All That's Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘How one wee girl managed to produce so much … liquid horror is beyond me. I swear to God, she pooped three times her own body weight in about fifteen seconds.’

  Back to staring straight ahead. ‘Just because my career’s drowning, doesn’t mean yours should get dragged down with it.’

  That’s the spirit.

  ‘They’re not going to fire you.’

  ‘I’m serious, Logan. Listen to them.’

  More angry voices. What sounded like someone bashing the tabletop with a fist.

  Logan put his phone away. ‘It was the smell, though. You think it was bad in the mortuary today? Four showers later and I could still smell it. Had to burn that pirate costume in the end.’

  This time King really did smile, but it was a sad one. A ‘thank you for trying, but it’s terminal’ smile.

  And he probably wasn’t wrong.

  Hardie’s office had all the fun and joy of a wee-free funeral. He was sprawled in his seat, staring at the ceiling tiles, the desk in front of him littered with paperwork. King was curled over in one of the visitors’ chairs, with his head in his hands. Jane in the other one, massaging her temples, mouth downturned and moving, as if something alive was trapped inside. Leaving Logan to lean against a filing cabinet, scrolling through the home page of the Scottish Daily Post’s website.

  Outside the window, a patrol car’s siren wailed into life. Then faded as whoever it was drove away from DHQ.

  Lucky sod.

  King looked up at Hardie. ‘But they’re supporting me? You’re sure?’

  ‘For now.’ Hardie’s face soured. ‘And only because Jane convinced them it’d look even worse to fire you.’

  She held up a hand before King could say anything. ‘And don’t bother thanking me: I only did it because we can’t have people thinking we’ve been blindsided by this. We’d come across as weak and incompetent.’

  King nodded, staring at his hands as Hardie sat forward.

  ‘But you have to understand, Frank: you’re no longer on thin ice here – you’ve gone crashing straight through. Right now you’re treading freezing water and the sharks are circling.’

  A grimace from Jane. ‘And Edward Barwell is gleefully hurling chum into the water.’

  Not exactly a heart-warming metaphor, but it summed things up pretty well.

  A small awkward silence settled onto the room.

  Finally Jane broke it. ‘What I don’t understand is why he sat there grinning through the whole thing. Surely Barwell should’ve been furious – he’s not printed his story yet, but there’s DI King telling the whole world, blowing his exclusive. But Barwell just sits there and grins.’

  Logan clicked through to the next page. ‘He’s got something else. Has to. Something worse.’

  She stared at him, rabbit-in-the-headlights style. ‘Oh God.’ Pointing at the phone in Logan’s hand. ‘Has he …?’

  ‘No, they’ve published the same front page they sent us.’ Logan turned the phone so she could see the web page, even if it was too small to read from there. ‘Went live on the website soon as the briefing started.’

  ‘It was premeditated, then. Soon as we screwed up, that was it.’

  ‘Arrrgh …’ King covered his face with his hands again. ‘I said we should’ve put the statement out first!’

  Jane curled her lip at him. ‘Don’t be a revisionist dick, Frank. We’re the only friends you’ve got right now.’

  Oh the delights of a happy team.

  Logan put his phone away. Had a bash at soothing the waters. ‘Look, this was always going to come out sooner or later. We knew what we were dealing with.’

  Hardie sat up and glared at King. ‘What does he have? What’s worse than this?’ Banging on the desk. ‘What did you do?’

  Everyone stared as King wrapped his arms around himself, rocking back and forward in his seat. Back and forward. Back and forward. Back and forward. Shaking his head. ‘I don’t know. Nothing.’

  There was a knock on the door and a spotty PC stuck her head in. She threw a pained smile in Hardie’s direction. ‘Boss? The Chief Superintendent wants to see you in his office again. Said it was kinda urgent.’

  ‘Urgh …’ Hardie scrubbed his face with his hands. ‘All right.’ A big sigh, then he levered himself out from behind his desk and towards the door. Pausing to pat King on the shoulder as he passed. ‘If I was you, I’d get out of here before the top brass change their mind. Go see if you can achieve something.’

  ‘Thanks.’ King waited till Hardie’s footsteps faded down the corridor, before standing. He turned to Logan. ‘I’m going to the toilet, and then, assuming I don’t drown myself or slit my wrists, we’ll grab a car and go speak to Haiden Lochhead’s ex-wife.’

