All That's Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘I can get in touch with Twitter, but don’t hold your breath.’

  King didn’t move. ‘Thanks. And now, unless anyone else has a—’

  The door burst open, banging against the wall, and in marched a short man. A bit tubby about the middle, small round glasses and a hairline that looked as if it was planning on parting company with its host any day now. A scowl etched into his pasty face. DCI Hardie stopped in the middle of the room as King scrambled to his feet.

  ‘Boss.’

  ‘You’ve heard about the university?’

  ‘Press release.’

  ‘Which means we’re going to have to do a media briefing. And by “we” I mean “you”. Two o’clock sharp. Try to make it sound like we know what we’re doing.’

  King nodded. ‘Boss.’

  Then Hardie stared at Logan. ‘Inspector McRae, good to have you back after …’ Suspicion replaced the scowl as he looked from Logan to King. ‘Is there something here I should know about?’

  Logan put a hand on Steel’s shoulder. ‘Just popped by to see how Detective Sergeant Steel’s getting on. Make sure she’s keeping her nose clean.’

  She gave him a full dose of the evil eye. ‘Hoy!’

  ‘Good luck with that.’ Hardie turned on his heel, snapping his fingers above his head as he marched from the room. ‘Two o’clock sharp!’

  As soon as the door banged shut, King collapsed into his seat, hands over his face again. ‘Aaaargh …’

  Yeah, that pretty much summed it up.

  6

  Logan plipped the locks on his Audi and hurried across the furnace masquerading as Bucksburn station’s rear car park. Trying to avoid the stickier patches of tarmac.

  Inside, it was a bit cooler, but not a lot. He limped his way up the stairs to Professional Standards, sweat prickling between his shoulder blades. Who decided it was OK for the weather to be so bloody hot? The temperature was never meant to hit twenty-six in Aberdeen – what was the point of living nearly a degree and a half north of Moscow if it was going to be twenty-six in the shade? Might as well live in a microwave oven.

  At least the air conditioning was on in the main office.

  Someone he didn’t recognise was lowering the blinds, cutting out the glaring sun and the lunchtime ‘rush’. The traffic was barely moving – crawling along Inverurie Road and bringing most of Bucksburn to a grinding halt. Then the blinds clunked down and it was gone.

  Whoever-it-was waved at Logan and he waved back.

  Yup, no idea at all who you are, mate.

  Logan lumbered his way along the line of offices to the one marked, ‘FORENSIC I.T.’ A laminated sheet of A4 sat underneath it, covered in clipart cartoon characters depicting some sort of bloody Aztec ritual with the legend, ‘THE MIGHTY KARL CARES NOT FOR YOUR VIRGIN SACRIFICES: BRING CAKE!’

  OK, so a packet of Rice Krispie squares wasn’t quite the same thing, but it was near enough. Right?

  He shifted the pack to his other hand and knocked.

  A slightly high-pitched voice sounded on the other side of the door. ‘Abandon all hope and enter.’

  Logan let himself in.

  The Mighty Karl’s domain was an eclectic collection of IT equipment, all of it labelled and most of it stored on the floor-to-ceiling shelves that lined the room. Laptops, desktops, evidence crates full of mobile phones and tablet computers.

  More clipart cartoons were pinned up all over the walls and shelves. A halo of them made a wee shrine around a framed photo of Karl shaking hands with the First Minister. Only someone had given her a Post-it note speech balloon with, ‘OH KARL, YOU SEXY BEAST OF A MAN, YOU!’ on it.

  The ‘Sexy Beast of a man’ sat at the workbench that bisected the room.

  Perched on a high stool, with a thin grey cardigan on over his Police Scotland uniform T-shirt, thick-rimmed round glasses, and salt-and-pepper hair in desperate need of a cut, he was just a hookah pipe and a fez away from being the caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland.

  He clambered down from his mushroom and beamed. ‘Logan of the Clan McRae! I heard rumours of your …’ His nostrils twitched and he curled forwards, peering at the packet in Logan’s hand. ‘Ooh, do these ancient eyes deceive me, or are you bearing votive offerings for my humble self? Hmmmmm?’

  Logan popped the Rice Krispie squares on the desk and Karl snaffled them up, sniffing the wrapper.

