All That's Dead Read online

  7

  The keyboard creaked and rattled as Logan picked out a conclusion for his report on Professor Wilson’s disappearance. Blah, blah, blah, forensically aware, blah, blah, blah, unknown perpetrator, blah, blah, blah, ongoing investigation focusing on—

  His mobile launched into its generic ringtone.

  Great.

  ‘Can’t even get five minutes peace.’ He pulled the thing out and answered it. ‘McRae.’

  King’s voice growled in his ear. ‘I take it you saw that.’

  So he’d called up to moan. Oh joy.

  ‘Watched it online.’

  ‘What’s he waiting for then? Barwell. Smarmy little git.’ King’s voice sounded … odd. As if he was being strangled, making the words slightly sharp and mushy at the same time.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  Maybe he was having a stroke?

  ‘Oh, fine. Fine. I mean, I’m being investigated by Professional Standards, a national newspaper is threatening to tell the world I was a member of a terrorist organisation, my main case is a booby-trapped nightmare full of burning crap, and my wife’s …’ He cleared his throat. ‘You lied to Hardie. When he came into the office, you told him you were there to see Steel.’

  ‘I’m not your enemy, Frank. Hardie doesn’t need to know we’re—’

  ‘Investigating me.’

  ‘Do you want him to know?’

  ‘He’s going to find out sooner or later.’ A bitter sigh. ‘Soon as Barwell prints his front page, everyone will.’

  The rattling kettle spewed steam in the tiny kitchen area. They’d managed to squeeze a microwave, toaster, teeny fridge, and a couple of cupboards in here, but there wasn’t any room left over for a sink – instead, a couple of two-litre bottles of supermarket water loitered on the windowsill.

  Add to that one Logan and a Superintendent Bevan, and the place was packed.

  She dropped a teabag into each of the mugs on the work surface. ‘And Barwell didn’t say anything about King’s PASL past?’

  ‘Not a word. Just sat there being smug the whole time.’

  The kettle finished its juddering song and fell silent.

  Logan filled the mugs. ‘Best guess? He’ll publish tomorrow. Don’t see him holding off now he knows King’s investigating an abducted unionist.’

  ‘I think it might be wise to get the media department to draft a statement. Better to be prepared than caught with our pants round our ankles. And we’ll want to present a united front.’ She pulled out a spoon and mashed away at the teabags, as if they’d been naughty. Not looking at Logan. ‘And you’re sure he’s not still involved?’

  ‘“Sure” sure, or “kind-of-certain-but-don’t-quote-me-on-that” sure?’

  ‘Then go digging, Logan. Go digging. Because if we’re going to stand up there and say he’s clean, he damn well better be.’

  Ah, the delights of Interview Room Three, with its stained ceiling tiles, scraped walls, and a chipped Formica table covered in badly spelled biro graffiti. It was enough to make you nostalgic for the good old days.

  The blinds were open, letting sunlight flood the room, glinting off the recording equipment and the camera mounted in the corner above the door.

  For a change, Logan sat on the suspect side of the table – the one where the chairs were bolted to the floor, the one facing the camera, the one where the window was behind him. Meaning that Detective Constable Collins, had to sit opposite, squinting against the sunlight, sweat prickling out across his forehead, the stains under his arms darkening as he wriggled and fidgeted. Wee Bernie Collins: a shaved chimp in a brown shirt, his tie hanging loose like a Labrador’s tongue.

  Logan gave him a reassuring smile. ‘It’s OK, Bernie; nothing to worry about. I’m trying to get a feel for DI King’s management style, that’s all; talking to people who’ve worked with him. You were on a team of his eight months ago, right? That attempted murder in Kemnay?’

  ‘Erm …’ Bernie’s eyes drifted up to the camera in the corner.He licked his lips. Blinked a couple of times. ‘Sorry, what was the question again?’

  Ladies and gentlemen: Aberdeen’s finest.

  ‘How do you think DI King gets on with his English colleagues?’

  Wrinkles appeared across that sweaty head. ‘What, other forces down south?’ Sometimes, with Wee Bernie, it was difficult to tell if he was being obtuse, or genuinely thick.

  ‘No, his colleagues here. Ones who’re English. Does he treat them differently?’

  ‘Oh.’ The wrinkles deepened. ‘He doesn’t like Soapy Halstead much. But then Soapy’s a bit of a wanker, so no one does. He likes Milky, though, and she’s all “Eee-bah-goom”, flat caps, and whippets.’ A shrug of simian shoulders. ‘Other than that? Nah, King was a good boss.’

