It was getting crowded in King’s MIT office as Superintendent Young’s promised extra bodies milled about, making the place look untidy. Far too many of them for the manky wee room. Which meant Logan had to squeeze and ‘pardon me’ his way over to where King stood staring at one of the two new whiteboards.
‘God, it’s like a rugby scrum in here.’
‘Hmm?’ King kept his eyes on the board. Someone had stuck photos of Professor Wilson, Haiden Lochhead, and his dad, Gaelic Gary, to the white surface with little magnetic dots in cheerful colours. Red lines connecting the three of them, a printout of the crime scene report, and lots and lots of question marks. ‘Thing is, what if there isn’t a connection?’
‘The fact Haiden posted Wilson’s hands to the BBC does kinda suggest there is.’
‘Not what I meant.’ King poked Haiden’s photo with a finger. ‘If he targeted Wilson just because he’s a high-profile anti-independence figure, then there’s no real connection connection, is there? Maybe they never met at all, and who Wilson is isn’t as important as what he represents. He could be anyone. Haiden doesn’t—’
‘Boss?’ It was Heather, mobile phone clamped to her chest. ‘There’s some woman downstairs in reception, won’t give her name. Says it’s urgent and she has to speak to you.’ A shrug. ‘Well, you or Inspector McRae.’
Interesting.
Logan raised an eyebrow at King. ‘Perhaps we’d be better together?’
He got a scowl in return. ‘I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.’ King pushed his way through the crowd, making for the door. ‘H: Make sure everyone’s got something productive to do.’
‘Boss.’
King stopped on the threshold and looked back at Logan. ‘Well? Are you coming or not?’
Fair enough.
Logan skirted a knot of plainclothes officers and joined him. ‘Wonder what this mystery woman wants.’
‘Bet it’ll be a waste of time.’ King shoved the door open and they stepped out into the corridor.
And froze.
Steel was meandering away from them, mobile phone pinned between her shoulder and her ear, leaving her hands free for a big cup of coffee and a Danish pastry. Nibbling and sipping as she went. ‘Did he? … Yeah … Well, that’s what happens when you smear Nutella on—’
‘You!’ King pointed at her. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Oops. Call you in a sec.’ She balanced her Danish on the coffee’s lid, stuck her phone in her pocket, turned, and graced them with a pastry-flaked smile. ‘Just coming to see you, Guv.’
‘You’re supposed to be in Peterhead, interviewing Haiden Lochhead’s cellmates!’
‘No I’m not.’
King’s eyes bugged. ‘I told you to go!’
‘No, you said “someone has to go speak to Haiden’s cellmates”, so I sent DC Harmsworth. He’s a miserable git anyway, might as well give him something to be miserable about.’
He just stared at her.
Another nibble of pastry. ‘I can start recording our conversations, if that makes things any easier?’
‘Fine.’ He marched past her, heading for the stairs. ‘Then you can make yourself useful: with me. Now!’ He battered through the double doors, leaving Logan and Steel alone in the corridor.
She puffed out her top lip and made a squeaky farting sound with it. ‘He’s always like this when he’s not getting his leg over. See if you can talk him into having a surreptitious wank for all our sakes.’
Now there was a mental image nobody wanted.
‘Do you have to wind him up the whole time?’
‘Part of my roguish charm.’ She fell in beside Logan on the way to the doors. ‘So where we going?’
‘Reception. Anonymous visitor.’
‘Cool. You and Kingy go ahead and I’ll stay here and finish up my—’
King’s voice boomed out from the stairwell. ‘I SAID NOW, DETECTIVE SERGEANT!’
She squinted one eye shut. ‘Or maybe we should just have him fixed? Our neighbour’s Collie went from The Hound of the Baskervilles to Lassie Come Home when they whipped off his nadgers.’
To be honest, it was probably worth a go.
Mhari Canonach Powell was waiting for them by the ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?’ posters – Haiden Lochhead glowering out at her as she fidgeted with her lank off-blonde hair. She’d dressed in dowdy shades of beige and grey, and plastered her face with makeup – foundation, blusher, eyeshadow, and bright scarlet lipstick. The resulting mask almost managed to conceal the bruises that had been clearly visible yesterday evening.
