All That's Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  The trees closed in on either side of the car.

  Tufty grimaced at the canopy above them and shuddered. ‘Not meaning to put the jinx on it or anything, but last time you and I went for a drive in the woods, things didn’t end so well.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Officer Quirrel, for bringing that up.’

  ‘What I mean is we should be extra-super careful this time.’

  ‘You keep this up and it won’t be Mhari Powell or rabid Druids you have to worry about. It’ll be me.’

  The car lurched and rolled along the uneven track, suspension making ominous thunking noises with every pothole. Heading deeper into the dark-green forest depths.

  Even with the morning sun blaring down, it was dark in here – the light blocked by thick layers of leaves overhead. On either side of the track, the earth was a blanket of pale grey needles, spread between the trunks. Blaeberry bushes lurking in the shadows.

  The car’s speakers crackled and burred for a bit, announcing an incoming call as the word ‘CONTROL’ appeared on the display. Logan hit the button. ‘What’s happening with my Thugs, Dogs, and Guns?’

  ‘Inspector McRae, safe to talk?’

  ‘Are they on their way?’

  ‘OK, so I spoke to the Duty Superintendent and she wants to know why you haven’t done a risk assessment, resource allocation request, and filed a—’

  ‘Because it’s an evolving situation! Because I’m trying to catch a killer.’ Getting louder. ‘And because Mhari Powell isn’t going to sit on her backside waiting for me to fill out four tons of bloody paperwork!’

  There was a pause, then, ‘I see. And you’d like me to pass that on to the Superintendent, would you?’

  ‘Yes. And feel free to add some expletives!’ He stabbed the ‘END CALL’ button. ‘AAAAAAARGH!’

  Tufty grimaced. ‘So they’re not on their way?’

  A fork in the track up ahead.

  ‘Left or right?’

  Tufty consulted his phone. ‘Left.’ He fidgeted in his seat. ‘You know, maybe we should wait for backup?’

  ‘Be irresponsible not to.’

  ‘Only I don’t want Mhari Powell capturing me, cutting bits off, and posting them to the BBC. I need my bits. All my bits. They’re very nice bits. Kate’s quite fond of some of them.’

  ‘No one’s cutting bits off anyone.’ A sigh. ‘But if we sit on our thumbs, waiting for backup, and she kills Gary Lochhead …?’

  ‘I know. “Blundering on regardless” it is.’

  The woods opened up on the right, turning into a patchy scrub of felled stumps and bushes. A fox hopped out from them, onto the track, and froze, staring at the approaching wreck of Logan’s Audi, before padding across and away into the wood on the other side.

  Logan put on a reassuring voice. ‘Besides: Steel’s right. We’re probably wasting our time. There’ll be nothing here.’

  ‘Ooh, and that means we can go for great big breakfast butties at …’ His face did a distressed-frog impersonation. ‘Oh dear.’

  A filthy Transit van sat at the side of the track, two wheels up on the needle-strewn verge. Rusty, streaked with mould. The kind of van you found dismembered body parts in.

  Tufty licked his lips. ‘Is it me, or does that look hella ominous? I think it looks ominous. It looks ominous, right?’

  Logan parked behind the ominous van and killed the Audi’s engine. Well, put it out of its misery anyway. ‘Might not be hers.’

  ‘Yeah, right, right. Maybe it’s just Druids? They like stone circles, don’t they? Like in Asterix and Obelix? Nice, friendly Druids.’

  ‘Thought you said Druids were going to sacrifice us to the elder gods?’ Logan climbed out into the morning heat. Barely gone six and it had to be at least eighteen degrees – the warm air thrumming with the sound of insects and birds.

  Tufty emerged from the car, talking into his Airwave handset. ‘I need a PNC check on a white Transit …’

  Logan left him to it and picked his way over to the van instead. The side door lay open, but the only things inside were two empty cardboard boxes – one for a camera tripod, the other for a phone-mount, going by the packaging.

  He turned.

  A path led away into the woods, right in front of the van’s open door, narrowing as it went. Swallowed by the gloom.

  Logan checked the van’s cab: nothing but an empty Twix wrapper and a crumpled tin of Irn-Bru. When he stepped down onto the track, Tufty was waiting for him.

  ‘Van belongs to one Jeffrey Moncrief – same guy who owns Ceanntràigh Cottage. No valid tax, insurance, or MOT.’ Tufty kicked the front wheel. ‘Tyres are bald too.’

