Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

King looked up from his phone and pointed. ‘Right, there!’

He wrenched the car into the turn, the rear end skittering out on the dusty tarmac, and onto a single-track road. The sign said ‘WEAK BRIDGE’, the narrow road hemmed in on both sides by waist-high stone walls. The Audi got some air in the middle... bumping down on the other side.

King bounced in his seat. ‘You want to wait for this “Stubby” person to show up?’

A hard ninety-degree left, between what looked like a school and a farmyard.

‘We’d be insane to go charging in without backup. Haiden’s built like a pit bull, only without the winning personality. And they’re armed.’

A graveyard, its serried ranks of granite headstones glittering in the sunshine.

King shrugged. ‘Just knives.’

‘Trust me: knives are bad enough. I should know.’

‘Fair enough. Left, here.’

Another ninety-degree turn, swiftly followed by a hard right.

King checked his phone again. ‘Not far now.’

They flashed across a junction, and onto another single-track road. Golden swathes of wheat pressed in on the tarmac. A sliver of North Sea visible on the left where the land dropped away.

Logan accelerated up the hill. ‘So, it’s agreed: we get there, we block the road and we wait for Stubby.’

‘OK.’ A nod. Then King’s eyes bugged, free hand grabbing at the dashboard. ‘Sheep! Sheep!’

Logan stamped on the brakes, wheeching around the big fat ewe wandering down the side of the road.

‘ Jesus , that was close.’

The words, ‘NELSON ST. LAB’ appeared on the dashboard screen a second before the Audi’s hands-free kit rang.

King let go of the dashboard to press the green button. ‘Hello?’

‘Inspector McRae?’ Jeffers, their three-quarters-useless DNA analyst.

‘He’s driving.’

Logan shook his head. ‘We’re a bit busy, Jeffers!’

The car crested the brow of a small hill, and the jagged boundary between land and sea was laid out before them. Sunlight sparkling on the bright blue water.

‘I lifted a perfect thumb and forefinger off that coffee cup, but there’s no corresponding prints in the system.’

‘Literally right in the middle of something.’

King pointed through the windscreen at a tiny bungalow perched on the headland near the cliffs, down a dead-end dirt track. ‘Ceanntràigh Cottage. That’s us!’ It sat near the end of Cruden Bay beach, well away from anything else. Isolated. The perfect location for laying low and hiding the people you’d abducted and mutilated. A rusty Mini was parked out front.

Logan slowed to a crawl. ‘You sure?’

‘Look, there’s a car.’ King licked his lips. ‘Do you think it’s them? I think it’s them.’ A grin. ‘We’ve got them!’

The dirt track petered out in front of the cottage, with its grey slate roof and dirty harling walls. A whirly washing line with no clothes on it. What probably used to be a garden, but had turned into a wobbly rectangle of parched grass and dandelions. No other way in or out.

‘Anyway,’ Jeffers’s voice crackled out of the speakers again, ‘so I had a word with Dr McEvoy about the DNA, and she showed me how to expand the search parameters against the national database.’

Blah, blah, blah.

Logan pulled on the handbrake. ‘Can this wait?’

‘Well, it could , I suppose, but thing is: now we know who Mhari Powell really is. Well, we do and we don’t, but it’s a result, isn’t it?’

Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘Come on, then: who is she?

There was a pause. Then, ‘You’re probably not going to like this...’

Oh man...

Haiden rolls off Mhari and lies there, breathing hard, sweat cooling in the air.

Jesus. Yes. Hoo...

Wow.

He grins at the ceiling.

Aye, the room’s a bit twee, but then what do you expect? Place is ancient. With its lace doilies, old-fashioned furniture, wooden walls in need of a paint — chipped and scarred from, like, decades of use. Bed’s good, though.

He reaches out a hand and pats Mhari on her naked stomach. ‘That was... that was... bloody great!’

‘You’re welcome.’ She wipes between her legs with his T-shirt. To be honest, it needed a wash anyway. And let’s face it, no way he could grudge her, not after that.

‘Wow...’

She climbs out of bed and pads over to the window, looking up the hill. You could never get tired of ogling that pert round arse, or the firm high tits, or that wee tufty triangle between her legs. Where the magic happens.

He stretches, all the knots and aches and worries of the last two weeks melted away. ‘God, I wish I still smoked.’

‘It’s not good for you, baby.’ She slips on her pants — red with wee black hearts on them — then wrestles herself into a black bra. How come bras were so difficult to put on? See if it was men had to wear them? We’d sort that shit out so it’s comfy. No twisting your arms behind your back like you’re being handcuffed by the cops. She smiles at him, and honest to God he can feel the warmth spreading through his cock again. Cos she can do that.

He adjusts himself under the duvet. ‘We got any beer?’

‘You lie there and I’ll go see.’ Mhari gets dressed: tight pink T-shirt, camouflage cargo pants, sitting on the end of the bed to pull on her socks.

‘Oh, and if there’s any of last night’s pizza in the fridge...?’

‘Course, baby.’ Soon as she’s got her boots on, she’s standing in front of the window, looking up the hill again with a strange wee smile on her face. Then Mhari nods and walks out of the room, on a mission for her man.

Her man.

God, imagine that... All the guys in the world, Mhari could have her pick, you know? And she chooses him .

He grins at the ceiling again. ‘You’re a lucky sod, Haiden.’ Has another stretch.

Lot to do today: make a video of that tit Scotty Meyrick and get it online. Think about who’s gonna be next. Who’s gonna get themselves an all-expenses-paid trip to Chest-Freezer City. Maybe that git on the Scottish Daily Post ? Bet they could do something special with him. Turncoat wee bastard. How do you go from, ‘a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to seize our country from the Westminster elite, to reclaim our soul and our destiny’ to ‘independence will destroy Scotland’? Just cos some English wanker buys the paper you work for? That’s your thirty pieces of bloody silver, right there.

Oh aye, Edward Barwell could be their Judas.

Yeah, Mhari would like that.

And there she is, standing in the doorway, holding last night’s greasy pizza box in one hand and a cold tinny in the other. She’s put on her hoodie and a waterproof jacket — like it’s going to rain. No way. Forecast is balls to the wall sunshine for at least the next week. Women, eh?

She passes him the box and he opens it. Not a lot left, but enough for a post-humping snack.

‘Cheers, Mhari.’ Big mouthful of ham and mushroom with extra mozzarella, all salty and earthy. Chewing with his eyes closed, it’s that delicious. Yeah, the base is a bit soggy, but in a good way, you know? He swallows and winks at her. ‘Early morning shag, a beer, and leftover pizza. A guy couldn’t get a better girlfriend. No way. Not possible.’ Another huge bite, talking through it, ‘Mmm, think I actually love this stuff even more the next day.’

She settled on the end of the bed and looked at him, head on one side. ‘Do you think we’ve made Dad proud?’

‘Whose dad, my dad?’ He sticks his hand out for the lager and she clicks open the ring-pull, takes a wee swig, then hands it over. Gotta love Tennent’s: it tastes of school holidays and Saturdays with Mum, and fizzy happiness. ‘Oh aye. Dad hates them English bastards more than he hates his lung cancer.’ Poor old sod, lying there in his hospital bed, dying. Haiden puts the tin down. Sighs. ‘Wish I could go see him...’