All That's Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘That’s really not … It …’ The blush had officially gone nuclear. ‘But …’

  Now, the kind thing to do would be to change the subject and spare the wee lad any more embarrassment.

  Nah.

  Logan grinned. ‘Say “thank you” to the nice gentleman, Tufty.’

  It looked as if the tips of his ears were about to combust. ‘Thank you?’

  Zander spread his arms wide. ‘My pleasure. Now, Hoshiko?’

  She hooked a thumb over her shoulder at a vacant workstation. ‘Come on, Porno Boy, we’ll get you set up, then you can tell me about this algorithm of yours …’

  Zander’s office was huge – the meeting table that ran down the middle big enough to seat twenty. It was lined with movable electronic whiteboards and flipcharts, displays plastered in yet more storyboard drawings. He perched on the edge of a fancy-pants desk, with a large leather chair behind it, a couple of monitors on cantilevered arms, some flowers in a vase. The whole thing reeked of power.

  A pair of small raggedy cats chased each other across the meeting table. Pausing every now and then to stare at Logan as if he might be edible.

  But by far the most impressive thing about the room was the floor-to-ceiling window that made up one entire wall, overlooking Soundstage 1 in all its gloomy glory.

  Zander caught one of the cats as it battered past, holding it against his chest so it could chew at his goatee. ‘When the oil industry took a tanking, I was able to get this whole thing for a song. Had to soundproof everything and expand out the back, but still. Much better than our last place.’

  Logan looked down through the huge window. ‘Do you still see DI Insch?’

  The dismantlers were loading the chunks of fighter cockpit onto trolleys and wheeling them away.

  ‘What, David? Oh yes. He’s off doing second unit scouting for the new film. Iceland.’

  Logan nodded. ‘Tell him I said, “Hi,” OK?’ Seemed a bit inadequate after all these years, but what else was there?

  Zander’s reflection stepped up beside Logan’s in the glass, one of the cats perched in his arms, on top of his belly. ‘You think whoever sent that first tweet abducted Professor Wilson?’

  ‘Maybe. Whoever it was, they knew he was missing a day before we did, so …?’

  ‘Hmmm. It’s a shame Wilson was such a tit.’ A sigh. ‘You know, when I first came up to Aberdeen, I had a boss who called me an F.E.B. for two whole years. “I don’t know, ask the FEB.”, “Hey, F.E.B., get the teas in, yeah?”, “You know, Zander, you’re my favourite F.E.B.”’

  Nope. Never heard of that one.

  ‘F.E …?’

  ‘“Fucking English Bastard”.’ Zander shook his head. ‘Said it was “only a bit of banter”. You try replacing “English” with “black”, or “Jewish”, or “gay” and see how bantery it feels then. Hate’s hate.’

  ‘Sounds like a lovely man.’

  Zander waved that away. ‘Oh, I rose above it. Showed him there were no hard feelings last year by buying the company and firing him.’ A smile. ‘I know it sounds vindictive, but he was stealing equipment and sexually harassing the young man on reception. Only had himself to blame, really.’

  Down below, the last chunk of cockpit was wheeled away for storage.

  ‘So how did you know Professor Wilson?’

  ‘Is he really dead?’

  Logan shrugged. ‘Hope not.’

  Zander rubbed his goatee on the cat’s head, setting it purring. ‘Made the mistake of hiring Professor “Acquired Taste” Wilson for Witchfire, thought it’d be good to have a genuine constitutional scholar involved: bring a bit of authenticity to the way society operated in the film. Just because it’s alternative-history, doesn’t mean it has to be fake nonsense.’ His expression soured. ‘What a pain in the arse that man was.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m hearing that a lot.’

  ‘Could start a fight in a bowl of soup. And not lumpy soup either: consommé. I bet you could boil socks and he’d—’

  Logan’s phone burst into ‘If I Only Had a Brain’ again, and he slumped. Pulled the damn thing out. ‘Sorry, I’d better …’ He answered it. ‘Rennie, if you’ve called up to nag, don’t. We’ll be in when we’ve—’

  ‘Boss, there’s a package turned up at the BBC. You need to get over there, ASAP!’

  Yes, because that didn’t sound like he was being set up for something horrible, did it?