  He took a step towards the path, then stopped. ‘Tufty? No risks, OK? If it all goes wrong, you don’t play the hero, you get the hell out of there and wait for backup.’

  ‘OK. But only if you put on that stabproof vest and Belt-O’-Many-Things I got you.’ He held up a hand before Logan could say anything. ‘No point me stealing it, otherwise, is there?’ A small cough. ‘Well, not stealing, stealing: borrowing. You know, what with you being Professional Standards and all. Borrowing. Definitely not stealing.’

  ‘Deal.’

  The path into the woods barely deserved the name, it was so overgrown and lumpy. Outside, in the real world, the sun was blazing down, but in here gloom ruled. The scent of pine sap, sticky and thick in the dusty air.

  Four feet from the ‘path’, the forest floor was shrouded in a darkness that swallowed everything. And they’d only been in here a minute.

  But at least they knew they were going the right way: a pair of parallel indentations scoured the tracks through the fallen needles beneath their feet – thin and about a metre apart. The kind of marks you’d make with a wheelchair.

  Tufty sniffed. ‘Course it might not be.’

  Logan kept going, slow and careful. ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Might be a couple of kids out on their bikes.’

  Something moved in the shadows off to the right and they froze. Maybe it was that fox again? Or a homicidal maniac with a dirty big knife … The sound faded. Tufty puffed out a long, slow breath.

  Onward.

  A clump of blueberry bushes beside of the path, the fruit a hard, unripened green. A wheelchair lay on its side, abandoned next to it.

  ‘Kids on bikes?’ Logan pulled the wheelchair upright. Across the back, in big white letters, were the words, ‘PROPERTY OF RAVENDALE ~ DO NOT REMOVE FROM SITE’. Bit late for that.

  Drag marks led from the chair away into the woods proper.

  Tufty shuffled his feet. ‘Should I check on our backup, Sarge?’

  ‘We did that ninety seconds ago, you muppet.’

  ‘Ah. Right.’ He eased his extendable baton from its holster, sniffing the air. Dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Can you smell that?’

  Logan took a deep breath … A warm, crackling smell familiar from years of bonfire parties. ‘Wood smoke.’

  ‘The world’s most horrible barbecue …’

  Oh sodding hell.

  Logan snapped out his baton. ‘We’re too late!’ Charging into the woods, shoving branches out of the way, stumbling over the uneven ground, breathing hard.

  They burst out from the trees into a wide clearing full of knee-high grass and weeds. Clumps of reeds. Scrambling coils of brambles reared like frozen explosions, punctured by the vivid-green curl of ferns. And, at the centre of the clearing: a ring of stones, their grey surfaces speckled with lichen and moss. Most of them had fallen over, but a few still stood as tall as they had five thousand years ago. Ancient and feral.

  The recumbent stone lay on its side at the opposite end of the circle, like an altar, flanked by a vertical on the right and a fallen stone on the left. A fire crackled beside it, coiling out pale grey wood smoke. But it was what loomed behind the altar that really caught the eye: a rough wooden tripod, fashioned from fallen trees – about twelve foot high and tapering to a point. The individual trunks weren’t that big around, barely more t
han you could encircle with one hand, but together they were clearly sturdy enough to support Gary Lochhead’s weight.

  He dangled from the apex, dressed in a pair of tartan jammies, a noose around his neck, the rope looped over where the trunks were lashed together.

  He wasn’t dead yet, though. His legs twitched, bare feet swinging, shoulders shaking, both hands behind his back, face scarlet but heading rapidly towards purple. Eyes bulging as Mhari sliced his dusty pyjama bottoms off with a huge shiny hunting knife.

  Or at least, it was probably Mhari – difficult to tell with the black hood over her head, but who else could it be?

  Logan broke into a run. ‘YOU THERE! STOP! POLICE!’

  ‘YOU HEARD HIM!’ Tufty charged through the tussocks and undergrowth, waving his baton over his head. ‘DROP THE WEAPON!’

  Mhari turned, her knife glinting in the sunlight. She’d cut two eyeholes in the hood, but up close it looked more like a pillowcase. Baggy and square-cornered. ‘You’re too late.’

  Closer.

  ‘DROP IT! DROP THE KNIFE NOW!’ Tufty peeled off, heading for the right-hand side of the recumbent stone.

  Logan took the left. ‘It doesn’t have to end this way, Mhari.’

  A genuine laugh. ‘Yes it does. Of course it does.’

