Geraldine moved her finger to where the sandwiches lurked. ‘You can see Linda there, following him around.’
A security guard appeared from behind the lunchtime deals and followed Mr Hoodie towards the camera.
‘Standard operating procedure for anyone dressed in this season’s Shoplifter Chic.’
The pair of them disappeared off the bottom of the screen.
Click, they were caught on another camera, walking past the fruit and veg – Mr Hoodie acting all casual and calm, Linda, the security guard following at a discreet distance.
‘Down fresh produce …’ The camera jumped again. ‘Past tinned fish …’ Another jump. ‘Dried goods …’ One more. ‘And into our Post Office zone.’
The camera was positioned behind the counter, catching Mr Hoodie as he stopped at the ‘PLEASE WAIT HERE’ sign.
An old man was being served – his moustache twitching with concentration as he filled out a form. The woman helping him was a furry blob in the bottom left corner, only the top of her head visible. And all the time, Mr Hoodie stood there, still as a lamppost. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t check his watch. Just stood there.
King folded his arms. ‘Cool customer.’
Captain Twitchy Moustache handed over his form and shuffled away out of shot, then Mr Hoodie stepped up to the counter. Put the plastic bag down in front of him.
‘We haven’t got sound, I’m afraid,’ Geraldine wrinkled her nose, ‘but Shauna says he was definitely Scottish. Asked her to send the package first class.’
On the screen, Mr Hoodie’s mouth moved in complete silence, then he placed the plastic bag on the scales. Took it off and slid it through the access window.
The woman-behind-the-counter reached for the bag. Opened it. Slid the Jiffy bag out onto the counter in front of her and applied the postage sticker.
‘Clever boy.’ Logan pointed. ‘He never touches it.’
The woman crumpled up the plastic bag and passed it back through the opening, where Mr Hoodie stuffed it straight into his pocket. Leaving no physical evidence behind. Other than the Jiffy bag, which was, according to the lab, pretty much sterile.
He counted out a handful of pound coins and the woman scooped them up. Then he smiled at her, nodded, waved, turned and walked away.
Geraldine poked at her keyboard again, tracing his route back the way he’d come – camera to camera, the security guard following him at a discreet distance – to the front doors. They slid shut behind him and he was gone.
The security guard shrugged, then sloped off to lurk in wait for someone else.
‘And that’s it, I’m afraid.’
‘Hmmm …’ King scowled at the final image. Then turned to the door, where Milky was still watching. ‘Go round the other shops, hoover up all the security camera footage you can. Where’s DS Steel?’
‘Gone for a vape, Guv.’
‘Oh for … Fine. Tell her I said she has to find out who’s in charge of CCTV for the shopping centre. See if we can track this bastard to a car or something.’
A nod from Milky. ‘Guv.’ Then she scurried off.
Logan pulled out his notebook and wrote down the names of the security guard and the woman on the Post Office counter. ‘We’re going to need to talk to Linda and Shauna.’
‘I thought you might.’ Geraldine stood. ‘They’re in the break room, waiting for you.’
A colourful collection of watercolours dotted the three break room walls that weren’t covered in beige lockers. Two round tables, some plastic chairs, a fridge, and a microwave. Nice. The air sweet-sharp with the scent of lemon floor cleaner.
Linda the security guard was squarer in real life, her shoulders and forehead making it look as if someone had built her out of Lego blocks. Shauna, the lady whose back had featured in the CCTV footage, looked different too. Going by the expression on her face, her front half hadn’t enjoyed itself for at least the last thirty years.
The pair of them sat opposite Logan and King, Shauna picking her teeth, Linda folding and unfolding her arms, as if she didn’t quite know what to do with them.
King doodled a circle on his notebook. ‘And you didn’t recognise his voice at all? Maybe he’d been in before and—’ His phone blared into life and he dug it out. Frowned at the screen and grimaced. Then put it face down on the table. ‘Sorry about that. Where were we?’
Shauna finally worked whatever it was free and pinged it away under the table. ‘No, I didn’t recognise him. We get a lot of regulars in, but he was … a bit strange? Weirdly still, you know: immobile. Like he was made of plastic or something.’
