Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

What she sees in a lump like him is anyone’s guess, but by Christ he’s gonna enjoy it while he can.

She reaches out and puts her hand on top of his as he changes the gears. All it takes is that one wee gesture, and his cock’s like a crowbar.

He grins at her. ‘We did it!’

‘No, Haiden, you did it.’

‘No, you did it.’

She squeezes his hand, then reaches further and puts her hot little hand on his thigh. ‘You were right, baby: they think you’re in Dover, on your way to Calais, and we, my dear Haiden, are free !’

Damn right.

‘Nothing we can’t do, cos we’re a team.’

Her hand drifts up. ‘Go team us!’

Oh yeah. ‘Go team us.’

This time, when she moves her hand, she cups his erection through his jeans. That little bit of pressure making him moan.

Then Mhari turns and looks over her shoulder at the rear seat. Rubbing him as she does. ‘Have you got the...?’

Focus, Haiden. Don’t disappoint her. ‘In the boot: two rolls of duct tape, six foot of electrical cable, box of gloves, decorators’ masks, overshoes, paper oversuits. And check the glove compartment.’

She does, keeping her other hand at its business as she rummages through the usual driver’s manual and service history crap. Then pulls out the carrier bag, opens it, and peers inside. ‘Ooh, pretty.’

‘Knew you’d love it.’ Soon as he saw it, he knew. Cos he’s a damn good boyfriend, no matter what his bitch ex-wife said.

Mhari lets go of his cock to slip the hunting knife from its sheath. Eight inches long, serrated down one side and polished to a glittering shine. She grips it in her left hand and takes hold of him again, licking her cherry-red lips. Squeezing and rubbing till he’s breathing heavy. ‘Baby, we’re going to have so much fun tonight!’

Oh yes, they definitely are...

Logan found King out front, perched on one of the grimy concrete wall / planter things that lined the stairs down to Queen Street. Sitting there, with his back to the station, face to the sun. Shoulders slumped, face hanging. He didn’t look up as Logan sat beside him, just sighed. ‘Well, that’s it, we might as well march ourselves up to Hardie’s office and resign now.’

Logan brushed little bits of coconut off his black T-shirt. ‘It’s not our fault, how were we—’

‘Get it out of the way before the press conference...’ King’s face crumpled, both hands curling into fists. ‘The sodding press sodding conference!’ He sat up straight, putting on a revoltingly chipper voice, complete with cheesy fake smile. ‘Hey, everybody, did you know DI Frank King used to be in a terror cell? Well yesterday he allowed Haiden Lochhead to escape, and today, instead of arresting Mhari Powell, he watched her waltz right out of Divisional Headquarters. Isn’t that super ?’ He sagged again. Groaned. Scowled at Logan. ‘I told you we should’ve confiscated her phone, but would you listen?’

‘How were we supposed to know she wasn’t the real Mhari Powell?’

‘Do you think anyone will care? They’ll just see me letting two Alt-Nat nutjobs get away with murder.’ A big shuddering sigh. ‘I’m royally and utterly screwed. And so are you.’

The scapegoat’s scapegoat.

‘It’s not our fault! We did a PNC check, we got her DVLA records. Everything said she was who she...’ Logan stared off into the distance. They couldn’t, could they? Maybe they could . He stood, a grin spreading. ‘Mhari Canonach Powell — the real one. She was arrested at an anti-Trump rally in Newcastle.’

King didn’t sound in the least bit interested. ‘Good for her.’

Logan poked him. ‘If they arrested the real Mhari Powell, they took her DNA. So what we need is a sample from the fake one!’

‘How are we supposed to...’

But Logan was already hurrying toward the main doors.

King’s voice rang out behind him. ‘Logan! Oh for God’s sake.’

Logan burst in through the doors, scrabbling for purchase on the floor as he took the corner too fast, trying not to collide with a middle-aged balding bloke in a three-piece suit and a screeching toddler on a leash.

‘Hoy!

‘Sorry!’ He kept going, almost slamming into the door through to the side of reception. Fumbling with the keypad entry system as King skidded to a halt behind him.

‘What on earth are you doing?’

Logan wrenched open the door and burst into the corridor.

Skittered to a halt, staring at the cleaner’s cart parked outside the little side office where he and Steel had interviewed the Mhari Powell who wasn’t. ‘No!’

He barrelled over to the open door. A large woman in a blue tabard and baseball cap stood in the middle of the small space, just about to tip the wastepaper basket into a black bin bag.

‘STOP!’

She turned and stared at him. ‘What? I empty bins.’

‘No. Please, put it down, OK?’ Hands up, as if he was negotiating with a gunman. ‘Put the bin down and step away from it. It’s all right, you’re not in any trouble.’

Her eyebrows went up. ‘But I always empty bins.’

‘Not this one you don’t.’ He eased forwards and took it from her hands. Clunked it down on the table. Then took a pair of blue nitrile gloves from his pocket and dipped inside. The first three goes of the lucky dip produced some used tissues, a crisp packet, and a banana peel. All of them got dumped in the cleaner’s bin bag. The fourth go produced a wax-paper cup from the canteen, still smelling of the coffee it’d contained... Sod. There was lipstick on it, but it was the wrong colour. But lucky dip number five was the winner: one wax-paper cup complete with bright-red lipstick smear.

Logan held it up like the Holy Grail and beamed at King. ‘We DNA test this, maybe we can find out who Mhari Canonach Powell really is!’

A polished plastic rubber plant loomed in the corner of the room, its leaves thick, green, and shiny. Logan and King sat in a pair of matching arse-achingly hard chairs. Waiting for the office’s owner to appear.

One wall was taken up by a massive whiteboard — covered in technicians’ names, with a list of case numbers under each of them. The single desk faced a large window, looking out over the Nelson Street lab, where every single workstation was personned by someone in a white SOC suit. Taking samples. Sticking things into machines. Battering away at keyboards. Writing things down on clipboards...

King puffed out his cheeks and pulled out his phone. Thumbed away at the screen. ‘Dr McEvoy’s doing this on purpose, you know. Making us wait.’

Logan shifted his grip on the brown paper evidence bag in his lap and had another look at the whiteboard. ‘Have you seen how many cases they’re working on?’

‘Not the point.’

Logan faced the front again. ‘While we’re waiting, what was that with Mhari Powell? Taking her phone.’

‘She’s not Mhari Powell, remember?’

‘That doesn’t make what you did OK, Frank. As far as you knew, she was just a member of the public and probably a victim of domestic violence.’ Logan shook his head. ‘You need to do something about your temper, or it’s going to get you into trouble.’

King actually laughed at that. ‘Are you remembering they’re going to stand up at the press briefing in...’ he checked his watch, ‘fifty minutes and tell everyone I used to be in a so-called “terrorist cell”? If whoever “Mhari Powell” really is wants to make a complaint, she can get in sodding line.’

Sigh.

‘Frank, I’m Professional Standards. I can’t just let you—’

The office door banged open and a short spiky woman in an unbuttoned old-fashioned lab coat bustled into the room. Bright-yellow shirt. Dark hair greying at the temples, pulled up in a bun and trapped within a blue hairnet. Severe glasses. Nose like an old-fashioned tin opener. She pointed at the evidence bag in Logan’s hand. ‘Is this it?’