All That's Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  King watched her go. ‘You’d better believe we’ll be checking her alibi.’

  Bless his little sweaty socks.

  Shirley and Charlie packed their equipment away in more blue plastic crates, the top halves of their SOC suits stripped down to the waist, sleeves tied around their middles. Showing off sweaty red faces and sodden Scottish Police Authority polo shirts.

  Charlie’s blusher was all smudged by the heat, and his lipstick didn’t look much better. His eyeshadow and mascara might have started out as a perfectly crafted smoky eye, but they’d ended up more Heath-Ledger’s-Joker-meets-drunken-panda.

  Shirley pulled off her Alice band and had a hearty scratch at her long blonde hair. ‘Gah … When I get back to the shop I’m going to climb into a cold shower and stay there till I evolve gills.’

  Logan gave her a smile. ‘So … crime scene?’

  She pointed at the table. ‘Just between you and me? That’s a lot of blood. Not a fatal amount, but you’d notice you were missing it. Want to know what else is missing?’ Shirley left a dramatic pause … ‘Fingerprints. And I don’t mean whoever-it-was-wore-gloves, I mean every surface that’s not covered in books or crap has been wiped. Don’t quote me, but from the lemony-fresh smell I’d put money on those disposable antibac wipes.’

  King folded his arms. ‘You check the bin?’

  ‘No, because I’ve never done this before.’ She turned back to Logan. ‘Whoever it was, they weren’t your usual thickie. The two footprints we pulled from the garden are flat rumply things. No tread.’

  ‘So …?’

  ‘Take a bit of cardboard, cut it to the same shape as your shoe’s sole, then put it in a wee blue plastic bootie like this.’ She lifted one leg, showing off the blue plastic bootie on the end of it. ‘All you leave are the rough outline and some crinkles from the plastic.’

  Great.

  She nodded. ‘We managed to lift some good fingerprints from the study, just in case, you know: for elimination purposes. But there’s nothing in here to eliminate them against.’ A sigh. ‘Maybe we’ll get some DNA, but I doubt it. Your boy’s forensically aware.’

  Scottish crime fiction had a lot to answer for.

  King tried exerting his authority again. ‘What about fibres?’

  Didn’t work though, because Shirley kept her eyes on Logan. ‘There’s something really … careful about this. We’ll do everything we can, but my gut says your guy’s a ghost.’

  Charlie wiped a hand across his shiny forehead, smearing what little foundation he had left up there. ‘Aye, and as long as he wants to stay a ghost, we’re not going to find sod all.’

  King’s nose came up. ‘That’s a double negative.’

  ‘So’s your mum.’ Then Charlie barged out the kitchen door, taking his crate with him.

  Always nice to have a happy workplace.

  Logan tried not to sigh, he really did. ‘What about photos?’

  ‘Technically I’m not allowed to give you anything unless you go through official channels, in triplicate, but here …’ she pulled a cheap iPad-knockoff from her crate, poked at the screen and handed it over. ‘You’ve got till we’re tidied up. After that you’ll have to wait till the report’s done and the Gods of Pointless Paperwork and Half-Arsed Procedures have been appeased.’ She stood there, giving King a look that could’ve curdled holy water, then turned and marched off with her crate. Leaving the two of them alone in the kitchen.

  Logan watched him seethe for a bit. ‘You made a lovely impression there. They really like you, I can tell.’

  ‘They’ve still not forgiven me for that Martin Shanks disaster.’ He stuck a hand out, for the fauxPad. ‘My crime scene, remember?’

  Yes, it was his crime scene, but he was being a dick, so no.

  Logan put the fauxPad on the work surface between them and flicked through the photos to the ones of the kitchen, stopping at a shot of the bloody tabletop with its half-full bottle of wine and accompanying glass …

  Now that was interesting.

  He turned and stared at the table. A thick oak job, with scarred legs – probably where generations of Russian Revolutionary Jack Russells had scratched the wood raw. Logan hunkered down and had a damn good frown at the blood-spattered surface. Three dried circles marred the red-brown stains, two were perfectly smooth, but the third was dotted around its circumference. That would be the bottle’s dimpled bottom.

  Logan took out his phone and snapped half a dozen shots of the tabletop and the blood spatters. ‘Did you see this?’