  ‘What kind of package?’

  ‘Didn’t say, but I know King’s on his way now. Lights and music, so it must be a biggie!’

  A package delivered to BBC Scotland. Well, if King was hotfooting it over there, then it had to be connected to the Professor Wilson Case. And if it was connected, then Logan had to get there sharpish too. Because the scapegoat’s scapegoat had no intention of letting the original-issue scapegoat screw things up and land him in it.

  ‘OK, OK. I’m on my way.’ He hung up and slipped the phone back in his pocket.

  Zander’s shoulders curled forward, the cat clambering up onto them. ‘I’m guessing Gilbert and Sullivan had it right about a policeman’s lot?’

  ‘Got to go. Can you …?’ Pointing through the door and down a bit, where the Visual FX department probably was.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after the little lad for you. Make sure he stays out of trouble.’

  ‘Yeah, good luck with that.’ Logan made for the door. ‘And don’t let him have any more caffeine!’ After all, things were bad enough as it was.

  12

  A large Jiffy bag, torn open at one end, sat on the desk. And not just any old desk, this was the one used for on-camera interviews. The one with a grainy out-of-date photo of Aberdeen in the background – the ugly warty lump of St Nicholas House still clearly visible in the shot, even though it’d been torn down years ago.

  The tiny studio was barely bigger than a single bedroom, with ancient audiovisual equipment piled up against the walls, filling the space behind the remote-operated camera where it couldn’t be seen. Lights hung from a ceiling rig, all of them angled to point at the Jiffy bag, making it glow against the grey Formica. A sickly shade of yellow-orange.

  Logan had a squint at the address label, laser printed onto a plain white sticky square:

  Professor N Wilson,

  C/O The Muriel Kirk Show

  BBC Scotland

  Beechgrove Terrace

  Aberdeen AB15 5ZT

  Muriel Kirk adjusted the sunglasses perched on top of her greying hair and bounced from foot to foot, as if she was about to climb into the ring and punch someone. A visual reinforced by the trainers, joggy bottoms, and ‘I RAN THE MELDRUM MARATHON!’ T-shirt. Not an ounce of fat on her.

  Her producer was a saggy man with a receding hairline, grey beard, and blue cardigan – even in this heat. Sweat shone on his top lip as he fiddled with his cardie pockets.

  King popped an extra-strong mint, crunching as he stared at the package. ‘And no one else has touched this?’

  Mr Cardigan shook his head. ‘It came in the morning post, but it was addressed to Muriel and she’s not on air till one, so—’

  ‘Yes.’ Muriel Kirk rolled her shoulders. ‘It’ll have been touched by the postie, Al on reception, Graham here, and me.’ Her eyes shone. ‘I was the one who opened it.’

  Logan got out his notebook. ‘Right, well. We’ll have to take statements and—’

  ‘Hold on, I need to get Barry in here.’ She stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled: deafening in the small space.

  The heavy studio door creaked open and in came what had to be Barry, a camera on his shoulder, one eye pressed to the viewfinder, the other screwed shut as he framed the shot. ‘And we’re rolling.’

  Muriel turned to the camera and pointed at the Jiffy bag, putting on a voice that was nearly an octave down from the one she’d just been using. A lot more refined too. ‘When this package arrived at the BBC Scotland studios in Aberdeen earlier today, everyone thought it was simply anoth
er piece of mail.’ She reached for the package. ‘But when I opened it—’

  ‘Wait, wait, wait, wait!’ King barged in front of Barry, blocking the camera. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’ Muriel bounced on her feet again, limbering up. ‘This is going to be the lead story on the lunchtime news. We’re—’

  ‘No. No you’re not. This is an ongoing investigation!’ He stuck a hand in the middle of Barry’s chest and pushed him towards the heavy door. ‘Come on, you: out.’

  Barry peered from behind his camera. ‘Muriel?’

  King jabbed a finger at her and Captain Cardigan. ‘You two as well. This is a police matter. Off you go.’

  She curled her hands into fists. ‘But this is our studio. It was addressed to me!’

  ‘And I want to thank you on behalf of Police Scotland for bringing it to our attention.’ He gave Barry a shove, sending him staggering backwards. ‘Now: out.’

