Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

Logan nodded. ‘We wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’

A pause, as Mr Bland chewed at the inside of his cheek. Then a nod. ‘Well, you can talk to him if you promise to keep it brief. He might not make too much sense though.’ Mr Bland picked up the desk phone and dialled. ‘I’ll get Denzil to see you through.’

The corridor outside number nineteen was a patchwork of light and shadow as the morning sun seared through the skylights.

King leaned back against the wall opposite Gary Lochead’s door. ‘What do you think, Good Cop, Bad Cop?’

Genuinely?

Logan frowned at him. ‘He’s dying , Frank. What are we going to threaten him with?’

‘True.’ He tilted his head to one side, eyes narrowing. ‘You know what? Maybe we could—’

The door opened and Denzil poked his hairy wee head out, bringing with him the sound of a radio tuned to the same station as the one in reception. A small, compact man, with powerful furry arms and a warm smile that faded into a concerned look. ‘OK. He’s stable, but he’s been in a lot of pain, so—’

‘Morphine.’ King loosened his tie. ‘We know.’

‘Right. Well, don’t tire him out, and I’ll be right here outside if... he needs anything. Or stops breathing. Or something like that.’

King pushed past him and into the room.

Logan gave Denzil an apologetic smile. ‘Been a long week.’ Then followed King into Gary Lochhead’s room.

The blinds weren’t quite fully drawn, and a shaft of sunlight fell across the hospital bed. A wall-mounted reading light was on, pointed towards Gary’s painting of that stone circle in the woods, making the colours glow. Shame it couldn’t do the same for the bloke who painted it.

He was slumped against his pillows, skin pale and shiny — like butter kept in the freezer. A full oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth, the clear plastic misted with vapour, and an IV line reached from a bag of something clear, through a feeder box, and into the cannula in the back of Gary’s hand. That would be the morphine, then. His NHS-blue blankets were rucked up at one side, showing off a liver-spotted leg, wishbone thin.

The cheery song on the radio burbled to an end, replaced by the kind of teuchter accent you could cut concrete with. ‘Aye, Aye, loons and quines! Gid Mornin’ Doogie’s got a wee bittie traffic update for yis. The A-berdeen bypass is closit Eastbound atween Parkhill and Blackdog fir a three-vehicle accident. So dinna ging that wye if yer—’

King switched the radio off and loomed over the bed. Voice hard and sharp. ‘Gary. We need to talk to you about Haiden.’

‘Gnnnnnghnnnph?’ Gary Lochhead’s head turned in trembling jerks and pauses, his pupils big as buttons, the mask muffling his words. ‘Haiden? Is that...?’

‘Sorry, no, it’s not.’ Logan pulled up one of the visitors’ chairs, positioning it level with Gary’s elbow, so he could see who he was speaking to. ‘Hi, Gary.’

‘Haiden, is that you?’

‘It’s not Haiden, it’s the police, we were here on Wednesday, remember?’

A shaky hand reached for Logan’s. ‘Haiden, they wanted me to clype on you, but I wouldn’t do it. I kept our secrets. I kept them...’

Oh, ho?

King widened his eyes at Logan, eyebrows up. Then he grabbed the other chair and squealed the rubber feet across the floor to the opposite side of the bed, sat, and pulled on a reasonable mid-Aberdonian accent. ‘Dad?’ He took hold of Gary’s other hand. ‘Dad, I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner.’

What?

Logan glared at him, making throat-slashing ‘Stop it!’ gestures.

But King turned the accent up instead. ‘Had to dodge the cops, yeah? You know how it is.’

A nod. ‘Buncha stupid bastards.’ Gary reached up with his free hand and slipped the breathing mask off, so it cupped his chin. Then trembled that hand down over King’s, making it the filling in a hand sandwich. ‘Is your mother OK, Haiden? You’ll look after her, for me, won’t you?’

‘Course I will, Dad.’ The lying sod was nearly squirming in his seat with excitement. ‘I did what you wanted. Got Councillor Lansdale, Professor Wilson, and Scott Meyrick.’

Logan leaned towards him, teeth bared, voice a hard hissing whisper. ‘This isn’t right !’

Gary gave King a shaky smile. ‘You’re a good boy.’

‘I took them out to the place, Dad. You remember the place? The place you told me to take them?’

‘I want to go home, Haiden.’

‘I know you do, Dad. I know. Shall we go past the place first? You remember the place?’

What started as a gurgling wheeze turned into a ragged coughing fit, painting the old man’s face an angry shade of purple as he rocked against his pillows, tears rolling down his cheeks. Until it finally hacked itself out in a painful mix of wheezing and groaning.

Logan’s whisper got louder and harsher. ‘Detective Inspector King, I’m warning you — this isn’t appropriate.’

King answered the same way: ‘You want Professor Wilson to die? That what you want?’

‘You know I don’t, but—’

‘Then shut up and let me do my job.’

The morphine pump bleeped and whirred, making Gary sag further into his pillows, the creases easing from his face a little. Breathing a little better. ‘I miss... I miss the family... holidays the most... We should... we should do that... again.’

‘Yeah, totally, Dad. But we’ll go to the place first, right?’

The wobbly smile returned. ‘You were so happy, running... up and down the beach with... with your kite... Remember Scruffy? You loved that wee dog.’

‘Describe the place to me, Dad, so I know you remember it.’

Logan stood. ‘OK, that’s enough .’

‘Come on, Dad, they say you’ve forgotten, but I know you remember it.’

‘And we’d have barbecues and... your mother would make potato salad... and Scruffy would always get the first sausage...’

‘Dad, focus .’ Voice harder now, running out of patience. ‘Where is the place?’

‘You used to love those summers, Haiden... You and Scruffy and Mum and me.’

‘I’m not warning you again, Detective Inspector!’

‘Gah!’ King pulled his hand away from Gary’s, wiped it on the blankets. ‘This is a waste of time, anyway.’ He stood, kicking his chair away as he buttoned his suit jacket and glared at Logan. ‘We can’t afford to sod about here any more. Wrap it up.’ Then he turned on his heel and stormed off, barging out through the door.

It banged shut behind him.

It wasn’t the sort of thing a member of Professional Standards was supposed to say about a fellow police officer, but DI King really was a massive arsehole.

Logan shook his head. Sighed. Looked down at what was left of “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead. ‘I’m sorry. If you want to make a formal complaint, we—’

‘Do you remember... when that dead porpoise washed up... on the beach and Scruffy... Scruffy found it and rolled in it? God, the stink ...’

Ah well, before he left, might as well have a bash at what they came here for.

Logan settled onto the edge of the bed. ‘Gary, can you remember someone called Robert Drysdale? He was in the People’s Army for Scottish Liberation, same as you. Do you remember him?’

Gary reached for Logan’s hand — the skin hot and papery to touch. ‘Those summers were magic.’ His eyes glittered with unshed tears. ‘Look after your mum, Haiden.’

Even after everything he’d done, it was hard not to feel sorry for a dying old man.

Come on, what harm would it do?

Logan nodded. ‘I will... Dad.’

‘Maybe we can go to Uncle Geoff’s house again next summer? You, me, your mum, and Scruffy...’ He gave Logan’s hand a squeeze. ‘You always loved that house.’ Gary’s eyes drifted up towards the stone circle. ‘It’s a beautiful country, Haiden. Scotland is the best... it’s the best country in the world.’ He blinked away the tears. ‘Put down your roots and keep them here. We are this land. Never... never let them take it away from you.’