All That's Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  The only sound was the hum of the working freezer and the drone of the flies.

  Then, ‘Yeah, I saw the papers. You betrayed us, didn’t you?’ Spitting the words out. ‘You abandoned the cause, went to work for the enemy!’

  She twisted the knife and cold pain snapped across his throat. Followed by a warm trickle.

  Oh Jesus, she was going to kill him.

  ‘Wait! Wait …’ All pretence at being in charge gone, voice rank with the stench of panic. ‘Robert Drysdale!’

  ‘What about him?’

  Many, Many Years Ago

  The bothy lurks in darkness, all its windows panned in, the door warped and buckled. It sits in the middle of nowhere – surrounded by rough fields and ditches, the snow-capped peak of Beinn a’ Bhùird lurking in the background. The kind of place where ghosts stalk the moonlit mountainside.

  Only the bothy’s about to get itself another ghost …

  Frank shifts in the passenger seat, trying not to look at the silhouettes in the broken window. At the dancing torchlight as they go about their business. Belting out some old Corries song about battering the English foe.

  ‘Oh Jesus …’ He raises the bottle of Grouse and takes a swig, shuddering as it goes down hard and hot. Has another drag on his trembling cigarette.

  He’s only sixteen, for God’s sake. Sixteen.

  Should never have come here. Should never have agreed to help. Should never have had anything to do with “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead and his gang of mad bastards. But it’s too late now.

  One more slug of whisky goes down like burning petrol, souring his stomach.

  Maybe, he could do a runner? Climb out of the Land Rover and bugger off into the night. Scarper back to civilisation and never, ever—

  A monstrous face appears at the passenger window, teeth bared, eyes wide. Hideous and terrifying. A wee scream bursts its way out of Frank’s throat.

  Gaelic Gary grins at him, torch held under his chin to make him look like even more Hammer House of Horror than he already does. ‘Come on, wee man, you’re missing all the fun!’

  Frank’s words don’t come out right, bumping into each other in their rush to escape. ‘I … I don’t think … It, it, it’s not … I can’t—’

  ‘No!’ Gary yanks the passenger door open and grabs a handful of Frank’s jumper, pulling him closer, voice a hard dark snarl. ‘You get your arse out this car and in there, or you’ll be next.’ He tightens his grip and hauls Frank and his whisky bottle out into the night. Their breath mists in the torchlight as he shoves Frank towards the bothy.

  Then Gary wraps his arm around his shoulder, voice all warm again. Like they’re best of friends. ‘See, there’s no passengers in a civil war, wee man. You’re either driving, or you’re being knocked down. You don’t wanna be roadkill, do you?’

  ‘Course not!’

  ‘Good.’ A squeeze of that massive, powerful arm. ‘Come on, this’ll be the stuff of legends!’ Gary propels him through the bothy door into a manky wee hallway. A bunch of the floorboards are missing and drifts of bird crap lie beneath the house martin nests dotted around the walls, up by the sagging ceiling.

  There’s a door straight ahead and Gary boots it open. Pushes Frank over the threshold and into hell.

  Oh Jesus. Jesus. Jesus …

  Hell is a grubby room, devoid of furniture, with scrawled graffiti on the peeling wallpaper. A broken Belfast sink and rusting old range cooker. Most of the ceiling’s caved in, leaving the roof beams exposed, all the way up to the roof above. But that’s not what makes it hell. Nor is it the pair of singing bastards – both of them heavyset and powerful. Both of them in kilts, hiking boots, and Scotland rugby tops. Both of them singing and laughing. Both of them reeking of whisky. Both of them swinging their torches around like it’s a disco.

  No, what makes it Hell is the man.

  The man hanging from the rope that’s been looped over a beam in the middle of the room. Face darkening as his legs kick and his body sways. Turning slow as a lump of doner meat in a kebab shop window.

  One of the kilts takes a swig from a bottle of Bell’s and roars in the man’s face. Spits in it. Grins. ‘No’ so bloody clever now, are we, Robert?’

  Gary gives Frank a push, sending him stumbling against the hanging man. ‘BOYS! LOOK WHO I FOUND!’

  A ragged cheer goes up from the kilts.

  The spitter turns his grin towards Frank, eyes big and dark like a shark about to bite. ‘Go-an yerself, wee man! ’Bout time!’

  His mate shakes a can of spray paint and graffitis a big red capital ‘J’ on the wall – the letter thick, paint dribbling down like fresh blood. Then a ‘U’.

  Gary reaches into his coat and pulls out a hammer. Dips his other hand in and produces a plastic bag that jingles and rattles as he bounces it in his palm.

  A ‘D’ joins the two spray-painted letters.

  ‘Hoy, Frank …’ Gary tosses the bag at him.

  It bounces off his chest and Frank has to scrabble to grab it before it hits the floor. The contents are jagged and rough. Sharp against his skin. He looks down at the bag.