‘And he didn’t say anything—’
This time it was Logan’s phone, belting out its generic ringtone. He pulled it out while everyone stared at him. The words, ‘SUPT. BEVAN’ sat in the middle of the screen.
Yeah. Thanks, but no thanks.
He pressed ‘IGNORE’ and switched his phone off.
King raised an eyebrow.
Logan shook his head.
King sighed.
Shauna wiped her damp finger on her uniform shirt. ‘Look, can I go now? Only Andrew gets all stressed if he’s left on the counter by himself.’
‘We’re done here anyway.’ King’s smile wasn’t even vaguely convincing. ‘Thank you both for your help.’
Their chairs’ rubber feet scronnnnked on the lino as they scraped them back and stood. A couple of awkward smiles. Then Shauna and Linda sloped off to work again.
Soon as the door shut behind them, King slumped. ‘So close …’
Logan pointed at King’s phone. ‘Who was it?’
‘DI Hardie. You?’
‘Superintendent Bevan. So much for two and a half hours.’
‘Yeah.’
Scronnnnk.
Logan followed him out into a bland corridor, the painted breeze-block walls scarred with scuffs and bashes. Past a couple of cages full of crushed cardboard boxes. ‘We can say we had our phones turned off because we were interviewing witnesses. It’s not lying, because mine is and we were.’
King’s phone dinged, and he frowned at the screen. ‘Voicemail.’
No doubt a message of encouragement from DCI Hardie.
They pushed through the double doors on to the shop floor. A handful of people were in filling their trolleys and baskets – one of the lippy auld wifies stocking up on cat food and spiced rum, while the other worried away at half a dozen scratchcards.
Logan and King didn’t stop to say hello on the way to the exit. But as they passed the drinks aisle, King stopped. Patted his pockets.
‘I’ll meet you outside – want to get some more mints.’
And why did all those bottles of wine and spirits make him think of that?
Logan nodded, and walked out through the doors, pausing only to wave at Linda, on guard by the ‘MEGA LUNCH-DEAL!’ sandwiches, crisps, and drinks.
‘Bloody hell …’ The midday heat hit him like an iron, sizzling away at his eyes and ears. And that was underneath the covered walkway; in the full glare of the sun it would be unbearable.
He stuck to the shadows. Turned to look in through the Co-op window as a pair of kids rattled past on scooters. And there was King, marching towards the checkouts with two half-bottles of vodka in one hand and a four-pack of extra-strong mints in the other.
King froze, then juggled his purchases into one hand so he could dig out his phone and pull a pained face at the screen. Closed his eyes and moved his lips as if he was swearing away to himself. Then answered it.
Two half-bottles of vodka. Both the perfect size to hide in your jacket pockets if you were—
‘Fit like, Limpy McMoans-A-Lot?’
Great. Steel.
Logan turned. ‘Can you at least pretend you care about—’
‘Guess what I’ve got, go on: guess.’ She wiggled her eyebrows at him. ‘Guess!’
‘Worms?’
‘I found a nice man called Johnny. Johnny works the security cameras for all the shoppi
ng centre’s communal areas.’ She pointed at one of the shiny black half-globes, protruding from the walkway’s ceiling like a kraken’s eye. ‘Wave hello to lovely Johnny.’
She did, but Logan didn’t.
‘Aye, and guess what me and Johnny found when we went looking through yesterday’s footage?’
Logan stared at her. ‘You didn’t.’
The grin turned a little bit obscene. ‘We sodding well did!’ Steel whipped out her phone and poked at it. ‘Got him to email me the footage. Our boy might be able to manufacture a forensic-free abduction scene and Jiffy bag, but know what he didn’t bank on?’
She turned the screen to face Logan.
On it, a muscle-bound lump of a man marched past Marks & Spencer, walking towards one of the cameras. Mid-twenties. Not the prettiest of guys, with a heavy forehead and wide jaw. Wearing a grey hoodie. Something in a plastic bag, tucked under his arm. He reached into his hoodie’s pocket, took out a pair of sunglasses, put them on. Then did the same with a baseball cap. Pulled his hood up. And his transformation into Mr Hoodie was complete.
