All That's Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Oh come on, Logan, you know he’s going to—’

  A tattoo of knocks rattled the office door. ‘Sarge? You in there?’

  ‘Why me?’ Hardie sagged even further. ‘Come!’

  The door cracked open and Tufty stuck his head in, flashed his teeth at Hardie. ‘Sorry, Guv.’ Then turned to Logan. ‘Sarge, Rennie said you’d be in here and I wasn’t to disturb you, but it’s kinda urgent. Like super-duper card-carrying warp-factor-six-Mr-Sulu urgent.’

  Hardie stiffened behind his desk. ‘Is this meant to be some sort of joke?’

  ‘Oh no, Guv, no joke here, no joke at all. Look!’ He held out his phone. ‘Someone posted a video online.’

  Grainy footage filled the phone’s screen: a man cowering in the bottom of what looked like a … was that a chest freezer? The white walls were scraped and dented and smeared with what was probably blood. The man was curled up, lying on his side, because there wasn’t room in there to stretch out.

  Oh crap.

  Logan grabbed the phone and stared at it.

  ‘What?’ Hardie sat forward. ‘What is it?’

  It was Professor Wilson: ankles tied together, elbows too, bloody bandages marking where his arms came to an abrupt axed end. Eyes screwed shut, as if he was afraid to see whoever it was filming him. Which would be Haiden Lochhead.

  Wilson’s voice screeched out of the phone’s speakers. ‘Please! Please, I haven’t seen anything! I can … I can just go away, forget this ever happened. Please!’

  The camera moved in, till his face filled the screen.

  ‘You don’t have to do this! I’ll do whatever you want!’ Sobs jerked through his body, making him twitch and writhe. ‘I’m … sorry! Whatever … I did, I’m … I’m sorry! … Please … please let me … go … PLEASE!’

  Professor Wilson’s face froze on the screen, streaked with tears and blood as the clip came to an end. It was replaced by a bunch of screengrabs for other videos: if you liked that, then you’ll love this! According to the stats underneath it, the Professor Wilson footage had over thirty thousand views and six thousand likes.

  Logan blinked. ‘God …’

  ‘What is it, Inspector McRae, I demand you tell me!’

  He slid the phone across the desk and Hardie picked it up. Jabbed at the screen. Face crumpling as the video started playing again.

  ‘Please! Please, I haven’t seen anything! I can … I can just go away, forget this ever happened. Please!’

  Tufty’s fingers curled in mid-air, as if longing for the return of his mobile. ‘Twenty-six seconds long, posted at six fifteen this morning. It’s going viral – people are sharing and reposting it everywhere.’

  Because they weren’t already screwed enough as it was.

  ‘You don’t have to do this! I’ll do whatever you want!’

  Logan scrunched his eyes closed and groaned.

  He’d been wrong. Today could get worse.

  24

  Jane McGrath paced up and down the length of the meeting room table. ‘This is bad. This is very, very bad.’

  It was big enough for about twenty people, if you seated them around the outside of the doughnut of desks. More, if you made them sit in the middle too. Instead of which, they had to make do with a Superintendent Young – who looked as if he’d just discovered his mother doing unspeakable things with a goat, a Detective Chief Inspector Hardie – slumped in his seat like an abandoned beanbag, a Detective Inspector King – crunching his way through a packet of extra-strong mints like a reincarnated racehorse, and Logan.

  Young held out a hand as Jane made another pass, blocking her way. ‘Sit down, for goodness’ sake. Wearing a groove in the carpet tiles isn’t helping anyone.’

  ‘I mean, it was very bad before, but now it’s thirty thousand times worse!’ She glanced at her phone. ‘No, make that forty-two and a half thousand times. Forty-two thousand, five hundred, and eighty-nine views: how are people still “liking” this? Who the hell presses “thumbs up” on a torture video?’

  Young glared at Hardie. ‘I want that footage taken off the internet and I want it taken off now.’

  ‘Oh, it’s too late for that.’ Jane poked at her phone. ‘Right now it’s getting shared and tweeted and posted to Alt-Nat message boards all over the sodding planet!’