  ‘OK, I’ll go chase up our DNA results.’

  Soon as King had shut the door behind him, Jane collapsed in her chair like a dropped jellyfish. Dangling there making groaning noises. ‘Utter disaster.’

  ‘I don’t see what your problem is. Barwell was always going to publish his story, we knew that. It’s why I was assigned to support DI King. None of that’s changed. And King’s doing a good job.’ Actually, it might be best not to permanently nail his colours to that particular flagpole. Reel it back a bit. Logan shrugged. ‘You know, under the circumstances.’

  She smiled and sat up. ‘Inspector McRae, I say this with the utmost respect, especially given your heroism last year …’ She took hold of his hand and gave it a squeeze, gazing deep into his eyes. ‘You’re an idiot and no one cares what you think.’

  Logan stepped out into the suntrap masquerading as the Rear Podium car park. No sign of King yet. So he pulled out his phone and dialled Jeffers’ mobile. Listened to it ring for a while as he picked his way across the sticky black tarmac to his Audi.

  Then, finally, the lazy sod picked up. ‘I didn’t forget, I swear, I’ve been doing them!’

  That would be a first.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Er … Sorry?’

  ‘No, you numpty, what are the results?’

  ‘Oh, yes. OK, so I managed to isolate a good sample and I ran it through the database.’

  Why could nobody get to the bloody point?

  ‘And what was the result?’

  Silence.

  Two seagulls fought each other for what looked like a puddle of dried sick behind a parked patrol car. Someone emerged from the mortuary and sparked up a cigarette.

  And still no reply from the Nelson Street lab’s resident idiot.

  ‘Jeffers?’

  ‘Nothing. Sorry, I mean, there’s no match in the system.’

  ‘Oh for … Nothing at all?’

  ‘Not even a cocktail sausage. Whoever she is, her DNA’s not on our database.’

  ‘She has to be! You don’t go from law-abiding citizen to Alt-Nat torture groupie in one easy step. She’s in there somewhere, so run it again. And keep running it, till you find something.’

  ‘Erm …’ His voice took on an even more ingratiating tone. ‘I’m more of a fingerprint kind of guy, to be honest. I’m really good at fingerprints! If you want fingerprints doing, I’m all over it.’

  Well, at least that was something. ‘So what happened when you ran the fingerprints on the cup?’

  A pause. Then, ‘But you said to do the DN … Ah.’ He cleared his throat. ‘OK. Right. I … see what I did there. Sorry?’

  ‘Find something.’ Logan hung up, pinched the bridge of his nose.

  Morons. Why was he always surrounded by—

  ‘Thought it was you.’

  When he turned, there was Rennie, standing right behind him, wiggling his eyebrows. Proving the point.

  Rennie pointed at the slab of concrete and glass over his shoulder. ‘Saw you from the office window.’

  Swear that boy was on sodding castors.

  ‘Please tell me you’ve got some good news.’

  ‘Kinda. At least now we know Haiden’s not a serial killer.’

  What?
>
  ‘Are you insane?’

  ‘Nah, look at it. “The Devil makes work”: you chop off the hands.’ Rennie mimed it. ‘“Three monkeys”: see, hear, and speak no evil; you cut out the eyes, ears, and tongue.’ Another mime, then a nod. ‘Serial killers don’t do “themes”, do they? They don’t re-enact grisly murders from the Bible, or the Spanish Inquisition, or Pingu. That’s just books and TV. Real-life serial killers fantasise about one thing, then spend the rest of their lives practising and refining it. Trying to make it perfect.’

  ‘And this helps us how, exactly?’

  A shrug. ‘Well, if Haiden’s not a serial killer, he’s doing all this to make a point. Killing people who oppose Scottish Independence. That’s your basic domestic terror—’

  ‘No, no, no, no! We do not use the “D.T.” words in this Division. Say it too often and poof: SPEVU appear.’

  Rennie scrunched up one half of his face, as if there was a bee trapped inside his hollow-point skull. ‘It’s a terrible name, isn’t it? SPEVU. Should be EVPUS: Extremist-Violence Prevention Unit, Scotland. They should’ve asked someone good with words to name it for them.’

  Morons, morons, everywhere, with not a brain to think …

  Logan folded his arms. ‘Haven’t you got anything useful to do?’