‘They stuck a new security camera on the Citizen’s Advice Bureau yesterday morning, cos some manky scummer keeps smearing shite all over their windows. If our boy, Chuckles, had posted those hands on Monday, he’d’ve got away with it.’
Logan looked up from the screen to the grinning Steel. ‘I could sodding well kiss you.’
‘Aye, well, better no’.’ Deadpan. ‘Don’t want you undermining years of dedicated lesbianism.’
They had him. They had an actual face for Professor Wilson’s abductor. ‘We need to get this out to every station, in every division in Scotland.’
‘No’ be quicker doing a public appeal?’
She had a point.
‘Maybe, but if we can find out who he is before the brass put on a press conference, we’ll—’
‘Your boy King might not get his arse handed to him in a damp paper bag?’ She peered over Logan’s shoulder at the Co-op. ‘Ahoy-hoy, thar he blows.’
And there he blew – slouching out through the automatic doors with no sign of his vodka or extra-strong mints, still on the phone, one hand massaging his forehead. ‘Yes, Boss, but— … I know that … Yes. But if you’ll just— OK …’
Steel leaned in closer to Logan, not bothering to whisper. ‘Think he’s getting a spanking? Sounds like a spanking to me.’
‘Do you always have to make everything worse?’
‘Part of my charm.’
King stopped. Sighed. ‘Yes … I will. Yes.’ Another sigh. ‘Bye.’ He hung up and thumped back against one of the walkway’s pillars. Didn’t look at them. ‘Apparently, the Chief Superintendent isn’t happy about Professor Wilson’s severed hands being all over the one o’clock news, so he kicked Superintendent Young’s backside about it. And Superintendent Young kicked DCI Hardie’s backside. And now DCI Hardie is kicking mine.’ King deflated even further. ‘God’s sake …’ He gave Logan a pained look. ‘They’re holding a press conference at four. Our attendance is mandatory.’
‘No need to look so glum, Kingy-boy.’ Steel slapped his shoulder. ‘It’s your lucky day: Roberta Steel to the rescue! Again.’
His eyes widened. ‘You mean … we got a face?’
‘Now let’s talk about the extra-large fish suppers you’re buying us all for lunch. As a wee reward for my detectivey genius.’
14
The dual carriageway wheeched past the pool car’s windows as DI King drove them into town, the soft comforting smell of hot batter and sharp-spined vinegar thick in the air, even with the windows open.
Milky leaned across from the passenger seat, a couple of golden chips in her hand. ‘Sure you don’t want any, Guv?’
He shook his head. ‘Not hungry.’
Sitting in the back, Steel sooked her fingers sort of clean and dug her phone out. Squinted at the screen. ‘That’s Tufty sent the video out to everyone and her dog in Police Scotland.’ A chunk of haddock went the way of all flesh as she chewed with her mouth open. ‘Dirty wee scumbag says he’s having beef Wellington in the studio canteen.’ She stuffed in some more chips. ‘All right for some.’
King nodded. ‘Better make sure the media department get a “have you seen this man” done up before the press conference.’
Logan took a bite of pickled onion, chasing it down with a nugget of crispy batter. Whoever invented fish suppers was a genius. Sod haggis, this was Scotland’s proper national dish, not some unmentionable mush of sheep innards stuffed into another bit of sheep innards, with four tons of herbs and spices added so you didn’t have to taste what you were actually eating.
Haddock plus batter plus potatoes, plus salt, plus vinegar, equals genius.
He crunched through a perfectly golden finger of deep-fried potato, then leaned forward, into the gap between the front seats. ‘There’s something else we’re going to need to talk about before the briefing.’
‘It’s not—’
‘Just so we’re prepared. There’s no way Edward Barwell’s going to pass up the opportunity.’
Milky dipped a chip in her little splat of mayonnaise. ‘Who’s Edward Barwell?’
King tightened his grip on the steering wheel. ‘No one. He’s—’
‘Journo.’ Little bits of batter fell down Steel’s front as she chewed. ‘Scottish Daily Post. He’s the one dug up that dirt on Kingy’s Alt-Nat terrorist past.’