  Heather squinted against the sunlight and scooted her chair over a bit, till Logan’s shadow fell across her face. Then leaned back in her chair. ‘Ooh, now you’re asking.’ She brushed the grey fringe from her eyes. ‘Not so I’ve noticed. I mean, you wouldn’t, would you? Because he isn’t.’ A pause stretched for a couple of breaths. ‘That I know of, anyway.’

  Nothing like covering your own arse.

  Logan tilted his head to one side, exposing Heather to the light again. ‘OK: what about these arson attacks, has he said anything about them?’

  She shoogled her chair over a bit more. ‘Only that he really hopes it isn’t domestic terrorism, or Spevoo are going to be all over us like a wet cocker spaniel.’

  OK, no idea. ‘Spevoo?’

  ‘Scottish Preventing Extremism Violence Unit. Spevoo. You know what these specialist task forces are like – they’ve seen one too many episodes of NCIS and think they’re all Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs.’ Heather scrunched her face up. ‘When most of them barely qualify as Timothy McGee. And I mean Season One, Timothy McGee, not Season Fourteen.’

  He had to ask, didn’t he?

  Detective Constable Sharon ‘Milky’ Way chewed on the inside of her cheek for a bit. ‘What, you mean like, “is he a racist?”’

  ‘Has he ever done, or said, something that’s made you feel uncomfortable?’

  ‘This is DI King we’re talking ’bout, in’t it?’ She frowned at Logan. ‘Why are you asking?’

  Logan shrugged, the sunlight warm against his back. ‘You know what things are like these days. We just want to make sure everyone’s supported at work and no one’s feeling—’

  ‘“Uncomfortable”. Yes, you said.’ She sat back in her seat. ‘King’s OK, but I’ll tell you who does make us feel uncomfortable: Detective Sergeant Brogan. Him with Kevin Keegan perm and permanent sniff. Always ogles me boobs when he thinks I’m not looking, every – single – time.’

  ‘Does he now?’ Logan got out his notebook and wrote, ‘TALK TO DS BROGAN ABOUT SEXUAL HARASSMENT IN THE WORKPLACE!’ then underlined it three times. ‘I’ll have to have a word with him about that.’

  ‘And make sure you tell him twas me tipped you off. Disgusting sniffy little pervert that he is.’

  DS Robertson made a big show of thinking about it. Serious frown. Fingertips stroking his bony chin. A whippet in a charity-shop suit, with horrible sideburns, and droopy eyes.

  Logan sighed. ‘Come on, Henry: you worked with him on the Martin Shanks investigation, didn’t you?’

  Robertson shuddered. ‘Don’t remind me. And before you say anything, the internal inquiry cleared us both, OK?’

  ‘Does DI King treat his English team members differently or not? It’s a simple enough question.’

  ‘Oh yes, it’s a simple enough question, it’s the answer that’s complicated. See, there’s no way I want to land someone in it with the Rubber Heelers.’ He raised a stick-insect hand. ‘No offence. And there’s no way I’m lying to the Rubber Heelers either.’ The hand went up again. ‘No offence. But you people make me nervous, you know?’

  ‘Just be honest and you’ve got nothing to worry about.’ It was an effort keeping the reassuring smile in place, b
ut Logan did his best.

  ‘Hmmm … Well, he doesn’t like Soapy very much, but neither does anyone else. He’s even more of a tosser than your lot.’ Up went the hand.

  ‘Yeah, I know: no offence.’

  PC Oliver ‘Soapy’ Halstead lounged in his seat, looking at Logan with one eyebrow raised, as if that was the stupidest question he’d ever been asked. Oh the arrogance of youth. Only twenty-four and he was clearly under the impression that he already knew everything about everything, with his neat little beard, architect’s glasses, and Young Conservative haircut. Even his loosened tie looked arrogant. Probably didn’t help that his Home Counties accent made him sound as if he was sneering at everything: ‘Oh no, I haven’t seen anything like that, Inspector. When we’re out arresting the great unwashed, we are a unit. A team. A tightly knit band of brothers, if you will.’

  Logan tried not to sigh, he really did. ‘Because I wouldn’t want you to think you couldn’t talk to me, or one of my colleagues, if someone was making you feel uncomfortable.’

