All That's Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘It was Mhari Canonach Powell. Only she’s not Mhari Canonach Powell. Not the real one, anyway.’

  Logan stared out through the front windows, where Steel was marching off towards Marischal College. The same direction Mhari had disappeared in.

  ‘Sarge, you still there?’

  ‘How can she not be the real one?’

  ‘I did a search. The real Mhari Canonach Powell’s registered address is a residential psychiatric facility two miles outside South Shields.’

  ‘So she’s mentally ill?’ Which explained the swivel-eyed Alt-Nat rant about Imperial Aggressors and the English teat. ‘Give them a call, tell them she’s escaped.’

  ‘She’s not a nutter, Guv, she’s one of the nurses. Studying to be a psychologist. Hold on, I’ll send you a photo from her Facebook.’

  Logan’s phone announced an incoming text from ‘FEAR THE TUFTY!’ It was a photo: a gaggle of women in their twenties, all wearing very skimpy tops, very short skirts, and very high heels. All making pouty duck-faces. If you screwed up your eyes, the one in the middle – wearing a sash with ‘BIRTHDAY GIRL!’ on it – sort of looked a bit like Mhari, but it clearly wasn’t her.

  ‘Maybe she’s the one taking the photo. Did you think about that?’

  Tufty’s voice was thin and tinny through the phone’s speaker. ‘It was Mhari’s twenty-third birthday party. In Newcastle. Last night. And here’s one of her getting arrested at that anti-Trump rally …’

  Another text, this time from ‘IT’S TUFTALICIOUS!’ In it, the woman from the first picture was dressed in jeans and a ‘NO TO FASCISM!’ T-shirt, grinning at the camera as a police officer led her away in cuffs, surrounded by people with anti-Trump placards.

  King tapped him on the shoulder. ‘What’s going on? Why do you look like something horrible’s happened?’

  Logan turned away from him, back on the phone again. ‘Well … maybe it’s someone with the same name?’

  ‘Yeah, if it was just “Mhari Powell”, but with that middle name? No chance. This is the real one: one hundred percent, stake my rubber duckie on it. And that’s not a euphemism.’

  ‘Buggering …’

  Logan barged out through the main doors onto the sun-baked concrete slabs outside DHQ.

  He limp-ran to the top of the stairs, standing there looking down at Queen Street. The parked cars. The ‘shoes of all nations’ display in the windows of McKay’s. The granite lump of Greyfriar’s Church, up by the junction. The glittering spines and twirls of Marischal College beside it.

  Where the hell was she?

  King skidded to a halt beside him. ‘What’s got into you? Why are—’

  ‘It’s not her!’ He hurpled down the stairs and along the pavement, heat pounding down on his black-clad shoulders. Came to a halt at the junction. A bus rumbled past, followed by a small flurry of bicycles. A crowd of office workers, bustling along the pavements, determined to spend as much of their lunch hour out in the sun as possible.

  No sign of Mhari, or whoever the hell she really was.

  King grabbed him. ‘Will you tell me what’s—’

  ‘She’s been lying to us the whole sodding time!’ He did another three-sixty, scanning the crowds. ‘Where did you go?’ One more time around, but she was long gone. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’

  26

  The only light in the room came from the bank of TVs that covered nearly a whole wall. All showing various views of Aberdeen city centre and the surrounding areas. A couple of CCTV operators sat at the central bank of controls, fiddling with joysticks to move the cameras, hunting for the con artist formerly known as ‘Mhari Powell’.

  Inspector Pearce – mid-forties with a haircut that was a bit too mumsy for her, or anyone else, come to that – pointed at one of the back-wall screens. It showed the junction between Queen Street and Broad Street as Mhari marched into shot. ‘She crosses the road to here …’ The inspector moved her finger to another screen, showing an alley lined with tall granite buildings – a pub, and some shuttered shopfronts. Mhari appeared again, a definite spring in her step. ‘And this is waiting for her on Netherkirkgate.’

  It was a rusty white Nissan Micra, last seen parked outside Mhari’s house in Pitmedden. The car sat on double yellows in front of what used to be Craigdon Sports, facing the camera. Meaning the driver was clearly visible.

  King whistled. ‘Haiden Lochhead. Sodding hell.’

  ‘He was parked there about fifteen minutes by the time she turned up.’