  Hardie straightened up a little. ‘We’re doing everything we can, but—’

  ‘Then do more!’ Young’s jaw tightened. ‘And this investigation requires direct supervision.’

  ‘Exactly what I was thinking.’ Hardie poked a finger in King’s direction. ‘I want hourly updates on your progress.’

  But before King could complain, Young was giving them all the steely-eye. ‘From this point, DCI Hardie will be taking over as Senior Investigating Officer.’

  ‘Quite right. And progress needs to be …’ Hardie’s mouth clacked shut and his eyes widened, face going an unhealthy shade of puce. ‘Wait, what?’

  ‘This case has become too high-profile to have a DI in charge.’

  Spluttering finally gave way to, ‘But—’

  ‘This is now the division’s number one priority!’ Young bashed a fist down on the tabletop. ‘Clearly the Chief Superintendent has to retain a level of detachment, for the inevitable PIRC review, but if he was here,’ getting louder with every word, ‘I’m sure he would encourage me to start kicking people’s backsides until something sodding happened!’

  Silence.

  King cleared his throat. ‘We’re doing everything we—’

  ‘Oh no you don’t.’ Hardie stuck his nose in the air. ‘If you and McRae hadn’t let Haiden Lochhead escape last night, we wouldn’t be sitting here!’

  King just stared at him, eyebrows pinched up in the middle. The proverbial puppy given a kicking by its master.

  ‘DCI Hardie, I’m authorising you to bring in a dozen officers from the rest of the division. More from other divisions if need be.’

  King nodded. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Which was when Young turned to face Logan. ‘I’d expected more of you, Inspector McRae. I really had.’

  Logan kept his voice as flat and level as possible. ‘I think, given the circumstances, you and I should have a wee discussion in private, Superintendent. Don’t you?’

  Narrowed eyes and gritted teeth, then a forced, ‘Fine.’ Young snapped his fingers. ‘The rest of you: out.’

  There were a few shared looks and raised eyebrows, then one by one Hardie, King, and Jane slunk from the room, shutting the door behind them, leaving Logan and Young alone.

  Young stood, flinging his hands out to the side. ‘It’s a complete and utter bollocking disaster!’

  As if somehow that was all Logan’s fault.

  ‘When you were in Professional Standards, what would you have said if a senior officer threatened and bullied members of his command?’

  ‘That’s not the point!’

  ‘That’s entirely the point.’ Logan put on his professional not-angry-just-disappointed voice. ‘Ranting and raving at people – you know better than that.’

  ‘Gah! This is what I get for letting you talk me into not firing King in the first place!’

  ‘I talked you into it?’

  Young crumpled into his chair again. ‘The media are ripping holes in us that get bigger every day, Police Scotland are breathing down my neck, and the Scottish Tossing Government want an official briefing! And you know what that means.’

  A sigh. ‘You still can’t go about bellowing at members of your team.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how bad this makes us look?’

  Logan turned the disappointment up a notch. ‘Do you really think Police Scotland needs another bullying scandal? Have we not lost enough senior officers already?’

  ‘WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?’ Tiny dots of spittle flared in the sunlight.

  ‘A couple of deep breaths might help?’

  Outside, the sound of a patrol car siren wailed into life, then faded as they drove off to wh
atever emergency was underway.

  The seagulls cawwwwed.

  Someone outside in the corridor laughed.

  Then Young slumped back in his seat. Looked away. ‘Is he up to it? King, is he … unbiased?’

  ‘Look at it from his point of view – if he cocks this up, even accidentally, his career’s over. He’ll be pilloried in the media, probably never work again. He needs a result.’

  ‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’ A sigh. ‘Did you hear about our beloved Chief Superintendent, Big Tony Campbell? He’s retiring next month, and guess who he’s passing the baton to?’

  ‘I didn’t know he was retiring.’ Logan pointed. ‘Are you …?’

  ‘No. Apparently no one who’s actually worked here is worthy. They’re lumbering us with some high-flier from G Division.’

  Of course they were. Because clearly, if you weren’t from Clydeside, you weren’t a real police officer. God forbid one of the parochial neeps got put in charge.

  ‘Oh. Lucky us.’

  Young grimaced. ‘Her handover period officially starts next week. Might be nice if we had all this tied up before she gets here, don’t you think?’