  ‘Oh, dear me, no.’ He had a little preen. ‘I think you’ll find that I’m quite capable of fighting my own battles, thank you very much.’

  Logan stared back at him.

  Silence.

  Halstead shifted in his seat. Picked at the tabletop. Cleared his throat.

  More silence.

  ‘All right, I admit that it can be a bit … challenging from time to time.’ He straightened the cuffs on his pinstriped shirt. ‘I see how members of the public look at me sometimes. There I am, arresting some drug-addled junkie who’s been sick all over himself, and they’re looking down their nose at me, because I’m English and I’ve had a decent education? That hardly seems fair, does it?’

  The arrogant expression had slipped, replaced by one that looked a bit … sad. And disappointed. And a little hurt. Maybe ‘Soapy’ wasn’t quite the dick that everyone thought?

  ‘You do know that you can report hate crimes against you, Oliver? We won’t put up with that stuff.’

  He waved it away. ‘Racism is a by-product of ignorance, Inspector. Are we to punish people for being stupid, now? If we did that, three quarters of the country would be behind bars.’

  ‘And has DI King ever treated you differently to your non-English colleagues?’

  A long sigh. Then: ‘He’s all right, I suppose.’ Halstead stared down at the tabletop. ‘I’m aware that he doesn’t like me very much, but at least he doesn’t give me all the terrible menial jobs.’ A small bitter laugh broke free. ‘I only ever wanted to be a police officer. Father wanted me to read Classics at Cambridge, like he did. Rather broke his heart when I told him I was running off to Scotland to “join the Rozzers” instead.’

  Logan reached across the table, put a hand on Halstead’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. ‘Listen to me, Oliver: if anyone gives you crap for being English, you let me know. I’ll make their next prostate exam feel like a teddy bear’s tea party.’

  Why could Police Scotland never get any decent computers in? Why did they all have to be steam-powered monstrosities the colour of skin grafts? Well maybe not all of them, but the one in the tiny office he’d commandeered certainly was.

  Tiny grubby office.

  God knew who’d had it last, but they’d left the bin overflowing with sandwich wrappers, crisp packets, and scrunched-up copies of the Daily Mail.

  A pile of printouts sat beside the ancient computer. Logan wrote ‘FOLLOW UP ON DRUG MONEY? CHECK WITH ARCHIVIST?’ on the top sheet, then turned back to the screen. Squinted at the reflected glare. Swivelled his chair around and lowered the blind, shutting out the sun. Then clicked the next link on his search results.

  A gaudy web page popped up, festooned with cheesy animated gifs and saltire flags. Whoever maintained PASL-MANIFESTO-FOR-A-FREE-SCOTLAND.COM wasn’t exactly blessed with graphic design skills.

  For fifty years, the People’s Army for Scottish Liberation has been proudly dedicated to ending English imperialist rule! For too long we Scots have been ground beneath the heel of our English oppressors, diminished in the eyes of the world and ourselves, as

  The office door creaked open and Steel poked her head in. ‘Hoy, Limpy: you still here?’

  He went back to the screen. ‘No. Went home hours ago.’

  in the eyes of the world and ourselves, as they grow fat and rich on our oil revenue and whisky duty and our land!

  She sauntered over, pausing only to kick the door shut behind her, pulled out an envelope and tossed it onto his desk. It landed with a clattery thump. ‘Whip-round.’

  ‘What, for me?’

  ‘No’ for you, you spungbadger, Ailsa Marshall. You know them woods in Rubislaw Den? Poor cow’s been sleeping rough there for months. Someone found her this morning, face-down in the burn. You’re chipping in for a headstone.’

  ‘Here.’ He added a fiver to the collection and handed the envelope back.

  ‘Ta.’ Steel stuck it in her jacket. ‘Don’t fancy babysitting tonight, do you? I could go an evening in the pub, kebab, and a bit of the old wriggly fun.’

  ‘No chance.’

  ‘Spoilsport.’ She hauled the blind open again, turning Logan’s computer screen into an eye-watering blare of light.

  ‘Argh …’ He backed away from it, squinting.

  ‘Sitting here in the dark like a wee troll.’ She cracked the window open, letting in the diesel growl of buses and the seagulls’ mournful cries. ‘It’s no’ good for you.’ The tip of her e-cigarette / sonic screwdriver glowed as she sooked. A huge cloud of watermelon vape drifted its way around Logan’s head, glowing in the sunlight. ‘Come on then, what you doing?’

