All That's Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  The PSD office was half-full – people on the phone, people hunched over their computers, people chatting. Shona battering away at the laser printer, using a ring binder as a cudgel. ‘Work, you moronic, half-arsed, turd-fuelled excuse of a thing. Work!’

  Clearly, now that all the birthday paraphernalia had been tidied away, it was business as usual.

  Rennie backed in through the doors, carrying a tray laden down with greasy paper bags from the baker’s. ‘It’s rowie time: get ’em while they’re hot!’

  Pretty much every phone conversation was brought to a rapid halt as the assembled horde swarmed Rennie and his offerings, helping themselves in a barrage of muttered thanks, before heading off to their desks to chomp and munch. Leaving no one but Logan and Rennie standing.

  He proffered the tray in Logan’s direction. ‘Wasn’t sure if you were coming in or not, but I got you a Cardiologist’s Delight just in case.’

  ‘Ooh, ta.’ Logan helped himself to the bag with ‘CD’ scrawled on it, the paper nearly transparent with grease. He pulled out a pair of hot rowies with a slice of plastic cheese and two sausages sandwiched between them. It popped and crackled as he bit into it, mouth flooding with melted butter and porky goodness.

  Rennie opened the remaining bag and produced two more rowies, twisting them apart to reveal the jam and butter liberally spread on the inside surfaces. ‘Heard you were out on the lash with King and Hardie last night.’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’ He grabbed the tomato sauce as they passed Shona’s desk, applying a liberal squirting of crime-scene red. ‘Last I saw of Hardie, it was gone midnight and he was spattering his shoes with an extra-large doner with chilli sauce and garlic yoghurt.’

  ‘Ooh, pukearama.’

  ‘Nope: too drunk to get much of it in his mouth.’ Logan ripped another bite of his arterial monstrosity, the sweet tomato sauce rounding the whole thing out. ‘Mmmmnngghhinn nngggginggg?’

  ‘Maybe?’ Rennie settled into his seat and took a dainty bite, shoogling the mouse with his other hand to wake up his computer. ‘I looked into Haiden Lochhead. Word is: that jewellery shop he ram-raided? Wanted the cash to—’

  ‘Buy explosives so he could blow up a Duke of Sutherland statue?’

  A disappointed pout. ‘You knew.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Rennie checked his screen. ‘Grew up around Ellon, moved to Auchterless when he was eight and his dad got out of prison for the third time. Family holidays at Cruden Bay. Lost his wee brother in a fishing accident – boat sank, Haiden barely made it to shore alive. Took three days for his brother’s body to wash up.’ Another dainty bite. ‘They let his dad out of Barlinnie for the funeral. Lochhead senior was doing a three stretch for breaking his lawyer’s legs with a crowbar at the time.’

  Logan wiped a dribble of sauce off his chin. ‘To be fair, we’ve all fantasised about that.’

  ‘Haiden dropped out of community college after a couple of months, went to work for his uncle Sandy’s building company. Uncle Sandy’s got form for aggravated assault, drugs, and was eventually put away for helping his brother, “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead, execute—’

  ‘A property developer.’ Another big bite.

  That got him a look. ‘What’s the point my going digging, if you already know all this stuff?’

  ‘Keep going, you’re doing fine.’

  ‘Uncle Sandy got into a fight with an ex-special-forces guy from Guildford for, and I quote, “being an English twat”. So the aforementioned “twat” battered him to death in the prison laundry.’ Rennie did some more nibbling. ‘All in all, a lovely family. Bet they’d make a great episode of Jeremy Kyle.’ He frowned as Logan stuffed in the last lump of Cardiologist’s Delight. ‘You know what gets me about people like good old Uncle Sandy? Always banging on about Bannockburn and Culloden and the clearances. My great gran lived in Clydebank – World War Two, the Luftwaffe come over and bomb the crap out of the place. The only house left standing in the whole street is hers. Next night, they come back and finish the job. And is anyone suggesting we chuck the Germans out of Scotland? No. Because no one alive today was responsible for that.’ He shook his head. ‘We’ve forgiven them for what happened in 1941, but we’re still holding grudges from 1314?’

  Logan sooked his fingers clean. ‘What about known associates?’

