Стюарт Макбрайд - 22 Dead Little Bodies and Other Stories

‘DS MacEachran is an idiot.’

‘True.’

They sat. And they waited. And they drank their fizzy juice.

Up on the TV, someone in an ill-fitting suit was going on about the new political landscape and how great it was everyone had come out to play.

Stoney checked his watch. ‘What if Hadden’s a no show?’

‘Then you and Guthrie still get to arrest Kurt Murison.’

‘Oh joy.’

The ticker ran the latest scores again. ‘“Yes”: 54.47 % “No”: 45.53 %’

‘You know what?’ Stoney turned his Diet Coke round in a circle. ‘Maybe it’s for the best? I mean, if we’d got independence, we’d just be swapping one load of shiftless thieving useless bastards for another lot, wouldn’t we?’

Guthrie sniffed. ‘Yeah, but they’d be our shiftless thieving useless bastards.’

Logan polished off the last of his Irn-Bru, ‘And, to be fair, we’re already paying for two lots of them... Uh-oh — we’ve got movement.’

Kurt Murison scraped back his chair and got to his feet. Dear God, he was even bigger standing up. His arms were too big to hang loose at his sides, instead they stood out from his huge chest, as if he was carrying an invisible barrel under each one. He turned and lumbered towards the toilets, leaving a half-empty pint and an open packet of crisps behind. Safe in the knowledge that no one would dare touch them.

Guthrie pushed his tin away. ‘Probably off to coil a Douglas, or, perchance, a Thora.’

‘Don’t be daft.’ Stoney rolled his eyes. ‘Tell him, Guv: men do Douglases, women do Thoras. Basic biology, isn’t it?’ He peered over his shoulder. ‘Maybe we should go after him? Catch him with his pants down.’

Logan shook his head. ‘We’re police officers, Detective Constable Stone, not monsters.’

That got him a sigh. ‘You know what I think?’ Stoney dunked a finger off the tabletop. ‘I think Scotland, England, Ireland, and Wales should all get their own parliament, and then once a week they do this big joint videoconference to decide stuff that affects everyone. That way we could fire half the buggers and save ourselves a fortune.’

Guthrie shook his head. ‘Better idea: performance-related beatings for all politicians. Could put it on TV and charge people to phone in with suggestions.’ He had a half-arsed attempt at a Geordie accent. ‘It’s day two in the Westminster house, and the Prime Minister’s trying to weasel his way out of a kick in the nads.’

Stoney mimed picking up the phone, joining in with an OTT Cockney. ‘Cor blimey guvnor, Oi’m gonna bid fifteen quid to see him battered wiv an ‘addock !’

‘And here’s the leader of the opposition, still dressed in a rubber gimp suit after making a prick of himself on Monday.’

‘Luv a duck! Twenny quid if ye paddle his arse wiv an electric saaaaaandar .’

Guthrie grinned. ‘See? You could wipe out the deficit in a single season.’

‘This is genius, we should call Channel Four.’

Logan leaned back in his seat and left them to it.

Still no sign of Alec Hadden. Assuming, of course that Elaine hadn’t made the whole thing up in the first place. Maybe Chris Browning was one her regulars? Still, why would she lie about being paid to slander him? What was in it for her? Didn’t make any... Hold on.

The front door barely creaked as a thin man slipped in. Had to be a regular, because no one looked up from their drink. Shoulder-length brown hair, pointy chin. This year’s World Porridge Champion. Alec Hadden.

So Elaine wasn’t lying after all. Wonders would never cease.

Hadden had a quick peer about, then made for the bar. Stood there with his back hunched, in conversation with the bartender. Got himself a pint of Export.

Stoney and Guthrie had extended their brief to take in the United Nations and nipple clamps. Logan leaned forward and hushed them. ‘Alec Hadden. At the bar. Right now.’

Guthrie slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out the cuffs. ‘You want to grab him straight away, or let him settle in?’

‘Ah...’ Stoney licked his lips. ‘Might be an idea to get it over with while Kurt’s in the toilet? If he sees us slapping the cuffs on someone, it’ll kick off.’

True.

‘OK.’ Logan pushed back his chair. ‘Let’s go see what Mr Hadden has to say for—’

The front door banged open and the whole bar did its Deliverance impersonation again. Silence. Stare.

Then Logan groaned.

Sodding DCI Sodding Steel. She stood in the doorway, wobbling slightly. One eye screwed shut, the other roving the place.

‘Oh great .’

She lurched across to the bar and dug a hand in her pocket. Came out with a handful of change and a few notes. Clacked them down on the bartop. A couple of pound coins rolled off along the front of the taps. ‘Grouse. Make it a... a brace.’ She grabbed onto the wood with one hand, keeping herself upright.

The barman nodded. ‘Double Grouse, coming right up, Chief Inspector .’ Raising his voice on that last bit, just to make sure everyone heard.

Over at the next table, a large woman with a tattoo of seagulls flying around her thick neck rolled her eyes. ‘Not more sodding cops. Like a bloody masonic lodge in here tonight.’

Steel took her drink and wacked it back in one go. ‘Again.’

Then she turned, new drink in hand, and squinted around the room. Wobbled in place. Pointed up at the TV where a bloke in a suit stood before a big display banner with views of Aberdeenshire on it. ‘Shhhhhh...! Turn it up, turn it up.’

The barman sighed, then did.

‘... turnout is eighty-seven point two percent. The total number of votes cast for each answer to the referendum question in this area are as follows. “Yes”: seventy-one thousand, three hundred and thirty-seven. “No”: one hundred and eight thousand, six hundred and six.’

A roaring cheer erupted from the telly.

And when it had died down, ‘I’m not quite finished.’

Laughter.

Steel clenched one fist, the other wrapped around her glass, and bellowed up at the TV. ‘YOU BUNCH OF UTTER BASTARDS!’ Whisky slopped onto the wooden floor.

The barman cranked the sound down again.

Everybody stared at her.

The bathroom door clunked shut again, and there was Kurt Murison, wiping his hands on his jeans. ‘Who’s bastards?’ His voice was unusually high for someone who looked as if they could eat rusty nails.

Stoney closed his eyes and swore. ‘It’s going to kick off, isn’t it?’

Kurt loomed over Steel. ‘Come on then. Who’s bastards?’

She twirled round, more whisky joining the spillage. ‘Aberdeenshire. All of them: bastards .’ She jabbed her free hand at the screen. ‘Look at it! Over sixty percent “No”.’

A shrug. ‘Their prerogative, isn’t it? Democracy and that. Will of the people.’

‘The people are dicks.’ She raised the glass to her mouth and swigged, but there wasn’t a lot left. ‘Oh...’ She clunked it down on the bar. ‘Again.’

‘Got to respect the outcome, don’t matter what side you voted. All still Scotland.’

‘They can respect my sharny arse.’ She rocked a little, then frowned up at him. ‘Here, do I know you?’

Hadden inched away down the bar. Putting a bit of space between himself and the coming storm.

Kurt jabbed a thick, meaty finger into Steel’s shoulder. ‘People like you make me sick, with your “Remember Bannockburn” and quotes from sodding Braveheart .’

Guthrie got to his feet and pulled out his wee canister of CS gas. Tightened his grip on the handcuffs. ‘Here we go.’

Steel poked Kurt back. ‘What’s wrong with that?’