  Great. Haiden Lochhead, the scumbag they’d set up a nationwide manhunt for, had been sitting right there, barely a three-minute walk from Divisional Headquarters. That would go down well when the top brass found out.

  Logan winced. ‘You’d better get back to Port of Dover Police and tell them they can stop searching the ferries and docks.’

  ‘Oh God …’ King sagged against the wall. ‘They’re going to love that.’

  Mhari jumped into the passenger seat and grinned across the car at Haiden, then pretty much leapt over the gearstick to give him a serious snogging.

  Pearce sniffed. ‘Any idea who she really is?’

  ‘Not a sodding clue.’

  Snog over, Mhari sat down again, scarlet lipstick all smeared. Then Haiden started the Nissan and drove off the edge of the screen.

  ‘We pick the car up on Union Street.’ Pearce frowned, naming the streets as the picture jumped from camera to camera, following the Nissan. ‘Past Market Street, Trinity Centre. Right onto Huntly Street. Next time we see it it’s on Carden Place.’ The car chugged past and out of sight. She clicked a button and the screen went blank. A pained smile. ‘Sorry.’

  King stared at her. ‘They can’t just disappear!’

  ‘There’s only so many roads covered by CCTV and ANPR. We’ve got a flag out, though: if the Automatic Number Plate Recognition system picks them up, we’ll know. Till then?’ She shrugged.

  Wonderful.

  Logan groaned. King covered his face with his hands, swearing under his breath.

  Pearce shrugged again. ‘Nothing I can do.’

  They were so screwed. ‘She was right here and we let her walk out the front door.’

  Pearce patted him on the shoulder. ‘I can offer you a nice slice of coconut macaroon cake, if that helps?’

  Yeah, it’s a crappy wee car, but it’s not so bad when you get used to it. Kinda fun, really. Maybe that’s why he’s in such a good mood? Or maybe it’s cos they’ve put one over on those moron coppers.

  Muppets.

  Or maybe it’s because he’s with her.

  Haiden smiles across the Nissan Micra at Mhari. God, it’s amazing how she does that – one minute she’s looking like a librarian spinster, the next like she could suck a golf ball through a garden hose. Sexy and beautiful and smart as a whip.

  What she sees in a lump like him is anyone’s guess, but by Christ he’s gonna enjoy it while he can.

  She reaches out and puts her hand on top of his as he changes the gears. All it takes is that one wee gesture, and his cock’s like a crowbar.

  He grins at her. ‘We did it!’

  ‘No, Haiden, you did it.’

  ‘No, you did it.’

  She squeezes his hand, then reaches further and puts her hot little hand on his thigh. ‘You were right, baby: they think you’re in Dover, on your way to Calais, and we, my dear Haiden, are free!’

  Damn right.

  ‘Nothing we can’t do, cos we’re a team.’

  Her hand drifts up. ‘Go team us!’

  Oh yeah. ‘Go team us.’

  This time, when she moves her hand, she cups his erection through his jeans. That little bit of pressure making him moan.

  Then Mhari turns and looks over her shoulder at the rear seat. Rubbing him as she does. ‘Have you got the …?’

  Focus, Haiden. Don’t disappoint her. ‘In the boot: two rolls of duct tape, six foot of electrical cable, box of gloves, decorators’ masks, overshoes, paper oversui
ts. And check the glove compartment.’

  She does, keeping her other hand at its business as she rummages through the usual driver’s manual and service history crap. Then pulls out the carrier bag, opens it, and peers inside. ‘Ooh, pretty.’

  ‘Knew you’d love it.’ Soon as he saw it, he knew. Cos he’s a damn good boyfriend, no matter what his bitch ex-wife said.

  Mhari lets go of his cock to slip the hunting knife from its sheath. Eight inches long, serrated down one side and polished to a glittering shine. She grips it in her left hand and takes hold of him again, licking her cherry-red lips. Squeezing and rubbing till he’s breathing heavy. ‘Baby, we’re going to have so much fun tonight!’

  Oh yes, they definitely are …

  Logan found King out front, perched on one of the grimy concrete wall / planter things that lined the stairs down to Queen Street. Sitting there, with his back to the station, face to the sun. Shoulders slumped, face hanging. He didn’t look up as Logan sat beside him, just sighed. ‘Well, that’s it, we might as well march ourselves up to Hardie’s office and resign now.’