  King snorted. ‘If you’re planning on amazing everyone with your Sherlock Holmes impression, don’t. Obviously Professor Wilson knew his attacker. You don’t open a bottle of Jacob’s Creek and swig it with a complete stranger.’

  ‘Hmmm …’ Three circles, pressed into the blood.

  ‘We need to work our way through his colleagues at the university – you heard Dr Longmire: they all hated him. But this must’ve been someone he felt comfortable with. Someone who hid it. Pretended to be his friend. Someone he’d invite into his house and crack a bottle of wine for.’

  Logan stayed where he was. ‘Check out the table: tell me what you see.’

  ‘It’s a table.’ He took one look at Logan’s face and sighed. ‘OK, OK. It’s oak. It’s old. It’s a bit manky. Lots of blood spatters.’

  ‘What about the wine glass?’

  Sounding bored now. ‘They took it away for testing.’

  ‘I know that. I’m asking what happens if you put a glass down on the table, then someone does whatever it was they did to get blood everywhere.’

  Another sigh. ‘Do we really have to play—’

  ‘Humour me.’

  King tramped over and examined the tabletop. ‘Well, there’d be …’ And finally the penny dropped. ‘Oh sod and buggeration.’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking.’

  ‘The glass would act as a mask, or a windbreak: there’d be a clear patch on the table where the blood wouldn’t spatter. The bottle too.’ King swivelled around, facing the door. ‘So our attacker gets in, attacks Professor Wilson, gets blood all over the table, then pours him a glass of wine? Well that’s just perfect: we’re dealing with a nutjob.’

  ‘Looks like there was enough wine out the bottle for two, maybe three glasses.’

  King narrowed his eyes, then marched over to a scuffed off-white dishwasher, snapped on a single blue nitrile glove, and pulled the door open.

  It was empty, except for a single wine glass.

  He took the glass out and held it up to the light, where it sparkled and gleamed, sending chips of rainbow swirling around the kitchen. Not a single smudge or smear on it. ‘Our attacker does … whatever it was, then pours them both a glass of wine and has a drink. Puts his glass in the dishwasher, cleans up, and walks right out of here taking Professor Wilson with him, leaving not a single forensic clue behind.’ King returned the glass to the dishwasher. ‘This is going to be an utter bastard of a case, isn’t it?’

  It certainly looked like it. But, on the bright side, it was King’s utter bastard of a case and not Logan’s.

  Which made a nice change.

  They hadn’t given King one of Divisional Headquarters’ swankier incident rooms. No fancy-pants digital whiteboards and projector systems here, this was old-school. Which in police parlance meant ‘scruffy, bland, and a bit tattered around the edges’. The ceiling tiles sagged in one corner, and the handful of cubicles lining the walls looked as if they’d been installed sometime around the end of the last ice age. The whiteboards – analogue, not digital – had been used and cleaned so often they’d taken on a manky shade of grey that looked like a dead person’s dentures.

  Two plainclothes officers and a uniformed PC were gathered in the middle of the room, sitting on creaky office chairs, watching King finish his briefing.

  Logan perched his bum on one of the desks at the back of the room. Doing his best to stay out of the way. To be inconspicuous. Didn’t wo
rk, though. That was the trouble with being Professional Standards – the uniform might be the same as everyone else’s, but it exerted a strange gravitational pull that grabbed people’s attention. Like a black hole, lurking at the edge of the room. Sinister, dark, and all devouring.

  King risked a glance in Logan’s direction, before dragging himself back to his tiny team. ‘So, right now, that’s all we know.’ He folded his arms. ‘Any questions?’

  A wee nyaff with a pale-ginger crewcut stuck his hand in the air. ‘Are we sure he’s been abducted? Maybe he cut himself and—’

  ‘Wheesht, Tufty.’ One of the plainclothes officers chucked a crumpled-up Post-it at his furry head. She was an older woman with a soft Weegie accent, greying brown bob, lilac jacket, jeans and a shirt. Stylish and relaxed. As if she was off to audition for a TENA Lady advert. ‘Don’t be such a neep. Why would he pour himself a glass of wine afterwards?’

  ‘Heather’s right.’ The other PC punched Tufty on the arm. ‘Shut yer cakehole, you twonk.’ Milky: mid-twenties, in black jeans and a Klangers T-shirt, her shoulder-length hair dyed an unnatural shade of mahogany. ‘He’d have got bloody fingerprints on the bottle too.’ She hit him again, for luck.

