‘No, you idiot, how long before you find out who sent that tweet?’
There was a pause as more Lobster People from the Planet Too-Ginger-To-Be-In-The-Sun went by.
‘Tufty?’
‘No way of knowing. We’ve got forty-two massive servers churning their way through Twitter and Facebook and Instagram. But it could take months.’
‘Oh for … Months? How can it take months? Get your finger out!’
Lazy little sod.
A sigh hissed out from the speakers. ‘About six thousand tweets get sent every second, that’s five hundred and eighteen million, four hundred thousand a day. Fifty-five million Facebook updates. Ninety-five million photos added to Instagram. Every – single – day. That’s why months.’
Logan pulled up at the traffic lights, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel while a Lobsterwoman wheeled a buggy across the crossing, fag poking out of the corner of her mouth, phone in one hand. Ignoring her Lobsterchild as it hurled a crisp packet out into the sunshine, followed by a Capri Sun and what was left of a Mars Bar.
No way they could wait months for a result.
Fifty-five million Facebooks. Ninety-five million Instagrams. It was too much.
‘Sarge?’
‘Fine. Ditch Facebook and Instawhatsit. If our boy’s tweeting about Professor Wilson’s attack, he’s tweeting about other things too. Focus there.’
‘Pfff … OK, OK: I’ll reconfigure the search.’
‘And soon as you’ve set it up, get your bum back to the station. We’re not paying you to sit about talking nonsense with film people.’
‘But physics isn’t nonsense, it’s—’
Logan thumbed the button again, hanging up on him.
Rennie smiled. ‘Bet you’re glad you got yourself a top-of-the-range Simon Rennie sidekick, now, aren’t you?’
Swap one idiot for another.
‘Get a lookout request set up for Councillor Matt Lansdale. Maybe he hasn’t killed himself, maybe he’s done a Reginald Perrin?’
‘Already done it. Top-of-the-range, remember? Doubt we’ll get anything back, though. After all, who cares about a disgraced middle-aged missing city councillor?’ Rennie sniffed. ‘Could be anywhere by now.’
Look at the state of this shitehole.
Haiden kicks a lump of plaster, sending it skittering away like a rat across the bare floorboards. A crappy old room, the lathe sticking out of the crumbling walls like bones. Peeling wallpaper, the ugly pattern lurking beneath blooms of fungus-black and mildew-grey. Childish crayon drawings of crude stick-figures humping. Two windows, with chunks of broken glass poking out of their frames like jagged teeth. Letting the sunlight slash in. Casting thick dark shadows.
Bet there’s rats in here. Big ones.
The five dirty-white chest freezers make a line from the door, most of the way round the room, each one marked with red spray paint that’s run and dripped like blood: ‘THREE MONKEYS’, ‘THE DEVIL MAKES WORK’, ‘SPITE’, ‘JUDAS’, and ‘WALLACE’.
A little green light glints in the gloom as the compressor on ‘THREE MONKEYS’ kicks in again, humming away to itself. It’s the only one that’s turned on, cos there’s no point wasting electricity, is there? Environmentally responsible and all that.
Streaks and splots of rusty brown stain the white plastic surface around the lid.
Should really clean that up, but sod it.
The chest freezer next to it has the same kinda stains, but no rattle and hum. Instead, the sound of sobbing jags out into the hot stale air. Ungrateful sod should be thanking him. He propped the lid open, didn’t he? Wedged a bit of skirting board in there so there’s a wee gap for air to get in.
OK, so there’s a thick chain and heavy padlock stopping it from opening any further than about ten mill, but hey, it’s better than nothing, right? Any wider and the rats might get in.
Fat bluebottles waltz through the gap, their heavy bodies glowing in the sunlight.
Haiden kicks ‘THE DEVIL MAKES WORK’ with the side of his boot, hard enough to rock the whole thing on its feet.
A cloud of the little buzzing fatsos erupt from the gap, accompanied by a muffled scream.
Better.
He takes off one of his gloves and stuffs it in his pocket, pulls out his phone instead – thumbing through to the camera app. Unlocks the padlock.
The chain hits the floorboards with a clattering rattle as he yanks the chest freezer’s lid open.
