‘YOU’RE AN ARSEHOLE, BILL! YOU’VE ALWAYS BEEN AN ARSEHOLE!’ Blood popping from his split lip and scarlet mouth.
‘YOU STAY AWAY FROM MY ZOE!’ Cardigan struggled in King’s grip, lashing out with a foot – the slipper on the end flying off to bounce in the middle of an out-of-focus gameshow contestant.
‘Enough!’ King hauled Cardigan away.
Two burly women in pink scrubs burst in through the archway, the pair of them looking as if they could probably bench-press Logan’s Audi.
The bigger of the two pointed at Cardigan. ‘Mr Barnes! What have we told you about attacking Mr Foster?’
And at that, Knitter went limp and dissolved in tears once more.
Cardigan looked around, frowning. As if trying to work out where he was.
The nurses led the pair of them away.
Gary Lochhead shook his head. ‘Silly sods. They’re at it two, three times a week. Fighting over a woman who’s been dead twenty years. That’s dementia for you.’ He started his wheelchair up again, following them out through the archway.
Left, past reception and into a bland corridor lined with beige doors that matched the beige linoleum. Plaques on every door with things like, ‘MRS S BLAKE ~ “THE LAURELS”’ and ‘MR H PEARSON ~ “DUNTAXIN”’ on them. More horrible oil paintings.
Logan caught up with the wheelchair. ‘It’s really important we talk to Haiden, Gary. Any help you can—’
‘What’s he done?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t—’ Another coughing fit wracked that barrel chest. ‘What’s … he … done?’ Lochhead howched up something brown and spat it into his handkerchief. ‘You know … what? … Don’t … care.’
He turned his wheelchair hard right, bumping open a door marked, ‘MR G LOCHHEAD ~ “SAOR ALBA”’.
The room was small but clean, the open blinds flooding the room with light. A hospital bed took up most of the available space, leaving just enough for a couple of plastic visitors’ chairs and a tiny bedside locker. A wilting bunch of flowers sitting on top.
A big oil painting had pride of place on the wall opposite the bed. Big. At least four foot across, maybe more: a recumbent stone circle, surrounded by pine trees, in vibrant tones of green and blue and purple. And about a million times more accomplished than the rubbish hanging outside in the corridor and residents’ lounge.
Lochhead’s wheelchair buzzed to a halt in front of the window, so he could scowl out at another view of Aberdeen Airport’s back end.
Logan stared at the painting. The more he looked at it, the better it got. The texture in the brushstrokes, the way the light dappled the trees, the subtle shades and forms … ‘Don’t think I know that stone circle, but the colours are—’
‘If you’re thinking we’ll bond over art appreciation, you can save it.’ Lochhead whacked the arm of his wheelchair with his claw. ‘Yes, I painted it. No, I don’t want to be your friend. No, I don’t trust you.’
Logan pointed. ‘You painted this?’
‘The only good thing about doing sixteen years is Barlinnie’s got an excellent arts programme and there’s plenty of time to practise.’ The claw came up again, trembling in a small circle. ‘Now go away. I haven’t seen Haiden and I don’t want to.’
King prodded at his left cheek, the skin already beginning to swell where Cardigan’s elbow had made contact. ‘He’s involved in the abduction of someone from Aberdeen University.’
Silence.
Then Lochhead turned his wheelchair around, a smile pulling at his sallow cheeks. ‘It’s that prick Wilson, isn’t it? The professor with the hacked-off hands?’
‘It’s vital we speak to—’
‘Haiden did that? Good.’ His voice swelled with pride. ‘Might be some hope for the wee shite, yet.’ Followed by a hacking laugh. ‘You can bugger off then. Even if I knew anything, no way I’d tell you now.’ Lochhead’s wheelchair burrrred around to face the window again.
Their audience was over.
18
After the relative cool of the care home, the car park outside was like being wrapped in a freshly boiled duvet. Sunlight jabbed back from car windscreens; Logan pulled on his peaked cap, but it didn’t really make much difference.
Gah … Whose bright idea was it to ditch the white shirts for black T-shirts? Did they all sit around trying to decide how to make life worse for police officers? Bet they were the ones responsible for the official-issue itchy trousers, too.
King loosened his tie. ‘Well that was a waste of sodding time.’