  Logan brushed little bits of coconut off his black T-shirt. ‘It’s not our fault, how were we—’

  ‘Get it out of the way before the press conference …’ King’s face crumpled, both hands curling into fists. ‘The sodding press sodding conference!’ He sat up straight, putting on a revoltingly chipper voice, complete with cheesy fake smile. ‘Hey, everybody, did you know DI Frank King used to be in a terror cell? Well yesterday he allowed Haiden Lochhead to escape, and today, instead of arresting Mhari Powell, he watched her waltz right out of Divisional Headquarters. Isn’t that super?’ He sagged again. Groaned. Scowled at Logan. ‘I told you we should’ve confiscated her phone, but would you listen?’

  ‘How were we supposed to know she wasn’t the real Mhari Powell?’

  ‘Do you think anyone will care? They’ll just see me letting two Alt-Nat nutjobs get away with murder.’ A big shuddering sigh. ‘I’m royally and utterly screwed. And so are you.’

  The scapegoat’s scapegoat.

  ‘It’s not our fault! We did a PNC check, we got her DVLA records. Everything said she was who she …’ Logan stared off into the distance. They couldn’t, could they? Maybe they could. He stood, a grin spreading. ‘Mhari Canonach Powell – the real one. She was arrested at an anti-Trump rally in Newcastle.’

  King didn’t sound in the least bit interested. ‘Good for her.’

  Logan poked him. ‘If they arrested the real Mhari Powell, they took her DNA. So what we need is a sample from the fake one!’

  ‘How are we supposed to …’

  But Logan was already hurrying toward the main doors.

  King’s voice rang out behind him. ‘Logan! Oh for God’s sake.’

  Logan burst in through the doors, scrabbling for purchase on the floor as he took the corner too fast, trying not to collide with a middle-aged balding bloke in a three-piece suit and a screeching toddler on a leash.

  ‘Hoy!

  ‘Sorry!’ He kept going, almost slamming into the door through to the side of reception. Fumbling with the keypad entry system as King skidded to a halt behind him.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  Logan wrenched open the door and burst into the corridor.

  Skittered to a halt, staring at the cleaner’s cart parked outside the little side office where he and Steel had interviewed the Mhari Powell who wasn’t. ‘No!’

  He barrelled over to the open door. A large woman in a blue tabard and baseball cap stood in the middle of the small space, just about to tip the wastepaper basket into a black bin bag.

  ‘STOP!’

  She turned and stared at him. ‘What? I empty bins.’

  ‘No. Please, put it down, OK?’ Hands up, as if he was negotiating with a gunman. ‘Put the bin down and step away from it. It’s all right, you’re not in any trouble.’

  Her eyebrows went up. ‘But I always empty bins.’

  ‘Not this one you don’t.’ He eased forwards and took it from her hands. Clunked it down on the table. Then took a pair of blue nitrile gloves from his pocket and dipped inside. The first three goes of the lucky dip produced some used tissues, a crisp packet, and a banana peel. All of them got dumped in the cleaner’s bin bag. The fourth go produced a wax-paper cup from the canteen, still smelling of the coffee it’d contained … Sod. There was lipstick on it, but it was the wrong colour. But lucky dip number five was the winner: one wax-paper cup complete with bright-red lipstick smear.

  Logan held it up like the Holy Grail and beamed at King. ‘We DNA test this, maybe we can find out who Mhari Canonach Powell really is!’

  A polished plastic rubber plant loomed in the corner of the room, its leaves thick, green, and shiny. Logan and King sat in a pair of matching arse-achingly hard chairs. Waiting for the office’s owner to appear.

  One wall was taken up by a massive whiteboard – covered in technicians’ names, with a list of case numbers under each of them. The single desk faced a large window, looking out over the Nelson Street lab, where every single workstation was personned by someone in a white SOC suit. Taking samples. Sticking things into machines. Battering away at keyboards. Writing things down on clipboards …

  King puffed out his cheeks and pulled out his phone. Thumbed away at the screen. ‘Dr McEvoy’s doing this on purpose, you know. Making us wait.’

  Logan shifted his grip on the brown paper evidence bag in his lap and had another look at the whiteboard. ‘Have you seen how many cases they’re working on?’

  ‘Not the point.’