More bluebottles, swarming up from what’s left of the man inside, bringing with them the cloying scent of stale meat, sharp piss, and dirty-brown shite.
Haiden holds his phone out, filming as Professor Wanky Wilson cowers away from the light. Not nearly enough space for him to stretch out, so he’s curled up on his side with his knees against his chest, wriggling around, onto his back.
Not so big now, is he? Lying there, bawling like a bairn, snot and tears all over his face, piss stains on his trousers, crap in his pants. Ankles and elbows tied with thick blue string. Bandages round the stumps of his wrists, darkened with dried and fresh blood.
Suppose it’s no wonder he’s shat himself.
Course, he’s not wearing a blindfold, but he’s got his bloodshot eyes screwed shut as he blubbers. ‘Please! Please, I haven’t seen anything! I can … I can just go away, forget this ever happened. Please!’
Aye, right.
Haiden moves his phone closer, filling the screen with that terrified face.
‘You don’t have to do this! I’ll do whatever you want!’ A sob wracks him, making his chest jerk and spasm. The words short and breathless between tattered breaths. ‘I’m … sorry! Whatever … I did, I’m … I’m sorry! … Please … please let me … go … PLEASE!’
No chance, pal.
Haiden slams the lid down again and inside, Professor Wanky Wilson screams.
Tough.
Doesn’t take long to padlock the freezer again, making sure he doesn’t get fingerprints on anything. Cos he’s not stupid.
Then out – through the crappy hallway and into the fresh air.
Eyes closed, face turned to the warm sun.
Got to love summer …
Still, better get back to work.
He pulls the front door shut, all those brand-new Yales locking with a clunk. Leaves the crappy old house, with its second skin of ivy and brambles. Marches across what’s left of the front garden – if you can call a collection of rambling broom, nettles, and gorse a garden – to the ancient white Nissan Micra that’s parked next to a battered grey Transit. The van’s paintwork filthy and streaked with rust.
Haiden pops open the Nissan’s driver’s door and digs out his phone again, turning the brightness up so the video is visible out here.
Wanky Wilson’s voice crackles out of the phone’s speaker. ‘Please! Please, I haven’t seen anything! I can … I can just go away, forget this ever happened. Please!’
He looks even smaller on the screen. More pathetic as he begs for his worthless lying little life.
‘You don’t have to do this! I’ll do whatever you want!’ Then the sobbing. ‘I’m … sorry! Whatever … I did, I’m … I’m sorry! … Please … please let me … go … PLEASE!’
Perfect.
Haiden nods. Smiles. Sticks his phone in his pocket. Gets in behind the wheel and pulls out onto the rutted track.
Wanky Wilson’s about to go viral, and it serves him bloody right.
— sins of the father, sins of the son —
16
The word ‘Enter’ grudged itself out through the wood.
Logan let himself into Hardie’s office.
The room had probably been designed to give an authoritative air of efficiency and probity, with its six filing cabinets, six whiteboards covered in ongoing cases, a top-spec computer, and a portrait of the Queen, but it came off a bit … sad instead. Lacking in character. Oh, he’d added some personal touches – a couple of citations, three or four photos of Hardie with various bigwigs …
But they always seemed staged and uncomfortable, as if they were trying very hard to remember his name and whether or not he owed them money.
King glanced over his shoulder from one of the visitors’ chairs, wearing that same uncomfortable look. He gave Logan a quick grimace, then faced front again. Sitting in the other chair, Jane McGrath humphed at him.
Logan nodded at the florid-faced Hardie, sat behind his desk like an angry toad. ‘You wanted to see me, Boss?’
Mr Toad glowered. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Following up some leads.’
‘How am I supposed to strategise for this sodding press conference with you off gallivanting? You’re meant to be supporting this investigation.’
Tosser.
‘That’s exactly what I am doing.’ Logan closed the door and leaned against it. ‘So go on then: “strategise”.’
Hardie pointed at Jane. ‘Well?’
She folded her arms. ‘We need to get our statement out about DI King’s involvement with his terrorist cell.’
‘It wasn’t a terrorist cell!’ King turned to face her. ‘And I wasn’t involved, I went to a couple of meetings to impress a girl. That’s all.’
