All That's Dead Read online

  ‘Cake?’ Superintendent Bevan appeared, bearing three paper plates with slabs of yellowy sponge on them. She handed one to Karl. ‘Here we go.’

  ‘Ooh, my! Is this the sainted cake of lemon drizzle I see before me?’ He helped himself to a mouthful, chewing with his eyes closed. ‘Divine!’

  She gave one to Logan and the other to Tufty. ‘Birthday lunch at one o’clock. Logan’s brought enough sausages to feed a battalion.’

  Karl slapped him on the back. ‘Good man.’

  Bevan wandered off to distribute more slices and Tufty filled his gob, getting crumbs all down himself, mumbling through his mouthful. ‘If we had access to a bunch of high-powered servers we might be able to do something about it.’

  ‘But, alas, we are deficient in that kind of kit. So I’m afraid we’re done.’

  Ah well, it’d been worth a try.

  Logan took a bite of cake – sharp and sweet and bursting with lemon. ‘So if I could find you someone with a bunch of dirty big computers, you’d be able to track down whoever sent that first tweet?’

  A shrug from Karl. ‘Possibly.’

  A cakey grin from Tufty. ‘Definitely!’

  ‘Well,’ another shrug, ‘we’d stand a much better chance, anyway.’

  Logan polished off the last of his cake. ‘Then I know just the person.’

  Tufty cracked a yawn that made his head look like an open pedal bin, then shuddered and burped in the passenger seat of Logan’s Audi. Smacking his lips as he settled back again. Another yawn.

  Logan took one hand off the steering wheel to give Rip Van Tufty a thump on the arm. ‘If you start snoring and farting, I’m throwing you out of the car.’

  Aberdeen slid past the Audi’s windows, the traffic thickening along the bypass like clumps of fat in a swollen artery.

  Another yawn from the passenger seat. ‘Tufty needs caffeine.’

  ‘Well, what did you expect, staying up on a school night? You knew you had work today.’

  ‘But I was beavering for the greater good!’

  ‘Lucky Rennie covered for you, otherwise you’d be up for a spanking, you silly wee—’ Logan’s phone vibrated in his pocket, then the car’s hands-free system got hold of the call, flashing ‘SUPT. BEVAN’ on the central display and blasting his generic ringtone out of the speakers. On, and on, and on, and on.

  Tufty reached for the display. ‘Aren’t you going to—’

  Logan slapped his hand away. ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’ He pulled on a sappy look. ‘She does make a lovely lemony drizzle cake, though.’

  Traffic was backed up around the next exit, giving everyone plenty of time to stare down into other people’s gardens. Logan changed lanes, bypassing the bypass’s vehicular clot.

  Tufty puffed out his cheeks. ‘Saaa-aaarge? You know there’s all this controversy surrounding—’

  ‘If this is about loop quantum gravity again, I swear to God I’m going to pull this car over and stuff you in the boot.’

  ‘Ooh, I do like a bit of loop quantum gravity, but no, it’s like, you know all this stuff going on with Alt-Nats hating Unionists? Well, this guy on the BBC website was blatant racism, yeah? But the English aren’t a different race, are they?’

  ‘I should’ve taken Karl with me. At least he’s fractionally less annoying.’

  ‘No, but listen,’ Tufty turned in his seat, bleary little eyes all shiny and dark, ‘you can’t tell someone’s English by looking at them, can you? And what does being English even mean? Rennie says Berwick-upon-Tweed used to be part of Scotland, right? So if you were born there on the twenty-third of August 1482 you were Scottish, but if you were born on the twenty-fourth you were English, but you’d still be the same person, wouldn’t you?’

  Logan groaned. ‘I’ve changed my mind: go to sleep. I don’t care if there’s snoring and—’

  His phone burrrrrrred again, but this time it was ‘IDIOT RENNIE’ that appeared on the dashboard display as ‘If I Only Had a Brain’ from The Wizard of Oz burst out of the speakers. Well, tough: he wasn’t getting answered either.

  ‘So it can’t be racist to hate the English, it’s nothing more than good old-fashioned Scottish bigotry. Like when Rangers and Celtic supporters hate each other, because one lot don’t like the other lot’s flavour of Christianity.’

  The tune faded away into nothing. Either Rennie had hung up, or it’d gone through to voicemail. ‘Tufty, am I not having a bad enough day as it is?’

