Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

‘Leading...? No, no; it’s—’

‘This bumbling cutesy act has to stop! We’re investigating a bloody—’

‘WILL YOU PLEASE LISTEN TO ME!’

Right, it was time for a serious boot up the arse.

But before Logan could lace it up, Tufty was back again: ‘I got a hit off my algorithm. I know who sent that first tweet about Professor Wilson.’

Oh for God’s sake.

‘It was Haiden Bloody Lochhead! We worked that out yesterday , you complete and utter—’

‘It wasn’t him.’

What?

Logan swallowed. ‘It wasn’t?’

‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! I texted and I texted and I left messages and I texted again.’

‘I swear to God, Constable Quirrel, if you don’t tell me who sent that tweet, I’m going to hunt you down and stuff your—’

‘It was Mhari Canonach Powell. Only she’s not Mhari Canonach Powell. Not the real one, anyway.’

Logan stared out through the front windows, where Steel was marching off towards Marischal College. The same direction Mhari had disappeared in.

‘Sarge, you still there?’

‘How can she not be the real one?’

‘I did a search. The real Mhari Canonach Powell’s registered address is a residential psychiatric facility two miles outside South Shields.’

‘So she’s mentally ill?’ Which explained the swivel-eyed Alt-Nat rant about Imperial Aggressors and the English teat. ‘Give them a call, tell them she’s escaped.’

‘She’s not a nutter, Guv, she’s one of the nurses. Studying to be a psychologist. Hold on, I’ll send you a photo from her Facebook.’

Logan’s phone announced an incoming text from ‘FEAR THE TUFTY!’ It was a photo: a gaggle of women in their twenties, all wearing very skimpy tops, very short skirts, and very high heels. All making pouty duck-faces. If you screwed up your eyes, the one in the middle — wearing a sash with ‘BIRTHDAY GIRL!’ on it — sort of looked a bit like Mhari, but it clearly wasn’t her.

‘Maybe she’s the one taking the photo. Did you think about that?’

Tufty’s voice was thin and tinny through the phone’s speaker. ‘It was Mhari’s twenty-third birthday party. In Newcastle. Last night. And here’s one of her getting arrested at that anti-Trump rally...’

Another text, this time from ‘IT’S TUFTALICIOUS!’ In it, the woman from the first picture was dressed in jeans and a ‘NO TO FASCISM!’ T-shirt, grinning at the camera as a police officer led her away in cuffs, surrounded by people with anti-Trump placards.

King tapped him on the shoulder. ‘What’s going on? Why do you look like something horrible’s happened?’

Logan turned away from him, back on the phone again. ‘Well... maybe it’s someone with the same name?’

‘Yeah, if it was just “Mhari Powell”, but with that middle name? No chance. This is the real one: one hundred percent, stake my rubber duckie on it. And that’s not a euphemism.’

‘Buggering...’

Logan barged out through the main doors onto the sun-baked concrete slabs outside DHQ.

He limp-ran to the top of the stairs, standing there looking down at Queen Street. The parked cars. The ‘shoes of all nations’ display in the windows of McKay’s. The granite lump of Greyfriar’s Church, up by the junction. The glittering spines and twirls of Marischal College beside it.

Where the hell was she?

King skidded to a halt beside him. ‘What’s got into you? Why are—’

‘It’s not her!’ He hurpled down the stairs and along the pavement, heat pounding down on his black-clad shoulders. Came to a halt at the junction. A bus rumbled past, followed by a small flurry of bicycles. A crowd of office workers, bustling along the pavements, determined to spend as much of their lunch hour out in the sun as possible.

No sign of Mhari, or whoever the hell she really was.

King grabbed him. ‘Will you tell me what’s—’

‘She’s been lying to us the whole sodding time!’ He did another three-sixty, scanning the crowds. ‘Where did you go?’ One more time around, but she was long gone. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’

The only light in the room came from the bank of TVs that covered nearly a whole wall. All showing various views of Aberdeen city centre and the surrounding areas. A couple of CCTV operators sat at the central bank of controls, fiddling with joysticks to move the cameras, hunting for the con artist formerly known as ‘Mhari Powell’.

Inspector Pearce — mid-forties with a haircut that was a bit too mumsy for her, or anyone else, come to that — pointed at one of the back-wall screens. It showed the junction between Queen Street and Broad Street as Mhari marched into shot. ‘She crosses the road to here...’ The inspector moved her finger to another screen, showing an alley lined with tall granite buildings — a pub, and some shuttered shopfronts. Mhari appeared again, a definite spring in her step. ‘And this is waiting for her on Netherkirkgate.’

It was a rusty white Nissan Micra, last seen parked outside Mhari’s house in Pitmedden. The car sat on double yellows in front of what used to be Craigdon Sports, facing the camera. Meaning the driver was clearly visible.

King whistled. ‘Haiden Lochhead. Sodding hell.’

‘He was parked there about fifteen minutes by the time she turned up.’

Great. Haiden Lochhead, the scumbag they’d set up a nationwide manhunt for, had been sitting right there, barely a three-minute walk from Divisional Headquarters. That would go down well when the top brass found out.

Logan winced. ‘You’d better get back to Port of Dover Police and tell them they can stop searching the ferries and docks.’

‘Oh God...’ King sagged against the wall. ‘They’re going to love that.’

Mhari jumped into the passenger seat and grinned across the car at Haiden, then pretty much leapt over the gearstick to give him a serious snogging.

Pearce sniffed. ‘Any idea who she really is?’

‘Not a sodding clue.’

Snog over, Mhari sat down again, scarlet lipstick all smeared. Then Haiden started the Nissan and drove off the edge of the screen.

‘We pick the car up on Union Street.’ Pearce frowned, naming the streets as the picture jumped from camera to camera, following the Nissan. ‘Past Market Street, Trinity Centre. Right onto Huntly Street. Next time we see it it’s on Carden Place.’ The car chugged past and out of sight. She clicked a button and the screen went blank. A pained smile. ‘Sorry.’

King stared at her. ‘They can’t just disappear!’

‘There’s only so many roads covered by CCTV and ANPR. We’ve got a flag out, though: if the Automatic Number Plate Recognition system picks them up, we’ll know. Till then?’ She shrugged.

Wonderful.

Logan groaned. King covered his face with his hands, swearing under his breath.

Pearce shrugged again. ‘Nothing I can do.’

They were so screwed. ‘She was right here and we let her walk out the front door.’

Pearce patted him on the shoulder. ‘I can offer you a nice slice of coconut macaroon cake, if that helps?’

Yeah, it’s a crappy wee car, but it’s not so bad when you get used to it. Kinda fun, really. Maybe that’s why he’s in such a good mood? Or maybe it’s cos they’ve put one over on those moron coppers.

Muppets.

Or maybe it’s because he’s with her .

Haiden smiles across the Nissan Micra at Mhari. God, it’s amazing how she does that — one minute she’s looking like a librarian spinster, the next like she could suck a golf ball through a garden hose. Sexy and beautiful and smart as a whip.