Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

Logan stared at the painting. The more he looked at it, the better it got. The texture in the brushstrokes, the way the light dappled the trees, the subtle shades and forms... ‘Don’t think I know that stone circle, but the colours are—’

‘If you’re thinking we’ll bond over art appreciation, you can save it.’ Lochhead whacked the arm of his wheelchair with his claw. ‘Yes, I painted it. No, I don’t want to be your friend. No, I don’t trust you.’

Logan pointed. ‘ You painted this?’

‘The only good thing about doing sixteen years is Barlinnie’s got an excellent arts programme and there’s plenty of time to practise.’ The claw came up again, trembling in a small circle. ‘Now go away. I haven’t seen Haiden and I don’t want to.’

King prodded at his left cheek, the skin already beginning to swell where Cardigan’s elbow had made contact. ‘He’s involved in the abduction of someone from Aberdeen University.’

Silence.

Then Lochhead turned his wheelchair around, a smile pulling at his sallow cheeks. ‘It’s that prick Wilson, isn’t it? The professor with the hacked-off hands?’

‘It’s vital we speak to—’

‘Haiden did that? Good.’ His voice swelled with pride. ‘Might be some hope for the wee shite, yet.’ Followed by a hacking laugh. ‘You can bugger off then. Even if I knew anything, no way I’d tell you now.’ Lochhead’s wheelchair burrrred around to face the window again.

Their audience was over.

After the relative cool of the care home, the car park outside was like being wrapped in a freshly boiled duvet. Sunlight jabbed back from car windscreens; Logan pulled on his peaked cap, but it didn’t really make much difference.

Gah... Whose bright idea was it to ditch the white shirts for black T-shirts? Did they all sit around trying to decide how to make life worse for police officers? Bet they were the ones responsible for the official-issue itchy trousers, too.

King loosened his tie. ‘Well that was a waste of sodding time.’

‘Look on the bright side — we’ve got a new mystery.’

‘We’ve got bugger all.’ He pulled out his mobile.

‘If Haiden’s as thick as his dad thinks, how come he managed to abduct Professor Wilson without leaving a single forensic trace? How did he manage to hack off, package, and post Wilson’s hands to the BBC and not get a single bit of his own DNA on any of it?’

‘He got caught on CCTV at the shopping centre, so he’s not that bright.’

‘Yes, but the camera he got caught on was only installed the day before . I’ll bet he chose that route to the Post Office because he’d scoped it out in advance. That sound like a moron to you? He’s methodical. He’s planned all this out.’

But King wasn’t listening, he was wandering off, phone to his ear. ‘Milky? Where are we with that lookout request?... Come on, I said I was sorry, didn’t I?... No, I don’t want to drive the English out of Scotland, I just want to know where we are with the lookout request... Uh-huh... Uh-huh.’

A familiar gravelly voice growled out behind Logan. ‘Speaking of “morons”.’

Steel was lounging against someone’s Range Rover, her jacket draped over the bonnet, rolled-up shirtsleeves showing off the kind of pasty white flesh only achievable after many generations of Scottish ancestors. She licked a dribble from the side of what looked like a strawberry Mivvi.

‘What are you doing here?’

She took a big bite. ‘Might be playing hookie and eating iced lollies. Or I might be using some of that world-renowned initiative of mine.’

One of those hessian bag-for-lifes sat open at her feet.

Logan peered at it. ‘Got any more lollies?’

Steel reached into her bag and pulled out a box of six. Sooked the last chunk off her lolly stick and pinged it in through the Range Rover’s open sunroof. ‘Depends.’

Typical. He pulled on his most deadpan of voices. ‘Oh, do pray demonstrate the fruits of your world-renowned initiative, Detective Sergeant.’

‘That’s more like it.’ She unwrapped a blackcurrant one — already starting to sag in the heat. ‘Haiden Lochhead was done for ram-raiding a jeweller’s shop in Elgin, right? Do you know why he did it?’

‘The money.’

‘You know that statue of the Duke of Sutherland the Alt-Nats are always moaning about? A teeny-weeny birdy tells me he was after buying an arse-load of explosives to blow it up. Never came out at the trial, shock horror.’

‘Then how do you know?’

‘Initiative.’ She took a big bite, getting purple melt on her chin. ‘I called up HMP Grampian and spoke to one of Haiden’s cellblock buddies. Seems the wee turd was forever banging on about how much he hated the English.’

‘And, let me guess: your teeny-weeny birdy didn’t like that. Because he was English?’

Steel smiled and held out the box. ‘Good boy. You may have a lolly.’

‘Ta.’ He took one and unwrapped it. The pineapple coating was melting, but the ice cream inside was still cold and delicious. ‘And did Teeny-Weeny Tweetie Pie say anything else interesting?’

‘Oh yes. He said our boy Haiden had a regular visitor.’

King reappeared, no sign of his phone. ‘Who had a regular visitor?’ He stopped and frowned at Steel as she sooked an escaped dribble from her forearm. ‘Why are you here? Thought I gave you work to do!’

‘Well, if you don’t want me using my initiative...’ She dumped the lolly box in her bag-for-life and sauntered off. ‘Give my regards to DCI Hardie, next time you see him.’

King made a worried face at Logan, then hurried after her. ‘OK, OK, I’m sorry. Tell me about this visitor.’

She grinned at him. ‘We’ll take Laz’s car.’

Vast swathes of brittle-looking barley spread out on either side of the Audi as Logan hammered up the A90. Steel slouched in the passenger seat, picking at her teeth with a scarlet fingernail.

King leaned through from the back. ‘You know what bugs me?’

She pulled her finger out. ‘Tough: I called shotgun.’ Then went in for another dig.

‘ No . What bugs me is that we’ve not had a ransom note. “The Devil Makes Work” doesn’t count — where are the demands?’

True.

Logan accelerated, pulling out to overtake a milk lorry on a lovely long straight bit of road. ‘Maybe he doesn’t want anything.’

‘Of course he wants something. Everyone wants something. He didn’t abduct Professor Wilson for fun.’

Steel gave up on her molars. ‘Hate to say it, but I think Kingy’s right: our boy wants something. It’s just not something we can give him.’

That was true too.

Logan pulled into the left-hand lane again. ‘I know we can’t negotiate with—’

Steel reached across the car and punched Logan on the arm. ‘Don’t be damp . I’m no’ meaning that. He’s an Alt-Nat-Nut, right? What he wants is to punish the English for being English. He wants his wee campaign to be on the news. He wants English people worrying they might be next. He wants fear.’

‘He’s not doing too badly, then. And stop hitting people.’

‘There won’t be a ransom note, because he doesn’t need one to get what he’s after, he just needs to do horrible things and for everyone to talk about it.’

King nodded. ‘Which is why he sent Professor Wilson’s hands to the BBC.’

‘Aye.’ She stuck her finger in for another rummage, the words coming out all misshapen and slushy: ‘So the real question is: what bit is he going to send next?’

Logan pulled the Audi into a space in the far corner. The car park was bounded on one side by the high stone wall that enclosed the old Victorian lump of Peterhead Prison. A much higher metal barrier ran along the opposite side, surrounding the newer HMP Grampian, which looked more like a secondary school than a state-of-the-art penal institution.