‘Look on the bright side – we’ve got a new mystery.’
‘We’ve got bugger all.’ He pulled out his mobile.
‘If Haiden’s as thick as his dad thinks, how come he managed to abduct Professor Wilson without leaving a single forensic trace? How did he manage to hack off, package, and post Wilson’s hands to the BBC and not get a single bit of his own DNA on any of it?’
‘He got caught on CCTV at the shopping centre, so he’s not that bright.’
‘Yes, but the camera he got caught on was only installed the day before. I’ll bet he chose that route to the Post Office because he’d scoped it out in advance. That sound like a moron to you? He’s methodical. He’s planned all this out.’
But King wasn’t listening, he was wandering off, phone to his ear. ‘Milky? Where are we with that lookout request? … Come on, I said I was sorry, didn’t I? … No, I don’t want to drive the English out of Scotland, I just want to know where we are with the lookout request … Uh-huh … Uh-huh.’
A familiar gravelly voice growled out behind Logan. ‘Speaking of “morons”.’
Steel was lounging against someone’s Range Rover, her jacket draped over the bonnet, rolled-up shirtsleeves showing off the kind of pasty white flesh only achievable after many generations of Scottish ancestors. She licked a dribble from the side of what looked like a strawberry Mivvi.
‘What are you doing here?’
She took a big bite. ‘Might be playing hookie and eating iced lollies. Or I might be using some of that world-renowned initiative of mine.’
One of those hessian bag-for-lifes sat open at her feet.
Logan peered at it. ‘Got any more lollies?’
Steel reached into her bag and pulled out a box of six. Sooked the last chunk off her lolly stick and pinged it in through the Range Rover’s open sunroof. ‘Depends.’
Typical. He pulled on his most deadpan of voices. ‘Oh, do pray demonstrate the fruits of your world-renowned initiative, Detective Sergeant.’
‘That’s more like it.’ She unwrapped a blackcurrant one – already starting to sag in the heat. ‘Haiden Lochhead was done for ram-raiding a jeweller’s shop in Elgin, right? Do you know why he did it?’
‘The money.’
‘You know that statue of the Duke of Sutherland the Alt-Nats are always moaning about? A teeny-weeny birdy tells me he was after buying an arse-load of explosives to blow it up. Never came out at the trial, shock horror.’
‘Then how do you know?’
‘Initiative.’ She took a big bite, getting purple melt on her chin. ‘I called up HMP Grampian and spoke to one of Haiden’s cellblock buddies. Seems the wee turd was forever banging on about how much he hated the English.’
‘And, let me guess: your teeny-weeny birdy didn’t like that. Because he was English?’
Steel smiled and held out the box. ‘Good boy. You may have a lolly.’
‘Ta.’ He took one and unwrapped it. The pineapple coating was melting, but the ice cream inside was still cold and delicious. ‘And did Teeny-Weeny Tweetie Pie say anything else interesting?’
‘Oh yes. He said our boy Haiden had a regular visitor.’
King reappeared, no sign of his phone. ‘Who had a regular visitor?’ He stopped and frowned at Steel as she sooked an escaped dribble from her forearm. ‘Why are you here? Thought I gave you work to do!’
‘Well, if you don’t want me u
sing my initiative …’ She dumped the lolly box in her bag-for-life and sauntered off. ‘Give my regards to DCI Hardie, next time you see him.’
King made a worried face at Logan, then hurried after her. ‘OK, OK, I’m sorry. Tell me about this visitor.’
She grinned at him. ‘We’ll take Laz’s car.’
Vast swathes of brittle-looking barley spread out on either side of the Audi as Logan hammered up the A90. Steel slouched in the passenger seat, picking at her teeth with a scarlet fingernail.
King leaned through from the back. ‘You know what bugs me?’
She pulled her finger out. ‘Tough: I called shotgun.’ Then went in for another dig.
‘No. What bugs me is that we’ve not had a ransom note. “The Devil Makes Work” doesn’t count – where are the demands?’
True.
Logan accelerated, pulling out to overtake a milk lorry on a lovely long straight bit of road. ‘Maybe he doesn’t want anything.’
‘Of course he wants something. Everyone wants something. He didn’t abduct Professor Wilson for fun.’
Steel gave up on her molars. ‘Hate to say it, but I think Kingy’s right: our boy wants something. It’s just not something we can give him.’
