Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

Who said soon-to-be-murder investigations didn’t have their lighter moments?

Beever popped a pellet of chewing gum, munching as she wheeled her postal trolley along yet another magnolia and glass corridor. Earbuds in, Green Day’s American Idiot rocking out, cos everyone loves a bit of retro every now and then. Plus it was way political.

Gotta admit it was kinda cool — turning Marischal College into the council’s main offices. The building was old as balls, all ornate and spiky granite, and way better than the ugly tower block thing they used to be based in. OK, so when she told her mates she was going to work here they all rolled their eyes so hard it looked like Sonja’s were going to fall out of her ears, but you know what? While they were off doing their work placements in nail salons and hairdressers, Beever was in the seat of power . Where the city’s cogs and wheels turned to make stuff happen.

And OK, so she was only delivering the mail, for now, but that’s what internships were like, yeah? You worked your way up. And Beever was going all the way to the top, baby.

She had a plan .

The school’s careers adviser said you had to dress for the job you want, not the job you got. So Beever turned up every morning, ten minutes early, in a smart-as-shit shirt and tie, neat black trousers, and tasteful trainers, cos who wouldn’t want to promote that?

Oh yeah.

‘Jesus of Suburbia’ accompanied her around the Council Tax Department. ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’ was the soundtrack to dropping off a box from Amazon and a stack of brown envelopes for Trading Standards. ‘Give Me Novacaine’ for the Finance Department. ‘Letterbomb’ in the lift with Fat Doris — which wasn’t her real name, it was really just Doris, but she was big enough for around eight people, stuffing a yum-yum into her gob and moaning on her mobile about how she couldn’t get a date. ‘Homecoming’ for the trek to Customer Service. And by the time ‘Whatsername’ dwannnnnged to an end she was in the new councillors’ bit. A bunch of temporary offices, squeezed into Marischal College while they sorted out the Town House’s leaky sewage problem. Cos you can’t run a city from somewhere that stinks like a greasy paedo’s Y-fronts. Which meant, for now, this was where all the big decisions were made.

How cool was that?

Beever slipped her earbuds into her pocket and dumped her gum in the nearest pot plant. Slapped on the professional smile she’d been working on. Yeah, the braces were a bit of a drawback, but you couldn’t be a politician without straight teeth, could you? Who wanted to vote for someone with a busted-piano-keyboard smile? No one, that’s who.

She made her way from office to office, making polite chit and polite chat. Look at me! Look how young and keen I am! Why yes, I am planning on studying politics when I go to university. But completely not overplaying it.

Envelopes. Parcels. Jiffy bags. You name it: she delivered it. No mistakes made here, thank you very much. Not on Beever’s watch.

One more letter to go and she was done. Time for an ice-cold Diet Coke in the canteen with Lewis — who wasn’t nearly as cute as he thought he was.

Beever held the final envelope up and bared her teeth at it. Ooh, that wasn’t good. The address was written in green ink and you know what that meant: it’d been written by a nutter. Her dad swore on the Sunday Post that green ink was a clear sign of being dangerously fruit-loop mental.

Still, that was Councillor Lansdale’s problem, not hers.

She knocked on the door, but there wasn’t any answer.

No shock there. According to the papers he was totally the victim of some sort of Alt-Nat conspiracy, but Mrs Onwuatuegwu in Finance swore on a stack of Take a Break s that he’d done a midnight flit with one of the temps in Waste and Recycling. And apparently the temp was twenty years younger than him. Total shudderfest, right?

No wonder the dirty old pervert got mail from nutters.

Beever grabbed the green-ink envelope and let herself in.

Not a huge room. Kinda a slap in the face, to be honest, considering how nice some of the other temporary offices were. Didn’t even have any pot plants or paintings — just a photo of Councillor Lansdale, standing there in all his saggy middle-aged glory, shaking hands with the Lord Provost.

Lansdale was one of those shirt-and-tie-with-a-jumper-on-top-under-a-suit-jacket kinda guys. Never met him, but he couldn’t have looked more #MeToo if he tried. Bet he was the kind of guy who...

Beever stopped.

Sniffed.

What the hell was that funky smell ?

She dumped the green-ink envelope on top of the pretty much overflowing in-tray.

It was, you know, like if you go away on holiday? Only you forget to empty the fridge, and when you get home the bacon’s green and there’s mould growing on the leftover corned beef?

A bunch of packages sat in the middle of the desk. Two Amazon boxes and a trio of Jiffy bags.

Big fat bluebottles crawled all over one of the bags, more feasting on whatever that brown yuck leaking out the bottom was, soaking into the leather desk blotter.

God, complete horror show.

She inched closer. Nostrils twitching.

That mouldy corned-beef stink was definitely coming from the Jiffy bag: rank and dark, catching in the base of her throat like she was going to blow chunks any minute — Weetabix and banana everywhere.

Whatever was in that bag it wasn’t good. Wasn’t good at all .

Beever swallowed hard. Then picked up the desk phone and called Security.

It was getting crowded in King’s MIT office as Superintendent Young’s promised extra bodies milled about, making the place look untidy. Far too many of them for the manky wee room. Which meant Logan had to squeeze and ‘pardon me’ his way over to where King stood staring at one of the two new whiteboards.

‘God, it’s like a rugby scrum in here.’

‘Hmm?’ King kept his eyes on the board. Someone had stuck photos of Professor Wilson, Haiden Lochhead, and his dad, Gaelic Gary, to the white surface with little magnetic dots in cheerful colours. Red lines connecting the three of them, a printout of the crime scene report, and lots and lots of question marks. ‘Thing is, what if there isn’t a connection?’

‘The fact Haiden posted Wilson’s hands to the BBC does kinda suggest there is.’

‘Not what I meant.’ King poked Haiden’s photo with a finger. ‘If he targeted Wilson just because he’s a high-profile anti-independence figure, then there’s no real connection connection, is there? Maybe they never met at all, and who Wilson is isn’t as important as what he represents. He could be anyone. Haiden doesn’t—’

‘Boss?’ It was Heather, mobile phone clamped to her chest. ‘There’s some woman downstairs in reception, won’t give her name. Says it’s urgent and she has to speak to you.’ A shrug. ‘Well, you or Inspector McRae.’

Interesting.

Logan raised an eyebrow at King. ‘Perhaps we’d be better together?’

He got a scowl in return. ‘I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.’ King pushed his way through the crowd, making for the door. ‘H: Make sure everyone’s got something productive to do.’

‘Boss.’

King stopped on the threshold and looked back at Logan. ‘Well? Are you coming or not?’

Fair enough.

Logan skirted a knot of plainclothes officers and joined him. ‘Wonder what this mystery woman wants.’

‘Bet it’ll be a waste of time.’ King shoved the door open and they stepped out into the corridor.