wintergreen scent of Ralgex chewing at the edges.

About two dozen residents were more or less present, none of them a day under eighty-five. Some trembling away in wheelchairs, others hooked up to oxygen tanks and/or drips, bags dangling from their chair frames. A woman in the corner was busying herself at an easel, daubing it with oil paint, no doubt producing another ‘masterpiece’ for the lounge’s walls. A bald man weeping into his knitting. A balding woman shouting the answers at the fuzzy projected contestants. ‘Lusitania, you moron! Lusitania!’

King raised his voice over hers, ‘Gary Lochhead?’