  Heather nodded. ‘Exactly. And …’ She swivelled her ancient office chair around till she was frowning at Logan. Then back to King. ‘No offence, Boss, but are we really doing this in front of Professional Standards?’

  Logan smiled at them all. ‘Don’t mind me.’

  ‘I mean it’s a bit … you know. If we have to take a care every time we open our mouths, it’s going to stifle the free flow of information and ideas. Plus he’ll write it all down and use it against us later.’

  ‘Try to pretend I’m not here.’

  King grimaced. ‘If only.’ He pointed at Tufty’s tormentor. ‘What about you?’

  Milky sucked her teeth for a moment, then let her Yorkshire drawl loose on the world once more. ‘I’m worried ’bout all these death and rape threats.’

  Tufty shifted in his seat. ‘But we can’t risk it, can we? Say I’m right—’

  ‘Which you’re not.’ Heather lobbed another crumpled Post-it at him.

  ‘Yeah, but say I’m right and Professor Wilson’s slit his wrists then wandered off to die somewhere. We’re going to look a right bunch of spuds if his body turns up in the woods, two hundred yards from the house, aren’t we?’

  Milky groaned. ‘Media will love that.’

  ‘Agreed. It’s not worth the risk.’ King crunched his way through another mint. ‘Heather: get a dog team organised. I want those woods search-and-sniffed ASAP.’

  A lopsided smile. ‘We could take Gibbs instead? He could do with the exercise.’

  ‘A proper dog team, H, not you and your mental cocker spaniel again.’

  She sighed. ‘Guv.’ Then pulled out her phone and went to stand in the corner, one finger in her ear as she made the call.

  ‘Good.’ King pointed at Milky and Tufty. ‘And you two: Professor Wilson’s colleagues need interviewing. We’re looking for enemies, fights, threats. Was he depressed? Do they think he might have harmed himself? Make sure you check every single alibi – you know what academics are like.’

  Tufty’s hand shot up again. ‘Ooh, ooh! What about the social-media side of things, Guv? There’s all these Alt-Nat accounts gloating about the Professor being dead, and all these Unionistas wading in to do battle against them. It’s Keyboard Armageddon out there.’

  ‘What about it?’

  A slightly puzzled look. ‘We need to investigate, don’t we? Who are they? How did they know something happened to Professor Wilson before we did? A sticky digital trail of clues could lead us straight to the murderer!’

  Milky rolled her eyes. ‘It’s like he’s been half drowned in Idiot Juice …’ She checked her watch. ‘We could ask the forensic computer-geek team?’

  ‘Have you seen their backlog?’ King shook his head. ‘We’ll have died of old age by the time they get anywhere near it.’

  Tufty still had his hand up, but now he was bouncing in his seat too. ‘I can do it! I can! I has resources and mad skillz and stuff!’

  King scowled at him. ‘You’re interviewing academics for the rest of the day and liking it.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Interviews!’

  The wee loon sagged in his seat, all the bounce taken out of him. ‘Guv …’ To be honest, he only had himself to blame.

  Logan waved at King. ‘We’ve got someone at PSD who might be able to take a look. Does all our computer forensics.’

  A little bounce made its way back into Tufty. ‘Honestly, I could do it. It’s no trouble.’

  ‘Go.’ King pointed at the door. ‘Away with you.’

  And the last bounce died. ‘Guv.’ Tufty scuffed his way from the room.

  Milky stood. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye ont lad.’ Then she followed him out.

  King turned to Logan. ‘This IT guy of yours, is he …’

  A kerfuffle in the doorway made them both look as DS Steel appeared, arms out, stopping Detective Constable Way from escaping. ‘Hope you’re off on a tea run, Milky. Two and a coo for me.’ A suggestive wink, then she stepped aside, letting Milky squeeze past.

  There was a pause as King pulled himself up to his full height, chest out. Frowning down at Steel. ‘Well?’

  She stuck both hands in her pockets and sauntered in. ‘What-ho, sharny bumholes?’

  King stiffened. ‘Is that how you speak to superior officers?’

  Apparently.

  ‘I’ve finished your stupid door-to-doors and you know what I got? Go on: guess.’