  ‘I could get cracking on Haiden Lochhead’s known associates, if you like? See if anyone’s heard from him, or knows where he’d hide out?’

  ‘Thought King had someone doing that already.’

  ‘Actually, yeah. Not so much.’

  ‘But I heard him tell DS Gallacher to do it.’

  ‘Trouble is she delegated the job to Detective Constable Anthony “Spaver” Fraser, renowned moron of this parish, who decided it was a waste of time talking to anyone from more than three years ago. And as Haiden’s been in HMP Grampian for the last three years …?’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake.’

  ‘Sorry, Guv.’ Rennie shrugged. ‘Face it, not everyone’s got a Top-Of-The-Range Simon Rennie Sidekick like you do.’

  ‘Fine. Go. Talk to them. But take someone with you for corroboration. Tufty could probably do with the exercise.’

  Rennie groaned. ‘Not Tufty! He’s such a dweeb.’

  ‘Fine. Take Steel instead.’

  He opened his mouth. Then closed it again. ‘Ah … Have I mentioned how much I like Tufty? Good officer. Excellent work ethic. Fascinating conversationalist.’

  Aye, right.

  ‘And while you’re at it, go through Ravendale’s visitor’s log, talk to the receptionist. I want the names of everyone who’s been to see Gary Lochhead since he got there.’

  Another groan, this time accompanied by a rolling of the eyes in proper stroppy teenager fashion. ‘Guv.’

  King shoved out through the back doors, popped a mint in his gob and crunched it as he made his way over. Face a bit pinker and shinier than it had been in Hardie’s office. Eyes a bit more bloodshot. He nodded at Logan. ‘You ready?’

  Rennie stood up extra straight. ‘Caught your statement at the press conference, DI King. Very good.’ He raised a fist in salute. ‘More power to your elbow.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ King’s face darkened. ‘Are you taking the piss, Sergeant?’

  ‘Nope.’ He backed away, hands up. ‘I’d better be … Yeah.’ Then turned and legged it as King stood there and glowered after him.

  Logan took out his keys. ‘Think I’d better drive.’

  The car dealerships on Wellington Road slid past on either side as Logan took the dual carriageway south.

  King, in the passenger seat, crunched his way through yet another mint. Barely five minutes out from DHQ and he’d polished off nearly a whole packet, rubbing at his chest as if he had heartburn. ‘I checked with Inspector Pearce – still no sign of Mhari’s white Nissan Micra on the ANPR. So either they haven’t left Aberdeen, or they’ve got another vehicle.’

  Of course they had.

  Logan tightened his grip on the wheel. ‘See, this is why I was against going public about Mhari. Soon as it’s all over the media, she knows we’re on to her. But no, Hardie has to have something positive to tell the press.’

  Another mint disappeared. ‘Because he knows this is going to come back and bite someone on the arse and he sure as hell won’t let it be him.’

  ‘What I don’t get is: why didn’t they post a video of Councillor Lansdale on the internet? Haiden and Mhari did one of Professor Wilson, so why not Lansdale?’

  ‘Far as Hardie’s concerned, we’re expendable.’

  Logan overtook an eighteen-wheeler labouring up the hill past the half-arsed Aztec pyramid that doubled as Shell’s headquarters. At least for now. ‘Maybe Lansdale didn’t survive, so they dumped his body and tried again with Professor Wilson?’

  King sighed. ‘I meant what I said about not dragging you down with me.’

  ‘I know. But I’m not—’

  ‘Fairytale of New York’ blared out from King’s pocket. Again. He screwed his eyes closed. ‘Leave me alone!’ The song played and played and played. King groaned, sagged in his seat. ‘Used to think that was the best Christmas song ever.’ A bitter laugh. A sigh. ‘I met Gwen in New York, Christmas Twenty-Twelve, at a charity bash for the NYPD. Got married six months later and picked this for our first dance.’

  His hand drifted to an inside jacket pocket – not the one Shane MacGowan was currently singing in – and stroked something. Maybe that was where he kept his half-bottles of vodka?

  A sad smile. ‘Thought it was romantic and ironic. Never guessed it would be so sodding prophetic.’

  The song faded away, leaving them in silence.

  Aberdeen had thinned out a bit, trees taking the place of warehouses and office blocks.

