Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

‘Who’s Robert Drysdale?’ An edge of panic was creeping in. ‘Why should I have heard of him? Has something happened?’

‘Call it “idle speculation”.’ All innocent.

‘Oh great. Thank you very much. How am I supposed to get back to sleep now?’

‘Well it’s—’

‘Going to be up all night worrying about Robert Bloody Drysdale! Gah!’ And with that, she hung up.

It was hard not to grin, it really was. After all, a problem shared...

Logan climbed into his Audi, clicked on the lights, and drove off into the night.

The last bars of something far too raucous for this time of the morning screeched and hollered out of the car radio as Logan turned onto Queen Street. Sunlight glittered on the granite buildings, made the concrete glow, sparkled in the looming windows of Divisional Headquarters. A handful of miserable people trudging along the early morning pavements on their way to work.

The DJ laughed. ‘I know, I know, but it’s growing on me. Got the news, travel, and weather coming up at seven. And we’ll be going live to Aberdeen Divisional Headquarters for a special exclusive report on Scotty Meyrick’s abduction last night.’

‘Oh... sodding hell.’

‘If you’re out there listening, Scotty, everyone here wants you to know we’re thinking of you at this difficult time. Stay strong!’

‘Yes, because that’ll do him a huge amount of...’

The armada of journalists who’d gathered outside DHQ hove into view — doing their early morning bulletins to camera. Serious faces for a serious story.

Logan slowed to have a bit of a nosy.

A big BMW van was parked just ahead, splattered with Sky TV branding, a paddling-pool-sized satellite dish on the roof. The side door rattled open as he passed and that wee hairy Philip Patterson hopped out, tissue paper stuffed into his collar so he wouldn’t get however many tons of makeup he was wearing on his shirt. A camerawoman clambered out after him, jostling up the walkway to the Front Podium.

Be sure to get a shot with the Police Scotland signage in the background, don’t want people to think you’re not really here...

‘Great.’

‘ Anyway, you’re listening to OMG It’s Early! , with me, Rachel Gray. And now, here’s an oldie but a goodie: The Eagles and “Hotel California”. This one’s for you, Scotty! ’

Yeah, not exactly appropriate.

PC Ugly was behind the desk outside the Chief Superintendent’s office again, hammering away at his keyboard as if going for a new world record.

King lowered himself into the seat one down from Logan’s, clean shaven, Hollywood hair slicked back, suit, shirt, and tie immaculate. As if he hadn’t turned up half-cut at the crime scene last night. He dug into a pocket and waggled a roll of extra-strong mints in Logan’s direction. ‘You look rough.’

Cheeky sod. But Logan took a mint anyway, sticking it into his cheek like a hamster.

King put the packet away. ‘They give you a time for the press briefing yet?’

‘No. You?’

‘Why would they tell me? I’ll be fired by then.’

Welcome to the Friday-morning pity party.

‘They’re not going to fire you just because Scott Meyrick got abducted. That wasn’t our fault.’

‘You’ve not read the Scottish Daily Post this morning, then?’

Logan turned in his seat. ‘Didn’t have time. You?’

‘Didn’t need to. I know what’s coming.’

Wonderful. So he’d been right yesterday — there was worse on its way. ‘What has Barwell—’

The office door opened and Superintendent Bevan stuck her head out. The smile she flashed wasn’t a hopeful one. ‘Ah, Logan. Good. Can you join us inside, please?’

He and King stood, but she waved at King to sit again. ‘Sorry, Frank, I need you to wait here for now.’

King’s smooth shaved cheeks darkened. ‘I see. That’s how it is.’

Logan patted him on the shoulder, then followed Bevan inside. Closed the door behind him, shutting out King’s hurt wee face.

Big Tony Campbell’s office was done out in the same Spartan fashion as the reception area outside. The only nods to decoration were the framed photos of Big Tony with various local VIPs and a couple of First Ministers. No whiteboards, no filing cabinets, no pot plants — just a big-ish desk with the man himself, Chief Superintendent of all he surveyed, glowering away behind it, a coffee table, and half a dozen comfy chairs. Only one of which was unoccupied.

Bevan settled into it, between Superintendent Young, and Jane McGrath: who looked at Logan as if he was something needing biopsied. Hardie sat on the other side of the coffee table with an unknown woman: grey-streaked shoulder-length hair, a proud chin, superintendent’s pips on the epaulettes of her dress uniform.

Scowls and frowns all round. And not one of them could look him in the eye.

Fair enough, it was going to be one of those meetings.

Logan nodded at each of them in turn. ‘Boss, Guv, Chief, Super, Jane...’ He raised an eyebrow at their mystery visitor. ‘Ma’am?’

She nodded at him.

It was Big Tony Campbell who broke the ensuing silence. ‘Three pro-union public figures in less than a fortnight, Logan. Three .’

Let the bollocking commence.

Logan put on his best reasonable voice. ‘We’re not the ones abducting them, Boss.’

‘Is that supposed to be funny, Inspector?’

‘We’ve got lookout requests on the go, Mhari and Haiden’s photos distributed to every force in the UK, three teams going door-to-door, we’re doing a fingertip search of—’

‘And then Jane comes in and shows me this!’ He slapped a hand down on a printout. ‘Well?’

Nope. No idea.

Jane leaned forward, waving a copy at him. ‘Robert Drysdale? You giving me insomnia at two in the morning, remember that?’

‘I remember, because I wasn’t in bed, I was still working.’

Bevan cleared her throat, little wrinkles furrowing her brow. ‘Logan, how did Robert Drysdale’s name crop up in your investigation?’

‘Why? Who is he?’

Everyone turned to look at the newcomer.

She nodded. ‘Very well.’ Slightest hint of a Glaswegian accent, hidden under a public-school upbringing. ‘But this goes no further than this room, am I clear?’

Now they were all looking at him instead.

Yeah, whatever this was, it wouldn’t be good.

‘OK...’

‘Robert Drysdale was a member of the People’s Army for Scottish Liberation, twenty-nine years ago. He went missing in November that year and his body turned up a week later in an abandoned bothy outside Strichen.’ A dramatic pause, as if what she’d just said meant anything to Logan. ‘Someone had hammered thirty galvanised clout nails into his arms, legs, chest, and head. They were seventy-five millimetres long, so they went in a fair distance.’ She reached into a leather satchel at the side of her chair, coming out with a series of photographs. Handed them to Logan.

The first picture showed a dark, manky little room, with holes in the plaster, another in the ceiling, dust and dirt, streaks of bird shit on the walls. A naked man filled the middle of the shot, strung up by the neck from an overhead beam, arms tied behind his back. The photographer’s flash had caught the nailheads, making them shine like stars against his blood-darkened skin. Whoever took the shot obviously had a flair for the dramatic, because they’d caught the graffiti on the wall behind the body in perfect horror-film style.