Logan waved at her and she blinked back at him, eyes shiny and pink. On the verge of tears. Then the front door opened behind her and she flinched. Shuffled to one side, eyes down, as a grubby hairy man in a filthy pinstriped suit staggered in and lurched up to the desk.
Mr Pinstripe banged on the glass, his remarkably posh voice raised to a near shout. ‘Hey! Hey you, there! Officer Woman Thing!’ More banging. ‘Some rotten bugger’s stolen my script!’
Logan tried again. ‘Miss Powell?’
‘He’s gone. Haiden’s gone and it’s all my fault!’ She produced her phone and poked at it, then held it out so they could see the screen. Looked like a text message, but the text was too small to make out the words from here. ‘You see? He’s gone!’
King snatched the phone from her. Turning away as she reached for it. Reading out loud: ‘“Don’t expect me home tonight: I’m in Dover. Gonna get the next ferry to France. You’ll never see me again.” Only he’s spelled “France” with an “S”.’
‘Please, it’s my phone …’
King scrolled to the next one. ‘“Why couldn’t you back me up when the police came? Why didn’t you send them away? Do you want them to arrest me?” All caps for that last bit and three exclamation marks.’
Mhari reached for her phone again. ‘Please!’
‘“After all I’ve done for you. I thought you loved me. You said you loved me. How could you let them nearly catch me?” Nearly with two “E”s.’ King’s finger scrolled and scrolled. ‘There’s a lot more where that came from.’
She scrabbled for the phone, but he held it up, out of reach.
‘It’s mine! Give it back!’
Steel sighed. ‘Come on, Kingy, don’t be a dick.’
‘It’s evidence. So—’
Logan yanked the phone out of King’s hands and passed it to Mhari. ‘I’m sorry. Look, we need to ask you some questions. Can we do that?’
She clutched the phone against her chest, and backed away from King. The first tear broke free and rolled down her cheek.
‘Hey.’ Steel held up her hands. ‘It’s OK, it’ll be you, me, and the boy here. Detective Inspector King will wait outside.’ Scowling at him. ‘Won’t you, Detective Inspector?’
They stood there, staring at each other.
Logan put a hand on King’s arm, kept his voice low. ‘Come on, Frank, she’s not going to tell us anything if you’re there.’
King bared his teeth at Steel, then pulled out his own phone, turned, and marched away. Letting himself through the security door. ‘Heather? Get on to Port of Dover Police and the Border Force – Haiden Lochhead’s trying to hop a boat to France …’ The door clicked shut, cutting the rest of it off.
Good riddance.
They were definitely going to have to have a chat about his behaviour before someone made a complaint.
But in the meantime …
Logan smiled at Mhari. ‘Come on, we’ll have a sit and a chat, and DS Steel will get us all a cup of coffee. And a nice pastry.’
A bluebottle buzzed against the room’s window, banging its head off the glass behind the drawn blinds. Its big black body was a fuzzy silhouette against the glowing white, making it look the size of a small Labrador.
On this side of the blinds a row of locked filing cabinets ran along one wall, a small table, and four plastic chairs taking up the rest of the space – Mhari on one side, Logan opposite,
Steel sitting between them. All with wax-paper cups of Wee Hairy Davie’s best Colombian roast and a pastry on a napkin. Mhari’s and Steel’s were fancy apricot-and-custard-Danish concoctions, but Logan had been lumbered with an Eccles cake – because hell hath no fury like a grumpy detective sergeant sent to the canteen to fetch coffee and pastries.
Mhari fiddled with her wax-paper cup, sniffing back the tears. ‘It was … it was like we were two bits of Lego, you know? We clicked together like that and stayed.’ She wiped at her eyes. ‘We love each other.’
‘Aye,’ Steel nodded, ‘I know the feeling. Me and Susan were the same.’
‘I don’t mean to annoy him, or make him angry, I don’t. But sometimes I can’t help it.’
Steel patted her arm. ‘I’m sure none of that’s your fault.’
‘He loved me and now he’s gone and I’ll never see him again …’ Bottom lip trembling.
‘You know what? Some men are just like that.’ She glanced at Logan. ‘It doesn’t matter how good you are, doesn’t matter what you do, there’s always going to be something that sets them off.’ Another pat. ‘It’s not you. It’s never you. It’s something inside them.’