  ‘Ah, the delights of puffed rice and assorted sweetly sticky things …’ A sigh, long and wistful. ‘I miss Norman, don’t you? He used to prepare decadent baked treats that would tempt even the most parsimonious of souls.’ Karl ripped the pack open. ‘I remember once he baked a batch of scones with Mars Bar bits, Gummy Bears, and jelly beans, that—’

  ‘Can I beg a favour?’

  Karl tore off a sticky corner and popped it in his mouth, chewing through a big smile. ‘Mmmm … You have made sacrifice to the all-mighty, all-seeing, all-knowing Oracle, so ask away, Brave Traveller.’

  ‘I need you to track down some Twitter accounts for me.’

  ‘Names, addresses, inside-leg measurements – that kind of thing?’

  ‘As much as you can get.’

  A nod. ‘Luckily, my dear Logan, the only things I have on this afternoon are a pair of tattered pants and a second-hand bobble hat.’ He sooked his fingers clean. ‘Consider your tweetists found!’

  And with any luck they’d have whoever abducted Professor Wilson in a cell by the close of business.

  Superintendent Bevan sat behind her desk, hands busy with a ball of multicoloured wool and a crochet needle. Making something that looked disturbingly like a huge willy warmer.

  Logan tore his eyes away from it and settled in his seat. ‘I’m going to have to go over some of his cases, speak to a few of his colleagues to be sure, but I get the feeling DI King is telling the truth. It was a long time ago and he’s genuinely changed.’

  She frowned for a moment, crocheting away, then nodded. ‘Better safe than sorry, Logan. Better safe than sorry.’

  Yup, that was looking more like a willy warmer with every passing second. She’d got as far as the testicley bits … OK, no way that was appropriate for an office environment.

  Logan cleared his throat. ‘Course, it would help if we knew what the Scottish Daily Post had on him. Be easier to manage.’

  Bevan didn’t look up. ‘“Manage” is perhaps the wrong word. We’re not here to put a positive spin on things, we’re here to find the truth and resolve the situation. For good or ill.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s going to be a risk to the Professor Wilson investigation, anyway.’

  ‘I hope not, Logan. I really do. Politically, there’s a lot riding on this one and if DI King slips up …’ A pained expression pulled her mouth down. ‘Keep an eye on him for me, will you? Be his shadow for a day or two. Actually, better make it three, just in case. Because the fallout would be horrific.’

  Not quite as horrific as what she was making. Those testicular bits were getting bigger …

  Look at something else!

  Anything else!

  How about … that big frame on the wall, the one with the ancient green-and-white car and the speeding ticket?

  ‘Err … so you’re into classic cars?’ Pointing at it.

  ‘Hmm?’ She glanced up from her crocheted codpiece. ‘Oh, no. I keep that as a reminder. Oh, I used to love that Hillman Minx. Got done for speeding, when I was nineteen. Five K over the speed limit, so that’s about …’ Working it out. ‘Three miles an hour too fast? But the cops in Auckland were very strict about that kind of thing.’ More testicalling. ‘So I keep it as a reminder.’

  Crochet, crochet, crochet.

  OK …

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘I was nineteen, I was in teachers’ college, and I was in a hurry to get home after yet another day’s placement at Blockhouse Bay Primary School – “going on section” we called it, part of the training.’ A sigh. ‘So I broke the speed limit. And now look at me!’ She t
ugged at the ball bags, flattening them out. ‘It reminds me that we all make mistakes, Logan. We all deserve a second chance.’

  Fair enough.

  ‘Like DI King?’

  ‘Exactly.’ She looked up from her willy warmer. ‘I don’t like our officers being savaged by the press, Logan. I don’t like it one little bit.’

  ‘Have you tried calling the journalist: see if they’ll tell you what they’ve got on King?’

  ‘Tricky. You give credence to the allegations just by questioning them. Next thing you know, the press is full of stories about how Professional Standards are investigating him. That, or accusing us of being involved in a cover-up.’ Creases appeared between her eyebrows as she added another layer to the crocheted horror. ‘I suppose, if you think you can pull it off? But try not to stir up more trouble than we’re already in, OK?’

  Lovely: a poisoned chalice, all of his very own.

  Logan pointed at the door. ‘So, should I …?’

