Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

‘Elderly I–C-One Male on Whitehall Place is hurling excrement at passers-by.’

Rennie grimaced across the car at Logan. ‘And is it his own or...?’

‘He’s apparently got several large carrier bags with him, if that helps?’

‘Ah. Yes. OK.’ He pulled his eyebrows up and showed Logan all of his teeth. Mouthing, ‘Do you want?’ in silence.

Not a chance in hell.

Logan shook his head.

Rennie nodded and pressed the Airwave’s talk button. ‘Control? You know, I’m sure the first responders don’t need Professional Standards muddying the waters. Right? Breathing down their necks.’

‘More comfortable throwing it than having it thrown at you, eh?’

‘You’re breaking up, I can’t... it... hello?... hear...’ He made hissing noises into the handset, then tossed it onto the seat behind him. ‘Yeah, let’s not do that.’

Logan killed the siren and flickering blue lights, as he merged with the slow-moving traffic again. ‘Not that I wouldn’t have helped out if I was needed.’

‘No. No. Me too. Definitely.’

Big granite buildings crept past on the left. Mostly offices now, but the occasional one still kept as a private residence for people with utterly shedloads of money. Jammy sods.

Logan followed the Golf in front past one of the swanky boutique hotels. ‘What happened about those lookout requests, by the way?’

‘Lookout...’ Rennie looked at him, mouth hanging open. Then, ‘Oh, the ones on Haiden Lochhead! Aha. Yes.’ A nod. ‘From Land’s End to Lerwick, we’ve had about sixty-four reported sightings. All of which will be from the kind of nutters who frequently mistake their own knees for Lord Lucan and Shergar.’

‘Local forces looking into them?’

‘And bitching mightily about it.’ He gave a big pantomime sigh. ‘I don’t know why we bother asking the public stuff. Don’t get me wrong: they’re not all idiots, but it’s a sodding large percentage. I tell you—’

His Airwave gave its three point-to-point bleeps and he jumped in his seat. ‘Eek!’

A muffled, ‘Control to Alpha Whisky Six Three Two, safe to talk?’ burst out into the car.

Rennie turned and fumbled for the handset, holding it like a pinless grenade as he took the call. ‘If this is about the auld mannie with bags full of jobbies, I’m not interested.’

‘Have you got Inspector McRae with you?’

A sly expression slunk its way across his face, making him look a bit like a sunburnt weasel. ‘Depends. Who wants to know?’

‘One: tell him to sign out an Airwave handset. I know he’s been off on the sick, but that doesn’t mean he’s exempt from carrying one.’

Logan’s shoulders tried to drag him down, along with the groan that accompanied it.

‘Second: DCI Hardie says he wants to see him in his office ASAP. Only he used a lot more words than that, many of which I can’t repeat in an open-plan office.’

Oh joy of fabulous joys.

‘And thirdly: tell Inspector McRae it’s nice to have him back. Even if he hasn’t bothered popping past to say hello yet.’

Rennie nodded. ‘Will do.’ Then returned Satan’s Telephone to his pocket with a grimace. ‘Wonder what’s crawled up Hardie’s backside and set up base camp. Maybe he’s got a hangover from going on the lash with you last night and wants to take it out on someone?’

‘Try not to sound so pleased about it.’

‘Pleased? Moi ?’ A grin. ‘So, given the choice: being shouted at by Hardie, or helping out with that jobbie-flinging grandad, which one sounds better?’

Either way, he probably wasn’t going to like what was thrown at him.

King’s incident room felt a lot smaller today, which probably had something to do with the extra desks, chairs, whiteboards, and computer kit that had been squeezed into it. A row of support staff were battering data into the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System so it could churn out actions. Because following orders from DCI Hardie and all the monkeys further up the tree wasn’t bad enough, now they got to do what a computer program told them as well.

A couple of plainclothes were on the phone, but other than them and the HOLMES team, most of King’s new seats were empty.

He was at the front of the room, drawing up some sort of roster on the smaller of the assembled whiteboards.

Logan joined him. ‘Nightshift make any progress?’

A grunt. ‘Take it you saw this morning’s papers?’

‘No mention.’

King shook his head. ‘Don’t know if I should be pleased or not. This thing’s been hanging over me that long...’ A deep breath and a frown. ‘Nah. If it’s going to come out, better it’s on our terms, not Edward Sodding Barwell’s.’ Sounding as if he was trying really hard to believe it.

Rennie slunk in, almost completely silent as he padded over to loom behind one of the plainclothes officers. The boy had definitely been practising that.

King picked up a copy of that morning’s Aberdeen Examiner and slapped it against Logan’s chest. ‘What the papers are full of is Professor Wilson.’

Logan unfolded it, smoothing out the front page. A photo of Wilson at some white-tie do sat beneath ‘WERE PROF’S MISSING HANDS DOMESTIC TERRORISM?’ Logan shuddered. ‘God, I hope not.’ Clearing his throat and reading the article out loud. ‘“Prominent Leave and Unionist campaigner Professor Nicholas Wilson, brackets sixty-eight, may have been the target of domestic terrorists, says a source close to the investigation—”’

‘Which is journo-speak for, “We made it all up, but let’s pretend the police said it.”’

Rennie leaned on the desk behind his victim. ‘Ever notice how Brexiteers always seem to be hardline Unionistas?’

‘Gah!’ The plainclothes officer nearly jumped out of his seat, turning to stare at him. ‘Where the hell did you come from?’

‘I mean, don’t get me wrong: I’m perfectly happy with us staying part of the UK, but even though Brexiteers think the European Union is undemocratic and crap, apparently the so-called United Kingdom is total peachy bananas. Scotland votes remain, England votes leave, and we all know what a gargantuan wank-shambles that turned into. How is it democracy when they don’t give a toss what we think? No wonder the Alt-Nats hate them.’

A small smile twitched at the corners of King’s mouth. ‘Don’t you have something useful to do, Sergeant?’

‘Already doing it.’ He stuck his arm out and made a big show of checking his watch, then raised his eyebrows at Logan. ‘His Holiness, the Detective Chief Inspector of Hardie, requested the delight of your company ASAP, remember?’

Logan ruffled the newspaper. ‘Look at it: they’ve got two pages of commentary on what the severed hands and “The Devil Makes Work” mean. Two pages. Everyone from a forensic psychologist to that knoblump off of Big Brother .’

‘Ooh, Scotty Meyrick? I liked him on that.’ Rennie poked Officer Jumpy. ‘What was his catchphrase again?’

King shook his head. ‘Apparently the Professor was meant to be appearing on Any Questions at the end of the week, so, as you can imagine, the BBC are taking a particular interest in the case. Hardie’s had to fend off the Today programme, the World at One , Jeremy Vine, and those shouty ones from Radio Five Live so far. I was on the receiving end of a twenty-minute rant about it after the morning briefing.’

That explained the summons.

‘So much for last night’s team-building, then.’

‘Which is exactly why Haiden Lochhead sent those hands to the BBC studio.’ King crunched his way through an extra-strong mint. ‘He’s got us under siege and eating our own young.’