  ‘Was going to do it this morning, but DS Gallacher says King’s got someone on it already.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ A sigh. ‘So, we’re basically clueless until someone spots Haiden Lochhead.’ Great. Unless Tufty had managed to find something online? And if not, a boot up the bum might motivate him. ’Grab your hat, we’re off to see a weirdo.’

  Rennie blew a short, wet raspberry. ‘Be quicker getting out and walking.’

  The rush-hour traffic crawled along Queen’s Road, the trees hiding Rubislaw Quarry barely shifting in the passenger window.

  Logan inched them forward another car’s length. ‘Don’t whinge.’

  ‘I said we should’ve gone Auchmill Road, but nooo, you said out to the ring road and back would be faster.’

  ‘I can get another sidekick, you know.’

  ‘What, like Steel?’ Rennie smirked. ‘Yeah, good luck with that. I’m the best of the best, the rest are just …’ a frown, ‘something that rhymes with best, but means the opposite.’

  Another car length.

  ‘So – and I say this as the best sidekick you’ll ever have – that team-building night you went on with DI King and DCI Hardie …’

  Logan glanced at him. ‘What about it?’

  Pout. ‘Why didn’t I get an invite?’

  ‘Because you’re a soggy sack of sharny socks, that’s why. And you’re not of inspector rank, or above.’ Not to mention being a pain in the hoop.

  ‘Hmmph. You’re the so-called “elite” Brexiteers are always going on about, aren’t you?’ One side of Rennie’s face creased for a moment. ‘Depressed? Obsessed? Molest?’

  If this was a top-of-the-range sidekick, God knows what a bargain-basement one would be like.

  A wail of sirens erupted from somewhere behind them, followed two seconds later by flickering blue lights in the rear-view mirror. The cars following Logan’s Audi parted to let a patrol car through – blues and twos going.

  Logan pulled over too, and as soon as they were past – pulled out after them, poking the switch that set his own lights and siren going. Raising his voice over the din: ‘In case they need our help.’

  ‘The rest are just a pest!’

  Idiot.

  The parting traffic meant he could finally put his foot down, accelerating to a heady thirty-five miles an hour.

  ‘Get on the blower, find out what we’re chasing.’

  Rennie twisted around and fumbled at the back seat, coming out with a Police Scotland fleece in the usual shade of furry black. He dug an Airwave handset from one of the pockets. ‘Alpha Whisky Six Three Two, to Control, safe to talk?’

  A sigh gurgled out of the speaker. ‘What can we do for you this time, Sergeant Rennie?’

  They burst out onto the roundabout with Anderson Drive, a pair of matching eighteen wheelers bookending the dual carriageways on both sides. Some idiot in a Lexus 4x4 tried to sneak out behind one of them, then slammed on the brakes as the patrol car zipped past. Did exactly the same thing a second later as Logan’s Audi followed.

  Why couldn’t people learn to drive?

  Rennie grabbed for the handle above his seat as they jinked onto Queen’s Road again. ‘We’re following a patrol car down Queen’s Road, looking to give assistance. Can you detail the shout?’

  ‘Elderly I-C-One Male on Whitehall Place is hurling excrement at passers-by.’

  Rennie grimaced across the car at Logan. ‘And is it his own or …?’

  ‘He’s apparently got several large carrier bags with him, if that helps?’

  ‘Ah. Yes. OK.’ He pulled his eyebrows up and showed Logan all of his teeth. Mouthing, ‘Do you want?’
in silence.

  Not a chance in hell.

  Logan shook his head.

  Rennie nodded and pressed the Airwave’s talk button. ‘Control? You know, I’m sure the first responders don’t need Professional Standards muddying the waters. Right? Breathing down their necks.’

  ‘More comfortable throwing it than having it thrown at you, eh?’

  ‘You’re breaking up, I can’t … it … hello? … hear …’ He made hissing noises into the handset, then tossed it onto the seat behind him. ‘Yeah, let’s not do that.’

  Logan killed the siren and flickering blue lights, as he merged with the slow-moving traffic again. ‘Not that I wouldn’t have helped out if I was needed.’

  ‘No. No. Me too. Definitely.’

  Big granite buildings crept past on the left. Mostly offices now, but the occasional one still kept as a private residence for people with utterly shedloads of money. Jammy sods.

  Logan followed the Golf in front past one of the swanky boutique hotels. ‘What happened about those lookout requests, by the way?’

