All That's Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  Jacob shook his head. ‘No, Mr Cousins.’

  ‘Then why are the police in my store, Jacob?’

  Logan raised a hand. ‘We’re in getting some supplies for the station. Jacob here was advising us on organic versus nonorganic dairy products.’

  ‘Oh.’ Pause. ‘Well, that’s all right then.’ He stood up to his full wormy five nine and fixed Jacob with what was probably meant to be a steely gaze. ‘Soon as you’ve finished here, get around to Cleaning Products and Pet Food. Someone’s dropped a litre-bottle of fabric softener and it’s all over the aisle.’

  Another nod. ‘Yes, Mr Cousins.’

  ‘Good.’ He turned and marched off, heels clicking on the linoleum floor.

  Soon as he’d gone, Jacob’s hands turned into fists for a moment. ‘Wanker.’ Keeping his voice low as he hammered cheap smoked cheese in plastic casings in beside the pre-grated mozzarella. ‘Rip your bastarding arms off and make you eat them …’ Then Jacob seemed to remember that he was standing there with two police officers, because he cleared his throat and looked away. ‘Just a joke, like.’

  Not given Jacob’s record it wasn’t.

  Logan picked up a packet of Cheese Rope. ‘So you actually met Mhari?’

  ‘What? Yeah, the fags. She wouldn’t let me give him them. “Haiden’s giving up,” she says, “he’s getting healthier for the cause,” she says.’ A wee growl, then a sniff. Then Jacob went into the cage for a box of Cheerful Cattle Spreading Triangles. ‘Next thing you know, I’m not allowed to visit him any more. Bitch said his old mates were a bad influence. We’re—’

  Mr Cousins’ voice battered out through the supermarket’s PA system, echoing and distorted. ‘Jacob McCain to Cleaning Products and Pet Food. Clean-up on Cleaning Products and Pet Food.’

  ‘Gah!’ He hurled the box back in the cage and slammed the grilled front shut. ‘See if I wasn’t on licence?’ Then took hold of the cage and stomped off, pushing it in front of him as he went, the wheels squeaking like tortured gerbils.

  Logan watched him go. ‘Five quid says Mr Cousins comes to some sort of very unfortunate and painful accident before too long.’

  King leaned in closer. ‘And, to be honest, he’d sodding well deserve it.’

  Couldn’t argue with that.

  Tartan Tam’s was the kind of establishment that gave old-fashioned Scottish pubs a bad name. Small; dark; with a short bar featuring four pumps, a line of greasy optics, and a bored-looking woman hunched over a Scottish Daily Post. A puggy machine dinged and wibbled away to itself by the bar – enough flashing lights on it to give half the city seizures as it offered them nudges, lucky sevens, and lemons.

  There wasn’t a surface in the pub that didn’t look sticky. That included the table Logan and King stood in front of, staring down at a guy with a teddy-boy quiff, pint of Guinness, a packet of dry-roasted, and a ‘F*CK THE ENGLISH!’ T-shirt.

  He slouched in his bench seat, arms along the back. ‘So?’

  King leaned his fists on the tabletop, trying for another loom. ‘Look, Mackers, have you seen Haiden or not?’

  A shrug. ‘I’ve seen his handiwork. Get it?’ A smile and a wink. ‘Hand-iwork? Cos he chopped off that professor tosser’s hands?’

  Logan pulled out his notebook. ‘You saw him do it? You were there at the time?’

  ‘Naw, in the papers, like.’ He took a swig of Guinness, chased it down with a couple of peanuts. Talking before he’d finished chewing them, grey and white residue sticking to his teeth. ‘Good for Haiden, though. Them Unionistas need a short sharp shock. With any luck he’ll go after the papists next. Then the immigrants: Pakis, Poles, and Darkies. Purge the whole fucking lot of them. Scotland for the Scottish!’

  Rush-hour traffic filled the road before them, slowed to a crawl as they waited in the long, long line for Mounthooly Roundabout.

  King was about as slumped as he could be without actually slithering into the passenger footwell. Looking out of the window as Aberdeen’s only pagoda crawled past. ‘God, that was depressing …’

  ‘Lovely people, Haiden’s friends.’

  He scrubbed at his face with his hands. ‘Not everyone who wants independence is like that, Logan. Some of us just want a fairer country to live in. One that makes its own rules instead of having to bow and scrape to a parliament in Westminster we didn’t elect.’

