All That's Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘You’re trying to get me out of the way, aren’t you?’

  A you-got-me shrug. ‘Well, we—’

  ‘Let me tell you: that boy was nothing but trouble for my Cindy! She was a good girl before he came along. Everything that went wrong in her life was his fault.’

  Cindy Norton rolled her eyes. ‘Mum—’

  ‘She was going to go to university for God’s sake, till he got his grubby …’ a little shudder rippled through Mrs Shouty, ‘seed inside her.’

  ‘Mum, please, I can—’

  She raised a hand. ‘Oh, I love my grandson, don’t get me wrong. I love him like he was my own, but Cindy had a future! She—’

  ‘MUM!’

  That produced an outraged look.

  Cindy waved her away. ‘Go on, sod off for ten minutes and let me speak to them, OK?’

  A withering silence, then, ‘Fine.’ She turned and stomped away, nose in the air. ‘But I’m not making tea for useless, lazy policemen!’

  Probably just as well. That would be the kind of tea that came with a free order of sputum.

  Cindy sniffed at them, grimaced, then turned and marched off down the corridor, leaving the door open. ‘You can have ten minutes. That’s it.’

  They followed her along the hall, past the open lounge door where an older man slumped in T-shirt and shorts on the couch, watching a daytime soap on the telly. He didn’t look up as they went by.

  Into the kitchen – small and bland, with fitted units that looked as if they were the height of fashion sometime in the seventies. Mrs Shouty stood by the fridge, glowering at them as Cindy opened the back door and ushered King and Logan out into the garden.

  Big bushes, a plum tree in the corner laden with unripe fruit, yellowy grass. Everything wilting in the heat.

  Cindy made for the side of the scaffolding-shrouded garage.

  Logan caught up with her. ‘Has Haiden been in touch?’

  She ducked through a sheet of plastic strung between two scaffolding poles and disappeared.

  So much for cooperating with the police.

  He ducked in after her.

  They’d divided the inside up with plasterboard walls, but hadn’t got around to the doors yet, leaving a tiny kitchen, wetroom, and living room on show.

  ‘Miss Norton, can we please …’

  She kept going, into the living room. A ladder was fixed to the far wall, leading up to a hatch in the roof, where, presumably there was an attic bedroom. Because otherwise there’d be nowhere to sleep.

  It wasn’t the only ladder in here – a stepladder sat near one wall, a large pot of paint set on top of it.

  Cindy picked up a brush and dipped it in the pot. ‘Don’t mind Mum, she’s just pissed because they’d nearly finished paying off the house and now, instead of a new kitchen, they’ve had to extend the mortgage to pay for all this.’ The brush left a thick, warm yellow line across the white plasterboard. Not quite the same colour as in Logan’s house, but close enough.

  He had another go: ‘Has Haiden been in touch?’

  ‘I saw he’d escaped. Did a runner from some prison-programme bakery thing? He never could stick at anything.’

  ‘Your mother seems to think he’ll try to abduct your son.’

  ‘Haiden?’ A small laugh. That got bigger. And bigger. Till she was bent double with it, paintbrush dripping onto the chipboard at her feet. Then she sighed, straightened up, and wiped the tears from her eyes. Stuck her brush in the pot again. ‘He wouldn’t dare. Wouldn’t even care. He’s never shown any interest in Marty.’

  King folded his arms, chest out, feet apart. ‘Do you know where he might be?’

  Another sigh. ‘I really loved him, you know? At first. Two years older than me, had a motorbike and a job and cash to throw about. Thin as a whippet, but not in a weedy way: like he was tightly coiled and ready to spring. A greyhound. Always had the best weed.’ More paint on the wall.

  Logan watched her block out a ragged rectangle of indoor sunshine. ‘It’s important, Cindy.’

  ‘Mum thinks I was driven snow, till Haiden came along. He wasn’t the first boy I let finger me after Geography. Or the first one I went shoplifting with. Or got stoned with. Or …’ A very dirty smile spread across her face, then she filled in a bit of plasterboard she’d missed. ‘Course, the longer I was with him, the more the veneer wore off. It’s all well and good shagging a bloke who’s a bit thick, but when you’ve finished you want someone who can engage you intellectually. You know? All he could ever talk about was “English imperialism” and how we needed to “take our country back”.’ Cindy shook her head. Slapped on more paint. ‘And they weren’t even his opinions, they were his dad’s. You couldn’t even debate him on them.’

