Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

Logan stared at him. ‘No. I can’t just “you know” .’ Honestly... ‘Doesn’t matter how much I want to: if I do it for her — if I bend the rules for friends — I’m compromised. Can’t be trusted. I undermine the whole system.’

Silence as King frowned at the rear of Hardie’s monitor. Then a sigh. ‘Yeah, you’re probably right. But—’

‘And why do you care all of a sudden? You’ve done nothing but moan about her since this started.’

‘I know, but—’

The office door banged open and DCI Hardie stormed into the room. Face: red and sweaty. Shirt: stained down the back and under the arms. Eyebrows: furrowed. Teeth: bared. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’

King sat up straight. ‘It wasn’t—’

‘Letting Haiden Lochhead get away! Have you any idea what the media are going to do to us when they find out? Pineapples! Great big sodding pineapples!’ He threw himself into his chair, the impact sending him and it trundling away, till they clunked into the wall. ‘The Chief Superintendent isn’t pleased. And when the man in charge of the whole bastarding division isn’t pleased, I am not pleased. Because he seems to think your screw-up counts as my screw-up!’ Spittle flying. ‘AND I DO NOT SCREW-UP!’ Glaring at them, eyes bulging in his flushed shiny face.

Logan cleared his throat. ‘Maybe we should all take a deep breath and—’

‘Don’t interrupt me when I’m bollocking you!’ Hardie slammed a hand down on the desk. ‘Of all the half-arsed, incompetent, piss-poor excuses for police officers; you should’ve waited for backup!’

King pulled his chin up. ‘With respect, Boss, we didn’t have a choice. We had to move in when we did. I was watching the front of Mhari Powell’s house when I saw Haiden Lochhead look out of the window and spot us. Ellon had pulled our patrol car off on another job, the OSU was an hour and a half away. If we’d waited, he’d have been long gone.’

You what ?

Logan stared at him. Lying little sod. Well, lying big sod, but it was still a lie.

Hardie harrumphed, a bit of the fire fading from his cheeks. ‘He’s long gone now.’

‘Yes. But at least we tried .’ King nodded, agreeing with himself. ‘We couldn’t sit there and do nothing because we didn’t have backup. Would you?’

The fire died, letting the steam leak out of Hardie in a slow disappointed hiss. He sagged in his chair. Rubbed a hand across his eyes. ‘You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry.’ A big sigh. ‘It’s not going to make tomorrow’s media briefing any easier, though. The press will spin it as a disaster and Edward Bloody Barwell will drop his bomb.’

King deflated too. ‘Then my career’s over anyway.’

Probably.

Hardie checked his watch, chewed on his lip for a bit. ‘It’s well past quitting time.’ He pointed at Logan. ‘Open the third drawer down, would you? “Historic Analysis of Traffic Offences 1985 to 1993”.’

OK. Not entirely sure what double parking and driving without due care and attention had to do with Professor Wilson and Haiden Lochhead, but probably best to play along in case Hardie was still flammable.

Logan rattled open the filing cabinet drawer. Instead of hanging files, there was a cardboard box, about the size of the ones printer paper came in. He lifted it out and stuck it on the desk.

Hardie opened it, pulling out three crystal tumblers and a decanter half-full of amber liquid. He poured a stiff measure into one of the glasses and handed it to King. Then did the same for Logan. ‘We’ll issue the statement at the start of the briefing: get Jane to put a hard positive spin on it. Play up how you almost caught Haiden Lochhead today.’ Hardie poured himself one and pointed it at King. ‘You got into a scuffle with Lochhead, right?’

‘Scuffle?’

‘The scrapes and dirt. You tackled him, but he escaped?’

King brushed away another clump of pale beige. ‘Went hammering around a corner, slipped on a pile of lawn clippings, and collided with someone’s fence. Then the ground. Think they’d been out with the hose earlier.’

Hardie’s face fell an inch. ‘Oh...’ He shrugged and raised his glass. ‘Jane will still be able to spin it. Slàinte mhath !’

King raised his. ‘ Slàinte mhòr !’

Ah well, might as well join in.

Logan held his up too. ‘ L’chaim .’

They clinked glasses, then King and Hardie took massive swigs while Logan barely sipped at his. A warm smoky wash of peat grabbed at his tongue, making the edges tingle and numb. Like drinking oak-aged Novocaine.

They both frowned at him. Probably wondering why he hadn’t scoofed half the glass, like they had.

‘Driving.’

Hardie shook his head. ‘Leave the car here. We’ll make a night of it. About time we did some team building!’

Yeah...

King whacked back the last of his whisky and raised the empty glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

Music blared through the open toilet door, loud and clear, then fading to a muffled thump-and-grind as the door bumped shut again. The sharp rancid-vinegar of a pub gents’ mingling with the weird artificial-mango scent spritzing out of the air freshener mounted on the wall.

Logan’s knees weren’t working at full strength for some reason, making him wobble a bit as he directed the stream of wee after a lump of someone’s discarded chewing gum — chasing it up and down the trough.

The newcomer took up position at the opposite end. Belched. Did a little wobble of his own as the sound of a zip joined them at the urinal. ‘Can’t remember...’ Oh, it was King. He burped and wobbled some more. ‘Can’t remember the last time I went... went out drinking with...’ another belch, ‘anyone from work.’

‘Nope.’

The chewing gum performed a little pirouette and headed off the other way. Slippery customer.

‘That’s the trouble... with being an inspector , isn’t it? When you’re... you’re a constable , you’re one of the gang. When... you’re a sergeant , you’re the buffer between the dicks in charge and the constables, so everyone likes you.’ His voice drooped like a sad willy. ‘Then you get promoted and... and suddenly you’re one of the dicks in charge.’

‘Yup.’

The chewing gum drifted to a halt — no more pee to push it.

Logan gave PC Naughty a shake and tucked him away again. Did his zip up and stiff-legged over to the sinks. No funny business, knees!

Now wash your hands.

King’s back was reflected in the graffiti-scrawled mirror: broad shoulders and that thick mane of hair. Like he was in a commercial, or a cop show, or something. ‘And it... it wouldn’t be so bad, if it was... like the TV, or the books, and...’ belch number three, ‘and you got to go running about interviewing people and cracking cases, but it’s... it’s ninety percent paperwork and bloody meetings!’ A lurching two-step to the left, quickly rectified. ‘Briefings. Debriefings. Status reports. Stragety... I mean, strategy focus groups. Statistics...’

Logan rinsed the soap off his hands. Took care over the words, in case they got a bit squished by all that lager and the whiskies. ‘You lied to Hardie.’

‘Did I?’

‘You didn’t see Haiden in the window.’

‘Yes I did.’

He flicked water off his hands and onto the brown tiles. ‘Steel knocked on Mhari Powell’s door, because... because she has the impulse control of... a six-month-old Labrador. Not because Haiden Lochhead appeared.’

King shoogled his bum from side to side, probably finishing up. Sounding genuinely puzzled: ‘You would rather... you rather I landed her in it?’