  ‘Graham, are you going to let them throw us off our own story?’

  Cardigan fluttered his hands. ‘Perhaps we should all calm down a bit and discuss this like—’

  ‘Quite right.’ Logan pulled on his best all-in-this-together voice. ‘That sounds like an excellent idea. But first, can you do me a favour and dig up any CCTV you’ve got of the package being delivered? That’ll be a huge help.’ Ushering Cardigan out of the door. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. I suppose …’

  Logan turned to Muriel. ‘And Mz Kirk, I know it’s hard, but we’ve got to be extremely careful about DNA and cross-contamination. I’ll have a word with the Chief Superintendent and see if we can get you exclusive coverage, OK? OK.’

  ‘But—’

  Guiding her out. ‘You’re helping us make a real difference, thanks. That’s great.’

  Soon as she was outside, Logan pulled the door shut and snubbed the lock. Then frowned at the remote-operated camera facing the desk. Held a hand out to King. ‘Give me your jacket.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your jacket: I need your jacket. Please.’

  ‘Oh for …’ But King shrugged his way out of it, showing off the stains beneath the arms of his shirt.

  Logan draped it over the camera and dropped his voice to a whisper – in case they had the microphones activated. ‘They were only doing their jobs.’

  ‘Bollocks.’ Not even trying to keep his voice down. ‘God save us from bloody journalists.’

  Then King snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves and turned the package on the desk, so the open end faced them. Reached inside.

  No, no. no!

  Logan grabbed his arm. ‘What the hell are you doing? We’re not exactly in sterile conditions here!’

  ‘It’s been opened at least once.’ King shook his arm free. ‘You really think they’ve not filmed the thing already?’

  ‘Are you insane?’

  King pulled something covered in crumpled tinfoil from the Jiffy bag: vaguely rectangular, four or five inches thick. Smears of dark reddish-brown on the shiny metal. Yeah, that was definitely blood. ‘Twenty quid says they’re through there, editing a piece starting with, “Some viewers may find this report distressing.”’

  The foil package had a curled edge at the top, like a Cornish pasty. King unrolled the first corner.

  ‘Don’t! If you compromise the evidence we’ll—’

  ‘What?’ He bared his teeth, chest out. ‘What do you care? This is my investigation, OK? MINE!’ Spittle flying, deep creases around his pink eyes. ‘You shouldn’t even be here!’

  Logan backed off a pace, sniffing. There was something there, beneath all the mint and the outrage. Something sharp and sour. ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘I’m on duty, you idiot! And I don’t need Professional Standards sticking their nose into my case!’

  Here we go.

  ‘I’m not “sticking my nose in”, I’m here to support you.’

  ‘You’re what?’

  ‘They didn’t tell you?’ Oh great. Well that explained a lot.

  ‘All hail the mighty Inspector Logan McRae and his Queen’s Medal! What, you think just because you were stupid enough to get yourself stabbed—’

  ‘Look, it wasn’t my idea, OK? All I wanted was a nice straightforward little investigation, ease my way into things, not … this!’

  King closed the gap between them. Poked him with a finger. ‘I don’t need supervised by some jumped-up—’

  ‘I’m not supervising, I’m assisting.’ Logan stared him down. ‘And you can blame Jane McGrath, thank you very much. The brass wanted to fire you – this,’ pointing at the pair of them, ‘was all her idea. I could be in Bucksburn now, eating KitKats.’

  King glared at him.

  Sigh. ‘Look: if we cock this up, they’ll throw us both in the blender, OK? Career-and-jobbie smoothies for everyone.’

  No response.

  But at least no one had thrown a punch yet.

  Logan softened his voice a bit. ‘Now put the package back where it came from and let’s try to pretend we have a clue about evidentiary procedure.’

  King stared at him in silence, breath hissing in and out through his nose … Then he closed his eyes. Shook his head. And slid the tinfoil pack into the Jiffy bag again. Cleared his throat and looked away, the colour fading from his face. ‘I need to solve this case, Logan. I need to solve it soon. The press are going to … hammer dirty big nails into me if I don’t, and our top brass are going to let them.’

  ‘Not if I can help it.’ He tried for a reassuring smile. ‘Now come on, let’s get that package to the mortuary. And cheer up: we’ve finally got some forensic evidence!’