Mhari shrugged.
Logan had a go. ‘Some men are always looking for an excuse to hit someone.’
Her hand fluttered up to the bruises beneath the caked-on makeup. ‘I walked into a door. Haiden always says I’m clumsy …’
Logan glanced at Steel.
She shook her head.
He nodded back. ‘Did Haiden ever mention Professor—’
His phone ding-buzzed in his pocket: incoming message. Then again. And again.
‘Sorry.’ When Logan pulled it out the caller ID ‘IT’S-A ME, TUFTY!’ sat in the middle of the screen. ‘I should probably—’
The thing launched into ‘Space Oddity’ and ‘BEHOLD THE MAGNIFICENCE OF TUFTITUDE!’ replaced the last ID.
‘Oh for God’s … How is he doing that?’ Logan pressed ‘IGNORE’ set his phone to silent and stuck it on the table. Smiled an apology at Mhari, tried to pretend he couldn’t see Steel rolling her eyes. ‘Where were we? Yes. Did Haiden ever mention Professor Wilson to you?’
‘He … didn’t like him. Wilson was always in the papers, and on the telly, banging on about how Scotland couldn’t survive without England.’ She took a sip of her coffee, leaving a blood-red smear of lipstick behind. ‘One time, Wilson was on the Today programme, saying Scotland should be grateful we’re allowed any MPs in Westminster at all and Haiden … I don’t know. He flipped. Started screaming and swearing at the radio. Grabbed it and smashed it to pieces on the work surface. You know? Hammering it down, over and over again, shouting about how this is our country. Ours.’
Steel ripped a bite out of her pastry, setting free a little spray of flaky bits as she chewed and talked at the same time. ‘Was that when Haiden went after him?’
‘He …’ Deep breath. ‘He said he was going to teach Wilson a lesson. I thought, you know, he’ll beat him up, or something. Show him what happens when you moan about Scotland like it’s a diseased piglet hanging off the English teat.’
‘When was this?’
She looked away. ‘Sunday night. I … I didn’t hear him come in again, so it must’ve been late.’
‘Notice anything different about him?’
‘You don’t understand: Haiden had to stop Professor Wilson spreading his lies. He’s a propagandist for the Imperial Aggressors. It’s people like him and the Unionist media that are holding this country hostage!’
Wow. All delivered with the unblinking zeal of a cult member.
Logan sat forward. ‘Did he say where he’d been?’
‘We have to rise up and be the nation again! They’ve kept us down for too long now. We can’t let them …’ She trailed off, staring at Logan’s phone as it buzzed and skittered on the tabletop. The words ‘It’s Tufty-Time!’ flashing on the screen.
‘Sodding … Enough.’ He switched the damn thing off and jammed it in his pocket.
King wouldn’t be the only one getting a talking to about his behaviour.
Logan let out a long slow breath. Stuffed the anger down. Smiled at Mhari again. ‘Do you have any idea where Haiden took Professor Wilson?’
She shook her head.
‘Any idea where he’s hidden him?’
More shaking.
‘Any idea at all?’
‘He wouldn’t tell me.’ The tears overflowed her eyes, little jagged sobs making her rock in her seat. ‘And now … now he never … he never will!’
Logan punched the code into the lock for the door to reception, holding it open for Mhari to shuffle through.
She dug a hankie out of her grey sleeve, blotting her eyes and cheeks. Sniffing as she looked up at him. ‘If you find Haiden, you won’t tell him, will you? You won’t tell him I told you where he was?’
‘Promise.’ Logan walked with her to the exit, Steel scuffing along behind. ‘If you think of anything else, if you remember anything, doesn’t matter how small, you can call me at any time.’ He handed Mhari his business card. ‘And if Haiden gets in touch, tell him he needs to speak to us, OK? We want to stop him getting in any more trouble.’
She nodded. Wiped her eyes again, apparently forgetting how much makeup she had on – the hanky removing enough foundation to reveal the skin beneath. The greens and purples of a well-established bruise. Then Mhari took a deep breath and walked out through the doors.
Soon as they’d closed behind her, Steel sagged. ‘Pfff … Talk about drinking the Kool-Aid. I mean, I’m all for independence, but by the Sainted Crotch of the Hairy Jesus.’