  There was a ding, then a buzz, and Bevan’s huge iPhone skittered on the desktop. She peered over the top of her glasses at the screen. Sighed and shook her head. ‘Honestly! Some husbands send their wives dick picks, what do I get?’ She let go of the wool and turned the phone around, so Logan could see.

  It was a photo of a man’s mid-section, bit of trousers, belt, and waist. A big yellow banana poked out of his flies.

  ‘I swear that man is sixty-one going on twelve.’

  So that’s who the willy warmer was for.

  Logan stood. ‘Well, I’d better be—’

  ‘Sergeant Rennie says you taught him all he knows.’

  Typical Rennie: rotten little clype was probably trying to spread the blame.

  ‘That depends on what he’s done.’

  ‘Inspiring people is always a good thing.’ She smiled. ‘Have you considered what you’re going to do when your tour of Professional Standards is over? Which branch of NE Division you’d like to move into?’

  ‘Erm …’

  ‘And you’re not restricted to NE Division – now that we’re all one big happy Police Scotland family, you could take your pick: Tayside, Highlands and Islands, Fife? I’m sure your Queen’s Medal will open all manner of doors.’

  ‘Hadn’t really thought about it.’

  ‘You should, Logan. You should. The next ten months will fly by and then … poof! Professional Standards’ loss will be someone else’s gain.’ She held up the multicoloured willy warmer, letting the dangly bit … dangle. ‘I think it’s coming along nicely, don’t you?’

  Urgh!

  ‘I really don’t think I—’

  ‘Now I’ve got the trunk and the ears done I can move on to Mr Haathee’s body and legs.’

  Logan looked from the dangly bit to the dirty crocheted elephant perched on top of the filing cabinet with one of its button eyes hanging off.

  Oh thank God for that.

  ‘Anyway, I won’t keep you.’ She went back to her non-willy-warming elephant. ‘Let me know how you get on with your journalist.’

  No idea whose desk this was, but they had a serious Twilight problem. The cubicle walls were covered in posters of various greasy-looking sparkly vampires and shirtless young men smouldering for the camera. Not exactly wholesome.

  Logan drew smiley faces on half a dozen Post-its and stuck them over the actors’ pouts, giving the desk a much more festive air. Then he logged on to his email and pulled up the front page of the Scottish Daily Post they’d been sent. The one with DI King’s face and ‘TOP MURDER COP WAS IN SCOTNAT TERROR GROUP’.

  According to the byline, it’d been written by ‘SENIOR REPORTER, EDWARD BARWELL’ along with a mobile number and ‘HAVE YOU GOT A BREAKING STORY?’

  Logan pulled over the desk phone and dialled.

  While it rang, he called up a web browser and googled Barwell. The Post’s website showed an earnest-looking man in his early twenties, hair slicked back on top and very, very short at the sides. The kind of person who thought a checked waistcoat and a tweed jacket made him look both trendy and respectable, but came off more middle-aged Rupert the Bear. The list of articles that accompanied the photo suggested—

  A voice in his ear: ‘Edward Barwell.’

  ‘Mr Barwell? It’s Inspector McRae from North East Division. Have you got a minute to talk about DI Frank King?’

  ‘On or off the record?’

  ‘Off.’

  ‘Why? What don’t you want people to know about?’

  Nope, not playing that game.

  ‘OK. I’m sorry for bothering you. Bye.’ Logan had the handset halfway to the cradle when Barwell’s voice belted out of the earpiece:

  ‘Wait, wait! OK, off the record it is.’

  Better.

  ‘You emailed through tomorrow’s front page and I’m looking into your allegations.’

  ‘Allegations?’ A laugh. ‘You’re kidding, right? They’re not allegations, Inspector …?’

  ‘McRae.’

  ‘Right, and is that M.A.C. or M.C.?’

  ‘It’s spelled: “off-the-record”, remember?’

  ‘Force of habit.’ There was a pause. Then, ‘Your DI King was in a Scottish Nationalist terrorist cell. I’ve enough dirt to run this for three or four days.’

  Well that complicated things.

  Logan opened his notebook and dug out a pen. ‘You’ve got proof he was involved in terrorist activities?’

  ‘You’re investigating him, you tell me.’ Then, when Logan didn’t, ‘The People’s Army for Scottish Liberation were big on blowing up statues and guest houses, weren’t they? And now there’s all these Alt-Nat arson attacks going on. Makes you wonder if someone like King should be out there investigating crimes, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Who told you he was involved?’