  ‘Investigating.’ Logan held up a hand, blocking the glare from his screen. ‘Or at least I’m trying to.’

  ‘I know that, you idiot; investigating what?’

  ‘People’s Army for Scottish Liberation. Apparently they had ties to the Scottish People’s Liberation Army, the Scottish Freedom Fighters’ Resistance Front, End of Empire, and Arbroath Thirteen Twenty. AKA nutters so extreme that even Settler Watch didn’t want anything to do with them.’

  Another cloud of fruity smelling fog. ‘It’s Womble-funting dick-muppets like that who give good old-fashioned Scottish Nationalists a bad name.’

  ‘The whole lot were supposed to get together in the eighties and launch a coordinated attack – you know, tear down that big Duke of Sutherland statue, burn out English-run guest houses, blow up HM Customs and Excise offices so as to “cripple the revenue gathering apparatus of the imperialist oppressor” – but it led to so much infighting they couldn’t organise a pervert in a scout hut.’

  ‘You sure you don’t want to babysit?’

  Logan tapped the top printout on his pile. ‘So the People’s Army for Scottish Liberation decided to go their own way: did a big bullion job and walked off with two point six million pounds. Word is they were raising money for an armed insurgency. Their leader nips over to Belfast, looking to buy a whole shedload of machineguns from dissident republicans, only he gets picked up by the local plod. Kerb crawling for rent boys.’

  She rested her bum against the windowsill. ‘I could drop Naomi and Jasmine off at yours. You wouldn’t even have to feed them.’

  ‘Turned out he had thirty-two thousand quid’s worth of heroin in the boot to pay for the guns.’

  ‘Make sure they do their teeth, then pop them off to bed. You’ll barely even know they’re there.’

  ‘If he hadn’t fancied a knee-trembler in the back of a Vauxhall Astra we could’ve had our very own version of the Troubles.’

  Steel sent another cloud of watermelon in Logan’s direction. ‘Or are you worried it’ll interfere with whatever heterosexual filth you and Ginger McHotpants get up to on a Tuesday evening?’

  ‘Kind of makes you ashamed to be Scottish …’ He frowned at her. ‘And stop calling Tara “Ginger McHotpants”!’

  A grin. ‘How about Kinky McSpankypants instead?’

  He
turned his frown into a scowl.

  Steel shrugged, pocketed her e-cigarette, shut the window, then bumped his chair with her hip. Voice soft and kind, ‘Come on, time for home. No point wearing yourself out on the first day back, is there?’

  Pfff … She was probably right.

  Logan powered down the computer. ‘Suppose not.’ He gathered up his printouts as the machine whirred and beeped itself to sleep.

  ‘There you go.’ She wrapped an arm around his shoulders as he stepped out from behind the desk. Gave him a squeeze. ‘Now, about that babysitting …’

  Ah, so that explained the ‘nice’ act.

  ‘Not a chance in hell. I’m going home to a handful of painkillers, a soak in the tub, and barbecue some sausages for tomorrow.’ He poked a finger at her. ‘I am not babysitting!’

  8

  ‘DIE! DIE AND BE DEAD!’ Jasmine thundered across the patio, shooting her little sister with a sci-fi blaster. She’d spiked her brown hair up with far too much gel for an eleven-year-old. Ribena stains splotched down the front of her horsey T-shirt, grass stains on her jodhpurs. Definitely took after Steel, that one.

  ‘PEW! PEW! PEW!’ Naomi tore after her, lumbering a bit from side to side on her tiny little legs, big grin on her face, scuffs on her bare knees, pink and green stripes in her dirty blonde hair. She had Captain Bogies clasped to her chest with one hand, the octopus’s legs flopping about as she shot at her sister with the other. ‘PEW! PEW! BOOOOM!’

  Not exactly restful.

  Logan took a swig of IPA from the bottle and turned over a couple of sausages, the warm comforting scent of charcoal and charring fat wafting out into the garden. It’d taken most of the year, but it was looking pretty damn good, thank you very much – a riot of colour and textures, flowers, bushes, trees, and a lawn. An actual lawn, not a collection of dandelions, moss, and other assorted weeds. OK, so the rickety old shed probably wouldn’t survive another winter, and the greenhouse needed cleaning, but other than that? Domestic bliss.

  He popped his beer back on the wrought-iron table, wiped his fingers on his apron, and poked the chicken thighs.