All That's Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  Logan stared at him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Normally, I have to batter Scene Examiners over the head with a stick to get even the vaguest predictions out of them.’

  ‘Oh, the official report will be full of caveats and bet-hedging, but we’re all mates here, right?’ He rocked on his blue-bootied heels. ‘So, Scotty Meyrick, eh?’

  Had to hand it to Haiden Lochhead and Mhari Powell – to break in, overpower their victim, mutilate him, vandalise the living room, and vanish into the night taking him with them, before the police could turn up … That took skill. And planning.

  The tech sucked on his teeth. ‘Never really liked him on the telly, bit too slick, aye? But he talked a lot of sense in them Telegraph articles. The trouble with Scotland is a bunch of numpties saw Braveheart and now they think if we could only sod about the hills in kilts all day, flashing our arses at the English, somehow everything will be all right.’

  Logan stood, checked his watch: twenty to three. ‘How much longer do you think?’

  ‘I mean, Scotland voted to stay in the EU because we know it’s better to be part of something bigger, right? So why the hell would we want to leave the UK? Bigger’s always better.’ A cheeky wink. ‘Ask any woman.’

  Logan blinked at him. Then handed over a business card. ‘If anything urgent comes up, call me.’

  ‘Will do, Chief.’ He gave himself a wee satisfied chuckle as he wandered off towards his precious bloodstains. ‘“Ask any woman.” Priceless, Leonard, priceless.’

  Looked as if Tayside’s policy on hiring weirdos was every bit as robust as Aberdeen’s.

  Logan picked his way past the cordon and out into the night.

  No moon. Nothing but the glow of every light in Scott Meyrick’s house blazing away beneath a blanket of indifferent stars. The Dundee lot had marked out a common approach path with blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape, and Logan followed it as far as his Audi, bypassing one of the white-suited team, on their hands and knees in the gravel, working away with a high-powered torch.

  Logan pulled out his phone, one finger hovering over the contacts list. Not even three o’clock yet. It wasn’t really fair to call Jane McGrath this early.

  Then again, why should he be the only one up and worrying about this stuff?

  He poked her name and his mobile rang, and rang, and rang, and rang, and rang and—

  ‘Gnnnn …? Wh … Urgh. Do you know what time it is.’

  ‘Yes.’ He leaned against his car. ‘The press are going to find out about Scott Meyrick soon. No way we can keep this quiet.’

  ‘I’m not an idiot, Logan, I’m well aware of that.’ A sort of half-yawn-half-gurgle noise came down the line. ‘His bloody agent held a press conference about thirty minutes after she called nine-nine-nine. It’s all over the twenty-four-hour news outlets.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake …’

  ‘So you woke me up for nothing. And I’ve got to be on the BBC in … Aaaargh! Four and a bit hours!’

  ‘Sorry.’ No he wasn’t, but at least she couldn’t see him grinning. ‘Jane … off the record … hypothetically speaking—’

  ‘What?’ And just like that she sounded a lot more awake. ‘OK, you’re worrying me now!’

  ‘Have you ever heard of someone called “Robert Drysdale”?’

  ‘Who’s Robert Drysdale?’ An edge of panic was creeping in. ‘Why should I have heard of him? Has something happened?’

  ‘Call it “idle speculation”.’ All innocent.

  ‘Oh great. Thank you very much. How am I supposed to get back to sleep now?’

  ‘Well it’s—’

  ‘Going to be up all night worrying about Robert Bloody Drysdale! Gah!’ And with that, she hung up.

  It was hard not to grin, it really was. After all, a problem shared …

  Logan climbed into his Audi, clicked on the lights, and drove off into the night.

  — in case of emergency: break glass —

  35

  The last bars of something far too raucous for this time of the morning screeched and hollered out of the car radio as Logan turned onto Queen Street. Sunlight glittered on the granite buildings, made the concrete glow, sparkled in the looming windows of Divisional Headquarters. A handful of miserable people trudging along the early morning pavements on their way to work.

  The DJ laughed. ‘I know, I know, but it’s growing on me. Got the news, travel, and weather coming up at seven. And we’ll be going live to Aberdeen Divisional Headquarters for a special exclusive report on Scotty Meyrick’s abduction last night.’