‘I still can’t figure out why the Scottish Daily Post didn’t expose you yesterday … but I can assure you they’re going to do it today. We need to break this before they do. Steal their thunder.’
Logan made a rocking gesture with one hand. ‘Maybe. But I don’t think Barwell’s going to drop that bomb today.’
They all stared at him as if he’d grown horns.
Then Hardie put on a speaking-to-stupid-people voice. ‘Professor Wilson’s hands turned up in the post, Logan.’ He held his own up and wiggled the fingers. ‘His hands.’
‘Yes, but we’ve got a suspect: we’ve got CCTV footage of the man who posted the hands to the BBC. We’re making progress.’
Jane sighed. ‘That doesn’t change—’
‘If you’re Edward Barwell, when are you going to put the boot in: when the investigation’s making progress, or when it’s stalling? Because all investigations stall at some point, we all know that. It’s how things work.’
She nodded at Hardie. ‘Even more reason to get it out there now, while we’re on top of the news cycle – not being buried by it.’
‘Hmmm …’ Mr Toad steepled his fingers. ‘Detective Inspector King?’
‘I didn’t do anything.’
Logan shifted against the door. ‘We’re trying to find out who this guy is, but it wouldn’t hurt to put out his picture and an appeal for witnesses.’
‘Witnesses?’ Jane scowled at him. ‘Now you’re just changing the subject!’
‘Exactly.’
There was silence as, hopefully, they let that sink in.
Then Hardie sat back in his chair. ‘You said you were following up leads. What leads?’
‘I’ve got Tufty trying to ID whoever sent that first tweet, and Rennie and I have been looking into Councillor Matt Lansdale’s disappearance. See if it’s linked to Professor Wilson’s.’
‘And is it?’
‘No. Lansdale’s divorced, disgraced, and depressed. Chances are he’s either embezzled council cash and done a runner, or tried to end his own life. Maybe succeeded, but the body’s not turned up yet.’
‘Hmm …’ Obviously not convinced.
‘There’s no sign of a struggle at his flat – no forced entry, no blood – and if he’d been abducted, his hands would’ve turned up in the post by now, wouldn’t they? Professor Wilson’s did.’
Jane poked Hardie’s desk. ‘This doesn’t help us with the current news cycle.’
‘No, but it means we can eliminate him from our inquiries and journalists can stop asking stupid questions that make us look like idiots for not considering it.’
Silence, as Hardie swivelled in his chair. Then he nodded. ‘We keep our statement about DI King in reserve for now. But at the very first sign of things “stalling”, you tell me and we release it, understand?’ He pointed at Logan and King. ‘Understand?’
‘Totally.’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ Hardie checked his watch. ‘It’s three oh seven. Press briefing is at four. And if either of you even thinks about disappearing off on a sudden “urgent mission” I’ll slap a formal complaint on your record before you’re halfway out the door.’ He jabbed a finger at the door. ‘Now go. Do something useful.’
The canteen’s dishwasher chugged and churned away to itself, the only other sound coming from the vending machine as a spotty support officer got it to give up a can of Irn-Bru. Buzzzzz, clang, rattle. Tsssssst. Glug, glug, glug. Belch. Then she gave Logan and King a wave, before sloping her way out of the canteen again.
King folded over his wax-paper cup of coffee and puffed out his cheeks. ‘You would’ve thought he’d be happy, wouldn’t you? We’ve got a suspect. On camera!’
Logan shrugged. ‘That’s what happens when you climb the greasy ladder – every rung is slick with politics and blame and potential career-ending slip-ups. Not saying that’s an excuse, mind.’ He took a sip. ‘Where do you want to start?’
‘Urgh …’ King stood. ‘Suppose we should check on the idiots interviewing Professor Wilson’s colleagues.’
‘Probably.’ Logan followed him out into the stairwell. ‘Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ve already talked to our Jiffy-bag posting scumbag?’
King grunted. Shook his head. ‘When do I ever get lucky? I tell you, it’s—’ His phone launched into ‘Fairytale of New York’ and his whole body caved in on itself, as if someone had let the air out of him. Shane MacGowan’s booze-soaked voice echoed in the stairwell.
‘You going to get that?’