The only noises were the engine, the fluttering roar of air passing by the windows, and Steel munching.
Then Milky turned in her seat. ‘He what? Wait: what terrorist past?’
King glared at Logan in the rear-view mirror. ‘How did she find out? You’re supposed to be—’
‘Oh no.’ Logan held up a greasy hand. ‘Don’t look at me!’
Steel smiled. ‘Nah, I keep my ear to the grindstone, Kingy. Works wonders.’
More silence.
Milky stared at him. ‘Guv?’
King took a deep breath, shoulders dropping an inch. ‘I was going to tell you all before the briefing.’
‘You were an Alt-Nat terrorist?’ She hit him: not a playful slap – a full-on back-hand wallop, right in the chest. Voice hard and bitter. ‘I’m English! Yorkshire’s in England, remember? And you want to chuck me out country?’ She hit him again. ‘Going to burn down me house as well?’ Once more for luck, putting her weight behind it.
‘Ow! Can we not do this now. Please?’ Staring across the car at her. ‘It was nothing. It was years ago. I never did anything.’
Steel stuffed in a mouthful of chips. ‘That’s the spirit!’ She turned a mushed-potato grin on Logan. ‘Glad I came now: Wednesdays are usually a lot more boring than this.’
The pool car rumbled up the ramp and onto the Rear Podium car park. Tucked around the back of Divisional Headquarters, the rectangle of tarmac was a suntrap, bordered on two sides by the bulk of DHQ, the mortuary on the third, and the rear of King Street on the fourth – a wall of dirty granite, punctuated by sash windows and black downpipes.
King took the only available space, next to the smokers’ station with its overflowing bin, cigarette butts littered around it like tiny dead bodies after a massacre.
As soon as he hauled on the handbrake, Milky wrenched open the passenger door, face like a squeezed pluke, jaw clenched as she clambered into the sunlight.
King scrambled out after her. ‘Oh, come on, Milky, it was years ago!’
She kept her face turned towards DHQ. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a report to write.’
Milky marched across the shiny black tarmac to the building’s doors, yanked them open and stormed inside.
Steel leaned across Logan, looking up at King. ‘You made a right cat’s arsehole of that one, Kingy.’
His mouth moved for a bit. Then he shrugged. ‘She’ll come round. Eventually.’
Milky reappeared in the doorway, grabbed the open doors and, turning inside again, slammed them shut behind her.
&n
bsp; Steel sucked air in through her teeth. ‘Aye, don’t hold your breath.’
King hunched his shoulders. ‘Is there any way we can speed up the ID process?’
Noticeboards lined the corridor, between the doors, covered in memos, thank you cards, and yet more bloody motivational posters. As if everyone working in Divisional Headquarters was hell-bent on doing a crap job, if not for a photo of some baldy lump in a high-viz vest, grinning away beneath the words ‘COMMUNITY FOCUSED!’
Steel sniffed. ‘Public appeal.’
Not this again. Logan shook his head. ‘We’ll get swamped by every well-meaning half-wit out there.’
‘Aye, but it’d be quicker.’
King nodded. ‘We need to …’ He scuffed to a halt, staring down the corridor.
DCI Hardie was standing in his office doorway, staring back at them. Then he stuck out one hand and made a come-hither gesture. His face a hard, angry scribble. ‘DI King.’
A little groaning noise escaped from King, followed by a very quiet, ‘Crap.’
‘A moment of your valuable time, please.’
King stood up straight. ‘I was just—’
‘In my office. Now!’
Steel patted him on the back. ‘Been nice knowing you.’
A deep breath, then King raised his chin and marched off.
Hardie pointed past King at Logan and Steel. ‘And you two: go do something useful for a change!’ Then he stepped aside, so King could enter the office, gave them one last glare, and slammed the door closed.
Steel puckered her lips. ‘Yeah … He’s dead.’
And then some.
‘In the meantime …’ Logan turned on his heel. ‘Go chase up the media department. And the other stations too. We need to know who posted that sodding package.’
All That's Dead Page 12