  ‘Yes, well, technically we do elect them. United Kingdom, remember?’

  King waved it away. ‘Rennie was right: all that talk about a “democratic deficit” during the EU referendum – that’s all we’ve had up here for sodding generations!’ He turned in his seat. ‘The last hundred years: do you know how many times England has picked the UK government? Every single time, but three. Three times we got the government we wanted and they didn’t. And even then it was because they couldn’t make up their minds who to put in power.’ A short bitter laugh. ‘And do you know how long one of those three times lasted? Six months – 1974.’

  Great. A lecture.

  Logan reached for the radio. ‘Told you before: no politics in the car.’

  Something drive-timey rocked out of the speakers, completely at odds with the slug’s pace the traffic was actually moving at.

  Closer to the roundabout. Closer. Closer …

  King turned the radio down. ‘How did you vote in the referendum?’

  ‘What, the completely secret ballot that I don’t have to disclose to anyone?’

  He curled his lip. ‘Yeah, I thought so. You’re a sodding Unionist.’ Imbuing the word with all the warmth of a puddle of yesterday’s cat sick.

  ‘Don’t be a dick.’

  ‘Logan, there’s five hundred and thirty-three English MPs and only fifty-nine Scottish ones. They could get together tomorrow and decide to rename Scotland “Whingey Tartanbaws McJockland” and there’s sod all we could do about it.’

  Seriously?

  ‘They’re not going to change “Scotland” to—’

  ‘It’s just England pushing us around! Us and Wales and Northern Ireland.’ King’s face got more and more flushed with every declamation. ‘Making all the big decisions. Telling us what to do. Ordering us about. The West Lothian question’s a joke: they outnumber us nine to one!’

  ‘You finished?’ Preferably before you have an aneurysm.

  King thumped back in his seat. ‘The UK isn’t a partnership, it’s an abusive relationship.’

  — the blade, the reality-TV star, and the screaming —

  31

  King checked his watch, then nodded at the assembled officers. ‘So I want you in here, seven sharp tomorrow. Till then, try and get a decent night’s sleep – no boozing it up. I need you all at your best.’ He pointed at the door. ‘Off you go, then.’

  Most of the team stood: some trying to look grim and determined, the rest clearly delighted at getting to go home at last. Support staff, plainclothes, and uniform, all bustling out through the door. Leaving only Milky, Steel, Tufty, Heather, King and Logan as it swung shut again.

  Briefing over, King slumped down on the edge of a newly vacated desk, as if he’d been wrung dry. ‘Sodding hell …’

  Steel popped her feet up. ‘Everything’s going great, then?’

  He turned to Rennie. ‘And you didn’t find anything?’

  All the way through the briefing and he hadn’t made eye contact with Logan once. Had barely spoken to him since the ‘Parliamentary Arithmetic’ rant in the car.

  Rennie shrugged. ‘Between us we’ve covered all of Haiden’s known associates and none of them have a clue where he is. Or if they do, they’re not telling.’

  Sitting beside him, Tufty nodded. ‘There’s two worth keeping an eye on, if that helps? Really shifty when we spoke to them. Lots of tattoos too.’

  Must be this season’s Alt-Nat look.

  Logan pulled out a chair and sat. ‘Jacob McCain said he wasn’t allowed to visit Haiden in prison any more, because,’ making quote bunnies, ‘“Mhari” wouldn’t let him. Sh
e thought Haiden’s old friends were a bad influence.’

  ‘Pfff … She’s no’ exactly a wee fairy princess herself!’

  ‘Does sound like a pattern of control, though.’

  There was a single clap and they all turned to look at a smiling Rennie.

  ‘Speaking of Fairy Princesses, and straying off topic for a moment, are you all remembering it’s Lola’s big birthday party this Saturday? Everyone’s invited.’ He looked at them in turn, eyebrows raised. No reply. ‘Anyway, Mistress Fizzymiggins wants to know how many people want to make their own magic wand and fairy wings, so she can get enough glitter in.’

  King pinched his face closed for a moment. ‘Can we stick to the abductions and attempted murders for now? Please, Sergeant? Can we do that?’

  ‘Ah. OK.’ Doing his best to sound casual. ‘I suppose that’s sensible.’