  ‘We’re doing the best we can.’

  Young stood again, and put a paternal hand on Logan’s shoulder. Gave it a squeeze. ‘I know. I know. Just … do it quicker.’

  Logan scuffed along the corridor, heading for DCI Hardie’s office. Why didn’t they have air conditioning in here? OK, so it was Aberdeen and in the winter you needed sixteen jumpers, gloves, and a woolly hat, but still. Global warming meant—

  His phone dinged and buzzed in his pocket – incoming text message.

  According to the screen it was from ‘CLAP HANDS, HERE COMES TUFTY!’

  The little sod had done something to his phone, it was the only explanation.

  Sarge, Can I be in Mr Clark’s new steampunk film? Can I? Can I? Hoshiko says I can be one of the baddy’s techno henchmen! Can I? Can I? Can I? Can I? Can I?

  Idiot.

  He thumbed out a reply:

  No.

  Before he got his phone halfway to his pocket it ding-buzzed in his hand again.

  IT IS I, TUFTY!:

  Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease? They’ll even let me have lines! She says I’m a dead ringer for Baroness Grimdark’s Henchman #3, AKA: Arachnox. Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease?

  Oh for God’s sake …

  Why’s my phone coming out with all these weird caller IDs? WHAT DID YOU DO?!?

  SEND.

  Hardie’s office loomed up ahead.

  The door was open, so everyone could see him: worrying away at his cheek with one hand, the phone pressed to his ear with the other. Face scrunched up. Teeny beads of sweat shining on his forehead, but maybe not from the heat.

  His sidekicks were there: DS Robertson erasing things from one of Hardie’s whiteboards, in all her dark-haired and jowly glory; while DS Dawson strutted about on his mobile, doing his best to look efficient, as if that would fool anyone. Big-nosed, hair-gel-wearing idiot that he was.

  ‘Yeah … Yeah, I know that, but don’t tell me, tell Superintendent Young … Yeah, I thought that might.’

  The only one out of place was King. He heaved himself up from the visitor’s chair, face all creased.

  No one seemed to notice him leaving, not even Hardie – he just kept worrying away at his face, curling forward over his phone: ‘I don’t know, Stacy, as long as it takes, OK? … Yes, I appreciate that, but look at it this way: you don’t have a choice.’

  King stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. Slumped against it and closed his eyes. ‘God …’

  Logan went for cheery and upbeat. ‘On the bright side, at least we’re not the sole scapegoats any more.’ That had to count for something.

  ‘Oh, if I know Hardie, he’ll find a way to Teflon anything bad so it lands smack-bang on me.’

  Logan’s phone ding-buzzed, yet again. Then again. And again. And again. And again.

  Bloody Tufty wouldn’t take no for a telling, would he?

  King opened his eyes and pointed. ‘You not going to get that?’

  ‘It’s just Tufty, wingeing on because I said he couldn’t play a henchman in a film.’ He turned and led the way down the corridor. ‘And there’s another bright side: now we know we were right about Matt Lansdale’s disappearance. If Haiden had abducted him not only would Lansdale’s severed hands have turned up, there’d be a video too.’

  King took a deep breath and sighed it out, shoulders rounded as he scuffed along beside him. ‘I suppose. At least that’s something.’

  Who said soon-to-be-murder investigations didn’t have their lighter moments?

  Beever popped a pellet of chewing gum, munching as she wheeled her postal trolley along yet another magnolia and glass corridor. Earbuds in, Green Day’s American Idiot rocking out, cos everyone loves a bit of retro every now and then. Plus it was way political.

  Gotta admit it was kinda cool – turning Marischal College into the council’s main offices. The building was old as balls, all ornate and spiky granite, and way better than the ugly tower block thing they used to be based in. OK, so when she told her mates she was going to work here they all rolled their eyes so hard it looked like Sonja’s were going to fall out of her ears, but you know what? While they were off doing their work placements in nail salons and hairdressers, Beever was in the seat of power. Where the city’s cogs and wheels turned to make stuff happen.

  And OK, so she was only delivering the mail, for now, but that’s what internships were like, yeah? You worked your way up. And Beever was going all the way to the top, baby.

