All That's Dead

by Stuart MacBride

‘Was that her?’ Suppose it had to be. ‘Didn’t seem too bad to me.’

  Still no response from King.

  ‘Word is she can unhinge that huge bottom jaw of hers and swallow babies whole.’ Steel tried to do much the same thing with the last chunk of her butty, all drippy with coffee. Cramming it in. Grinning as brown dribbled down her chin.

  Urgh …

  He was about to hang up when, ‘King?’ crackled out of the phone at him.

  Logan turned his back on Steel, before she did anything else revolting. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Calling to give me the bad news, are you? How long have I got to clear out my desk?’

  Steel nudged Logan with her foot. ‘See, what I like is the way the silky hazelnut coffee complements the crunchy-chocolatey-soft-buttery-bapness of the KitKat butty. That’s Heston-Blumenthal level genius, that is.’

  He moved out of range, lowering his voice so Madame Lugs wouldn’t hear. ‘Will you get your arse in order, please? I’m not carrying this sodding case all on my own!’

  No reply. Just silence.

  ‘Where are you?’

  Still nothing.

  The office door opened and in scuttled Tufty, rubbing his hands together. ‘Did I miss anything?’

  ‘Frank?’

  ‘They’re not firing me?’ Finally.

  ‘We need to speak to Haiden’s dad again. Something’s come up.’

  ‘Are they really not firing me?’

  ‘Really. Now can we go do our jobs?’

  ‘Erm … OK. I’ll … meet you down the Rear Podium?’

  ‘Good.’ Logan hung up. Hissed out a sigh. ‘Offering support’ wasn’t supposed to be the same thing as babysitting.

  Tufty settled down behind his laptop, looking around as if he’d lost something. Patting his paperwork. Frowning. Lifting things up and putting them down again.

  ‘Aye well …’ Steel sooked her fingers and stood. Stretched her full length like a very manky cat. ‘Suppose I’d better be offski. Time and search-trained canines wait for no woman, no matter how sexy she is.’

  Logan leaned against Tufty’s desk. ‘Have you found anything?’

  He didn’t look up from his rummaging. ‘They were right here. I’m sure they were.’

  ‘Mhari Powell, Tufty: concentrate.’

  ‘Hmm? Oh right.’ He opened a desk drawer, pouted at the contents then closed it again. ‘I’m still going through all the social media accounts she’s been posting from, but I’ve IDed three Facebook friends who interact with her on a regular basis. Or, at least, they interacted with one of the people she was pretending to be. None of them with the same pretend person, though.’ Tufty pulled a printout from his in-tray and handed it over – a list of three names and addresses – then rummaged through his desk some more. ‘Still working on the rest.’

  ‘Hoy!’ Steel stopped in the doorway, turned, clacked her heels together and gave Logan a sarcastic salute. ‘Don’t forget: no more deid bodies while I’m out!’ And with that she was gone.

  Logan pocketed Tufty’s list. ‘Keep at it. I want to know who “Mhari Powell” really is by the time I get back.’

  ‘Mmmm? Yeah, OK, Sarge …’ He went back to searching his desk. Raised his voice to address the whole room: ‘Has anyone seen my KitKat butty or hazelnut latte?’

  Detective Sergeant Steel strikes again.

  36

  Ten past eight in the morning was not the best time to be driving across town to Dyce. The morning rush hour was like a diseased thing, crawling along on its belly, belching noxious fumes into the hot summer air.

  Speaking of which: sitting in the passenger seat, King crunched down one more in a long line of extra-strong mints. A newspaper open in his lap, his window cracked open an inch – letting the scent of diesel exhaust invade the Audi’s interior as they followed a bus along Westburn Drive.

  Logan inched the car forward another couple of feet. ‘Where did you disappear off to?’

  A grimace. ‘Gwen called. Again. She’s got herself a lawyer and they’re citing my “unreasonable behaviour” as grounds for divorce.’ He gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘My unreasonable behaviour? I should be the one suing her: she’s the one having the affair! She’s the one been torturing me with it!’

  And speaking of torture: ‘Robert Drysdale.’

  King froze for a beat, then looked out the passenger window again. ‘What about him?’

  ‘That’s what I want to know.’

  The Audi crawled forward a whole car length.

  ‘Why didn’t they fire me?’

  ‘Frank, I’m serious. Who was he?’ AKA: here’s some rope, please don’t hang yourself.