  ‘I was supposed to be born in Glasgow, but my mum and dad didn’t want me growing up with all that, so they moved up to Banff instead and raised us secular, because—’

  ‘Please shut up, before I kill you.’

  ‘No, but you see—’

  It was Tufty’s phone’s turn, warbling out something cheery in a brass-band kind of way. ‘Hey, hold on.’ He dug it out and took the call. ‘Hello? … Ooh, Sergeant Rennie, cool. I was telling the Sarge what you told me about Berwick-upon-Tweed and how it— Ah … No. Yes … Sorry.’

  Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘Wish I knew how to get you to shut up that quickly.’

  ‘Yes, he’s here … OK … OK, I’ll ask him.’ Tufty put his hand over the phone. ‘It’s Sergeant Rennie. He says Superintendent Bevan wants to know why you’re not at DHQ helping DI King. Apparently, she’s not angry, just disappointed.’

  Of course she was. Once a schoolteacher, always a schoolteacher.

  ‘Tell him to tell her we’re on our way now.’

  A puzzled look stumbled across Tufty’s face. ‘But we’re not, we’re—’

  ‘Well Rennie doesn’t need to know that, does he? And if we get access to a load of high-end computers it is helping King out, isn’t it?’

  His eyes widened. ‘Oh yeah …’ Back to the phone. ‘Hi, uh-huh, we’re on our way there now, so tell her not to worry … No, there wasn’t anything suspicious about the length of that pause … Nope … OK, bye.’ Tufty hung up. Grinned. ‘Didn’t suspect a thing.’

  If that was true, there was no hope for Police Scotland.

  11

  Logan pulled into the visitors’ parking area, stopping in front of an Avril Lavigne clone in skinny jeans, Converse trainers, ripped Nickelback T-shirt; pierced nose, ears, and eyebrow; and the kind of hair that would’ve got you locked up in less enlightened times. She had a clipboard and a little knot of lanyards with her. Big Colgate smile.

  Oh God … She was going to be perky, wasn’t she?

  Quarter past eight on a Wednesday morning was far too early for perky.

  Logan killed the engine and climbed out into the sauna formerly known as Aberdeen.

  Four huge grey warehouses were gathered around the car park, all snug and secure behind an extra-high chain-link fence, guardhouse, and heavy-duty traffic barrier. Each of the warehouses had a number painted on it – 1 to 4 – but the biggest of the lot was home to the company logo too. A huge woodlouse silhouette – at least twenty foot tall – rendered in shiny gold-coloured plastic. Never mind the rest of Altens, you could probably see the thing from Lerwick. If not orbit.

  Tufty clambered out of the car, tucked his laptop under one arm and stared up at the buildings. ‘Ooooh … Cool.’

  Avril bounded up to them. Oh, she was definitely perky. ‘Inspector McRae, and Constable Quirrel?’ She thrust the lanyards at them. ‘Great to have you here?’ The sentence went up at the end, as if it was a question. ‘Now, I need you to wear your passes at all times?’ Another not question. ‘Can you do that for me? That’s great?’

  Like, totally?

  Was it wrong to have an almost unbearable urge to borrow Tufty’s pepper spray and give her a damned good seasoning?

  Tufty made a little squeaking noise as he put on his lanyard. ‘This is so cool!’

  ‘I know, right? I love working here?’ She actually did a couple of hoppity-skippity dance steps. ‘Come on, guys, follow me to where the magic happens?’ Avril led the way to the main doors, holding them open and wafting them through
into a wide room, decorated to look like an opulent cinema foyer.

  Film posters lined the walls, the floor dotted with display cases full of movie props, awards, and trophies. A big mahogany-and-chrome reception desk dominated the space, with an old woman lurking behind it. Huge and pasty, with a round happy face, unnaturally brown hair. Arms like ham-hocks. Clutching a copy of Hello! magazine in her sausagey fingers.

  Avril bounced around in a circle. ‘You should’ve been here last week, we had Joanna Lumley and Hugh Grant in for pickups?’ She put a hand on her heart. ‘Career highlight?’

  The old lady looked up from her magazine. ‘Hey, Misty.’

  Avril / Misty beamed at her on the way past. ‘Hey, Mrs Clark, got the boss-man’s visitors for him?’ She pointed at them. ‘You want anything from the canteen when I’m done?’