  Gary Lochhead’s struggles were getting weaker as his face darkened. Naked from the waist down.

  Tufty made it behind the stone, slowing, his free hand up, palm out. ‘Come on, Mhari, he’s your dad. You can’t do this.’

  She looked at the knife in her hand, then up at Gary’s body. He wasn’t struggling any more. A nod, then Mhari pulled at a slipknot and her father’s body crashed to the ground.

  Oh, thank God for that.

  Logan inched nearer. ‘That’s better. Now, put the knife down.’

  ‘I dragged him here. I hanged him till he was barely conscious.’ She tilted her black-hooded head to one side. ‘Why would I put the knife down? This is where the important bit starts.’

  Tufty edged closer. ‘He’s your dad, Mhari!’

  ‘WHY DO YOU THINK I’M DOING IT?’ She wiped at her eyes through the hood. ‘Lung cancer.’ Jabbing the knife towards Gary’s half-naked body. ‘He’s a hero! All his life he’s been fighting for Scotland and you think he’s going to die in some crummy care home?’

  Couldn’t be more than six foot between her and Logan now. He stepped around the recumbent stone – past a bright-blue duffel bag and an abandoned shovel – closing the gap. ‘Put the knife down and you can tell us all about it.’

  ‘Our generation needs a William Wallace moment of its own. Something relevant to the slack-jawed masses sleepwalking their way through life. Something to wake them up!’

  ‘Inspector McRae’s right, Mhari: butchering your dad isn’t going to do that. Come on, let us help him, yeah? Before it’s too late?’

  ‘Oh I’m not butchering him, “Mary Sievewright” is.’ Mhari pointed at another tripod – a smaller one this time. A smartphone was mounted on top of it, a little red light winking on the screen. ‘Mary’s doing it as revenge for Professor Wilson, Councillor Lansdale, and Scott Meyrick. Filming it and posting it to every Unionist website she can find. “LOOK WHAT I’VE DONE!” she’ll cry. “LOOK WHAT THESE SCOTTISH BASTARDS DESERVE!”’ Mhari whipped off her hood and beamed at them, eyes wide. ‘And our side will turn that into a rallying cry. The people who were asleep will answer and join us. Together, we’ll drive the English from our country like the scum they are!’ Finishing with her arms out as if expecting a round of applause.

  Unbelievable.

  Logan shook his head. ‘It’s too late, Mhari. They’ll know it was you who killed him.’

  ‘They won’t care.’ She lowered her arms and stepped towards Logan. ‘Welcome to the post-truth world, Inspector. Welcome to alternative facts and conspiracy theories, echo chambers and filter bubbles. People don’t care what’s true any more, they care about what reinforces their beliefs.’

  Tufty had made it as far as Gary Lochhead. ‘Sarge? I don’t think he’s breathing.’

  ‘It’s over, Mhari. Put the knife down.’

  ‘His death can mean something. We can cast the English out of Scotland! Rise up and be the nation again!’ Hauling in a deep breath to bellow it out: ‘FREEDOM!’

  Yeah …

  Maybe not today.

  Logan unclipped the pepper spray from his utility belt and emptied half the canister right into her face.

  She spluttered, staggered away a couple of paces, eyes screwed shut, free hand coming up to wipe the liquid from her skin … Then screaming rang out across the clearing as she dropped the knife and clawed at her cheeks. Fell to her knees. Wailing.

  Tufty lunged for Gary Lochhead, kneeling beside him and wrestling with the noose. Hauling it free and feeling for a pulse. ‘He’s definitely not breathing!’

  ‘CPR. Mouth-to-mouth. Don’t let him die!’ Logan shoved Mhari onto her front and pulled out his cuffs. ‘Mhari Powell: I am arresting you under Section One of the Criminal Justice, Scotland, Act 2016, for the murders of Councillor Matthew Lansdale and Haiden Lochhead …’

  48

  The fire had gone from a crackling blaze to a hot red glow, perfect for cooking. But, thankfully, Gary Lochhead’s innards were no longer on the menu. A couple of paramedics knelt beside him: one working away at chest compressions and humming ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ to herself, while her partner fiddled about with a defibrillator.

  ‘Clear!’

  Paramedic Number One stuck her hands in the air and Gary Lochhead spasmed. Then she felt for a pulse. ‘Come on, come on, come on …’

  On the other side of the stone circle, Steel scuffed her feet through the long grass, vaping away and talking to someone on her mobile phone. Rennie was on his phone too, pacing around one of the upright stones, face creased. Both of them too far away to make out what they were talking about.

