Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

‘Because you swore there wasn’t!’

‘As far as I knew, there wasn’t! We didn’t know about the parcel. How were we supposed to know about the parcel?’

‘Don’t try to obfuscate this. You’re—’

‘Oh, what, we’re supposed to be psychic now? They sent Lansdale’s ears, eyes, and tongue to an empty office .’ Getting louder and louder. ‘It’s not my fault Mhari and Haiden are morons!’

They glared at each other for a couple of breaths.

Then Jane threw her hands in the air and treated the ceiling tiles to a rattling snarl. Then sagged in her seat again. Shook her head. ‘It’s too late to put a statement out. We should’ve done it right at the very start when I said we should. Now we’d need a breakthrough of massive proportions before we go anywhere near King’s past!’

Hardie grimaced. ‘Or a sodding miracle.’

As if they could ever be that lucky.

Reporters and cameras packed the press briefing, every chair taken, with more standing along the far wall and down both sides, all staring up at the podium as Hardie finished the official update.

Behind him, the screen displayed a pair of photographs — one of Haiden Lochhead, and one of whoever ‘Mhari Powell’ really was. ‘If you know these individuals, or have any information about their whereabouts, please: get in touch. You can make a real difference.’ Hardie nodded at Jane and sat down as she stood.

Her smile didn’t exactly look genuine. To be honest, she looked as if she was about to stab someone. ‘Now, any questions?’

An explosion of hands shot up, their owners shouting over each other, questions reduced to little more than a barrage of noise by the time they reached the podium.

Jane looked even more stabby than before. ‘One at a time! One at a time!’ She pointed. ‘Yes: Alan.’

The wee teuchtery man raised his iPhone. ‘Aye, fit aboot that video showing Professor Wilson in the chest freezer. Hiv you foond oot fa posted it?’

King stuck his chin out. ‘We are investigating that at the moment.’

‘OK, who’s next? Phil?’

‘Philip Patterson, Sky News. Sources tell me a suspicious package was delivered to Councillor Matt Lansdale’s office last week and that you’ve seized it as evidence. My source says it stank of decomposing meat. Does the package contain Councillor Lansdale’s severed hands?’

His fellow journalists turned to stare at him, hungry. Then back towards the podium in anticipation of a feed.

Hardie folded his arms. ‘I think we’ll let Inspector McRae answer that one.’

Rotten sod.

Logan frowned, as if considering the question. Also known as stalling for time. There had to be a way to wiggle out of this... Aha! ‘A package was recovered from Councillor Lansdale’s office this afternoon. Its contents are being examined at the moment, but I can confirm the package does not contain Councillor Lansdale’s hands.’ Which had the benefit of being one hundred percent true and completely misleading. ‘I won’t expand on that any further for operational reasons.’

The room exploded again — questions making a wall of jagged sound.

‘Anne Darlington, BBC. You claimed yesterday that Councillor Lansdale’s disappearance wasn’t linked to Professor Wilson’s. Are you now admitting you were wrong?’

‘We aren’t issuing any further comment on this aspect of our investigation for the time being.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Why are you so afraid of the truth, Inspector?’

‘We’re not “afraid of the truth” we’re doing our job. Next question.’

In the middle of the press pack, Edward Barwell stood, a big smile on his smug face. ‘I’ve got one for DI King.’

Oh God, here we go...

‘What do you think Professor Wilson’s family will say when they find out what you did?’

An audible ‘Oooo...’ went through the assembled journalists. Microphones, cameras, and phones swung around till they all pointed at Barwell.

King just stared.

‘What’s the matter, Detective Inspector: terrorist got your tongue?’

Fidgeting in the ranks.

You could taste the anticipation in the air — sharp and metallic. Everyone waiting for Barwell to stick the knife all the way in and twist it.

A deep breath, then King got to his feet. Cleared his throat. Looked out at the assembled ranks of cameras and microphones. ‘I have a statement I wanted to make before we started the briefing today, but it was felt that it might detract focus from the investigation.’ His right hand trembled. He clasped it in his left. ‘When I was sixteen, I did something very stupid in order to impress a girl...’

Barwell sat back down and grinned .

King drooped in his seat, arms hanging limp at his sides, looking as if someone had shot his puppy and made him eat it.

The waiting room outside the Chief Superintendent’s office wasn’t ostentatious — clearly Big Tony Campbell didn’t feel the need to flaunt his authority — nothing fancier than a desk and a couple of chairs, a pair of suspiciously healthy-looking house plants, and a spud-ugly assistant hammering away at a keyboard.

King gave another long, hissing sigh as the sound of raised voices came from behind the closed office door again.

Couldn’t make out any words, but the tone was clear: not — sodding — happy.

Logan thumbed a text message into his phone:

Jeffers — where are my DNA results? I told you we needed them ASAP!

SEND.

King turned in his seat, fixing Logan with those shot-puppy eyes. ‘I think that’s the most humiliating thing I’ve ever had to do in my life.’

‘Hmm?’ He pulled a face, hamming it up. ‘Try changing a screaming toddler’s nappy, when you’re dressed as a “Silly Pirate” and she’s got explosive diarrhoea.’ A shudder. ‘I still get flashbacks.’

‘They’re going to fire me, aren’t they?’

‘Bright orange, and it went everywhere . Like one of those dye-packs going off in a duffel bag full of stolen money.’

That almost earned him a smile. ‘I know what you’re doing.’

‘How one wee girl managed to produce so much... liquid horror is beyond me. I swear to God, she pooped three times her own body weight in about fifteen seconds.’

Back to staring straight ahead. ‘Just because my career’s drowning, doesn’t mean yours should get dragged down with it.’

That’s the spirit.

‘They’re not going to fire you.’

‘I’m serious, Logan. Listen to them.’

More angry voices. What sounded like someone bashing the tabletop with a fist.

Logan put his phone away. ‘It was the smell , though. You think it was bad in the mortuary today? Four showers later and I could still smell it. Had to burn that pirate costume in the end.’

This time King really did smile, but it was a sad one. A ‘thank you for trying, but it’s terminal’ smile.

And he probably wasn’t wrong.

Hardie’s office had all the fun and joy of a wee-free funeral. He was sprawled in his seat, staring at the ceiling tiles, the desk in front of him littered with paperwork. King was curled over in one of the visitors’ chairs, with his head in his hands. Jane in the other one, massaging her temples, mouth downturned and moving, as if something alive was trapped inside. Leaving Logan to lean against a filing cabinet, scrolling through the home page of the Scottish Daily Post ’s website.

Outside the window, a patrol car’s siren wailed into life. Then faded as whoever it was drove away from DHQ.

Lucky sod.

King looked up at Hardie. ‘But they’re supporting me? You’re sure?’