  She had a plan.

  The school’s careers adviser said you had to dress for the job you want, not the job you got. So Beever turned up every morning, ten minutes early, in a smart-as-shit shirt and tie, neat black trousers, and tasteful trainers, cos who wouldn’t want to promote that?

  Oh yeah.

  ‘Jesus of Suburbia’ accompanied her around the Council Tax Department. ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’ was the soundtrack to dropping off a box from Amazon and a stack of brown envelopes for Trading Standards. ‘Give Me Novacaine’ for the Finance Department. ‘Letterbomb’ in the lift with Fat Doris – which wasn’t her real name, it was really just Doris, but she was big enough for around eight people, stuffing a yum-yum into her gob and moaning on her mobile about how she couldn’t get a date. ‘Homecoming’ for the trek to Customer Service. And by the time ‘Whatsername’ dwannnnnged to an end she was in the new councillors’ bit. A bunch of temporary offices, squeezed into Marischal College while they sorted out the Town House’s leaky sewage problem. Cos you can’t run a city from somewhere that stinks like a greasy paedo’s Y-fronts. Which meant, for now, this was where all the big decisions were made.

  How cool was that?

  Beever slipped her earbuds into her pocket and dumped her gum in the nearest pot plant. Slapped on the professional smile she’d been working on. Yeah, the braces were a bit of a drawback, but you couldn’t be a politician without straight teeth, could you? Who wanted to vote for someone with a busted-piano-keyboard smile? No one, that’s who.

  She made her way from office to office, making polite chit and polite chat. Look at me! Look how young and keen I am! Why yes, I am planning on studying politics when I go to university. But completely not overplaying it.

  Envelopes. Parcels. Jiffy bags. You name it: she delivered it. No mistakes made here, thank you very much. Not on Beever’s watch.

  One more letter to go and she was done. Time for an ice-cold Diet Coke in the canteen with Lewis – who wasn’t nearly as cute as he thought he was.

  Beever held the final envelope up and bared her teeth at it. Ooh, that wasn’t good. The address was written in green ink and you know what that meant: it’d been written by a nutter. Her dad swore on the Sunday Post that green ink was a clear sign of being dangerously fruit-loop mental.

  Still, that was Councillor
Lansdale’s problem, not hers.

  She knocked on the door, but there wasn’t any answer.

  No shock there. According to the papers he was totally the victim of some sort of Alt-Nat conspiracy, but Mrs Onwuatuegwu in Finance swore on a stack of Take a Breaks that he’d done a midnight flit with one of the temps in Waste and Recycling. And apparently the temp was twenty years younger than him. Total shudderfest, right?

  No wonder the dirty old pervert got mail from nutters.

  Beever grabbed the green-ink envelope and let herself in.

  Not a huge room. Kinda a slap in the face, to be honest, considering how nice some of the other temporary offices were. Didn’t even have any pot plants or paintings – just a photo of Councillor Lansdale, standing there in all his saggy middle-aged glory, shaking hands with the Lord Provost.

  Lansdale was one of those shirt-and-tie-with-a-jumper-on-top-under-a-suit-jacket kinda guys. Never met him, but he couldn’t have looked more #MeToo if he tried. Bet he was the kind of guy who …

  Beever stopped.

  Sniffed.

  What the hell was that funky smell?

  She dumped the green-ink envelope on top of the pretty much overflowing in-tray.

  It was, you know, like if you go away on holiday? Only you forget to empty the fridge, and when you get home the bacon’s green and there’s mould growing on the leftover corned beef?

  A bunch of packages sat in the middle of the desk. Two Amazon boxes and a trio of Jiffy bags.

  Big fat bluebottles crawled all over one of the bags, more feasting on whatever that brown yuck leaking out the bottom was, soaking into the leather desk blotter.

  God, complete horror show.

  She inched closer. Nostrils twitching.

  That mouldy corned-beef stink was definitely coming from the Jiffy bag: rank and dark, catching in the base of her throat like she was going to blow chunks any minute – Weetabix and banana everywhere.

  Whatever was in that bag it wasn’t good. Wasn’t good at all.

  Beever swallowed hard. Then picked up the desk phone and called Security.

  25