That was true too.
Logan pulled into the left-hand lane again. ‘I know we can’t negotiate with—’
Steel reached across the car and punched Logan on the arm. ‘Don’t be damp. I’m no’ meaning that. He’s an Alt-Nat-Nut, right? What he wants is to punish the English for being English. He wants his wee campaign to be on the news. He wants English people worrying they might be next. He wants fear.’
‘He’s not doing too badly, then. And stop hitting people.’
‘There won’t be a ransom note, because he doesn’t need one to get what he’s after, he just needs to do horrible things and for everyone to talk about it.’
King nodded. ‘Which is why he sent Professor Wilson’s hands to the BBC.’
‘Aye.’ She stuck her finger in for another rummage, the words coming out all misshapen and slushy: ‘So the real question is: what bit is he going to send next?’
Logan pulled the Audi into a space in the far corner. The car park was bounded on one side by the high stone wall that enclosed the old Victorian lump of Peterhead Prison. A much higher metal barrier ran along the opposite side, surrounding the newer HMP Grampian, which looked more like a secondary school than a state-of-the-art penal institution.
Good view from here, though. Well, as long as you enjoyed supply boats, warehouses, a patch of scabby grass and the North Sea. Which, today, was a deep shade of sparkling sapphire, beneath a lid of glowing blue.
Steel sniffed. ‘Could you have parked further away from the entrance if you tried?’
Nope.
‘Walk will do you good.’ He grabbed his peaked cap and climbed out into the roasting heat. You’d think there’d be a sea breeze or something to cut it down a bit, but it was stifling. Like wading through burning treacle. Which the car park tarmac was beginning to resemble.
It screlched beneath his feet as he marched towards the entrance, Steel and King lumbering along behind him.
‘Urgh …’ She caught up, both arms held out from her sides. ‘Going to be Sweat Central under my boobs in five, four, three … Oh there it is.’
King grimaced. ‘Do you have to?’
Logan shuddered. ‘Please don’t talk about your breasts in the prison. People here are suffering enough.’
‘Cheeky sod.’
The entrance was a huge wall of tinted glass, with ‘HMP & YOI GRAMPIAN’ in white letters above it. Very grand. The main door slid open and a young man wheeled a pushchair out into the glaring sunlight. He had tattoos up his neck, a spider’s web by his eye, bruising all over his face, a toddler in the chair and a three-year-old on reins. Sniffling back tears as he marched past them.
Logan turned to watch him go. Then stepped through into the blissful embrace of air conditioning.
The reception area was double height, complete with balcony, a waiting room off to one side, a bank of lockers, a wooden-slatted desk like the prow of a square ship flanked by matching pairs of turnstiles, airport-security-style X-ray machines, and metal-detecting arches. One set marked ‘STAFF’, the other ‘VISITORS’. Two prison officers sat behind the desk: an angular woman reading a manual, while her lumpy male colleague slurped tea from a ‘WORLD’S SEXIEST GRANDAD’ mug.
A tall thin man leaned against the ‘STAFF’ turnstile – pastel-yellow shirt, dark-blue tie, grey suit trousers and unbelievably shiny shoes – smiling as he walked towards Logan and his dysfunctional little team. There was something weirdly cat-like about him. Maybe it was the almond-shaped green eyes, or maybe it was the pointy sharp-toothed smile. Hopefully he’d leave off purring and licking his own bum until they’d gone.
He stuck his paw out for shaking. ‘Inspector McRae? Daniel Sabre, such a pleasure. I followed your story in the papers – I hope you’re feeling better now?’
‘This is DI King and DS Steel.’
Sabre let go of Logan’s hand and took Steel’s instead. ‘Yes, we spoke on the phone.’ He did the same with King, then turned and gestured towards the metal detectors. ‘Shall we? I just need you to empty your pockets for security first …’
The Main Street rang with the sound of prisoners moving from one part of HMP Grampian to the other. A clattery rabble of men in their uniform blue sweatshirts and navy joggy bottoms slouched past on the lower level – Sabre leaned over the safety rail and waved. ‘Archie!’
A spotty man with a cratered face and Incredible Hulk muscles stopped and looked up at them. Raised a hand of his own. ‘Mr Sabre?’