  A big smile dimpled Mrs Clark’s cheeks. ‘Wouldn’t say no to a Tunnock’s or two.’

  ‘You got it!’ She pushed through a set of double doors, disappearing. Then poked her head into the room again. ‘Come on, guys?’

  Yeah, definitely far too perky.

  They followed her into a bland corridor, magnolia paint slapped on breeze-block walls, the polished concrete squeaking under Misty’s trainers. Grey doors lined the space, each one with a job or department title on a white plastic plaque. It all looked very … Hollywood.

  Misty looked over her shoulder at them as she bounced along. ‘Mr Clark’s got a video conference with New Zealand at eight forty-five, so don’t be offended if I have to throw you out then? Nothing personal?’

  At the end of the corridor, she swiped her ID through a card reader and ushered them into a cavernous space. You could’ve stored a jumbo jet in here and still had room for a dozen double-decker buses. The walls were that eye-nipping shade of green they used for special effects, but the space in between was filled with big chunks of scenery – what looked like the inside of spaceships, space stations, grungy futuristic street scenes and a weird red forest thing.

  Misty marched them past a prison block to where a large man stood, facing the other way, hands on his hips as he watched a team of overalled techs dismantling some kind of fighter cockpit. Tall and wide with it, broad shoulders and a Peaky Blinders haircut styled into a greying shark’s-fin quiff. ‘Be careful with that, Quin! I don’t want to have to start again from scratch if this turns into a franchise.’

  One of the dismantlers gave him a thumbs-up.

  Misty pounced to attention beside the big man. ‘Mr Clark? I’ve got your visitors?’

  He turned, a smile dimpling his cheeks. Definitely his mother’s son. Except he had a Vandyke with an elongated white goatee and red-framed glasses. ‘Logan McRae! As I live, breathe, and exude sheer sexual chemistry.’ He stepped forward and swept Logan up in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground. ‘How are you? God, that thing last year! Completely gobsmacking.’

  Barbed wire twisted beneath the skin of Logan’s stomach, digging its metal spikes deep inside.

  He had to force the words out between gritted teeth: ‘Let me go, let me go, let me go!’

  ‘Oh, yes, the stabbing! Sorry.’ Mr Clark let go and stepped back, grimacing. ‘Are you OK? Do you need something?’

  Logan bent double, one hand pressing against his midriff, hot air burning in his lungs as he swallowed a couple of deep breaths.

  ‘I’ve got painkillers! Naproxen, Tramadol, Co-codamol, you name it.’ Mr Clark waved at their perky guide. ‘Misty, grab some Vicodin and a bottle of water, would you, honey?’

  Logan raised a hand. ‘I’m OK, I’m OK.’ He straightened up, slow. Hissing all the way. ‘You caught me off guard, that’s all.’

  Misty perkied at him. ‘It’s no trouble, really? I can totally go get you some?’

  ‘No. No drugs. Thanks. I’m good.’ Liar.

  ‘OK.’ She did a couple of bounces for Mr Clark. ‘I’m getting your mum some Tunnock’s? You want?’

  ‘Can’t: diet.’

  ‘All-righty then.’ She turned and skipped off, back the way they’d come.

  Weirdo.

  Mr Clark put a hand on Logan’s shoulder and steered him past a killer robot as Tufty scurried along behind. ‘Oh, Logan, Logan, Logan …’ The hand squeezed. ‘Anyway, about last year: you haven’t done anything about the film rights yet, have you?’

  ‘Well, serving police officers can’t really—’

  ‘I’m thinking a hundred-and-twenty-minute thriller with David Tennant playing you. Well, it’s him or Ewan McGregor.’

  ‘It’s just we’re not allowed to—’

  ‘What do you think about Tilda Swinton for Steel?’ They passed the weird red forest, with its asymmetric leaves and twisted scarlet branches. ‘Too tall? I think she’s too tall. It’s so great to see you again!’

  Logan cleared his throat as they made for the nearest exit. ‘I didn’t get to thank you for the fruit baskets. They were—’

  ‘I love Helen Mirren, but then she brings all that Prime Suspect baggage to a crime drama, doesn’t she?’ Mr Clark pushed open a bland grey door and propelled them into another magnolia breeze-block corridor. Only this one was lined with whiteboards, covered in scrawled schedules and bits of storyboard. More grey doors. ‘Or how about Michelle Gomez? Because Steel’s got that …’ He made a theatrical gesture with one hand. ‘You know?’