  ‘So you’re admitting he was in the SPLA?’

  ‘No, I’m asking who told you he was. If I told you Donald Trump was a Mensa member, it wouldn’t make it true, would it?’

  ‘You want me to hand over my sources to the police? Yeah, that’s going to happen. Let me saddle up my unicorn and I’ll ride over with the information.’

  Rupert the Bear does sarcasm.

  Logan sighed. ‘Look, I’m trying to get to the bottom of this, OK? Maybe it’s not a great idea to trash a guy’s career without a proper investigation?’

  ‘That a threat?’

  ‘No, it’s me wondering why you’re so interested in DI King.’

  You could hear the big evil smile in his voice, it practically dripped from the handset. ‘Read the paper, you’ll find out.’ There was some rustling, a clunk, then a swell of voices in the background, as if Barwell had just stepped into a busy room. ‘Gotta dash – your media briefing’s about to kick off and I don’t want to miss a single minute.’ Then he hung up.

  Logan put the phone down. Swivelled in his borrowed chair. Frowned at the now smiley-Post-it-faced vampires. ‘That could’ve gone better.’

  He opened a new tab on the browser and called up Silver City FM’s website, ‘THE VOICE OF THE NORTHEAST SINCE 2008!’, following a link on their ‘NEWS UPDATE!’ page to a livestream of DCI Hardie’s press conference.

  The picture was completely frozen and pixelated – the media briefing room at Divisional Headquarters. The bottom of the screen was taken up with the back of journalists’ heads, with a small podium in front of them. It played host to a projection screen, a backdrop covered in Police Scotland logos, and a desk covered with blue cloth. A row of uncomfortable-looking officers behind it – DCI Hardie in the middle, DI King to the left, and the Media Liaison Officer on the right. All three of them sharing a single microphone. Then the circular icon that meant the media player was buffering appeared, whirled for a bit, and finally the video started playing.

  King was on his feet, mouth open. ‘… ask anyone with any information to come forward. Thank you.’

  He sat back down and the Media Liaison Officer nodded at the assembled press pack as the words ‘JAN
E MCGRATH’ materialised at the bottom of the screen. Immaculate in her suit, with hair and makeup so perfect she could’ve been presenting the news. Polished to the point of being slightly creepy in an uncanny valley kind of way. Her voice was much the same. ‘Any questions?’

  A flurry of hands went up.

  It was difficult to tell who was who, going by the back of their heads, but a few of those journalistic haircuts were familiar, especially the trendy short sides and slicked top of Edward Barwell. Sitting there, between someone from the BBC and the Aberdeen Examiner.

  Jane pointed at one of them. ‘Yes: Bob?’

  ‘Aye, Bob Finnegan, Aberdeen Examiner. Is Professor Wilson’s disappearance connected to Matt Lansdale going missing?’

  She pulled on a smile that probably wasn’t meant to look as patronising as it did. ‘Not that we know of, Bob. But again, we urge anyone with information to get in touch. Who’s next?’

  ‘Only, see, Lansdale’s a high-profile anti-independence campaigner, just like the Professor. Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’

  The smile got even worse. ‘Again: we’re not currently aware of any connection. Yes: Olivia.’

  The woman sitting next to Barwell lowered her hand. ‘Olivia Ward, BBC News. What about all these arson attacks? Isn’t it likely that Professor Wilson’s murder is part of a coordinated campaign of domestic terrorism?’

  King leaned forward into the microphone. ‘For the record: there’s no evidence that Professor Wilson’s been murdered. This is a missing persons inquiry.’

  Edward Barwell didn’t even bother putting his hand up. Cocky little sod. ‘Are you sure, Detective Inspector?’

  Logan sat back in his seat. ‘Oh God, here we go …’

  ‘You see, the Alt-Nat trolls are all over social media saying he is.’ Because cocky wasn’t bad enough, he had to be smug with it. ‘You have seen the tweets and posts, haven’t you?’

  ‘As I said, the inquiry is ongoing and we ask anyone with—’

  ‘Information to come forward. Yes.’ A nod. Difficult to be a hundred percent certain, only seeing the back of his head, but going by the voice? Logan would’ve put money on Barwell’s smile being even more patronising than Jane McGrath’s. ‘I’ll bet you do …’