‘Congratulations on your National Five English! Very proud of you.’
A big grin. ‘Cheers, Mr Sabre.’
They kept going, past a couple of inmates touching up scuff marks on the walls with lime-green paint.
Sabre shook his head at Logan. ‘Haiden’s disappearance was completely unexpected – which, I know, goes without saying. If we’d expected him to run off we wouldn’t have allowed him out on work placement. But still …’ He waved at a wee scrote with one leg in a cast hobbling along on a pair of crutches. ‘Afternoon, Jimmy, how’s the leg?’
‘Aye, no’ bad, Mr Sabre. Itchy, like.’
And they were past.
‘What’s worse is that Haiden had been doing so well up to that point. Model resident, never on a charge, went through the in-house catering programme with flying colours. Could whip up a broccoli-cheese soufflé you’d give your mother’s ears for.’ Sabre shook his head. ‘We got him on a work programme – three days learning how to make pies and pasties at a local baker’s – and boom: disappears through a back window. No trace.’
Sabre led them off the Main Street into a more modest corridor. Through a security door. ‘To be honest, I was shocked Haiden could even fit through the window. Like many of our offenders, he spent most of his spare time in the gym, bulking up. Came in a twelve-stone weakling, went out looking like Arnold Schwarzenegger.’
Another corridor, this one a plain magnolia.
‘What’s really strange is he’d made it halfway through his six-year sentence without a single incident. He was eligible for early release on licence in September – that’s why he was on the bakery programme – so why throw it all away for the sake of six weeks?’
Maybe he found out about his dad dying of lung cancer?
But then, Gary Lochhead said Haiden hadn’t visited him in years. Not in prison, not in Ravendale.
Assuming “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead was telling the truth.
Have to get someone to look into that.
One last turn and they stood in front of a closed office door. ‘This is us.’ Mr Sabre unlocked it and ushered them inside.
A medium-sized room, with two desks against opposite walls. The ubiquitous filing cabinets. One motivational poster with a mountain top and ‘TAKE IT ONE STEP AT A TIME AND YOU
CAN SCALE ANY PEAK!’ on it, and another with a kitten in a teacup: ‘YOU’RE DOING GRRRRREAT!’
Wankity, wank, wank, wank.
The window overlooked the exercise yard, where a trio of topless inmates were picking up litter in the sunshine. Arms, chests, and backs turning an angry shade of scarlet.
Sabre pointed at a couple of ratty plastic chairs. ‘Sit, sit.’ He pulled out a swivel chair and parked himself on it as King and Steel sank into the creaky plastic ones. Smiled. ‘Now, you wanted to know about Haiden’s visitors. I checked the logs and, other than his Criminal Justice Social Worker, only five people have come to see him since he arrived here.’ A photo appeared from Sabre’s in-tray. He handed it to Logan – a smiling wrinkled face, with bright-yellow hair and a two-inch line of grey roots. ‘One was old Mrs Hogarth – she likes to adopt a different offender every year. Knits them things. Comes in once a month. Between you and me, she’s been lonely since her husband died.’
Another photo – this one a boot-faced woman in her mid-twenties, red hair pulled back from her face in a punishing ponytail. A big wide face and ruddy complexion, scowling at the camera as if the photographer had just insulted her dad’s tractor. A proper farmer’s quine – big and bracing. ‘Haiden’s wife and son visit from time to time, though, to be honest, they act more like complete strangers than family.’
Photo number three: An old man with very little hair on the top of his head, but lots poking out of his nose and ears. ‘He’s an ex-teacher of Haiden’s. Comes here every couple of months to express his disappointment at the way Haiden turned out.’
Strange.
Logan frowned down at Captain Hairy Nostrils. ‘Why did Haiden put up with that?’
‘Said something about it “only being fair”. No idea why, though.’ Sabre dug out a young woman. The word ‘mousy’ could’ve been invented specially for her. Dishwater-blonde hair, glasses, grey cardigan, a crucifix on a chain, not making eye-contact with the camera, but looking off to one side with worried little creases between her pale eyebrows. If Haiden’s ex was angry at everything, this one was scared of it. ‘By far Haiden’s most frequent visitor: Mhari Canonach Powell. That’s “Mhari” spelled the Gaelic way. She was here once, sometimes twice a week.’
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