  ‘Oh … sodding hell.’

  ‘If you’re out there listening, Scotty, everyone here wants you to know we’re thinking of you at this difficult time. Stay strong!’

  ‘Yes, because that’ll do him a huge amount of …’

  The armada of journalists who’d gathered outside DHQ hove into view – doing their early morning bulletins to camera. Serious faces for a serious story.

  Logan slowed to have a bit of a nosy.

  A big BMW van was parked just ahead, splattered with Sky TV branding, a paddling-pool-sized satellite dish on the roof. The side door rattled open as he passed and that wee hairy Philip Patterson hopped out, tissue paper stuffed into his collar so he wouldn’t get however many tons of makeup he was wearing on his shirt. A camerawoman clambered out after him, jostling up the walkway to the Front Podium.

  Be sure to get a shot with the Police Scotland signage in the background, don’t want people to think you’re not really here …

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Anyway, you’re listening to OMG It’s Early!, with me, Rachel Gray. And now, here’s an oldie but a goodie: The Eagles and “Hotel California”. This one’s for you, Scotty!’

  Yeah, not exactly appropriate.

  PC Ugly was behind the desk outside the Chief Superintendent’s office again, hammering away at his keyboard as if going for a new world record.

  King lowered himself into the seat one down from Logan’s, clean shaven, Hollywood hair slicked back, suit, shirt, and tie immaculate. As if he hadn’t turned up half-cut at the crime scene last night. He dug into a pocket and waggled a roll of extra-strong mints in Logan’s direction. ‘You look rough.’

  Cheeky sod. But Logan took a mint anyway, sticking it into his cheek like a hamster.

  King put the packet away. ‘They give you a time for the press briefing yet?’

  ‘No. You?’

  ‘Why would they tell me? I’ll be fired by then.’

  Welcome to the Friday-morning pity party.

  ‘They’re not going to fire you just because Scott Meyrick got abducted. That wasn’t our fault.’

  ‘You’ve not read the Scottish Daily Post this morning, then?’

  Logan turned in his seat. ‘Didn’t have time. You?’

  ‘Didn’t need to. I know what’s coming.’

  Wonderful. So he’d been right yesterday – there was worse on its way. ‘What has Barwell—’

  The office door opened and Superintendent Bevan stuck her head out. The smile she flashed wasn’t a hopeful one. ‘Ah, Logan. Good. Can you join us inside, please?’

  He and King stood, but she waved at King to sit again. ‘Sorry, Frank, I need you to wait here for now.’

  King’s smooth shaved cheeks darkened. ‘I see. That’s how it is.’

  Logan patted him on the shoulder, then followed Bevan inside. Closed the door behind him, shutting out King’s hurt wee face.

  Big Tony Campbell’s office was done out in the same Spartan fashion as the reception area outside. The only nods to decoration were the framed photos of Big Tony with various local VIPs and a couple of First Ministers. No whiteboards, no filing cabinets, no pot plants – just a big-ish desk with the man himself, Chief Superintendent of all he surveyed, glowering away behind it, a coffee table, and half a dozen comfy chairs. Only one of which was unoccupied.

  Bevan settled into it, between Superintendent Young, and Jane McGrath: who
looked at Logan as if he was something needing biopsied. Hardie sat on the other side of the coffee table with an unknown woman: grey-streaked shoulder-length hair, a proud chin, superintendent’s pips on the epaulettes of her dress uniform.

  Scowls and frowns all round. And not one of them could look him in the eye.

  Fair enough, it was going to be one of those meetings.

  Logan nodded at each of them in turn. ‘Boss, Guv, Chief, Super, Jane …’ He raised an eyebrow at their mystery visitor. ‘Ma’am?’

  She nodded at him.

  It was Big Tony Campbell who broke the ensuing silence. ‘Three pro-union public figures in less than a fortnight, Logan. Three.’

  Let the bollocking commence.

  Logan put on his best reasonable voice. ‘We’re not the ones abducting them, Boss.’

  ‘Is that supposed to be funny, Inspector?’

  ‘We’ve got lookout requests on the go, Mhari and Haiden’s photos distributed to every force in the UK, three teams going door-to-door, we’re doing a fingertip search of—’

  ‘And then Jane comes in and shows me this!’ He slapped a hand down on a printout. ‘Well?’

