Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

One word, in dripping red paint: ‘JUDAS!’

The next six shots were close-ups of the bruises and contusions, the rope around his neck, the nails... They stuck out about five or six millimetres from the flesh, the nailheads on top of their shiny metal stalks like sinister mushrooms.

Last one in the set: an abandoned bothy on a mountainside somewhere. Broken windows, guttering hanging off, rough stonework, corrugated steel roof. The landscape smothered in snow.

He flipped back to the first shot. ‘There are definitely similarities. Scott Meyrick had “spite” painted on his living room wall, “the Devil makes work” was on the note with Professor Wilson’s hands, and Councillor Lansdale got “three monkeys”.’ Logan frowned at the newcomer. ‘You think Mhari and Haiden are taking inspiration from a thirty-year-old murder?’

She shrugged. ‘When your Media Liaison Officer,’ pointing at Jane, ‘mentioned Robert Drysdale this morning, I recognised his name from a cold-case review Strathclyde ran not long after I joined.’

‘Let me guess: Drysdale informed on one of his fellow PASLers? “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead found out and they made an example of him.’

‘Robert Drysdale’s real name was Detective Sergeant Martin Knott. He joined the PASL as part of Operation Kelpie.’

A murdered undercover cop.

Great: things weren’t just worse, they were a hell of a lot worse.

Bevan sighed. ‘So you can see why, when his name came up...?’

Big Tony stuck a fist on his desk. ‘If we’ve got a chance to put someone away for DS Knott’s murder, I want to know about it.’

‘We’re doing everything we can, Boss.’ Logan had another squint at the photos. ‘But until we find out where Haiden and Mhari are hiding, or where they’re keeping their victims?’ Why did Drysdale have to be an undercover cop? Come on: options. Think. How do we work through this one? ‘We... can try fronting up Haiden’s father again? Give him a grilling about the murder? If he was involved, maybe he’ll want to boast about it?’

‘Why on earth would he do that?’

‘He’s got less than four months to live, Boss. What’s he got to lose?’

Hardie clearly felt it was time to make his presence felt, crossing his arms and nodding as if he’d been in charge all along, instead of sitting there like a sack full of damp pants. ‘Good. Go. Keep me informed. But be back here by twelve — we’ll have to brief the press about Scott Meyrick.’

Logan turned to Superintendent Bevan and raised an eyebrow. She nodded.

‘Will do.’ He’d almost made it to the door, when:

‘Inspector McRae?’ The new superintendent was staring at him. ‘You didn’t say how Robert Drysdale’s name came up.’

Ah. No, he hadn’t. And it would have been nice if no one had spotted that little omission.

‘I can’t remember. Someone must have mentioned it last night.’ Liar. But DI King was in enough trouble already, without Logan pouring unleaded on the fire. An innocent shrug. ‘It was pretty late.’

She pointed at the door. ‘OK, then.’

Big Tony’s voice boomed out as Logan slipped into the reception area: ‘And make sure you find something!’

Logan clicked the door shut and... Where was King?

The row of seats was empty, just Mr Ugly The Receptionist in here, clattering away on his keyboard.

Logan waved at him. ‘What happened to DI King?’

‘Phone call.’

Either that or he’d gone AWOL with a half-bottle of vodka...

DHQ wore the muffled silence of early morning — ten to eight, so dayshift uniform were all out keeping Aberdonians from doing horrible things to other Aberdonians. All the major teams had done their daily briefings and sodded off, leaving the place to the support staff and the handful of officers who’d found an excuse to hide inside rather than go traipsing about in the blazing sun. Which would be tempting, if it wasn’t for Chief Superintendent Big Tony Campbell’s parting words.

Logan was reaching for the door to the MIT incident room when it banged open and Tufty bustled out into the corridor, a pink folder tucked under one arm.

‘Sarge!’ He flashed Logan a smile and a wee wave. ‘Cool. About Mr Clark’s steampunk film, are you one hundred percent definitely certain I can’t be in it?’ Making with the big puppy eyes.

Not this again.

‘You’re a police officer.’

‘Yeah, but I could go to Comic-Con and be on panels and people would dress up like my character and I’d be completely funky and I’d never ask for anything else ever again! Promise .’

Logan stared at him.

‘Oh noes.’ His shoulders sagged. He shuffled his feet. Cleared his throat. Then raised his folder. ‘Well, suppose I’d better get this over to the media office then.’ And scuffed away, like a kicked dachshund. ‘Pity poor Tufty...’

Bless his little Starfleet socks, but that lad was a complete and utter weirdo.

Logan let himself into the incident room. It was probably the only busy office in the whole building — phones ringing, support officers answering them, overlapping conversations as details were taken and notes made. The HOLMES team busy hammering data into the system, the printer in the corner churning out action after action. Milky had perched herself on the edge of someone’s desk, flipping through paperwork on a clipboard while Heather commandeered a whiteboard — humming ‘Uptown Girl’ to herself as she printed the names of Alt-Nat groups on it in big red letters.

Steel lounged in an office chair, feet up on the desk, a butty in one hand and a wax-paper cup in the other. A little island of laziness in an ocean of police work. As usual.

Logan marched over there and loomed at her. ‘Thought you were searching Mhari Powell’s house?’

She didn’t bother swallowing or covering her mouth as she chewed. ‘Waiting on a dog unit.’ Steel dipped her butty in her coffee, and took another bite. ‘Think you could stop with the abducted Unionists now? Only every time we make any progress on this sodding case, you turn up another one.’

He gave her leg a smack. ‘Feet off the desk. Supposed to be setting an example.’

Dip. Munch. Honestly, she masticated like the back end of a scaffies’ wagon. The only things missing were the mechanism for tipping wheelie bins into the hopper and the smell of split bin bags. ‘Aye, that’ll be shining.’

Hopeless.

Logan had another look around the office. ‘Where’s King?’

Steel dipped her butty again, a broad smile on her face. ‘I’ve never had one of these before. Very nice.’ Then crammed a soggy brown lump of it into her gob. ‘Did you meet her then? The new head honcho. Or is it honchesse? Honchetta?’

‘Nope.’ He dug out his phone and gave King a ring.

‘Superintendent Pine, from G Division, AKA: Darkest Strathclyde, AKA: The Evil Empire. Kinda shaggable if you’ve been on the razz all night, and don’t mind the greying hair and Jimmy Hill chin. No idea what her arse is like, though.’

Grey-streaked hair, proud chin, superintendent’s pips...

‘Was that her?’ Suppose it had to be. ‘Didn’t seem too bad to me.’

Still no response from King.

‘Word is she can unhinge that huge bottom jaw of hers and swallow babies whole.’ Steel tried to do much the same thing with the last chunk of her butty, all drippy with coffee. Cramming it in. Grinning as brown dribbled down her chin.

Urgh...

He was about to hang up when, ‘King?’ crackled out of the phone at him.

Logan turned his back on Steel, before she did anything else revolting. ‘Where are you?’

‘Calling to give me the bad news, are you? How long have I got to clear out my desk?’