  Milky filled the ensuing silence. ‘Harmsworth and me didn’t get anything from the guys on Haiden’s cell-block either. Half wouldn’t know Wednesday from a line of coke, and t’other half wouldn’t talk to us if their mum’s life depended on it.’

  ‘Aye, naebody likes a clype.’

  Logan frowned at Steel. ‘Not you too. Got enough of that from Ian McNab.’

  ‘Before we drift too far from the point, again,’ Heather checked her notebook, ‘we should concentrate on the local Alt-Nat groups. Someone’s bound to know something.’

  ‘What about tracking down our fake Mhari Powell?’

  Tufty: ‘I know! I know! We could go through all those social media accounts my algorithm found – the ones she’s posting from under aliases and stuff – see if we can figure out where she works, who her friends are?’

  ‘Good.’ King nodded. ‘Make that your number one tomorrow. I want a list of people to interview. Maybe they’ll be a bit more forthcoming than Haiden’s criminal mates.’

  Steel: ‘Search her house too. Bound to get a warrant now we know she’s a faker.’

  ‘Then that’s your number one. And make sure you’ve got a dog unit with you.’

  ‘Hey!’ Heather. ‘What about my Alt-Nat theory?’

  ‘Definitely. Take Milky and hit them up tomorrow. I want a list of groups on my desk by nine. Then go speak to everyone you can ID.’

  She looked at Milky, then sucked on her teeth for a bit. ‘Yeah … Might not be the best of ideas, Boss. Alt-Nats tend not to like the English very much, and Milky is a bit …’ Heather made a seesaw motion with her hand, ‘let’s call it “ethnically distinctive”.’

  Milky laid it on thick: ‘Gi’oar, ya daft apeth!’ Then an evil smile. ‘If they don’t like the English, I’ll bloody well give them English.’

  ‘That’s settled then.’ Steel stood and stretched, showing off the pasty dead thing passing for her stomach. ‘Are we done now, oh Great Mint-Scented Leader? Only some of us have wives to get home to.’

  A pause as something pained scratched at King’s features. He shook it off. ‘Yes. Fine. Go. All of you.’

  She shot him with both finger guns. ‘Later, lumpty-numpties.’

  Tufty, Rennie, and Milky scuffed out after her, Heather bringing up the rear.

  The door clunked shut behind them and King shook his head. ‘Well, that was a fun day.’

  Logan stood and had a stretch of his own. ‘Look on the bright side: up till now, Mhari Powell, or whoever she is, has been playing us all for idiots. At least now we know.’

  ‘Excuse me if I don’t throw a parade.’ King picked himself off the edge of the desk, still not making eye contact. ‘I spoke to Inspector Pearce: no sign of the white Nissan Micra.’

  ‘They’ll have seen the media coverage, dumped the car somewhere, and got the hell out of Aberdeen. You’d have to be thick as mince to hang about after all this.’

  King scrubbed at his face, shoulders bowed. ‘Maybe France was a double bluff? They make us think Haiden’s running away to Calais on the ferry; only they know we’ll find out it’s all fake, because he’s sitting in her car on Netherkirkgate, right in front of a security camera; so we think they’ll never really sneak across the Channel; when, in fact, that’s exactly what they’re planning to do?’

  ‘Bit convoluted, isn’t it? Anyway, Mhari didn’t know we were on to her until Hardie made his idiotic announcement at the press conference. Far as she was concerned, they were getting away with Plan A.’

  He sagged a bit further. ‘True.’

  Outside, the wailing cry of another siren on its way to something horrible faded in the distance.

  Logan stepped in front of King. ‘Are you sulking with me, because I won’t tell you how I voted in the referendum?’

  He still wouldn’t look at him. ‘Course not.’

  ‘Because that would be childish, and really counterproductive given all this Alt-Nat nonsense flying around.’

  ‘I know, I know. It’s just …’ And finally, King met his eyes. ‘It’s just with Gwen, and the case, and Edward Bloody Barwell, and Hardie …’ A sigh. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Are you sure you want to keep going with this one? You could recuse yourself, if you like. Tell them you’re stepping down to avoid distracting from the investigation. Take some time and sort things out at home.’

  ‘They’d never let me run another high-profile case if I did that.’ He rubbed at his face again. ‘And what’s left to sort out? Gwen hates me, Logan. I mean she really, really loathes me. You’ve seen how often she phones to have a go. Gloating about her affair. Telling me how she’s turning the kids against me. Making sure I suffer …’ There was a tiny, unhappy laugh. ‘I can’t even leave her: I’ve got nowhere to go.’ His whole body deflated a bit, as if someone had let the air out of his life. A deep breath didn’t seem to help. ‘Pub?’