  King tried looming again. ‘So you haven’t seen Haiden.’

  ‘Not since Marty got into my handbag and ate all my birth control pills, because some idiot at school said it’d get him high.’ She jammed the paintbrush in the pot then punished the wall with it. ‘After I’d finished making Marty puke them up, I stuck him in the car and we went right up to Peterhead so he could see what happens to stupid boys who don’t think.’

  Nothing like growing up in a happy family where the parents loved each other, was there?

  Logan raised his eyebrows at King, who nodded.

  Cindy turned and stared at them, paintbrush raised like a knife. ‘Look, Haiden married me because I made him. Because I was pregnant. He bailed on us because he’s a dick. The only use that man is to Marty is as an object lesson.’

  Well, it’d been a longshot anyway.

  Logan dipped into his pockets for a business card and wrote his mobile number on it. ‘If Haiden gets in touch—’

  ‘I won’t have Marty making the same mistakes I did. Mum’s right, I was going places. Doing well in school. Next thing you know, I’m a teenaged mother without a standard grade to my name. Now I’m going to evening classes, getting my qualifications.’

  King tilted his head on one side. ‘Did Haiden ever mention Professor Wilson, or a woman called Mhari Powell?’

  The red of Cindy’s cheeks darkened. ‘Mhari? Never heard of her.’

  Yeah, that was a lie.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Logan pulled out his phone, flicked through to the photo of Mhari Powell they’d shown at the briefing earlier. He held it out. ‘You don’t recognise her at all?’

  Cindy barely looked at it. ‘Said so, didn’t I?’

  ‘Maybe you heard Haiden talking about her?’

  She stabbed the paint and assaulted the wall. ‘I – don’t – know – her!’ Bash, slash, bash. ‘Jesus …’

  ‘OK.’ King nodded. ‘What about Councillor Matt Lansdale?’

  She paused. Frowned. ‘Lansdale … Wasn’t he that tosser who was big in the local “No” campaign? All condescending and slimy about how Scotland isn’t big enough or clever enough or hard-working enough to go it alone?’ A snort. ‘Yeah, now I think about it, Haiden’s dad hated the guy. Was going to send him a bomb in the post, but they banged him up for shooting that property developer, didn’t they?’

  King’s face sagged a bit, probably realising that this’d all been one huge waste of time. ‘Is there anything you can tell us? Anything about where he might be hiding? Any favourite haunts?’

  ‘Pfff … I remember him wanking on about family holidays in Cruden Bay? And they went to Loch Lomond to see some folk festival every year too. And stone circles. The whole bloody family was obsessed with stone circles.’ She put the brush down. ‘He’s killed them, hasn’t he? Haiden’s killed Wilson and Lansdale. I always knew he’d end up killing someone.’

  ‘So he was violent, then?’

  Another laugh. ‘What, to me? I’d have ripped his nuts off and made him eat them.’ She shook her head, as if trying to dislodge the ridiculous image. ‘No. Haiden would never hit a woman. Not a chance in hell. Wouldn’t dare.’ She picked up the brush and got back to work. ‘His harridan mother beat that shit right out of him whe
n he was wee.’

  Logan started the Audi’s engine and they sat there as the air conditioning’s cooling fingers massaged the oppressive heat away.

  Cindy’s mum, Mrs Shouty, stood in the doorway to number sixteen, glaring out at them.

  ‘What do you think?’

  King fastened his seatbelt. ‘She’s definitely lying about not knowing Mhari.’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Jealous Haiden’s found someone else? You know what women are like.’

  Logan frowned at him. ‘Bit misogynistic.’

  ‘You’ve never been married, have you?’ He pulled out his phone and turned it on again. ‘OK, you explain it.’

  ‘Maybe she and Cindy were friends? Want to nip out and see if the mother recognises her?’

  ‘Not really.’ But then his phone started to ding and buzz as all the texts, voicemails, and emails that’d been sent since they drove out of Altens arrived in a rush. A grimace, then he dumped it on the dashboard and produced a ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN?’ poster from his jacket pocket. Got out of the car. Then clomped over to where Mrs Shouty stood and held it up.

  Logan dug out his own phone and gave Rennie a bell.

  ‘Wassap, boss man?’