  Logan shifted in his horrible SOC suit, setting it rustling. A trickle of sweat traced its way down his spine and into his underwear.

  Normally the mortuary was the only cool room in Divisional Headquarters, but for some reason, today it was like a toaster. Or perhaps it was just the horrible Tyvek oversuits, trapping his body heat, not letting any moisture escape in case it contaminated the evidence. Turning his pants into a sauna.

  King was pink-faced and shiny next to him, glancing up at the clock every two minutes.

  Creepy Sheila Dalrymple seemed comfortable in her own SOC suit, her white wellies shiny against the mortuary’s off-grey tiles. A smile on her wide flat face that didn’t go as far as the eyes hiding behind her spectacles. Her long thin fingers in constant motion at the end of her long thin arms, as if they lived a life of their own, independent to the rest of her. She must have caught King looking at the clock again, because she turned her hollow smile on him. ‘Not long now … gentlemen.’

  Even her pauses were creepy.

  Another trickle of sweat joined the first.

  Logan rustled a bit more.

  Harsh overhead lights sparkled from the stainless-steel cutting tables and worktops. Dented, but clean. A couple of laptops, screensavers birling away. The low growl of the extractor fans. The harsh scent of bleach and formaldehyde undercut by something dark and bowel-like. Eau de Mortuary, pour cadavre.

  And then, bang on the dot of ten, the cutting room door opened and Professor Isobel McAlister lurched in. Her SOC suit stretched taut over her swollen bulge, face a bit flushed, welly boots turned out at the toes to compensate for the extra weight growing inside her. She didn’t even look at Logan or King. ‘Well?’

  ‘All is prepared … Professor.’

  About bloody time too.

  Isobel pointed at the Jiffy bag. ‘Sheila, if you would?’

  ‘As you wish … Professor.’ All she needed was a lightning flash and the sound of nervous horses. Lacking that, Sheila slunk over to the nearest worktop – returning with a stainless-steel tray that had a couple of scalpels, a pair of pliers, three tweezers, and a spoon on it. She placed the tray beside the Jiffy bag, then laid out the implements on the cutting table as if she was setting it for dinner.

  She gave Isobel a small nod, then pulled on a facemask and reach
ed into the bag, easing out the tinfoil package and placing it in the middle of the now vacant tray.

  Isobel frowned at the package, then at the room with its grubby tiles and shiny worktops. ‘Where’s my photographer? I specifically requested a photographer! How am I supposed to carry out any sort of examination without it being properly recorded?’

  ‘They haven’t turned up … Professor.’

  ‘Well we’re not going any further until they do.’

  Logan groaned.

  King shook his head. ‘Not acceptable.’

  She glared at him. ‘A proper photographic record is vital. How am I supposed to present evidence in court without photographs?’

  King held her gaze, then threw his hands up. ‘Fine! Get the camera and I’ll take the photographs.’

  ‘This isn’t a children’s birthday party, you can’t—’

  ‘I did the SIO course refresher last week and they had a module on crime scene photography.’ He stuck his hand out in Sheila’s direction. ‘Camera.’

  Sheila looked at Isobel. ‘Professor?’

  ‘Very well, but if these pictures are of inferior quality it’s your investigation you’ll be ruining.’

  Sheila rummaged in one of the cupboards and emerged with a chunky digital camera, turned it on, then presented it to King. ‘You have to press this button here to—’

  ‘I do know how a camera works, thank you.’ He removed the lens cap, fiddled with the settings, and took a couple of test shots. ‘Right: where’s the scale?’

  She clicked a black-and-white ruler down alongside the package.

  King rattled off half a dozen more, prowling around the table to get a variety of angles. The camera’s flash bounced off the shiny surfaces.

  Isobel held out a gloved hand. ‘All right, let’s see what you’ve done.’

  He turned the camera around and showed her the viewing screen.

  ‘Acceptable.’ She nodded. ‘Sheila, proceed.’

  Those thin fingers took hold of the crimped top of the tinfoil pasty and unrolled it, spreading the sides open. Revealing a pair of severed human hands. The skin was pale as candlewax where it wasn’t clarted in dark red-brown stains.