Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

She stabbed the paint and assaulted the wall. ‘I — don’t — know — her!’ Bash, slash, bash. ‘Jesus...’

‘OK.’ King nodded. ‘What about Councillor Matt Lansdale?’

She paused. Frowned. ‘Lansdale... Wasn’t he that tosser who was big in the local “No” campaign? All condescending and slimy about how Scotland isn’t big enough or clever enough or hard-working enough to go it alone?’ A snort. ‘Yeah, now I think about it, Haiden’s dad hated the guy. Was going to send him a bomb in the post, but they banged him up for shooting that property developer, didn’t they?’

King’s face sagged a bit, probably realising that this’d all been one huge waste of time. ‘Is there anything you can tell us? Anything about where he might be hiding? Any favourite haunts?’

‘Pfff... I remember him wanking on about family holidays in Cruden Bay? And they went to Loch Lomond to see some folk festival every year too. And stone circles. The whole bloody family was obsessed with stone circles.’ She put the brush down. ‘He’s killed them, hasn’t he? Haiden’s killed Wilson and Lansdale. I always knew he’d end up killing someone.’

‘So he was violent, then?’

Another laugh. ‘What, to me? I’d have ripped his nuts off and made him eat them.’ She shook her head, as if trying to dislodge the ridiculous image. ‘No. Haiden would never hit a woman. Not a chance in hell. Wouldn’t dare.’ She picked up the brush and got back to work. ‘His harridan mother beat that shit right out of him when he was wee.’

Logan started the Audi’s engine and they sat there as the air conditioning’s cooling fingers massaged the oppressive heat away.

Cindy’s mum, Mrs Shouty, stood in the doorway to number sixteen, glaring out at them.

‘What do you think?’

King fastened his seatbelt. ‘She’s definitely lying about not knowing Mhari.’

‘Yup.’

‘Jealous Haiden’s found someone else? You know what women are like.’

Logan frowned at him. ‘Bit misogynistic.’

‘You’ve never been married, have you?’ He pulled out his phone and turned it on again. ‘OK, you explain it.’

‘Maybe she and Cindy were friends? Want to nip out and see if the mother recognises her?’

‘Not really.’ But then his phone started to ding and buzz as all the texts, voicemails, and emails that’d been sent since they drove out of Altens arrived in a rush. A grimace, then he dumped it on the dashboard and produced a ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN?’ poster from his jacket pocket. Got out of the car. Then clomped over to where Mrs Shouty stood and held it up.

Logan dug out his own phone and gave Rennie a bell.

‘Wassap, boss man?’

‘How you getting on with Haiden’s associates?’

There was a disappointed hissing noise. ‘Imagine a sleeping bag full of angry bees and you’re not far off it.’

‘They not cooperating?’ Suppose that was only to be expected. Haiden’s mates were hardly likely to be the most civic-minded members of the local community.

‘Not so you’d notice, no.’

Outside, at number sixteen, it looked as if Cindy’s mum was giving DI King a bit of a shouting at.

‘How many more have you got to go?’

‘Pffff... About a dozen? Everyone says they’ve not seen him in ages. Even before he went to prison.’

‘Hmmm... What about Ravendale?’

There was a pause, and what sounded like muttered swearing. Then, ‘Just on my way to do it now, Guv.’

Yeah, right. And the moon was made of marshmallow.

King clearly thought he’d been shouted at enough for one day, because he about-faced and stomped towards to the car, ramming the poster into his jacket. Face like a ruptured haemorrhoid.

Suppose they should really head back to the office now and...

Logan frowned. Hardie was probably right about steering clear of Divisional Headquarters until they’d actually achieved something. ‘Rennie? Email me the list and who you’ve seen so far. Might try one or two on our way in.’

‘Will do.’ Then he lowered his voice to an angry whisper. ‘And may I just say, before you go, that I owe you one for saddling me with bloody Tufty!’

That was worth a smile. ‘It’s good for you. Builds character.’ He hung up as King yanked the passenger door open and threw himself into the seat. ‘Let me guess...?’

‘Never seen her, we’re all a bunch of useless bastards, and we should be ashamed of ourselves.’ He hauled on his seatbelt. ‘Why do we bother?’

Logan frowned at the house, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

‘Well?’ King clipped on his seatbelt. ‘What are we waiting for?’

‘Seems a bit... odd, doesn’t it? Haiden’s ex says he would never hit a woman.’

‘So?’

‘How come Mhari Powell has a black eye?’

‘Because people change. Because he’s spent three years in prison. Because he’s a violent dickhead.’ King stared across the car at him. ‘Or maybe Mhari bastarding Powell lied about that as well? She lied about everything else.’

True.

Cindy’s mum was still glowering at them from the open front door. She must have seen Logan looking, because she raised both middle fingers in the Audi’s direction, teeth bared in a snarl.

He pulled away from the kerb, making for the main road north again. ‘I love it when members of the public help with our inquiries. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.’

King looked up through the windscreen as Logan parked in front of the block of flats. ‘This us?’

Whoever built it either didn’t have much of an eye for architecture, or hated buildings and everyone who lived in them. Four storeys of bland grey harling, punctuated with white-framed windows and a flat roof. The only decorative touch was the narrow concrete portico that sulked above the entrance. Not exactly welcoming.

Logan checked Rennie’s email. ‘Robert Cockburn, AKA: Gonorrhoea Bob. Previous for drugs and assault. Did six months in borstal with Haiden. Not long finished a two stretch for a racially motivated attack.’

King got out of the car. ‘Want to bet he’s got tattoos on his neck?’

Turned out King was right: ‘Gonorrhoea Bob’ had a thistle on one side and a spider’s web on the other. Daggers, skulls, and saltires on the back of his hands. Probably a ton more lurking beneath his crisp white shirt, black tie, suit trousers, and trainers. Hair Brylcreem-oily and parted on one side. Looking so buttoned-down he was liable to pop at any moment.

His flat was the kind of spotless that usually came with a diagnosis of OCD, every surface gleaming, the air thick with the sharp plastic smell of lemon-scented polish. The mismatched collection of charity-shop furniture had probably never been cleaner in its life.

Gonorrhoea Bob nodded and blinked at them. ‘I know, and I’m sorry, but I was a different person then. The man that I was died when I accepted Jesus into my heart.’

King settled onto the couch. ‘You kicked an Asian shopkeeper half to death for having a “Better Together” sign in the window.’

‘And I’ll have to live with that till the end of my days.’ His Adam’s apple bobbed like a vulture’s beak. ‘All I can hope is that I get the chance to redeem myself before I stand in front of Saint Peter.’

Logan pulled out his notebook. ‘When did you last see Haiden Lochhead?’

Tears sparkled in Gonorrhoea Bob’s eyes. ‘I don’t see anyone from those days any more. That was the old me. I changed when—’

‘When you let Jesus into your heart. We know.’

Sun sparkled on the surface of Duthie Park’s boating pond, the water a good bit greener than the River Dee on the other side of the road. A handful of couples were spread around the outside of the pond, chucking torn-up bits of sliced white while the ducks cackled their Sid James laughs. Bullying their way to the soggy morsels.