Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

The woman committing art crimes waved at them, then pointed her brush at a hunched figure in an electric wheelchair parked over by the windows, his back to the room.

King marched over. ‘You Gary Lochhead?’

No reply.

Logan joined them, looking out across the road, through the chain-link-and-razor-wire fence at the gubbins of Aberdeen Airport. On the far side of the runways, the control tower was barely visible. A big orange 737 taxied past in the middle distance.

He put a hand on the old man’s shoulder. ‘Gary? We need to talk to you about Haiden.’

A tremor ran through the saggy skin as Gary Lochhead turned his face towards Logan. He’d been a big lad, once, you could see that in the length of his limbs and span of his shoulders, but the arms and legs had withered to sticks, his chest and stomach swollen up so they poked out of his dressing gown. Surgical support stockings. Baldy head playing host to a couple of white tufts in need of a trim. He blinked at Logan, the oxygen line taped to his nose shifting as his dry lips twitched. When the words appeared, they were strangely high and effeminate. ‘You want to talk about Haiden?’

Logan nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Then you can sod right off, can’t you?’

King pulled out his warrant card again. ‘ Police .’

‘Yeah, believe it or not, your big-eared mate’s uniform was kinda the giveaway there.’ His throat twitched, his face darkened, then a gargling cough rattled his whole body, shaking it back and forth as he hacked away. Then spat something dark into a handkerchief, clutched in one shaking liver-spotted hand. Emerging breathless at the other end. ‘I don’t... know... where... he is... I don’t know... what he’s doing... And I don’t... care.’ Sagging into his chair.

Logan tried for supportive and understanding. ‘He’s your son .’

‘Tell him that. Ungrateful wee sod’s never been to see me. Not in prison, not here.’ The other hand came up, curled into an arthritic claw. ‘Far as I’m concerned, Haiden can go to hell and stay there. And so can you.’

King opened his mouth, but Logan shook his head at him and he shut it again.

Gary Lochhead glowered out at the 737 as it pulled away and roared up into the bright blue sky. ‘Eighteen years I was banged up. Eighteen years for what?’

‘You executed a property developer in the Inverness Asda car park.’

Gary waved that away with his claw. ‘He wanted planning permission to build three hundred houses at the Peel of Lumphanan. Bloody cultural vandalism.’

Nope, no idea. And going by the expression on King’s face, he didn’t know either.

A sigh as Gary looked at them in turn. ‘It was where Macbeth died, you ignorant tossers. The real one, not the regicidal monster from Shakespeare’s play — lying Tudor propaganda-spreading bastard. It’s part of our cultural birthright , and they were going to build three hundred houses on it?’ He curled his lip. ‘That’s the trouble with you kids today: you don’t learn your country’s history. It’s all World War One poetry and crop rotation in the sixteenth bloody century. You know why? Because the English control the curriculum and they don’t want you to know we used to be a proud, independent nation!’

He jabbed at his wheelchair’s controls, sending it lurching around through 180 degrees, then whirrrrring off towards the exit at a sedate walking pace.

They followed him.

Logan checked Rennie’s file. ‘What about that heist in Edinburgh? Two point six million in gold bullion, you and your mates got away with, wasn’t it?’

A smile. ‘No idea what you’re on about. I was never charged with that and neither was anyone else.’ The smile grew. ‘ Shame .’

The old man with the knitting lowered his needles and embarked on a maudlin tune in a thin wobbly baritone. ‘Oh my love is lost to me, my heart is nevermore...’ Then trailed away into silent tears again.

Logan cleared his throat. ‘Would you say Haiden was a bright lad, Gary?’

The wheelchair came to a sudden halt. ‘With the amount of weed his mother smoked when she was pregnant with him?’ Another bout of coughing left him gasping. ‘Look... at this... hovel... Four months... to live... and this is where... they stick me... What’s compassionate... about that?’

King looked across Gary’s bald head. ‘This is a waste of time.’

‘Wait a minute.’ Gary Lochhead narrowed his eyes, squinting up at King. ‘Do I know you? You look... familiar. And I never forget a—’

‘I’LL KILL YOU!’ An older man in a blue cardigan launched himself across the lounge at the crying knitter, fists swinging. He battered into him, tipping Knitter’s chair over backwards, the pair of them hitting the beige carpet in a barrage of snarling. Balding pates shining in the sunlight as they punched and bit and kicked. Hard and fast.

The woman with the paintbrush screamed.

Logan snapped his mouth closed and charged over. ‘STOP! POLICE!’

King was faster, launching himself into the melee, grunting as a cardiganed elbow caught him in the face. Logan grabbed Knitter, pulling him away — still kicking and screaming.

‘YOU’RE AN ARSEHOLE, BILL! YOU’VE ALWAYS BEEN AN ARSEHOLE!’ Blood popping from his split lip and scarlet mouth.

‘YOU STAY AWAY FROM MY ZOE!’ Cardigan struggled in King’s grip, lashing out with a foot — the slipper on the end flying off to bounce in the middle of an out-of-focus gameshow contestant.

‘Enough!’ King hauled Cardigan away.

Two burly women in pink scrubs burst in through the archway, the pair of them looking as if they could probably bench-press Logan’s Audi.

The bigger of the two pointed at Cardigan. ‘Mr Barnes! What have we told you about attacking Mr Foster?’

And at that, Knitter went limp and dissolved in tears once more.

Cardigan looked around, frowning. As if trying to work out where he was.

The nurses led the pair of them away.

Gary Lochhead shook his head. ‘Silly sods. They’re at it two, three times a week. Fighting over a woman who’s been dead twenty years. That’s dementia for you.’ He started his wheelchair up again, following them out through the archway.

Left, past reception and into a bland corridor lined with beige doors that matched the beige linoleum. Plaques on every door with things like, ‘MRS S BLAKE ~ “THE LAURELS”’ and ‘MR H PEARSON ~ “DUNTAXIN”’ on them. More horrible oil paintings.

Logan caught up with the wheelchair. ‘It’s really important we talk to Haiden, Gary. Any help you can—’

‘What’s he done?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t—’ Another coughing fit wracked that barrel chest. ‘What’s... he... done?’ Lochhead howched up something brown and spat it into his handkerchief. ‘You know... what?... Don’t... care.’

He turned his wheelchair hard right, bumping open a door marked, ‘MR G LOCHHEAD ~ “SAOR ALBA”’.

The room was small but clean, the open blinds flooding the room with light. A hospital bed took up most of the available space, leaving just enough for a couple of plastic visitors’ chairs and a tiny bedside locker. A wilting bunch of flowers sitting on top.

A big oil painting had pride of place on the wall opposite the bed. Big. At least four foot across, maybe more: a recumbent stone circle, surrounded by pine trees, in vibrant tones of green and blue and purple. And about a million times more accomplished than the rubbish hanging outside in the corridor and residents’ lounge.

Lochhead’s wheelchair buzzed to a halt in front of the window, so he could scowl out at another view of Aberdeen Airport’s back end.