  Not that it mattered.

  Not now they had ‘Mhari Powell’ in custody.

  She sat with her back against a fallen stone, her face a study in beetroot and scarlet. Cheeks glistening with tears, top lip and chin glistening with snot. The delightful aftermath of a face full of pepper spray. She glowered up at Logan through bloodshot, swollen eyes. ‘This changes nothing.’

  ‘Oh, I think it does.’

  She sniffed and spat. ‘So you lock me up, so what? I won’t be the first political prisoner to lead a revolution from inside a jail cell.’

  ‘Political prisoner? You abducted and mutilated four people including a police officer. You murdered two people – maybe three if the paramedics can’t save your father. I don’t think anyone’s going to have a hard time telling you and Nelson Mandela apart.’

  ‘Nelson Mandela led the armed resistance, you moron: he was a founding member of Umkhonto weSizwe. So yes, like him I’ll be a martyr for my country.’

  Tufty joined them at the fallen stone. ‘A nutjob for your country, more like.’ He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, to where the paramedics were wrestling Gary Lochhead onto a stretcher. ‘They’ve got his heart going again, but can’t say if it’ll stay that way, so they’re wheeching him out of here, ASAP. Air ambulance is on its way.’

  Mhari kept her puffy eyes fixed on Logan. ‘And your “police officer” had it coming.’ Her smile looked obscene on that swollen scarlet face. ‘I was going to cast Edward Barwell in the role of Judas, dirty little two-faced journalist dickbag. You know he used to be pro-independence? But soon as his paymasters changed, so did his opinion pieces.’

  ‘And then DI King caught up with you.’

  ‘He offered to “help me disappear” for a share of the gold. Can you believe that? He betrayed the PASL and he betrayed you as well.’ Her snot-slicked chin came up. ‘You should be thanking me.’

  Over on the other side of the stone circle, Steel pulled the e-cigarette from her mouth and made a loudhailer with her other hand. ‘HOY! SOMEONE’S DUG A BIG HOLE HERE!’

&
nbsp; Tufty stuck his chest out. ‘Was that where you were going to bury Gary Lochhead’s body?’

  ‘Bury him?’ She laughed, the sound thick and sticky with mucus. ‘I was going to quarter him and send the bits to the four corners of Scotland. Post his head to Holyrood and his heart to the First Minister. This is your early morning alarm call: rise and bloody shine, and do something instead of talking about it!’ She snorted. ‘Bury him.’

  Then what was the hole for?

  Logan stared at Mhari, then over at the recumbent stone. Pointed at Tufty. ‘Keep an eye on her.’ He picked his way across the rutted grass.

  That bright-blue duffel bag was still there, along with the spade. He snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves and undid the zip.

  Inside was another bag, only this one was ancient – the leather rotting and caked with earth. Trying to open it made a chunk of bag come away in his hand, creating a gap the size of his fist.

  Something inside gleamed.

  Was that really …? It was.

  He reached in and pulled out a gold ingot. Much, much heavier than it looked. Solid. Expensive. Wow. There was another one in there, every bit as shiny and impressive.

  Steel stepped up beside him and gave a low whistle. ‘Think anyone would notice if we nicked one of them and split the proceeds?’

  ‘Yes.’ He slid the ingot into the crumbling bag again where it made a very satisfying clink. Then stood and marched back over to Mhari, grinning.

  ‘You sure we can’t nab one of them?’ Steel followed him, glancing over her shoulder at the bag. ‘Just a teeny weenie one?’

  ‘No.’ Logan stopped in front of Mhari. ‘Well, well, well. Looks like we’ve—’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ Her angry-pink chin came up. ‘There’s plenty more where that came from. Hidden in secret caches all over Scotland. Waiting to fund the revolution. Guns, and bombs, and explosives aren’t cheap, but they’re worth every stolen penny.’

  Steel squatted down in front of her. ‘See me? I’m all for independence. But I want a Scotland of the Enlightenment; a nation of fairness and equality; a nation that cares about the smallest, weakest person living here every bit as much as the biggest, richest one. A nation that welcomes everyone: aye, even the English.’ She patted Mhari on the leg. ‘What I don’t want is some sort of apartheid shitehole full of racist, moronic, ethnic-cleansing wankspasms like you.’