  ‘Hmph …’ King’s jaw tightened. ‘I grabbed a copy of this morning’s Scottish Daily Post on the way out the station.’ He picked the paper off his lap and opened it, stared down at the front page. A posed publicity shot of Scott Meyrick smiled back at him under the headline ‘FEARS GROW FOR REALITY TV STAR’.

  ‘I can’t help if you don’t talk to me, Frank!’

  ‘Edward Barwell’s “exposé” got bumped to a two-inch sidebar with “continued on page eleven”.’ King crumpled the paper into his lap again. ‘Nothing about Robert Drysdale.’

  Silence.

  Up ahead, the lights went red, as if anyone was moving fast enough to have to stop.

  More silence.

  Oh for goodness’ sake. ‘Was Robert Drysdale in the PASL when you were?’

  King waved a dismissive hand. ‘There were lots of different cells, that was the point: so there wouldn’t be cross-contamination. We didn’t exactly get together for coffee mornings and bake sales.’ A sigh. ‘I’m tired of being a whipping boy for everyone and their hamster.’

  ‘Cells? And you say it wasn’t a terrorist organisation?’

  This time the sigh brought with it a sad little smile. ‘I used to love being a police officer … Out on the beat, keeping people safe, banging up crooks and thugs. Now look at me.’

  ‘If you’re going to keep up the self-pity all the way to Dyce, you can get out and walk.’

  ‘It’s all right for you: you’re a decorated police hero with a Queen’s Medal, a hot girlfriend, a family, and a big house. All I’ve got is a cheating soon-to-be-ex-wife and a career circling the U-bend.’ He nodded. ‘Should march into Hardie’s office, hand in my resignation, and walk.’

  OK, enough.

  Logan thumped him on the arm. ‘What’s the point of running away? If people are picking on you: stand up for yourself!’

  King turned to look out the window again. ‘Hmph.’

  ‘I’m right here with you, aren’t I?’

  A long, slow breath. ‘I’m not going to survive this one, Logan. Be lucky if they just fire me. I’m done.’

  Finally the lights turned green and they could crawl forward another car’s length.

  ‘In the words of Detective Chief Inspector Roberta Steel, as was,’ Logan put on the voice – gravelly and gin-soaked, ‘“You’ll no’ see the bright side with your heid jammed up your arse.”’

  ‘Yeah.’ King sagged in his seat. ‘She should hire herself out as a motivational speaker.’

  Sunlight cascaded in through Ravendale’s windows, making the reception carpet glow with garish shades of brown, pink, and green. As if someone had gorged themselves on chocolate pudding, Ribena, and guacamole, before being copiously sick all over the care home’s floor.

  The radio was on, playing something cheerful and bland as the same bland old man in his bland old cardigan behind the bland old desk hummed along, worrying away at a Sudoku book.

  He looked up as Logan and King walked in and the smile of greeting faded from his face. ‘You again.’

  King opened his mouth, but Logan got there first: ‘We’d like to speak to Gary Lochhead, please.’

  ‘Ah … Mr Lochhead isn’t having one of his better days, today.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, but we still need to talk to him.’

  ‘The p
ain’s so bad we’ve had to up his morphine.’ The receptionist looked left, then right, then over his shoulder, as if the KGB might be lurking nearby ready to steal his secrets. He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘You didn’t hear this from me, but the medical staff aren’t very optimistic about his prognosis. With patients in palliative care …’ A shrug. ‘We see a lot of this towards the end.’

  Logan nodded. ‘We wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’

  A pause, as Mr Bland chewed at the inside of his cheek. Then a nod. ‘Well, you can talk to him if you promise to keep it brief. He might not make too much sense though.’ Mr Bland picked up the desk phone and dialled. ‘I’ll get Denzil to see you through.’

  The corridor outside number nineteen was a patchwork of light and shadow as the morning sun seared through the skylights.

  King leaned back against the wall opposite Gary Lochead’s door. ‘What do you think, Good Cop, Bad Cop?’

  Genuinely?

  Logan frowned at him. ‘He’s dying, Frank. What are we going to threaten him with?’

  ‘True.’ He tilted his head to one side, eyes narrowing. ‘You know what? Maybe we could—’

  The door opened and Denzil poked his hairy wee head out, bringing with him the sound of a radio tuned to the same station as the one in reception. A small, compact man, with powerful furry arms and a warm smile that faded into a concerned look. ‘OK. He’s stable, but he’s been in a lot of pain, so—’

  ‘Morphine.’ King loosened his tie. ‘We know.’

