Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

Rush-hour traffic filled the road before them, slowed to a crawl as they waited in the long, long line for Mounthooly Roundabout.

King was about as slumped as he could be without actually slithering into the passenger footwell. Looking out of the window as Aberdeen’s only pagoda crawled past. ‘God, that was depressing...’

‘Lovely people, Haiden’s friends.’

He scrubbed at his face with his hands. ‘Not everyone who wants independence is like that, Logan. Some of us just want a fairer country to live in. One that makes its own rules instead of having to bow and scrape to a parliament in Westminster we didn’t elect.’

‘Yes, well, technically we do elect them. United Kingdom, remember?’

King waved it away. ‘Rennie was right: all that talk about a “democratic deficit” during the EU referendum — that’s all we’ve had up here for sodding generations!’ He turned in his seat. ‘The last hundred years: do you know how many times England has picked the UK government? Every single time, but three. Three times we got the government we wanted and they didn’t. And even then it was because they couldn’t make up their minds who to put in power.’ A short bitter laugh. ‘And do you know how long one of those three times lasted? Six months — 1974.’

Great. A lecture.

Logan reached for the radio. ‘Told you before: no politics in the car.’

Something drive-timey rocked out of the speakers, completely at odds with the slug’s pace the traffic was actually moving at.

Closer to the roundabout. Closer. Closer...

King turned the radio down. ‘How did you vote in the referendum?’

‘What, the completely secret ballot that I don’t have to disclose to anyone?’

He curled his lip. ‘Yeah, I thought so. You’re a sodding Unionist .’ Imbuing the word with all the warmth of a puddle of yesterday’s cat sick.

‘Don’t be a dick.’

‘Logan, there’s five hundred and thirty-three English MPs and only fifty-nine Scottish ones. They could get together tomorrow and decide to rename Scotland “Whingey Tartanbaws McJockland” and there’s sod all we could do about it.’

Seriously?

‘They’re not going to change “Scotland” to—’

‘It’s just England pushing us around! Us and Wales and Northern Ireland.’ King’s face got more and more flushed with every declamation. ‘Making all the big decisions. Telling us what to do. Ordering us about. The West Lothian question’s a joke: they outnumber us nine to one!’

‘You finished?’ Preferably before you have an aneurysm.

King thumped back in his seat. ‘The UK isn’t a partnership, it’s an abusive relationship.’

King checked his watch, then nodded at the assembled officers. ‘So I want you in here, seven sharp tomorrow. Till then, try and get a decent night’s sleep — no boozing it up. I need you all at your best.’ He pointed at the door. ‘Off you go, then.’

Most of the team stood: some trying to look grim and determined, the rest clearly delighted at getting to go home at last. Support staff, plainclothes, and uniform, all bustling out through the door. Leaving only Milky, Steel, Tufty, Heather, King and Logan as it swung shut again.

Briefing over, King slumped down on the edge of a newly vacated desk, as if he’d been wrung dry. ‘Sodding hell...’

Steel popped her feet up. ‘Everything’s going great, then?’

He turned to Rennie. ‘And you didn’t find anything ?’

All the way through the briefing and he hadn’t made eye contact with Logan once. Had barely spoken to him since the ‘Parliamentary Arithmetic’ rant in the car.

Rennie shrugged. ‘Between us we’ve covered all of Haiden’s known associates and none of them have a clue where he is. Or if they do, they’re not telling.’

Sitting beside him, Tufty nodded. ‘There’s two worth keeping an eye on, if that helps? Really shifty when we spoke to them. Lots of tattoos too.’

Must be this season’s Alt-Nat look.

Logan pulled out a chair and sat. ‘Jacob McCain said he wasn’t allowed to visit Haiden in prison any more, because,’ making quote bunnies, ‘“Mhari” wouldn’t let him. She thought Haiden’s old friends were a bad influence.’

‘Pfff... She’s no’ exactly a wee fairy princess herself!’

‘Does sound like a pattern of control, though.’

There was a single clap and they all turned to look at a smiling Rennie.

‘ Speaking of Fairy Princesses, and straying off topic for a moment, are you all remembering it’s Lola’s big birthday party this Saturday? Everyone’s invited.’ He looked at them in turn, eyebrows raised. No reply. ‘Anyway, Mistress Fizzymiggins wants to know how many people want to make their own magic wand and fairy wings, so she can get enough glitter in.’

King pinched his face closed for a moment. ‘Can we stick to the abductions and attempted murders for now? Please, Sergeant? Can we do that?’

‘Ah. OK.’ Doing his best to sound casual. ‘I suppose that’s sensible.’

Milky filled the ensuing silence. ‘Harmsworth and me didn’t get anything from the guys on Haiden’s cell-block either. Half wouldn’t know Wednesday from a line of coke, and t’other half wouldn’t talk to us if their mum’s life depended on it.’

‘Aye, naebody likes a clype.’

Logan frowned at Steel. ‘Not you too. Got enough of that from Ian McNab.’

‘Before we drift too far from the point, again ,’ Heather checked her notebook, ‘we should concentrate on the local Alt-Nat groups. Someone’s bound to know something.’

‘What about tracking down our fake Mhari Powell?’

Tufty: ‘I know! I know! We could go through all those social media accounts my algorithm found — the ones she’s posting from under aliases and stuff — see if we can figure out where she works, who her friends are?’

‘Good.’ King nodded. ‘Make that your number one tomorrow. I want a list of people to interview. Maybe they’ll be a bit more forthcoming than Haiden’s criminal mates.’

Steel: ‘Search her house too. Bound to get a warrant now we know she’s a faker.’

‘Then that’s your number one. And make sure you’ve got a dog unit with you.’

‘Hey!’ Heather. ‘What about my Alt-Nat theory?’

‘Definitely. Take Milky and hit them up tomorrow. I want a list of groups on my desk by nine. Then go speak to everyone you can ID.’

She looked at Milky, then sucked on her teeth for a bit. ‘Yeah... Might not be the best of ideas, Boss. Alt-Nats tend not to like the English very much, and Milky is a bit...’ Heather made a seesaw motion with her hand, ‘let’s call it “ethnically distinctive”.’

Milky laid it on thick: ‘Gi’oar, ya daft apeth!’ Then an evil smile. ‘If they don’t like the English, I’ll bloody well give them English.’

‘That’s settled then.’ Steel stood and stretched, showing off the pasty dead thing passing for her stomach. ‘Are we done now, oh Great Mint-Scented Leader? Only some of us have wives to get home to.’

A pause as something pained scratched at King’s features. He shook it off. ‘Yes. Fine. Go. All of you.’

She shot him with both finger guns. ‘Later, lumpty-numpties.’

Tufty, Rennie, and Milky scuffed out after her, Heather bringing up the rear.

The door clunked shut behind them and King shook his head. ‘Well, that was a fun day.’

Logan stood and had a stretch of his own. ‘Look on the bright side: up till now, Mhari Powell, or whoever she is, has been playing us all for idiots. At least now we know.’