  ‘Can’t.’

  ‘Come on, let me buy you a couple of pints as an apology for calling you a Unionist.’

  ‘Love to, but I’m babysitting the monsters tonight.’

  ‘Yeah. Raincheck.’ King shrugged as if it didn’t bother him one way or the other. ‘You’re right, by the way: Hardie’s press conference was pretty much guaranteed to set them running. The man’s an idiot. Haiden and Mhari will be miles away by now.’

  Haiden runs his hands across the dashboard again, fingers skimming the glove compartment’s latch. Nice wee car this. Bigger than it looked on The Italian Job. Shame it’s a bit manky.

  But when you’re stealing something from long-term parking, you can’t go nicking a flash motor. Nah, you want something that’ll go unnoticed.

  He grins across the car at Mhari, who, let’s be honest, is bloody stunning. She’s swapped her mousy-librarian costume for a tight pink T-shirt and sexy low-rise jeans, flashing a strip of beautiful tanned stomach that makes his groin tighten every time he looks at her. Those little leather driving gloves she’s got on, gripping the steering wheel like it’s his cock and he’s been naughty. She’s done that thing with her hair as well, from lank to exotic and oooh …

  He adjusts himself through his trousers.

  She smiles. ‘Steady, Tiger.’

  Oh yeah, they are so going to do it later.

  But for now, concentrate on the mission, Haiden. Make sure she knows you’re not just a pretty face. ‘Where we going to send the package this time?’

  She thinks about it as the backwoods of Aberdeenshire slip by the car window. ‘The BBC worked wonders with Wanky Wilson. Let’s send it there.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He nods. ‘But maybe we should try ITV this time? Or Channel Four? Sky? You know, whip up a bit of competition?’

  She reaches across the car and squeezes his leg with those leather gloves. ‘Genius. See, that’s why you’re in charge, Babe.’

  Squeeze higher, Mhari. Please, squeeze higher …

  But she doesn’t. The hand goes back to the steering wheel instead.

  Ah well. Just have to wait till later and hope his balls don’t explode before then.

  Haiden reaches into the footwell and picks up the claw hammer. Bit rusty, b
ut it’d do the job. Slaps it against his palm. Frowns at it. ‘You know, we should’ve done that with Lansdale. Sent his bits to the media.’

  ‘How were we supposed to know no one would open his post? Politicians are meant to have assistants, or a secretary, or something.’

  ‘Yeah … Shame he died before we could film him, though. Jesus, the state of his face! Would’ve frightened the crap out of them Unionist bastards.’

  ‘Hey, we learned, didn’t we? We learned. And this next one?’ She squeezes his thigh again. ‘Going to be perfect.’

  Bloody disaster, that’s what it was. But, then, had it ever been anything else?

  Frank unscrewed the cap again and took a swig from his halfy of Co-op own-brand vodka. It went down like burning petrol, spreading its fire.

  He’d actually found a parking space outside the flat for once. Not that it would be his flat for long. The lights were on up there. Flat 2R, with its sodding dreamcatcher in the window and the double glazing that needed replacing, and the rusty bracket where the last lot’s TV aerial used to be. The dirty granite strung with black cables, because BT couldn’t be arsed wiring the place up properly. And her …

  Here’s to Mr and soon-to-no-longer-be-Mrs King.

  He toasted the window and took another swig. The blaze spread, numbing the base of his skull in the way only vodka could.

  ‘Home, sweet sodding home.’

  Should really go in. Been out here long enough, stoking the boiler. Getting ready for the inevitable fight.

  Maybe he should—

  His phone rang in his pocket. Not the dreaded ‘Fairytale of New York’, but the bland, generic ringtone that came as default.

  Frank pulled it out and squinted at the screen, still sober enough to read it with both eyes: ‘UNKNOWN NUMBER’.

  Hmph.

  He answered it. ‘King.’

  A small pause, then a familiar voice slithered its way into his ear. ‘Detective Inspector King, it’s Edward Barwell. Scottish Daily Post.’

  Of course it was. After a day like today, how could it not be? One last kick in the crotch before going home to the wife.