  ‘How you getting on with Haiden’s associates?’

  There was a disappointed hissing noise. ‘Imagine a sleeping bag full of angry bees and you’re not far off it.’

  ‘They not cooperating?’ Suppose that was only to be expected. Haiden’s mates were hardly likely to be the most civic-minded members of the local community.

  ‘Not so you’d notice, no.’

  Outside, at number sixteen, it looked as if Cindy’s mum was giving DI King a bit of a shouting at.

  ‘How many more have you got to go?’

  ‘Pffff … About a dozen? Everyone says they’ve not seen him in ages. Even before he went to prison.’

  ‘Hmmm … What about Ravendale?’

  There was a pause, and what sounded like muttered swearing. Then, ‘Just on my way to do it now, Guv.’

  Yeah, right. And the moon was made of marshmallow.

  King clearly thought he’d been shouted at enough for one day, because he about-faced and stomped towards to the car, ramming the poster into his jacket. Face like a ruptured haemorrhoid.

  Suppose they should really head back to the office now and …

  Logan frowned. Hardie was probably right about steering clear of Divisional Headquarters until they’d actually achieved something. ‘Rennie? Email me the list and who you’ve seen so far. Might try one or two on our way in.’

  ‘Will do.’ Then he lowered his voice to an angry whisper. ‘And may I just say, before you go, that I owe you one for saddling me with bloody Tufty!’

  That was worth a smile. ‘It’s good for you. Builds character.’ He hung up as King yanked the passenger door open and threw himself into the seat. ‘Let me guess …?’

  ‘Never seen her, we’re all a bunch of useless bastards, and we should be ashamed of ourselves.’ He hauled on his seatbelt. ‘Why do we bother?’

  Logan frowned at the house, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

  ‘Well?’ King clipped on his seatbelt. ‘What are we waiting for?’

  ‘Seems a bit … odd, doesn’t it? Haiden’s ex says he would never hit a woman.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘How come Mhari Powell has a black eye?’

  ‘Because people change. Because he’s spent three years in prison. Because he’s a violent dickhead.’ King stared across the car at him. ‘Or maybe Mhari bastarding Powell lied about that as well? She lied about everything else.’

  True.

  Cindy’s mum was still glowering at them from the open front door. She must have seen Logan looking, because she raised both middle fingers in the Audi’s direction, teeth bared in a snarl.

  He pulled away from the kerb, making for the main road north again. ‘I love it when members of the public help with our inquiries. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.’

  30

  King looked up through the windscreen as Logan parked in front of the block of flats. ‘This us?’

  Whoever built it either didn’t have much of an eye for architecture, or hated buildings and everyone who lived in them. Four storeys of bland grey harling, punctuated with white-framed windows and a flat roof. The only decorative touch was the narrow concrete portico that sulked above the entrance. Not exactly welcoming.

  Logan checked Rennie’s email. ‘Robert Cockburn, AKA: Gonorrhoea Bob. Previous for drugs and assault. Did six months in borstal with Haiden. Not long finished a two stretch for a racially motivated attack.’

  King got out of the car. ‘Want to bet he’s got tattoos on his neck?’

  Turned out King was right: ‘Gonorrhoea Bob’ had a thistle on one side and a spider’s web on the other. Daggers, skulls, and saltires on the back of his hands. Probably a ton more lurking beneath his crisp white shirt, black tie, suit trousers, and trainers. Hair Brylcreem-oily and parted on one side. Looking so buttoned-down he was liable to pop at any moment.

  His flat was the kind of spotless that usually came with a diagnosis of OCD, every surface gleaming, the air thick with the sharp plastic smell of lemon-scented polish. The mismatched collection of charity-shop furniture had probably never been cleaner in its life.

  Gonorrhoea Bob nodded and blinked at them. ‘I know, and I’m sorry, but I was a different person then. The man that I was died when I accepted Jesus into my heart.’

  King settled onto the couch. ‘You kicked an Asian shopkeeper half to death for having a “Better Together” sign in the window.’

  ‘And I’ll have to live with that till the end of my days.’ His Adam’s apple bobbed like a vulture’s beak. ‘All I can hope is that I get the chance to redeem myself before I stand in front of Saint Peter.’

  Logan pulled out his notebook. ‘When did you last see Haiden Lochhead?’

