Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

Steel nudged Logan with her foot. ‘See, what I like is the way the silky hazelnut coffee complements the crunchy-chocolatey-soft-buttery-bapness of the KitKat butty. That’s Heston-Blumenthal level genius, that is.’

He moved out of range, lowering his voice so Madame Lugs wouldn’t hear. ‘Will you get your arse in order, please? I’m not carrying this sodding case all on my own!’

No reply. Just silence.

‘Where are you?’

Still nothing.

The office door opened and in scuttled Tufty, rubbing his hands together. ‘Did I miss anything?’

‘Frank?’

‘They’re not firing me?’ Finally.

‘We need to speak to Haiden’s dad again. Something’s come up.’

‘Are they really not firing me?’

‘Really. Now can we go do our jobs?’

‘Erm... OK. I’ll... meet you down the Rear Podium?’

‘Good.’ Logan hung up. Hissed out a sigh. ‘Offering support’ wasn’t supposed to be the same thing as babysitting.

Tufty settled down behind his laptop, looking around as if he’d lost something. Patting his paperwork. Frowning. Lifting things up and putting them down again.

‘Aye well...’ Steel sooked her fingers and stood. Stretched her full length like a very manky cat. ‘Suppose I’d better be offski. Time and search-trained canines wait for no woman, no matter how sexy she is.’

Logan leaned against Tufty’s desk. ‘Have you found anything?’

He didn’t look up from his rummaging. ‘They were right here. I’m sure they were.’

‘Mhari Powell, Tufty: concentrate.’

‘Hmm? Oh right.’ He opened a desk drawer, pouted at the contents then closed it again. ‘I’m still going through all the social media accounts she’s been posting from, but I’ve IDed three Facebook friends who interact with her on a regular basis. Or, at least, they interacted with one of the people she was pretending to be. None of them with the same pretend person, though.’ Tufty pulled a printout from his in-tray and handed it over — a list of three names and addresses — then rummaged through his desk some more. ‘Still working on the rest.’

‘Hoy!’ Steel stopped in the doorway, turned, clacked her heels together and gave Logan a sarcastic salute. ‘Don’t forget: no more deid bodies while I’m out!’ And with that she was gone.

Logan pocketed Tufty’s list. ‘Keep at it. I want to know who “Mhari Powell” really is by the time I get back.’

‘Mmmm? Yeah, OK, Sarge...’ He went back to searching his desk. Raised his voice to address the whole room: ‘Has anyone seen my KitKat butty or hazelnut latte?’

Detective Sergeant Steel strikes again.

Ten past eight in the morning was not the best time to be driving across town to Dyce. The morning rush hour was like a diseased thing, crawling along on its belly, belching noxious fumes into the hot summer air.

Speaking of which: sitting in the passenger seat, King crunched down one more in a long line of extra-strong mints. A newspaper open in his lap, his window cracked open an inch — letting the scent of diesel exhaust invade the Audi’s interior as they followed a bus along Westburn Drive.

Logan inched the car forward another couple of feet. ‘Where did you disappear off to?’

A grimace. ‘Gwen called. Again. She’s got herself a lawyer and they’re citing my “unreasonable behaviour” as grounds for divorce.’ He gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘ My unreasonable behaviour? I should be the one suing her: she’s the one having the affair! She’s the one been torturing me with it!’

And speaking of torture: ‘Robert Drysdale.’

King froze for a beat, then looked out the passenger window again. ‘What about him?’

‘That’s what I want to know.’

The Audi crawled forward a whole car length.

‘Why didn’t they fire me?’

‘Frank, I’m serious. Who was he?’ AKA: here’s some rope, please don’t hang yourself.

‘Hmph...’ King’s jaw tightened. ‘I grabbed a copy of this morning’s Scottish Daily Post on the way out the station.’ He picked the paper off his lap and opened it, stared down at the front page. A posed publicity shot of Scott Meyrick smiled back at him under the headline ‘FEARS GROW FOR REALITY TV STAR’.

‘I can’t help if you don’t talk to me, Frank!’

‘Edward Barwell’s “exposé” got bumped to a two-inch sidebar with “continued on page eleven”.’ King crumpled the paper into his lap again. ‘Nothing about Robert Drysdale.’

Silence.

Up ahead, the lights went red, as if anyone was moving fast enough to have to stop.

More silence.

Oh for goodness’ sake. ‘Was Robert Drysdale in the PASL when you were?’

King waved a dismissive hand. ‘There were lots of different cells, that was the point: so there wouldn’t be cross-contamination. We didn’t exactly get together for coffee mornings and bake sales.’ A sigh. ‘I’m tired of being a whipping boy for everyone and their hamster.’

‘ Cells ? And you say it wasn’t a terrorist organisation?’

This time the sigh brought with it a sad little smile. ‘I used to love being a police officer... Out on the beat, keeping people safe, banging up crooks and thugs. Now look at me.’

‘If you’re going to keep up the self-pity all the way to Dyce, you can get out and walk.’

‘It’s all right for you : you’re a decorated police hero with a Queen’s Medal, a hot girlfriend, a family, and a big house. All I’ve got is a cheating soon-to-be-ex-wife and a career circling the U-bend.’ He nodded. ‘Should march into Hardie’s office, hand in my resignation, and walk.’

OK, enough.

Logan thumped him on the arm. ‘What’s the point of running away? If people are picking on you: stand up for yourself!’

King turned to look out the window again. ‘Hmph.’

‘I’m right here with you, aren’t I?’

A long, slow breath. ‘I’m not going to survive this one, Logan. Be lucky if they just fire me. I’m done.’

Finally the lights turned green and they could crawl forward another car’s length.

‘In the words of Detective Chief Inspector Roberta Steel, as was,’ Logan put on the voice — gravelly and gin-soaked, ‘“You’ll no’ see the bright side with your heid jammed up your arse.”’

‘Yeah.’ King sagged in his seat. ‘She should hire herself out as a motivational speaker.’

Sunlight cascaded in through Ravendale’s windows, making the reception carpet glow with garish shades of brown, pink, and green. As if someone had gorged themselves on chocolate pudding, Ribena, and guacamole, before being copiously sick all over the care home’s floor.

The radio was on, playing something cheerful and bland as the same bland old man in his bland old cardigan behind the bland old desk hummed along, worrying away at a Sudoku book.

He looked up as Logan and King walked in and the smile of greeting faded from his face. ‘You again.’

King opened his mouth, but Logan got there first: ‘We’d like to speak to Gary Lochhead, please.’

‘Ah... Mr Lochhead isn’t having one of his better days, today.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, but we still need to talk to him.’

‘The pain’s so bad we’ve had to up his morphine.’ The receptionist looked left, then right, then over his shoulder, as if the KGB might be lurking nearby ready to steal his secrets. He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘You didn’t hear this from me, but the medical staff aren’t very optimistic about his prognosis. With patients in palliative care...’ A shrug. ‘We see a lot of this towards the end.’