  No. Logan most certainly didn’t.

  ‘I really—’

  ‘There’s something a bit sexy about her, isn’t there? She’s got that frisson of something almost animal in her magnetism.’

  Don’t think about her naked. DON’T THINK ABOUT HER NAKED! Too late – the image was seared across the back of his mind again, in hideous pink-o-vision. And after all the effort he’d gone to, trying to forget …

  Logan shuddered. ‘I’ve never noticed.’

  Through another door into a stairwell. Up they went.

  Tufty’s voice echoed in the enclosed space. ‘I noticed once. In the pub. But then she beat me about the head and neck with a packet of Quavers and that was that.’

  Mr Clark gave Logan’s shoulder another squeeze. ‘And we’ll need to invent a good sidekick for you. It’s a trope of the genre, after all.’

  ‘Ooh, ooh!’ Tufty scurried up alongside. ‘I’d make a great—’

  Logan jabbed him with an elbow. ‘Thanks for agreeing to help us find whoever posted that first tweet, Mr Clark.’

  ‘It’s Zander, Logan. Zander. You know that.’ At the top of the stairs he pushed out into another corridor, but a much fancier one this time: plastered and decorated, carpets on the floor, pictures on the walls. ‘And if Golden Slater Productions can help, it’s my pleasure.’ Zander opened a door marked ‘VISUAL FX’ and swept them into a large room, broken up into cubicled workstations.

  No two were the same, as if there’d been a competition to see who could customise theirs the most. A pirate ship, a jungle, cowboys, aliens, My Little Ponies, cavemen …

  Post-it notes and lines of coloured string covered the walls, intermingled with schedules, storyboards, concept sketches … Another display case full of awards over by the fancy coffee machine. A big screen nearly covered the end wall, filled with some very plastic-looking figures lumping their way through a scene. Like a really cheap video game.

  Half a dozen people in shorts and assorted geekdom T-shirts were gathered around the storyboards, another four poking away at their computers.

  Zander leaned in close to Logan, dropping his voice as if he was about to impart a state secret. ‘You’ve timed it well – we finished post-production on a hardcore sci-fi serial-killer thriller, last week. Spectacular stuff, redefines the genre.’

  Oh ho.

  Logan raised an eyebrow.

  Zander rolled his eyes. ‘Not that kind of “hardcore”.’

  Tufty wandered off, peering into the trophy cabinet, like Charlie getting his first glimpse of the Chocolate Factory.

  And no, that wasn’t a euphemism.

  Loga
n pointed at the computers. ‘So …?’

  ‘We’ve just started pre-viz on a steampunk blockbuster – which will completely blow both your socks off, then come back for your toes – meaning I’ve got about thirty / forty servers sitting idle you can play with. State of the art. Spared no expense.’ Then he turned, raising his voice so it carried across the room. ‘Hoshiko? Got a minute?’

  A short, middle-aged woman in an American baseball shirt, jeans, and trainers looked up from where she was working on the storyboards. The slightest hint of a Japanese accent as she looked Logan up and down. ‘This them?’

  Zander nodded. ‘Yup.’ He gave Logan a wink. ‘Hoshiko’s worked for Hayao Miyazaki, Peter Jackson, and Katsuhiro Otomo. I was so lucky to get her!’

  She didn’t smile. ‘Damn right you were.’ Then she stuck her hand out to Logan, palm up. ‘You got an algorithm for me?’

  ‘Tufty?’

  ‘Hmmm?’ The daft wee sod was still staring at the trophies. ‘Are these really AVN and XBIZ awards?’

  Zander popped his eyebrows up, and gave his head a little waggle. ‘Far be it for me to blow my own you-know-what, but there’s a fair few Prowlers and F.A.M.E.s in there as well.’

  At that Hoshiko did smile. ‘We wiped the floor, every year we entered.’

  ‘Of course, that was back when we still had time to make adult films.’ Zander smiled at Tufty. ‘If you’re a big porn fan, I can probably dig you out a few comps on DVD if you like?’

  Tufty spun around, face going a hot shade of pink. ‘Me? Porn? No, no, I was … I like to keep up with social trends and … Ahem …’

  ‘Nonsense, no trouble at all.’ He whipped out his phone and poked the screen. ‘Misty? Can you find me a copy of Crocodildo Dundee for one of our police officer guests, please?’