  Nope. No idea.

  Jane leaned forward, waving a copy at him. ‘Robert Drysdale? You giving me insomnia at two in the morning, remember that?’

  ‘I remember, because I wasn’t in bed, I was still working.’

  Bevan cleared her throat, little wrinkles furrowing her brow. ‘Logan, how did Robert Drysdale’s name crop up in your investigation?’

  ‘Why? Who is he?’

  Everyone turned to look at the newcomer.

  She nodded. ‘Very well.’ Slightest hint of a Glaswegian accent, hidden under a public-school upbringing. ‘But this goes no further than this room, am I clear?’

  Now they were all looking at him instead.

  Yeah, whatever this was, it wouldn’t be good.

  ‘OK …’

  ‘Robert Drysdale was a member of the People’s Army for Scottish Liberation, twenty-nine years ago. He went missing in November that year and his body turned up a week later in an abandoned bothy outside Strichen.’ A dramatic pause, as if what she’d just said meant anything to Logan. ‘Someone had hammered thirty galvanised clout nails into his arms, legs, chest, and head. They were seventy-five millimetres long, so they went in a fair distance.’ She reached into a leather satchel at the side of her chair, coming out with a series of photographs. Handed them to Logan.

  The first picture showed a dark, manky little room, with holes in the plaster, another in the ceiling, dust and dirt, streaks of bird shit on the walls. A naked man filled the middle of the shot, strung up by the neck from an overhead beam, arms tied behind his back. The photographer’s flash had caught the nailheads, making them shine like stars against his blood-darkened skin. Whoever took the shot obviously had a flair for the dramatic, because they’d caught the graffiti on the wall behind the body in perfect horror-film style.

  One word, in dripping red paint: ‘JUDAS!’

  The next six shots were close-ups of the bruises and contusions, the rope around his neck, the nails … They stuck out about five or six millimetres from the flesh, the nailheads on top of their shiny metal stalks like sinister mushrooms.

  Last one in the set: an abandoned bothy on a mountainside somewhere. Broken windows, guttering hanging off, rough stonework, corrugated steel roof. The landscape smothered in snow.

  He flipped back to the first shot. ‘There are definitely similarities. Scott Meyrick had “spite” painted on his living room wall, “the Devil makes work” was on the note with Professor Wilson’s hands, and Councillor Lansdale got “three monkeys”.’ Logan frowned at the newcomer. ‘You think Mhari and Haiden are taking inspiration from a thirty-year-old murder?’

  She shrugged. ‘When your Media Liaison Officer,’ pointing at Jane, ‘mentioned Robert Drysdale this morning, I recognised his name from a cold-case review Strathclyde ran not long after I joined.’

  ‘Let me guess: Drysdale informed on one of his fellow PASLers? “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead found out and they made an example of him.’

  ‘Robert Drysdale’s real name was Detective Sergeant Martin Knott. He joined the PASL as part of Operation Kelpie.’

  A murdered undercover cop.

  Great: things weren’t just worse, they were a hell of a lot worse.

  Bevan sighed. ‘So you can see why, when his name came up …?’

  Big Tony stuck a fist on his desk. ‘If we’ve got a chance to put someone away for DS Knott’s murder, I want to know about it.’

  ‘We’re doing everything we can, Boss.’ Logan had another squint at the photos. ‘But until we find out where Haiden and Mhari are hiding, or where they’re keeping their victims?’ Why did Drysdale have to be an undercover cop? Come on: options. Think. How do we work through this one? ‘We … can try fronting up Haiden’s father again? Give him a grilling about the murder? If he was involved, maybe he’ll want to boast about it?’

  ‘Why on earth would he do that?’

  ‘He’s got less than four months to live, Boss. What’s he got to lose?’

  Hardie clearly felt it was time to make his presence felt, crossing his arms and nodding as if he’d been in charge all along, instead of sitting there like a sack full of damp pants. ‘Good. Go. Keep me informed. But be back here by twelve – we’ll have to brief the press about Scott Meyrick.’

  Logan turned to Superintendent Bevan and raised an eyebrow. She nodded.