  ‘Lookout …’ Rennie looked at him, mouth hanging open. Then, ‘Oh, the ones on Haiden Lochhead! Aha. Yes.’ A nod. ‘From Land’s End to Lerwick, we’ve had about sixty-four reported sightings. All of which will be from the kind of nutters who frequently mistake their own knees for Lord Lucan and Shergar.’

  ‘Local forces looking into them?’

  ‘And bitching mightily about it.’ He gave a big pantomime sigh. ‘I don’t know why we bother asking the public stuff. Don’t get me wrong: they’re not all idiots, but it’s a sodding large percentage. I tell you—’

  His Airwave gave its three point-to-point bleeps and he jumped in his seat. ‘Eek!’

  A muffled, ‘Control to Alpha Whisky Six Three Two, safe to talk?’ burst out into the car.

  Rennie turned and fumbled for the handset, holding it like a pinless grenade as he took the call. ‘If this is about the auld mannie with bags full of jobbies, I’m not interested.’

  ‘Have you got Inspector McRae with you?’

  A sly expression slunk its way across his face, making him look a bit like a sunburnt weasel. ‘Depends. Who wants to know?’

  ‘One: tell him to sign out an Airwave handset. I know he’s been off on the sick, but that doesn’t mean he’s exempt from carrying one.’

  Logan’s shoulders tried to drag him down, along with the groan that accompanied it.

  ‘Second: DCI Hardie says he wants to see him in his office ASAP. Only he used a lot more words than that, many of which I can’t repeat in an open-plan office.’

  Oh joy of fabulous joys.

  ‘And thirdly: tell Inspector McRae it’s nice to have him back. Even if he hasn’t bothered popping past to say hello yet.’

  Rennie nodded. ‘Will do.’ Then returned Satan’s Telephone to his pocket with a grimace. ‘Wonder what’s crawled up Hardie’s backside and set up base camp. Maybe he’s got a hangover from going on the lash with you last night and wants to take it out on someone?’

  ‘Try not to sound so pleased about it.’

  ‘Pleased? Moi?’ A grin. ‘So, given the choice: being shouted at by Hardie, or helping out with that jobbie-flinging grandad, which one sounds better?’

  Either way, he probably wasn’t going to like what was thrown at him.

  23

  King’s incident room felt a lot smaller today, which probably had something to do with the extra desks, chairs, whiteboards, and computer kit that had been squeezed into it. A row of support staff were battering data into the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System so it could churn out actions. Because following orders from DCI Hardie and all the monkeys further up the tree wasn’t bad enough, now they got to do what a computer program told them as well.

  A couple of plainclothes were on the phone, but other than them and the HOLMES team, most of King’s new seats were empty.

  He was at the front of the room, drawing up some sort of roster on the smaller of the assembled whiteboards.

  Logan joined him. ‘Nightshift make any progress?’

  A grunt. ‘Take it you saw this morning’s papers?’

  ‘No mention.’

  King shook his head. ‘Don’t know if I should be pleased or not. This thing’s been hanging over me that long …’ A deep breath and a frown. ‘Nah. If it’s going to come out, better it’s on our terms, not Edward Sodding Barwell’s.’ Sounding as if he was trying really hard to believe it.

  Rennie slunk in, almost completely silent as he padded over to loom behind one of the plainclothes officers. The boy had definitely been practising that.

  King picked up a copy of that morning’s Aberdeen Examiner and slapped it against Logan’s chest. ‘What the papers are full of is Professor Wilson.’

  Logan unfolded it, smoothing out the front page. A photo of Wilson at some white-tie do sat beneath ‘WERE PROF’S MISSING HANDS DOMESTIC TERRORISM?’ Logan shuddered. ‘God, I hope not.’ Clearing his throat and reading the article out loud. ‘“Prominent Leave and Unionist campaigner Professor Nicholas Wilson, brackets sixty-eight, may have been the target of domestic terrorists, says a source close to the investigation—”’

  ‘Which is journo-speak for, “We made it all up, but let’s pretend the police said it.”’

  Rennie leaned on the desk behind his victim. ‘Ever notice how Brexiteers always seem to be hardline Unionistas?’

  ‘Gah!’ The plainclothes officer nearly jumped out of his seat, turning to stare at him. ‘Where the hell did you come from?’

  ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong: I’m perfectly happy with us staying part of the UK, but even though Brexiteers think the European Union is undemocratic and crap, apparently the so-called United Kingdom is total peachy bananas. Scotland votes remain, England votes leave, and we all know what a gargantuan wank-shambles that turned into. How is it democracy when they don’t give a toss what we think? No wonder the Alt-Nats hate them.’

  A small smile twitched at the corners of King’s mouth. ‘Don’t you have something useful to do, Sergeant?’

  ‘Already doing it.’ He stuck his arm out and made a big show of checking his watch, then raised his eyebrows at Logan. ‘His Holiness, the Detective Chief Inspector of Hardie, requested the delight of your company ASAP, remember?’

  Logan ruffled the newspaper. ‘Look at it: they’ve got two pages of commentary on what the severed hands and “The Devil Makes Work” mean. Two pages. Everyone from a forensic psychologist to that knoblump off of Big Brother.’

  ‘Ooh, Scotty Meyrick? I liked him on that.’ Rennie poked Officer Jumpy. ‘What was his catchphrase again?’

  King shook his head. ‘Apparently the Professor was meant to be appearing on Any Questions at the end of the week, so, as you can imagine, the BBC are taking a particular interest in the case. Hardie’s had to fend off the Today programme, the World at One, Jeremy Vine, and those shouty ones from Radio Five Live so far. I was on the receiving end of a twenty-minute rant about it after the morning briefing.’

  That explained the summons.

  ‘So much for last night’s team-building, then.’

  ‘Which is exactly why Haiden Lochhead sent those hands to the BBC studio.’ King crunched his way through an extra-strong mint. ‘He’s got us under siege and eating our own young.’

  Silence.

  It wasn’t that King was wrong, it was just depressing to hear it out loud like that.

  Rennie did another checking-his-watch performance. ‘Sorry, Guv, but you know what DCI Hardie’s like. And if you’re late, he might take it out on me, and none of us want that, do we?’

  Logan settled back against the wall and folded his arms. ‘It doesn’t make sense, though. There’s Haiden, apparently thick as a bricky’s hod, but he’s orchestrated all this like sodding Moriarty.’

  Rennie lowered his arm. ‘Maybe he’s only been playing thick, lulling everyone into a false sense of security till … BAM!’

  ‘Playing?’ A snor
t from King. ‘You know how they caught Haiden Lochhead for that jewellery shop ram-raid? Because instead of stealing a car to crash through the front window, like a normal person, he borrowed it from his aunt. Who wasn’t best pleased when the cops turned up on her doorstep. The man’s a moron.’

  Yeah, Stephen Hawking he wasn’t.

  Logan puffed out a long breath. ‘Maybe the Aberdeen Examiner’s right: this really is domestic terrorism and Haiden’s part of a cell. Maybe someone else, someone less thick, is telling him what to do?’

  Rennie was mugging at his watch again. ‘Terrible though that thought is, Guv, if you don’t turn up at Hardie’s—’

  ‘What about known associates?’ King frowned into the middle distance. ‘Not Haiden’s, his dad’s. Say he knew them from his old man’s glory days, or he came into contact with them in prison? Someone with ties to the Alt-Nats?’

  Worth a go. ‘So we send someone up to dig through HMP Grampian’s records for the three years Haiden was there.’

  An evil smile took over King’s face. ‘And I know the very person.’ He pulled out his phone and dialled. Listened to it ring. Then, ‘Detective Sergeant Steel! You’ll be delighted to know that I’m giving you a chance to redeem yourself for yesterday’s fiasco … Yes, I thought you’d say that.’

  Rennie shoogled his watch at Logan. ‘Guv? Please?’

  Suppose he’d put it off as long as he could.

  ‘Might as well.’ Logan slouched out through the door. ‘It’s not as if today could get any worse.’

  Hardie was still banging on about Professor Wilson and the media and the top brass. Crumpled there, behind his desk, face like a wet flannel draped over an unhappy frog.

  Logan did his best to look as if he was paying attention, nodding his head from time to time and throwing in the odd agreeing noise, while the self-pitying whingefest rattled on and on and on.

  How could one man expend so many words on saying so little?

  Then there was silence, Hardie staring at him, as if expecting an answer to whatever it was he’d been talking about.

  Nope, no idea.

  Only one thing for it: Logan narrowed his eyes and tilted his head a bit to the side. ‘In what way, exactly?’