  Heather emerged from the corner, stuffing her phone back in her pocket. ‘Guv? I’ve managed to sort us a dog unit, but we’ll need to wait till they’ve finished in Banff. They’re dunting a druggie’s door in at half one.’

  ‘What I’ve got,’ Steel stuck a hand down the front of her shirt and had a rummage – rearranging things, ‘is sore feet, midge bites, and a sweat-sticky cleavage. It’s like a teenager’s wet dream down here.’

  Logan shuddered. ‘Urgh …’

  King turned his back on her. ‘They give you an ETA, Heather?’

  ‘Minimum two hours, plus travelling time.’

  Steel extracted her hand and wiped it on her suit trousers, leaving a damp smear. ‘Did a three-mile radius and you know how many houses I found? Six. Six houses full of weird wee teuchtery people with webbed feet and no chins cos Mummy married Uncle Daddy.’

  ‘Two hours?’ King sighed. ‘Not ideal, but it’ll have to do.’

  Heather tried her lopsided smile again. ‘Sure you don’t want to give Gibbs another go?’

  ‘Inbred old gits didn’t have a pair of teeth between them. Whole place reeked of banjos and “squeal piggy!”’

  ‘We’ll need to get on to the Superintendent: try and drum up some more bodies.’ King took out his phone ‘Have a word with—’

  ‘HOY!’ Steel banged a hand down on the nearest desk. ‘Are you tossers even listening to me?’

  They might not have been before, but they were now.

  King’s eyes bugged. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Should think so too.’ She stuck her nose in the air. ‘And you’ll be delighted to know that the media have got hold of your professor’s disappearance. Bloody Aberdeen University issued a press release.’

  With that, all the indignation hissed out of King like a deflating turnip. He sank into one of the recently vacated office chairs and sagged back, staring up at the baggy ceiling tiles. ‘Great.’

  Then his phone launched into ‘Fairytale of New York’ again. He groaned and curled into himself, arms wrapped around his head.

  Steel grinned at Logan. ‘What you doing here?’ Then pointed at the groaning King. ‘Going to fire the wee man?’

  ‘Just popped in on my way to the canteen.’

  ‘Hmph. Nice for some, swanning about like something off Darth Vader’s glee club.’

&
nbsp; ‘So you didn’t find out anything useful at all?’

  ‘From the Teuchter Patrol? Nah.’ She plonked herself down in a chair. ‘“Professor Wilson is a loner”, “Professor Wilson is a pain in the hoop”, “Professor Wilson never puts his bins out on the right day”. Only thing we know for sure is he went missing sometime between eighteen past eleven on Sunday night and twenty to ten, Monday morning.’

  Heather raised an eyebrow. ‘How can you possibly—’

  ‘Last tweet he sent was eleven eighteen; first Alt-Nat tweet crowing about his death was twenty to ten. It’s no’ exactly Celebrity Eggheads, is it, H?’

  A blush spread itself up Heather’s neck and across her cheeks.

  Steel pulled out her phone. ‘Honestly, you buggers forget I used to be a Chief Inspector, don’t you?’ She poked at the screen, eyes all narrow and squinty. ‘Here you go: “Corrupt Brit-Nat mouthpiece, Professor Wilson, has stained our proud country with his lies and filth for the last time. Death was too good for him. Enemy of the people!” Exclamation mark. Hashtag: “Rise up and be the nation again”, hashtag: “Scotland first”.’

  Logan peered over her shoulder at the screen. ‘They leave a name?’

  ‘Aye: “Wally Knieve 1314”.’

  ‘OK.’ He straightened up. ‘So we do a PNC check for—’

  ‘It’s from Burns.’ Heather pulled her chin up, stressing the words as if trying to redeem herself after Steel made her look like a numpty. “‘Address to a Haggis”. And I quote:

  “But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,

  The trembling earth resounds his treads,

  Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

  He’ll mak it whissle …”’

  She held up a hand and curled it into a fist. ‘This is my “walie nieve”.’

  King let his arms fall by his sides and stared at the ceiling again. Voice little more than a funeral dirge:

  ‘“An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will sned,

  Like taps o’ thrissle.”’

  Heather nodded. ‘And 1314 was the battle of Bannockburn.’

  ‘Oh …’ Steel put her phone away. ‘In that case, no. He didn’t leave a name.’

  ‘Course he didn’t.’ King sagged a bit further. ‘H?’