‘Gah …’ He yanked his phone out. ‘WHAT? … No, I don’t have to, Gwen. I don’t have to at all. You lost that privilege when—’ He turned away from Logan. ‘Over my dead body!’
The sound of feet clattered down the stairs from somewhere above.
‘No, Gwen, you listen to me for a change: I paid for that flat and you— … Oh for God’s sake.’
The feet got louder.
‘You know what? I don’t care what your friends say.’
Rennie burst around the corner, battering towards them from the floor above, clutching a file to his chest, pink cheeked, a big grin on his face, eyes wide. ‘We got him, we got him, we got him!’
Logan stared. ‘No.’
King turned. Lowered the phone. ‘Sergeant Rennie, did you just say what I think you said?’
‘We got him.’
‘YES!’ King poked at his phone’s screen, then stuffed it in his pocket. ‘Where?’
‘Ah … Not “got him”, got him, but we know who he is. A sergeant from Highland and Islands called – recognised the guy in the hoodie from that video we sent out.’
Silence.
Logan hit him. ‘Any chance you could actually tell us?’
‘Our boy’s one Haiden Lochhead, twenty-six, Aquarius.’ Rennie held up the file. ‘Form for assault, drugs, robbery, and demanding money with menaces. And he’s on the lam – ram-raided a jewellery shop in Elgin, got six years. Did a runner from the work placement programme a month ago.’ Eyebrows up. ‘And get this: his dad? World-famous, violent, independence-at-any-cost dickhead, Gareth “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead!’
King frowned. Leaned back against the wall. ‘Like father, like son.’
And finally they had somewhere to start looking.
If Haiden Lochhead’s dad was a violent Alt-Nat tosser, maybe King was right. Maybe Haiden was just carrying on the family business?
Logan pointed. ‘Rennie: get a lookout—’
‘Already got one. Kinda redundant as our Haiden’s on a recall order, but “a belt-an’-braces stop yir brikks fae fa’in doon”, as my dear old nan used to say.’
King had his phone out again. ‘What about Gaelic Gary?’
Rennie reached into his folder and produced a sheet of paper with a magician’s flour
ish. ‘One address. For I am a top-of-the-range sidekick, remember?’
King grabbed it. ‘Get a car, we can—’
‘No.’ Logan dug his keys from his pocket. ‘We’ll take mine it’ll be …’ The media briefing. Four o’clock. Sodding hell. ‘We can’t. Press conference is in twenty-three minutes. You heard Hardie.’
King doubled over and strangled a scream.
Couldn’t blame him.
Logan poked Rennie. ‘Get on the grapevine – I want everything you can find about Haiden Lochhead: last-known address, acquaintances, access to property, past associates, everything. Talk to whoever did him for the ram-raid, his CJ social worker, and anyone else you can think of. And do the same for his dad too.’
‘Guv.’ Rennie turned tail and scurried away up the stairs.
‘HOY! LEAVE THE FILE, YOU TWIT!’
‘Oops.’ He scurried down again. ‘Sorry.’ Handed it over. Pulled a face. Then set off on scurry number three.
Swear that lad had been dropped on his head when he was wee. Several times.
Logan opened the folder: printouts and forms with a single photo lurking behind everything else. A mugshot from Peterhead police station, going by the ID number on the magnetic board Haiden Lochhead was holding, complete with his full name and the date. Definitely the same man from the security footage.
‘Here.’ Logan handed the photo to King. ‘Think this’ll put a smile on Hardie’s face?’
‘Let’s go find out.’
The briefing room was packed, every seat in front of the dais stuffed full of journalists, the back of the room a dark forest of camera lenses. All of them staring at Hardie as he did his little turn. Which, thankfully, meant they weren’t all looking at Logan, or King, or even Jane McGrath with her perfect makeup, hair, and suit. Her professional smile was a bit pained, though.
Someone had set up a projection screen behind the podium, showing off the Police Scotland logo as Hardie soldiered on. ‘… confirm that the human body parts delivered to the BBC Scotland offices this morning do belong to Professor Wilson.’
The hungry hordes shifted in their plastic chairs, licking their lips. Getting ready for the feeding frenzy. No wonder they called it a ‘press pack’, they looked desperate to separate someone off from the herd and tear them apart.
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