‘Think she knows more than she’s saying?’
‘Yeah. But what are we going to do, waterboard her?’ Steel curled her top lip. ‘Better no’ say that too loud – don’t want to give Kingy ideas.’
Outside, Mhari stopped, turned, and waved at them through the glass.
They waved back.
Her hand fell to her side, then she walked away. Down the stairs and off towards Broad Street. With her bruised face and bruised heart.
Logan sighed. ‘Might be worth sticking a grade-one flag on the house.’
‘Don’t know about you, but see if I was Haiden Lochhead? No way I’d be coming back. Off to the land of burgundy, brie, and baguettes I jolly well sod.’ Steel shook her head. ‘Soon as that video hit? Welcome to Splitsville, man.’
‘Splitsville?’ He smiled at her. ‘What on earth have you been watching?’
‘I’m down with the cool kids.’ A scowl. ‘And speaking of someone who isn’t …’
King barged through the door into reception, face dark and twitchy as he hurried across the floor towards them. ‘Nine-nine-nine call from Council Headquarters: there’s a suspicious package at Councillor Lansdale’s office.’
That was all they needed.
‘Bomb threat?’
‘Worse. It’s postmarked last Thursday, the day after he went missing. And it stinks of rotting meat.’
And just like that, a bomb would’ve been better. ‘Sodding hell.’
‘And we all know what that means.’ King pointed at Steel. ‘You: get round there and take possession. I want it back here and analysed ASAP.’
She curled her lip. ‘When you say “it stinks”, do—’
‘And no delegating! Take Milky with you: I want everyone who touched that package IDed, interviewed, fingerprinted. DNA if you can talk them into it. Every single one of them gets their alibi checked.’ He paused, but she didn’t move. ‘Go!’
‘Gah … Bloody hell.’ Slouching away, muttering to herself as she pushed out the doors and into the sunshine. ‘Arrogant, condescending, badger-wanking, cock-trumpet …’
The door thunked shut and King massaged his forehead. ‘Does that woman ever do what she’s told without a fight and a serious bollocking?’
‘No. And there’s someone else needing one.’ Well, two someones, but they’d have to take turns. And r
ight now it was DI Frank King’s. ‘What the hell is wrong with you? You can’t seize someone’s phone like that.’
‘Those messages from Haiden—’
‘She’s a witness, we need her cooperation! This isn’t a TV cop show: there are procedures, rules. And I don’t care how much pressure you’re under, you don’t get to do whatever the hell you feel like! You want her phone? You get a warrant, or you ask her permission. You – don’t – just – take – it!’
‘I …’ He pulled his chin in. ‘Her phone’s evidence in an ongoing—’
‘No. You need to listen to me, Detective Inspector: your balls are on the chopping board with this case, all it’ll take is one formal complaint from Mhari Powell for Hardie to cut them clean off.’
Pink spread across King’s cheeks. He looked away. ‘All right, all right. I get it.’
‘Make sure you do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for round two.’ AKA: Tufty’s turn. Logan pulled out his phone and turned it on again. Twenty unread text messages and four voicemails, all with the word ‘TUFTY’ in their caller ID. He pressed the ‘CALL’ button and walked away from King. Grinding his teeth as it rang and rang.
‘Sarge!’
‘Tufty! What in God’s name do you think you’re—’
‘Sarge! Boss! Guv! I’ve—’
‘I don’t care if you’ve been offered the role of Leading Sodding Lady, you’re supposed to be a police officer so start acting like one!’
‘Leading …? No, no; it’s—’
‘This bumbling cutesy act has to stop! We’re investigating a bloody—’
‘WILL YOU PLEASE LISTEN TO ME!’
Right, it was time for a serious boot up the arse.
But before Logan could lace it up, Tufty was back again: ‘I got a hit off my algorithm. I know who sent that first tweet about Professor Wilson.’
Oh for God’s sake.
‘It was Haiden Bloody Lochhead! We worked that out yesterday, you complete and utter—’
‘It wasn’t him.’
What?
Logan swallowed. ‘It wasn’t?’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! I texted and I texted and I left messages and I texted again.’
‘I swear to God, Constable Quirrel, if you don’t tell me who sent that tweet, I’m going to hunt you down and stuff your—’
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