  Logan faced the front again. ‘While we’re waiting, what was that with Mhari Powell? Taking her phone.’

  ‘She’s not Mhari Powell, remember?’

  ‘That doesn’t make what you did OK, Frank. As far as you knew, she was just a member of the public and probably a victim of domestic violence.’ Logan shook his head. ‘You need to do something about your temper, or it’s going to get you into trouble.’

  King actually laughed at that. ‘Are you remembering they’re going to stand up at the press briefing in …’ he checked his watch, ‘fifty minutes and tell everyone I used to be in a so-called “terrorist cell”? If whoever “Mhari Powell” really is wants to make a complaint, she can get in sodding line.’

  Sigh.

  ‘Frank, I’m Professional Standards. I can’t just let you—’

  The office door banged open and a short spiky woman in an unbuttoned old-fashioned lab coat bustled into the room. Bright-yellow shirt. Dark hair greying at the temples, pulled up in a bun and trapped within a blue hairnet. Severe glasses. Nose like an old-fashioned tin opener. She pointed at the evidence bag in Logan’s hand. ‘Is this it?’

  He passed the thing over. ‘As soon as possible would be good.’

  She arched an eyebrow and grunted, then snapped on a pair of purple nitrile gloves from the dispenser on her desk and opened the bag. Pulled out the wax-paper cup inside. Grunted again. Then returned it to the bag.

  Logan tried an ingratiating smile. ‘Right now, if you can?’

  ‘You are joking, I take it?’ She pointed at the window and the bustling techs behind it. ‘These arson attacks have got us at full capacity for about the next three months.’

  ‘This takes priority, Dr McEvoy.’ King folded his arms. ‘And before you complain: check with DCI Hardie, Superintendent Young, or even the Chief Super. All the same to me.’ A shrug. ‘Young’s got his hobnail boots on for this case, so I see no reason why our backsides should be the only ones getting kicked.’

  Dr McEvoy stiffened. ‘You people think we’re like Santa’s little helpers, don’t you? I’m at my overtime limit as it is. We can’t just—’

  King’s phone sang in his pocket and he grimaced. ‘Sorry.’ He stepped away and answered it. ‘King … OK … But— No.’

  Time to try a more diplomatic approach.

  Logan settled on the edge of her desk. ‘It’s important, Lesley
. This case? Hugely high profile. Everyone from Sky News to the Chief Constable is waiting for us to screw it up and there’s a man’s life on the line.’

  She turned to face the window, looking out at her bustling minions. ‘I still can’t magic personnel out of thin air.’

  ‘Professor Wilson will die if we don’t find him soon. He’ll die.’

  Dr McEvoy groaned again, her reflection in the window rolling its eyes. ‘All right, all right. I’ll see what I can do …’ She stomped over to the whiteboard and stared at it for a moment, then nodded. Back at her desk, she reached past Logan to poke a button on her big grey landline phone. ‘Jeffers, come to my office, would you?’

  Her words were clearly being relayed through speakers in the lab, because they were just audible, muffled by the glass, with a half-second delay.

  As one, all the technicians looked up from their lab equipment to stare through the window at the office, followed by a chorus of ‘Ooo-ooo-ooh!’ as one of their number slumped, then marched towards the door.

  Logan nodded. ‘Thanks, Lesley.’

  Over by the plastic rubber plant, King had one finger in his other ear. ‘Why is she— OK … Yes.’

  There was a knock on the open door and the sacrificial Jeffers lurked on the threshold. His SOC suit wasn’t as pristine white as his colleagues’, instead a grimy grey patina smeared the end of his sleeves and his chest. Blue biro pen marks around his mouth. ‘Boss?’ Fidgeting with a fat round brush as he peered at them through little round glasses.

  Dr McEvoy waved him into the room. ‘You’ve done your DNA training, haven’t you?’

  ‘Well, yeah, but I’m really more of a fingerprint—’

  ‘Excellent. Stop what you’re doing and get this analysed.’ She handed him Logan’s evidence bag. ‘I want it sequenced, checked, and back here ASAP. ASABP if possible.’

  Jeffers peeked into the bag, worrying away at his bottom lip with his teeth. ‘Er … Is that a coffee cup? What if the coffee’s degraded the sample? What if I can’t—’

  ‘I have every faith in you. Now,’ she clapped her hands, ‘chop, chop.’