Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

Gets a wee squeak in return.

Probably working his way up to wetting himself.

Mhari leans in close to Stupid Steve’s ear. ‘That “old git” is more of a man than you’ll ever be, Steven. He’s a hero . What are you again?’

‘M... Mary?’ His voice trembles. ‘Have you lost your—’

She gives the knife another twist and he lets out a tiny strangled scream. There’s the sound of water hitting the lino and the scent of warm fresh piss.

‘There are civilian casualties in every war. Do you want to be one of them?’

‘No!’

‘Then turn around. Slowly .’

Stupid Steve puts his hands up. ‘Please don’t kill me! Please don’t—’

‘Turn around, or I will kill you.’

And he does: cheeks wet with tears, blood trickling down his neck and into the collar of his nurse’s whites, bottom lip trembling. Aw, shame. Poor wee thing.

She smashes the hilt of her knife into his forehead, hard. His knees wobble, eyes rolling back, then he collapses like a bag of wet laundry into the puddle of his own making. Should rub his nose in it. But instead she hooks her hands under his armpits and drags him over to the door marked ‘Linen Closet’. Unlocks it with the keys hanging from his belt. Bundles him inside.

Hmm...

Stupid Steve’s a bit too big to fit in the narrow space — what with all the shelves full of towels and bedding and the like. Never mind, she can make it work. Mhari shoves and kicks until everything but one arm is stuffed in there. Bad luck, Steve: she stomps on it till the bones snap and his arm bends enough to get the door shut.

Mhari turns the key, then breaks it off in the lock.

Well, wasn’t as if he didn’t deserve it.

‘Come on, Dad.’ She clicks off the wheelchair’s brake and pushes him out through the emergency exit and into the dawn.

Only been a few minutes, but it’s already brighter out here. Birds warming up for the dawn chorus. Some lights flickering on in the airport way beyond the chain-link fence.

‘It’s OK, Dad. The plan’s changed, but everything’s going to be fine.’ She wheels him down the side of the building, towards her ancient Transit van, a smile pulling her face wide. ‘Trust me.’

The canteen vending machines buzzed and gurgled in the gloom. Yes, officially the sun had risen, but it hadn’t climbed high enough to clear the grey granite walls of King Street yet, so gloom it was. Especially as Logan hadn’t bothered to switch on the lights.

After all, when you were trying to force down a plastic cup of ‘Instant Brown Horrible’ from the machine, not being able to see it was probably a bonus. How did they manage to get coffee to taste like that? As if someone had set fire to a used nappy and then boiled the blackened remains for three and a half—

The overhead lights bing -ed and flickered, warming up to a soulless white glow.

Tufty let the door swing shut behind him as he squeaked across the canteen. Yawning. Bags under his eyes. But dressed in his full Police Scotland black. He gave Logan a wee wave: ‘Sarge.’

‘What are you doing in at...’ Logan checked his watch. ‘half four in the morning?’

Tufty grimaced and plonked himself down on the chair opposite. ‘I’ve got alerts set up so if someone posts certain “somethings” it pops up on my phone.’ He dug his mobile out, poked at the screen, and slid the thing across the tabletop. ‘Woke up to this.’

Pale pink filled the screen, then a galvanised nail appeared — long and dark, with a round flat head, clutched between a couple of fingers. A hammer slid in from the other side.

Logan flinched away from Tufty’s phone. ‘Please tell me that isn’t...’

The point of the nail rested against the pink and the hammer battered down on the head, driving straight in. Blood welled up around the nail shaft as the hammer swung in again and screaming bellowed out from the speakers. The footage shaky, going in and out of focus as the hammer battered into shot again and again and again.

The instant coffee turned to battery acid in Logan’s stomach.

‘Jesus...’ He pushed the phone away. ‘Get it taken down. Get it taken down, now!’

Tufty paused the video. ‘I’m trying. But soon as it went up it got spread across the Alt-Nat message boards like Marmite.’ A long deep sigh. ‘Not sure if it’s bots, or people in the US, or what spreading it, but you’d think all our home-grown nutters would be asleep right now.’ He curled his top lip and turned the phone screen-side down on the tabletop. ‘Some people are sick.’

Logan groaned.

They were screwed. Completely and utterly screwed.

‘It’ll be all over the morning news, won’t it?’

Just when things couldn’t get any worse: they did.

‘Sorry, Sarge. Don’t know if this means we missed the Scotty Meyrick video, or if Mhari didn’t bother posting it, because this one was better.’

He thunked his head on the table, making his plastic coffee jiggle. ‘Steel was right: I should’ve gone home to bed!’

‘Yeah... Erm, Sarge? I bumped into Bouncer on my way in. From Scene Examination? Wanted me to give you this.’ Tufty held out an Audi key fob. ‘Said they’ve finished doing the swabbing and taping and photographing and you can have your car back now.’

Logan closed his eyes and groaned again.

‘They’ve parked what’s left of it in the Rear Podium car park.’ A pause. ‘He says sorry about all the fingerprint powder, but they didn’t have time to clear it up, what with everything going on out at Renfield House.’

Even better.

Logan sagged in his seat. ‘I hate this job.’

Tufty tried for a smile. ‘Anyway...’ He picked up his phone and poked at the screen again. ‘I’m still not having any joy finding out who the fake Mhari Powell really is. Her social media profile twists like an eel in a tumble dryer, and it’s got all these weird layers to it too. Loads of different aliases and usernames, but they’re all definitely her.’ More poking. ‘Some of her accounts are screamingly Alt-Nat, some of them are rabid Alt-Brit-Nat. Sometimes she starts flame wars with herself, then goes quiet and lurks as everyone else piles in. Poking the bear every now and then.’ Tufty frowned as he scrolled. ‘It’s weird.’

‘You’ve got nothing at all?’

‘Only that she’s been using “Mhari Powell” as an alias for about two years.’ He scooted forward in his seat. ‘But you’ll like this: I does has a hypothesis! The real Mhari Powell works in a psychiatric facility, so maybe that’s where the fake Mhari Powell met her? Maybe we should try sending the fake Mhari’s photo to the real Mhari and see if she rings any alarm bells?’

What?

Logan tried to keep his voice level. ‘Are you telling me no one’s actually done that yet?’

‘Nope.’

Oh for God’s sake, he was working with MORONS.

He covered his face with his hands and strangled a small scream.

How could King not get that organised? How could he be so sodding...

Lying, unconscious, in a hospital bed, with nails sticking out of his head.

Gah...

Logan stared up at the ceiling tiles.

Steel was right: the whole thing was a complete and utter cocking disaster.

‘Erm, Sarge? Does that mean you want me to try?’

He forced the word out between gritted teeth. ‘Please.’

‘Okeydoke.’ More fiddling with his phone. ‘Done. Emailed it off to that bloke at Northumbria Police with the warty nose.’

Though, knowing their luck, it would be a complete dead end. As per.

Logan sagged even further. ‘What does “Wallace” mean to you?’