Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

‘I’m not saying that.’ He crossed to the hand dryer — a motion sensor setting it roaring.

‘Then what...’ King raised his voice over the blower. ‘Then what’s the problem? She screwed... screwed up. Everybody screws up sometimes. God knows... know I have. We all have! But... but we deserve a second chance, don’t we?’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘It doesn’t matter now. Far as Hardie’s concerned: I saw Haiden, we went after him.’

It doesn’t matter?

‘He — got — away.’

King zipped himself up. ‘And we’re going to have to live with that.’

‘Yes.’ Logan wiped his hands dry on his trousers and headed for the door. ‘The problem is: Professor Wilson probably won’t.’

The voice belted out at full volume: ‘Fit like, loons and quines? It’s six o’clock, which means you’re listening to OMG it’s Early! , with me, Rachel Gray. Glad you could join us.’

Gnnn...

Logan forced his eyes open, and blearied at the ceiling, one hand searching for the bloody alarm-clock-radio.

‘It’s going to be another scorcher out there, so let’s get in the spirit with some Alicia Lewis, and “Summer’s Ashes”.’

Tara reached across the bed and hit him, voice mushy and sour. ‘Make it stop!’

‘Take it away, Alicia!’

‘Trying...’ Where the hell was the button?

A horribly cheery hand-clap-and-guitar thing bounced out of the speaker.

She hit him again. ‘Makeitstop, makeitstop, makeitstop!’

‘Baby, can’t you see it’s you and me, and we’re burning?

It’s time we—’

His finger found the button and blessed silence rolled back into the bedroom.

Oh God...

Logan slumped. Groaned. Rubbed at his face. Ground the grit out of his eyes.

Six in the sodding morning.

It felt as if someone had emptied a bin bag into his mouth and then set fire to it. The pounding in his head matching time with the lurching of his stomach.

Who the hell thought flaming Drambuies were a good idea at one in the morning?

He struggled his way out of bed and stood there, drooping, scarred and slightly out of focus in the bedroom mirror.

His reflection grimaced back at him. ‘I hate mornings...’

Logan fastened the epaulettes to his T-shirt’s shoulders on the way to the front door, then bent down and rubbed Cthulhu’s head as she wound herself around his legs. Probably leaving a trail of grey and brown on his itchy police-issue trousers.

Still, at least the rest of him was clean.

She gave an extra loud purr as he got to her ears.

‘Better be nice to Aunty Tara today, she’s in a grump. And be nice to Daddy when he gets home too — it’s going to be one of those days, if—’

His phone launched into its generic ringtone and when he pulled it out the words ‘SUPT. BEVAN’ loomed in the middle of the screen. Great. Because that was bound to be good news.

Logan groaned, then answered it. Doing his best to sound happy to hear from her. ‘Boss, I’m on my way in. You need anything?’

Her New Zealand accent was slightly cooler than usual. ‘I do indeed, Logan. You, in my office. Please.’

Yeah, that didn’t sound good. He stepped out of the front door. ‘Be right there. Call it fifteen minutes if the traffic’s...’

Buggering hedgehogs of doom.

Not even twenty to seven yet, and the driveway was flooded with sunlight, dappling its way through the trees to make leopardskin patterns on the lock block. Birds singing like sarcastic bastards in the trees. Mocking the big empty space where his Audi should have been. But wasn’t. Because he’d left it at Divisional Headquarters last night.

Wonderful.

A strange cat sashayed along the top of the garden wall, as if it was wearing high heels.

He’d have to either get a bus into town, or wake Tara up and plead for a lift.

Oh, she was going to love that.

‘Logan?’

‘Sorry, Super, better make that half an hour.’

‘I see.’ A pause. ‘And when you come in, remind me to discuss your timekeeping as well.’ She hung up.

‘Urgh...’ He bent backwards, wincing up at the bright blue sky. ‘I really hate mornings.’

Right, just had to hope that Superintendent Bevan was ‘morally flexible’ when it came to accepting caffeine-based kickbacks. Logan shifted both wax-paper cups of coffee into one hand and knocked on her door.

‘Come in?’

He did, closing it behind him and placing one of the cups on her desk. ‘Got you a latte, by way of an apology.’

‘Punctuality matters, Logan.’ She peeled back the plastic lid and peered inside. ‘The shift starts at seven , and if you can’t... Ooh, are those sprinkles?’

‘ And marshmallows.’ He lowered himself into one of her visitors’ chairs. ‘You wanted to speak to me?’

‘We don’t approve of bribery in Professional Standards.’ Bevan took a sip. Smiled. ‘But I’ll make an exception this time.’ She pointed at a copy of the Scottish Daily Post , sitting next to her in-tray. ‘Did you see the papers this morning?’

OK...

‘Not yet. Why?’

‘Still nothing about DI King’s past.’

‘Really?’ He helped himself to her copy, flicking through it. Sex scandals, embezzlement, some footballer’s drink-and-drugs shame, a banker caught with an underage girl, a politician caught lying — as if that was even news these days. But Bevan was right. Not so much as a whiff of King. ‘That’ll change. DCI Hardie’s putting out the press release about it at the briefing today.’

Little wrinkles marred her forehead. ‘Ah...’

‘Put it this way: the story’s a landmine. We don’t know when we’re going to step on it, but sooner or later we will. With any luck, a controlled explosion will put the damn thing out of commission.’

‘The thing is — and I don’t mean to cast aspersions here — but it might have been better if you hadn’t let Haiden Lochhead get away.’

‘We didn’t “let” him anything. They pulled our backup and he did a runner. It was bad luck.’

The wrinkles deepened. ‘I’m sure Professor Wilson will think so.’

‘Yes, I said that.’

‘And Detective Inspector King?’

Good question.

‘I genuinely think he’s doing his best.’ A shrug. ‘He can be a little preoccupied with his marriage breaking up, but his work doesn’t seem to be suffering for it.’

‘And yet...?’

‘You know what the job’s like. It’s a pressure cooker full of raw sewage on cases like this.’

She smiled. ‘This another one of your landmine metaphors?’

‘Technically it’s more of a simile.’ Logan returned her newspaper. ‘Does he have a history of anything... worrying on his service record that I don’t know about? Something not in his official file?’

‘Such as?’

‘Something I should be looking out for, so I don’t end up going down with the ship.’

The smile twitched. ‘Landmines, pressure cookers, and shipwrecks. Chief Superintendent Doig never said you were such a clichémonger.’ Bevan went in for a slurp of latte, giving herself a small creamy moustache in the process. ‘I believe you when you say DI King’s a good man, Logan. It’s not his fault life’s handed him this particular basket of ticking time bombs.’ She shook her head. ‘You’ve got me doing it now.’

Logan shifted in his seat. ‘So, I’m putting my career on the line because...?’

‘Keep me informed, Logan. I want this one to end well for a change.’ She pulled over her keyboard and pecked away at it with a couple of fingers. ‘And please try to be on time tomorrow!’