  ‘Right. Well, don’t tire him out, and I’ll be right here outside if … he needs anything. Or stops breathing. Or something like that.’

  King pushed past him and into the room.

  Logan gave Denzil an apologetic smile. ‘Been a long week.’ Then followed King into Gary Lochhead’s room.

  The blinds weren’t quite fully drawn, and a shaft of sunlight fell across the hospital bed. A wall-mounted reading light was on, pointed towards Gary’s painting of that stone circle in the woods, making the colours glow. Shame it couldn’t do the same for the bloke who painted it.

  He was slumped against his pillows, skin pale and shiny – like butter kept in the freezer. A full oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth, the clear plastic misted with vapour, and an IV line reached from a bag of something clear, through a feeder box, and into the cannula in the back of Gary’s hand. That would be the morphine, then. His NHS-blue blankets were rucked up at one side, showing off a liver-spotted leg, wishbone thin.

  The cheery song on the radio burbled to an end, replaced by the kind of teuchter accent you could cut concrete with. ‘Aye, Aye, loons and quines! Gid Mornin’ Doogie’s got a wee bittie traffic update for yis. The A-berdeen bypass is closit Eastbound atween Parkhill and Blackdog fir a three-vehicle accident. So dinna ging that wye if yer—’

  King switched the radio off and loomed over the bed. Voice hard and sharp. ‘Gary. We need to talk to you about Haiden.’

  ‘Gnnnnnghnnnph?’ Gary Lochhead’s head turned in trembling jerks and pauses, his pupils big as buttons, the mask muffling his words. ‘Haiden? Is that …?’

  ‘Sorry, no, it’s not.’ Logan pulled up one of the visitors’ chairs, positioning it level with Gary’s elbow, so he could see who he was speaking to. ‘Hi, Gary.’

  ‘Haiden, is that you?’

  ‘It’s not Haiden, it’s the police, we were here on Wednesday, remember?’

  A shaky hand reached for Logan’s. ‘Haiden, they wanted me to clype on you, but I wouldn’t do it. I kept our secrets. I kept them …’

  Oh, ho?

  King widened his eyes at Logan, eyebrows up. Then he grabbed the other chair and squealed the rubber feet across the floor to the opposite side of the bed, sat, and pulled on a reasonable mid-Aberdonian accent. ‘Dad?’ He took hold of Gary’s other hand. ‘Dad, I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner.’

  What?

  Logan glared at him, making throat-slashing ‘Stop it!’ gestures.

  But King turned the accent up instead. ‘Had to dodge the cops, yeah? You know how it is.’

  A nod. ‘Buncha stupid bastards.’ Gary reached up with his free hand and slipped the breathing mask off, so it cupped his chin. Then trembled that hand down over King’s, making it the filling in a hand sandwich. ‘Is your mother OK, Haiden? You’ll look after her, for me, won’t you?’

  ‘Course I will, Dad.’ The lying sod was nearly squirming in his seat with excitement. ‘I did what you wanted. Got Councillor Lansdale, Professor Wilson, and Scott Meyrick.’

  Logan leaned towards him, teeth bared, voice a hard hissing whisper. ‘This isn’t right!’

  Gary gave King a shaky smile. ‘You’re a good boy.’

  ‘I took them out to the place, Dad. You remember the place? The place you told me to take them?’

  ‘I want to go home, Haiden.’

  ‘I know you do, Dad. I know. Shall we go past the place first? You remember the place?’

  What started as a gurgling wheeze turned into a ragged coughing fit, painting the old man’s face an angry shade of purple as he rocked against his pillows, tears rolling down his cheeks. Until it finally hacked itself out in a painful mix of wheezing and groaning.

  Logan’s whisper got louder and harsher. ‘Detective Inspector King, I’m warning you – this isn’t appropriate.’

  King answered the same way: ‘You want Professor Wilson to die? That what you want?’

  ‘You know I don’t, but—’

  ‘Then shut up and let me do my job.’

  The morphine pump bleeped and whirred, making Gary sag further into his pillows, the creases easing from his face a little. Breathing a little better. ‘I miss … I miss the family … holidays the most … We should … we should do that … again.’

