Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

‘I could get cracking on Haiden Lochhead’s known associates, if you like? See if anyone’s heard from him, or knows where he’d hide out?’

‘Thought King had someone doing that already.’

‘Actually, yeah. Not so much.’

‘But I heard him tell DS Gallacher to do it.’

‘Trouble is she delegated the job to Detective Constable Anthony “Spaver” Fraser, renowned moron of this parish, who decided it was a waste of time talking to anyone from more than three years ago. And as Haiden’s been in HMP Grampian for the last three years...?’

‘Oh for God’s sake.’

‘Sorry, Guv.’ Rennie shrugged. ‘Face it, not everyone’s got a Top-Of-The-Range Simon Rennie Sidekick like you do.’

‘Fine. Go. Talk to them. But take someone with you for corroboration. Tufty could probably do with the exercise.’

Rennie groaned. ‘Not Tufty ! He’s such a dweeb.’

‘Fine. Take Steel instead.’

He opened his mouth. Then closed it again. ‘Ah... Have I mentioned how much I like Tufty? Good officer. Excellent work ethic. Fascinating conversationalist.’

Aye, right.

‘And while you’re at it, go through Ravendale’s visitor’s log, talk to the receptionist. I want the names of everyone who’s been to see Gary Lochhead since he got there.’

Another groan, this time accompanied by a rolling of the eyes in proper stroppy teenager fashion. ‘Guv.’

King shoved out through the back doors, popped a mint in his gob and crunched it as he made his way over. Face a bit pinker and shinier than it had been in Hardie’s office. Eyes a bit more bloodshot. He nodded at Logan. ‘You ready?’

Rennie stood up extra straight. ‘Caught your statement at the press conference, DI King. Very good.’ He raised a fist in salute. ‘More power to your elbow.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ King’s face darkened. ‘Are you taking the piss, Sergeant?’

‘Nope.’ He backed away, hands up. ‘I’d better be... Yeah.’ Then turned and legged it as King stood there and glowered after him.

Logan took out his keys. ‘Think I’d better drive.’

The car dealerships on Wellington Road slid past on either side as Logan took the dual carriageway south.

King, in the passenger seat, crunched his way through yet another mint. Barely five minutes out from DHQ and he’d polished off nearly a whole packet, rubbing at his chest as if he had heartburn. ‘I checked with Inspector Pearce — still no sign of Mhari’s white Nissan Micra on the ANPR. So either they haven’t left Aberdeen, or they’ve got another vehicle.’

Of course they had.

Logan tightened his grip on the wheel. ‘See, this is why I was against going public about Mhari. Soon as it’s all over the media, she knows we’re on to her. But no, Hardie has to have something positive to tell the press.’

Another mint disappeared. ‘Because he knows this is going to come back and bite someone on the arse and he sure as hell won’t let it be him.’

‘What I don’t get is: why didn’t they post a video of Councillor Lansdale on the internet? Haiden and Mhari did one of Professor Wilson, so why not Lansdale?’

‘Far as Hardie’s concerned, we’re expendable.’

Logan overtook an eighteen-wheeler labouring up the hill past the half-arsed Aztec pyramid that doubled as Shell’s headquarters. At least for now. ‘Maybe Lansdale didn’t survive, so they dumped his body and tried again with Professor Wilson?’

King sighed. ‘I meant what I said about not dragging you down with me.’

‘I know. But I’m not—’

‘Fairytale of New York’ blared out from King’s pocket. Again. He screwed his eyes closed. ‘Leave me alone!’ The song played and played and played. King groaned, sagged in his seat. ‘Used to think that was the best Christmas song ever.’ A bitter laugh. A sigh. ‘I met Gwen in New York, Christmas Twenty-Twelve, at a charity bash for the NYPD. Got married six months later and picked this for our first dance.’

His hand drifted to an inside jacket pocket — not the one Shane MacGowan was currently singing in — and stroked something. Maybe that was where he kept his half-bottles of vodka?

A sad smile. ‘Thought it was romantic and ironic. Never guessed it would be so sodding prophetic.’

The song faded away, leaving them in silence.

Aberdeen had thinned out a bit, trees taking the place of warehouses and office blocks.

‘Eight point one million in stolen bullion.’ King let his hands fall into his lap. ‘You think it’s still out there?’

Logan frowned across at him. ‘I thought they only stole two point six?’

‘If they didn’t cash it in, if it’s still lumps of gold, then it’s worth eight point one now. Perhaps Gary Lochhead’s still sitting on it. You heard him — they never charged anyone for the robbery, and they never recovered a penny of it either.’

‘If I was dying of lung cancer in a ratty wee care home, I’d be out there spending it. Not rotting away like a plastic bag full of body parts.’

King shook his head, eyes wide. ‘Eight point one million. The things you could do...’

They took Stonehaven Road at the next roundabout, the grey-brown bulk of The Aberdeen Altens Hotel slipping past on the left — looking more like a prison than HMP Grampian did. Then Cove went by the window.

King broke the silence, obviously doing his best to sound casual. ‘You heard anyone boasting about shagging a married woman?’

‘No.’ Logan put his foot down as they finally passed through the limits, joining the main road south. ‘Would it help? To know?’

Yet another mint met its fate. ‘Least then I’d know who to punch . And—’

His phone launched into ‘Fairytale of New York’ again.

‘AAAAAAAARGH!’ He yanked it out and jabbed his thumb down on the red ‘Ignore’ button three or four times, before switching his phone off and ramming it back into his pocket.

Maybe, just once, Logan could be partnered with someone who wasn’t suicidal, homicidal, or some combination of the two?

But he wasn’t going to hold his breath.

Logan parked in front of number sixteen. Not the prettiest bit of Stonehaven, by any stretch, but not the worst either. Boxy, hutch-like houses faced off across the road — two down, one up, going by the windows, with linked garages joining the whole lot together, making a string of slightly grubby harling with steep, peaked, grey pantiled roofs. It looked a bit like a Toblerone that’d been left in the fridge too long.

Number sixteen’s garage was surrounded by scaffolding, its brand-new pitched roof featuring a man in green overalls nailing pantiles into place. The up-and-over door was gone, the hole where it’d been now filled by studwork for a door and a window, all filled in with builder’s paper.

Stepping out of the Audi’s air-conditioned interior was like being grabbed by a very large hot fist. And squeezed.

King blinked in the punishing brightness, then pulled on a pair of sunglasses, hiding those bloodshot eyes. The front door was tucked away at the side of the building, near the garage. He marched down the driveway to it, squeezing past a blue people carrier, and rang the bell. Turned to Logan. ‘How much you want to bet she’s got tattoos on her neck and—’

The door opened, and a middle-aged woman scowled out at them with hostile eyes and red hair. She looked them both up and down. Curled her lip as if she didn’t like what she’d seen. ‘You took your time, didn’t you?’ She hauled in a deep breath and bellowed back into the house. ‘CINDY!’

Logan tucked his peaked cap under his arm. ‘Did we?’

‘Should’ve been here, telling us before you told the rest of the sodding world.’ Another deep breath. ‘CINDY!’