  ‘Will do.’ He’d almost made it to the door, when:

  ‘Inspector McRae?’ The new superintendent was staring at him. ‘You didn’t say how Robert Drysdale’s name came up.’

  Ah. No, he hadn’t. And it would have been nice if no one had spotted that little omission.

  ‘I can’t remember. Someone must have mentioned it last night.’ Liar. But DI King was in enough trouble already, without Logan pouring unleaded on the fire. An innocent shrug. ‘It was pretty late.’

  She pointed at the door. ‘OK, then.’

  Big Tony’s voice boomed out as Logan slipped into the reception area: ‘And make sure you find something!’

  Logan clicked the door shut and … Where was King?

  The row of seats was empty, just Mr Ugly The Receptionist in here, clattering away on his keyboard.

  Logan waved at him. ‘What happened to DI King?’

  ‘Phone call.’

  Either that or he’d gone AWOL with a half-bottle of vodka …

  DHQ wore the muffled silence of early morning – ten to eight, so dayshift uniform were all out keeping Aberdonians from doing horrible things to other Aberdonians. All the major teams had done their daily briefings and sodded off, leaving the place to the support staff and the handful of officers who’d found an excuse to hide inside rather than go traipsing about in the blazing sun. Which would be tempting, if it wasn’t for Chief Superintendent Big Tony Campbell’s parting words.

  Logan was reaching for the door to the MIT incident room when it banged open and Tufty bustled out into the corridor, a pink folder tucked under one arm.

  ‘Sarge!’ He flashed Logan a smile and a wee wave. ‘Cool. About Mr Clark’s steampunk film, are you one hundred percent definitely certain I can’t be in it?’ Making with the big puppy eyes.

  Not this again.

  ‘You’re a police officer.’

  ‘Yeah, but I could go to Comic-Con and be on panels and people would dress up like my character and I’d be completely funky and I’d never ask for anything else ever again! Promise.’

  Logan stared at him.

  ‘Oh noes.’ His shoulders sagged. He shuffled his feet. Cleared his throat. Then raised his folder. ‘Well, suppose I’d better get this over to the media office then.’ And scuffed away, like a kicked dachshund. ‘Pity poor Tufty …’

  Bless his little Starfleet socks, but that lad was a complete and utter weirdo.

  Logan let himself into the incident room. It was probably
the only busy office in the whole building – phones ringing, support officers answering them, overlapping conversations as details were taken and notes made. The HOLMES team busy hammering data into the system, the printer in the corner churning out action after action. Milky had perched herself on the edge of someone’s desk, flipping through paperwork on a clipboard while Heather commandeered a whiteboard – humming ‘Uptown Girl’ to herself as she printed the names of Alt-Nat groups on it in big red letters.

  Steel lounged in an office chair, feet up on the desk, a butty in one hand and a wax-paper cup in the other. A little island of laziness in an ocean of police work. As usual.

  Logan marched over there and loomed at her. ‘Thought you were searching Mhari Powell’s house?’

  She didn’t bother swallowing or covering her mouth as she chewed. ‘Waiting on a dog unit.’ Steel dipped her butty in her coffee, and took another bite. ‘Think you could stop with the abducted Unionists now? Only every time we make any progress on this sodding case, you turn up another one.’

  He gave her leg a smack. ‘Feet off the desk. Supposed to be setting an example.’

  Dip. Munch. Honestly, she masticated like the back end of a scaffies’ wagon. The only things missing were the mechanism for tipping wheelie bins into the hopper and the smell of split bin bags. ‘Aye, that’ll be shining.’

  Hopeless.

  Logan had another look around the office. ‘Where’s King?’

  Steel dipped her butty again, a broad smile on her face. ‘I’ve never had one of these before. Very nice.’ Then crammed a soggy brown lump of it into her gob. ‘Did you meet her then? The new head honcho. Or is it honchesse? Honchetta?’

  ‘Nope.’ He dug out his phone and gave King a ring.

  ‘Superintendent Pine, from G Division, AKA: Darkest Strathclyde, AKA: The Evil Empire. Kinda shaggable if you’ve been on the razz all night, and don’t mind the greying hair and Jimmy Hill chin. No idea what her arse is like, though.’

  Grey-streaked hair, proud chin, superintendent’s pips …