  ‘Eight point one million in stolen bullion.’ King let his hands fall into his lap. ‘You think it’s still out there?’

  Logan frowned across at him. ‘I thought they only stole two point six?’

  ‘If they didn’t cash it in, if it’s still lumps of gold, then it’s worth eight point one now. Perhaps Gary Lochhead’s still sitting on it. You heard him – they never charged anyone for the robbery, and they never recovered a penny of it either.’

  ‘If I was dying of lung cancer in a ratty wee care home, I’d be out there spending it. Not rotting away like a plastic bag full of body parts.’

  King shook his head, eyes wide. ‘Eight point one million. The things you could do …’

  They took Stonehaven Road at the next roundabout, the grey-brown bulk of The Aberdeen Altens Hotel slipping past on the left – looking more like a prison than HMP Grampian did. Then Cove went by the window.

  King broke the silence, obviously doing his best to sound casual. ‘You heard anyone boasting about shagging a married woman?’

  ‘No.’ Logan put his foot down as they finally passed through the limits, joining the main road south. ‘Would it help? To know?’

  Yet another mint met its fate. ‘Least then I’d know who to punch. And—’

  His phone launched into ‘Fairytale of New York’ again.

  ‘AAAAAAAARGH!’ He yanked it out and jabbed his thumb down on the red ‘Ignore’ button three or four times, before switching his phone off and ramming it back into his pocket.

  Maybe, just once, Logan could be partnered with someone who wasn’t suicidal, homicidal, or some combination of the two?

  But he wasn’t going to hold his breath.

  29

  Logan parked in front of number sixteen. Not the prettiest bit of Stonehaven, by any stretch, but not the worst either. Boxy, hutch-like houses faced off across the road – two down, one up, going by the windows, with linked garages joining the whole lot together, making a string of slightly grubby harling with steep, peaked, grey pantiled roofs. It looked a bit like a Toblerone that’d been left in the fridge too long.

  Number sixteen’s garage was surrounded by scaffolding, its brand-new pitched roof featuring a man in green overalls nailing panti
les into place. The up-and-over door was gone, the hole where it’d been now filled by studwork for a door and a window, all filled in with builder’s paper.

  Stepping out of the Audi’s air-conditioned interior was like being grabbed by a very large hot fist. And squeezed.

  King blinked in the punishing brightness, then pulled on a pair of sunglasses, hiding those bloodshot eyes. The front door was tucked away at the side of the building, near the garage. He marched down the driveway to it, squeezing past a blue people carrier, and rang the bell. Turned to Logan. ‘How much you want to bet she’s got tattoos on her neck and—’

  The door opened, and a middle-aged woman scowled out at them with hostile eyes and red hair. She looked them both up and down. Curled her lip as if she didn’t like what she’d seen. ‘You took your time, didn’t you?’ She hauled in a deep breath and bellowed back into the house. ‘CINDY!’

  Logan tucked his peaked cap under his arm. ‘Did we?’

  ‘Should’ve been here, telling us before you told the rest of the sodding world.’ Another deep breath. ‘CINDY!’

  A voice boomed out from somewhere inside the house. ‘WHAT?’

  ‘DOOR!’ Mrs Shouty folded her arms. ‘What if that moron, Haiden, tries to abduct his little boy? What if he tries to murder us all in our beds? What about that?’

  ‘Has he?’ King stepped forward, eager. ‘Have you seen him? Has Haiden been in touch?’

  ‘That’s not the point. You police don’t care, do you? You swan in here and—’

  ‘What?’ The grumpy woman from the prison photographs appeared behind her, little flecks of yellow on her broad face that looked disturbingly zit-like against the flushed cheeks. More paint on her orange overalls. Her hair – red like Mrs Shouty’s – was mostly hidden beneath a Rosie-the-Riveter headscarf. She scowled at them in exactly the same way her mum had. ‘Oh it’s you, is it?’

  Logan stuck out his hand. ‘Cindy Lochhead?’

  Mrs Shouty stuck her chin out. ‘It’s Cindy Norton, thank you very much. She gave up that moron’s name when she divorced him. And good riddance.’

  ‘Quite right too.’ King poured on the charm. ‘Mrs Norton, I know it’s a pain, but I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a cup of tea, is there?’