Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

‘Excuse me if I don’t throw a parade.’ King picked himself off the edge of the desk, still not making eye contact. ‘I spoke to Inspector Pearce: no sign of the white Nissan Micra.’

‘They’ll have seen the media coverage, dumped the car somewhere, and got the hell out of Aberdeen. You’d have to be thick as mince to hang about after all this.’

King scrubbed at his face, shoulders bowed. ‘Maybe France was a double bluff? They make us think Haiden’s running away to Calais on the ferry; only they know we’ll find out it’s all fake, because he’s sitting in her car on Netherkirkgate, right in front of a security camera; so we think they’ll never really sneak across the Channel; when, in fact, that’s exactly what they’re planning to do?’

‘Bit convoluted, isn’t it? Anyway, Mhari didn’t know we were on to her until Hardie made his idiotic announcement at the press conference. Far as she was concerned, they were getting away with Plan A.’

He sagged a bit further. ‘True.’

Outside, the wailing cry of another siren on its way to something horrible faded in the distance.

Logan stepped in front of King. ‘Are you sulking with me, because I won’t tell you how I voted in the referendum?’

He still wouldn’t look at him. ‘Course not.’

‘Because that would be childish, and really counterproductive given all this Alt-Nat nonsense flying around.’

‘I know, I know. It’s just...’ And finally, King met his eyes. ‘It’s just with Gwen, and the case, and Edward Bloody Barwell, and Hardie...’ A sigh. ‘Sorry.’

‘Are you sure you want to keep going with this one? You could recuse yourself, if you like. Tell them you’re stepping down to avoid distracting from the investigation. Take some time and sort things out at home.’

‘They’d never let me run another high-profile case if I did that.’ He rubbed at his face again. ‘And what’s left to sort out? Gwen hates me, Logan. I mean she really, really loathes me. You’ve seen how often she phones to have a go. Gloating about her affair. Telling me how she’s turning the kids against me. Making sure I suffer...’ There was a tiny, unhappy laugh. ‘I can’t even leave her: I’ve got nowhere to go.’ His whole body deflated a bit, as if someone had let the air out of his life. A deep breath didn’t seem to help. ‘Pub?’

‘Can’t.’

‘Come on, let me buy you a couple of pints as an apology for calling you a Unionist.’

‘Love to, but I’m babysitting the monsters tonight.’

‘Yeah. Raincheck.’ King shrugged as if it didn’t bother him one way or the other. ‘You’re right, by the way: Hardie’s press conference was pretty much guaranteed to set them running. The man’s an idiot. Haiden and Mhari will be miles away by now.’

Haiden runs his hands across the dashboard again, fingers skimming the glove compartment’s latch. Nice wee car this. Bigger than it looked on The Italian Job . Shame it’s a bit manky.

But when you’re stealing something from long-term parking, you can’t go nicking a flash motor. Nah, you want something that’ll go unnoticed.

He grins across the car at Mhari, who, let’s be honest, is bloody stunning. She’s swapped her mousy-librarian costume for a tight pink T-shirt and sexy low-rise jeans, flashing a strip of beautiful tanned stomach that makes his groin tighten every time he looks at her. Those little leather driving gloves she’s got on, gripping the steering wheel like it’s his cock and he’s been naughty. She’s done that thing with her hair as well, from lank to exotic and oooh...

He adjusts himself through his trousers.

She smiles. ‘Steady, Tiger.’

Oh yeah, they are so going to do it later.

But for now, concentrate on the mission, Haiden. Make sure she knows you’re not just a pretty face. ‘Where we going to send the package this time?’

She thinks about it as the backwoods of Aberdeenshire slip by the car window. ‘The BBC worked wonders with Wanky Wilson. Let’s send it there.’

‘Yeah.’ He nods. ‘But maybe we should try ITV this time? Or Channel Four? Sky? You know, whip up a bit of competition?’

She reaches across the car and squeezes his leg with those leather gloves. ‘Genius. See, that’s why you’re in charge, Babe.’

Squeeze higher, Mhari. Please, squeeze higher...

But she doesn’t. The hand goes back to the steering wheel instead.

Ah well. Just have to wait till later and hope his balls don’t explode before then.

Haiden reaches into the footwell and picks up the claw hammer. Bit rusty, but it’d do the job. Slaps it against his palm. Frowns at it. ‘You know, we should’ve done that with Lansdale. Sent his bits to the media.’

‘How were we supposed to know no one would open his post? Politicians are meant to have assistants, or a secretary, or something.’

‘Yeah... Shame he died before we could film him, though. Jesus, the state of his face ! Would’ve frightened the crap out of them Unionist bastards.’

‘Hey, we learned, didn’t we? We learned . And this next one?’ She squeezes his thigh again. ‘Going to be perfect.’

Bloody disaster, that’s what it was. But, then, had it ever been anything else?

Frank unscrewed the cap again and took a swig from his halfy of Co-op own-brand vodka. It went down like burning petrol, spreading its fire.

He’d actually found a parking space outside the flat for once. Not that it would be his flat for long. The lights were on up there. Flat 2R, with its sodding dreamcatcher in the window and the double glazing that needed replacing, and the rusty bracket where the last lot’s TV aerial used to be. The dirty granite strung with black cables, because BT couldn’t be arsed wiring the place up properly. And her ...

Here’s to Mr and soon-to-no-longer-be-Mrs King.

He toasted the window and took another swig. The blaze spread, numbing the base of his skull in the way only vodka could.

‘Home, sweet sodding home.’

Should really go in. Been out here long enough, stoking the boiler. Getting ready for the inevitable fight.

Maybe he should—

His phone rang in his pocket. Not the dreaded ‘Fairytale of New York’, but the bland, generic ringtone that came as default.

Frank pulled it out and squinted at the screen, still sober enough to read it with both eyes: ‘UNKNOWN NUMBER’.

Hmph.

He answered it. ‘King.’

A small pause, then a familiar voice slithered its way into his ear. ‘Detective Inspector King, it’s Edward Barwell. Scottish Daily Post .’

Of course it was. After a day like today, how could it not be? One last kick in the crotch before going home to the wife.

Well, you know what? He’d had enough. ‘Bye.’

He was halfway to hanging up, but Barwell wasn’t giving up that easily — voice thin and tinny through the speaker. ‘Sure you don’t want to give your side of the story?’

‘I did that at the briefing, remember? Now, if you don’t mind—’

‘Oh, you got your “I was just there trying to impress a girl” thing out, but that doesn’t really cover what you did, does it?’

Course it did.

Didn’t it?

He put the phone against his ear again.

‘See, I know way more about you than you think. And I’m betting way more than your colleagues do.’

Frank turned in his seat, searching the street. A long terrace of flats, most of them the same shade of dirty granite as his own. A builder’s merchant opposite, all dark and plastered with warning signs. Parked cars crammed along both sides of the road. The shadows starting to lengthen, but the sun still hot enough in the sky to make the air above the bonnet shimmer.