  ‘Yeah, totally, Dad. But we’ll go to the place first, right?’

  The wobbly smile returned. ‘You were so happy, running … up and down the beach with … with your kite … Remember Scruffy? You loved that wee dog.’

  ‘Describe the place to me, Dad, so I know you remember it.’

  Logan stood. ‘OK, that’s enough.’

  ‘Come on, Dad, they say you’ve forgotten, but I know you remember it.’

  ‘And we’d have barbecues and … your mother would make potato salad … and Scruffy would always get the first sausage …’

  ‘Dad, focus.’ Voice harder now, running out of patience. ‘Where is the place?’

  ‘You used to love those summers, Haiden … You and Scruffy and Mum and me.’

  ‘I’m not warning you again, Detective Inspector!’

  ‘Gah!’ King pulled his hand away from Gary’s, wiped it on the blankets. ‘This is a waste of time, anyway.’ He stood, kicking his chair away as he buttoned his suit jacket and glared at Logan. ‘We can’t afford to sod about here any more. Wrap it up.’ Then he turned on his heel and stormed off, barging out through the door.

  It banged shut behind him.

  It wasn’t the sort of thing a member of Professional Standards was supposed to say about a fellow police officer, but DI King really was a massive arsehole.

  Logan shook his head. Sighed. Looked down at what was left of “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead. ‘I’m sorry. If you want to make a formal complaint, we—’

  ‘Do you remember … when that dead porpoise washed up … on the beach and Scruffy … Scruffy found it and rolled in it? God, the stink …’

  Ah well, before he left, might as well have a bash at what they came here for.

  Logan settled onto the edge of the bed. ‘Gary, can you remember someone called Robert Drysdale? He was in the People’s Army for Scottish Liberation, same as you. Do you remember him?’

  Gary reached for Logan’s hand – the skin hot and papery to touch. ‘Those summers were magic.’ His eyes glittered with unshed tears. ‘Look after your mum, Haiden.’

  Even after everything he’d done, it was hard not to feel sorry for a dying old man.

  Come on, what h
arm would it do?

  Logan nodded. ‘I will … Dad.’

  ‘Maybe we can go to Uncle Geoff’s house again next summer? You, me, your mum, and Scruffy …’ He gave Logan’s hand a squeeze. ‘You always loved that house.’ Gary’s eyes drifted up towards the stone circle. ‘It’s a beautiful country, Haiden. Scotland is the best … it’s the best country in the world.’ He blinked away the tears. ‘Put down your roots and keep them here. We are this land. Never … never let them take it away from you.’

  Logan shoved out through the front doors, into Ravendale’s car park. Where the hell was …

  There – over by the care home’s battered minibus. Detective Inspector King. On his phone, pacing up and down with one finger in his other ear. ‘Have you spoken to those Alt-Nat groups yet, H? … Well why not? Get your sodding finger out!’

  Logan marched over, the heat of the morning just adding to the fires. ‘What the bloody hell was that supposed to be?’

  ‘Hold on, Heather.’ He put a hand over the phone’s microphone. ‘I’m doing my job.’

  ‘Lying to a dying old man?’

  King’s face darkened. ‘Lochhead knows, OK?’ Jabbing a finger towards the building. ‘He – knows!’

  ‘SO DO YOU!’

  King retreated a step, pulled his chin in. Clearly not expecting a shouting at. ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Robert Drysdale. He was in the PASL when you were, wasn’t he? He wasn’t in a “different cell”. You knew what they did to him.’

  He licked his lips, then raised the phone to his ear again. ‘Heather, I’ll call you back.’ Put his phone in his pocket. ‘Look, I never had any—’

  ‘Then why bring him up? Why pluck that name at random from the ether?’

  ‘I …’ King puffed out a breath. ‘OK: Edward Barwell calls me up last night, after work, and says he’s going to tell everyone about Robert Drysdale. That I should take the chance to set the record straight before he did.’

  ‘What record? What did you do?’

  ‘Nothing! I hadn’t even heard of Drysdale till then. I had to google him.’

  Logan stepped closer. ‘Then why does Barwell think you were involved?’

  ‘I … I don’t know.’ King can’t have liked the scowl that got him, because he held his hands up. ‘I don’t! He’s trying to make it look like I’m involved in some way, but I wasn’t. I didn’t even know who Drysdale was till last night!’