  Tears sparkled in Gonorrhoea Bob’s eyes. ‘I don’t see anyone from those days any more. That was the old me. I changed when—’

  ‘When you let Jesus into your heart. We know.’

  Sun sparkled on the surface of Duthie Park’s boating pond, the water a good bit greener than the River Dee on the other side of the road. A handful of couples were spread around the outside of the pond, chucking torn-up bits of sliced white while the ducks cackled their Sid James laughs. Bullying their way to the soggy morsels.

  Ian McNab slouched on a bench, in black tracksuit bottoms and a replica Aberdeen Football Club shirt. Peaky Blinders haircut. Big rampant lion tattoo all the way up one arm. Fag in one hand, the other rocking a pushchair back and forward a few inches – its occupant asleep. A small child hurtled around and around the bench, shrieking and waving his arms, dressed as a mini version of his dad, only without the tattoo.

  McNab looked up at Logan and King, then shrugged. ‘Yeah, I saw Haiden on the telly.’ He pointed at them with his cigarette. ‘He was on this screen thing behind you pair of poofs. Mind? You were sitting there like someone just shagged yer mum wi’ a flagpole?’

  King tried his looming trick again. ‘Has he been in touch?’

  It had the same amount of success on McNab as it had on Cindy Norton. Sod, and indeed, all.

  ‘In touch wi’ me? Naw, Officer, I’m no’ allowed to consort wi’ known criminals, am I? Condition o’ ma release. Staying oot a prison for ma bairns, like.’ Sounding more bored than contrite.

  The kid made another circuit. ‘Look at me, Daddy! Look at me!’

  McNab didn’t. ‘Aye, very good, Timmy.’ He took a long drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke at King. ‘Anything else I can help you poofs with?’

  Logan had a go. ‘If Haiden went into hiding, where would he hide?’

  ‘Naw, that’d be cheating. First rule of hide and seek: naebody likes a clype.’ McNab closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and smiled at the sun. ‘Now be good wee poofs and bugger off. I’m trying tae work on ma tan her
e and yer blocking the light.’

  Jacob McCain ran a hand over his shaved head – not so much a fashion statement as an unavoidable necessity, going by the paucity of blue stubble up there – and loaded another box of cheese into the chiller cabinet from the cage at his side. He wore a long-sleeved high-necked white T-shirt beneath his blue stripy tabard, twin bands of tattoos just visible in the gap between his cuffs and his thick black gloves. Not the tallest of men, and not the broadest either. But there was … something imposing about him. Something dangerous. As if asking where the hummus was might get you stabbed.

  King held out Mhari’s picture again. ‘Come on, Jacob, at least pretend to look at her.’

  McKinnon’s Family Market – ‘Bargantuan savings since 1998!’ – on Holburn Street wasn’t going to challenge Asda, Tesco, or Sainsbury’s any time soon. It was more of a strip-light and tin-can, pile-’em-high and sell-’em-for-a-moderate-markup kind of place. Somewhere you could get knock-off Lithuanian KitKats and Tundidor’s Tasty Caramel Wafers, all in lookalike packaging.

  Jacob dumped another thing of Bulgarian cheddar on the shelf. ‘Don’t need to. I know the bitch.’

  Finally: someone prepared to admit it.

  ‘You know her name?’

  ‘Mary. Only she spelled it the Gaelic way, with an “H” and an “I”.’ Armenian Edam joined the ranks of cheese. ‘Was a fashion for that, back in the good old days, yeah? Gaelic-ing up your name so you’d look more committed to the cause. Driving the English out.’ He shook his bald head. ‘Utter bitch, like.’

  Logan handed him the box of Spanish Bleu. ‘Did Mhari say anything about herself. Where she came from?’

  ‘Only met her once.’ He slit the box open with a Stanley knife and banged the contents one by one onto the shelf. ‘Went up to visit Haiden in Peterhead, didn’t I? Took him some fags. And there she was, the sainted sodding Mhari.’

  A young-ish guy in a shirt and stripy blue tie stalked around the end of the aisle, holding a clipboard to his pigeon chest. Pale and clean-shaven. Like an intestinal parasite that had landed a middle-management job. He raised his voice, scowling along the dairy aisle at their bald informant. ‘Is there a problem, Jacob?’ Sounding about as friendly as prostate cancer.