  Oh Jesus.

  It’s full of nails. Each of them about as long as his little finger, with a big round flat head.

  A wink from Gary. ‘One at a time, eh?’

  Oh. Jesus.

  The whisky boils in his stomach, threatening to rush up his throat and spatter everywhere.

  He can’t do this. He can’t.

  But if he doesn’t, Gaelic Gary will kill him. You don’t wanna be roadkill, do you?

  He’s only sixteen.

  He doesn’t have a choice …

  So Frank swallows it down. Forces it to stay there with another swig of Grouse. Shudders. Hauls in a deep shaking breath. Then nods. Opens the packet.

  An ‘A’ gets sprayed on the wall as Frank fumbles one of the nails from the bag and holds it out. Tries his best to keep his hand steady.

  The final letter, ‘S’, makes the word complete.

  ‘Good boy.’ Gary takes the nail from him then turns to the man struggling at the end of the rope. The man who, up until ten o’clock this morning, had been a trusted member of the People’s Army for Scottish Liberation. The man whose last half hour on earth was going to involve a lot of screaming.

  Now

  Frank licked his lips and pulled his chin up an inch, but the blade in Mhari’s hand stayed right where it was. ‘I was there! I was … I helped, OK? I passed your dad the nails. Please don’t do this!’

  ‘How do I know you’re telling the truth?’

  ‘I’m on your side!’ Voice going up an octave, the words stumbling over each other just like they’d done all those years ago. ‘I am. I promise! I came here on my own, didn’t I? I didn’t tell anyone where you were. I’m on your side!’

  ‘Hmm …’ She took the knife from Frank’s throat.

  He was still alive.

  Oh thank you Jesus, thank you Jesus, thank you Jesus.

  Frank collapsed to his knees, both hands clutching his bleeding neck. Blinking tears and sweat from his eyes. ‘I can help you. We can help each other …’

  She stood over him, the knife glittering in the dim light. ‘Start talking.’

  41

  ‘No, but what I would call it is a complete and utter balls-up.’ Logan paced towards the cottage again, phone against his ear, sweat prickling between his shoulder blades.

  The Scene Examiners’ Transit was parked next to the one remaining patrol car, Steel’s dust-covered MX-5, and the duty undertaker’s discreet grey van – its rear doors lying wide open. Waiting.

  All they needed now was the Procurator Fiscal, Pathologist, and six tons of hostile media coverage to make today complete.

  Superintendent Bevan’s New Zealand accent was perfect for sounding incredulous. ‘And there’s no sign of him anywhere?’

  ‘I’ve got a lookout request on King and the car, the entire team’s going door-to-door in Cruden Bay, patrol cars out s
earching the roads …’ He made it as far as the living room window – where the SE team were clearly visible photographing and fingerprinting and sampling everything – turned around and paced towards the cliffs again. ‘I don’t know what else we can do.’

  ‘Logan, it’s DCI Hardie.’

  Oh great, Bevan had him on speakerphone.

  Logan made a silent wanking gesture. ‘Yes, Chief Inspector?’ You miserable useless git.

  ‘Are we saying this is connected to the revelations in today’s paper?’

  ‘No. Maybe. I doubt it.’ He stopped at the edge of the cliffs, where a line of blue-and-white tape cordoned off a path down through the gorse and broom to the beach below. Not that they’d get a lot of joy from the beach – the tide was nearly all the way in, stealing any footprints and trace evidence Mhari Powell would have left behind. Sunlight sparkling gold off the deep blue water. ‘Actually, you know what? Yes, it is. He’s out there taking risks because someone threatened his job this morning. Thin ice, treading water, sharks. Remember that?’

  Hardie cleared his throat. ‘Yes … Well … I’m sure there were faults on all sides.’ The defensive tone got replaced by something altogether more belligerent. ‘But if he’s got nothing to hide, why hasn’t he called in?’

  Moron.

  ‘How are we getting on with a warrant for his mobile phone’s location?’

  ‘Logan? It’s me again.’ Bevan. ‘They’re rushing it through now. But if he’s got his phone switched off …’

  Which, given that every time Logan called the thing it went straight through to voicemail, he probably had. Idiot. ‘I’m worried he’s caught up with Mhari Powell and she’s done the same thing to him that she did to her brother.’

  Hardie made a strange growling sound. ‘Well, if no one else is going to say the obvious conclusion, I will: what if he’s joined her?’

  Oh, that deserved another wanking gesture. ‘With all due respect—’

  ‘He was in a nationalist terrorist cell when he was younger, what’s to stop him being in an Alt-Nat one now?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Are you saying it’s impossible?’

  Oh for God’s sake.

  Logan sagged. Ran a hand over his face. ‘No. But why would he pick—’

  A new voice joined the call, clipped, tight, and far too loud. ‘We’ve got a press conference in fifteen minutes, what exactly am I supposed to tell them?’

  Logan held the phone away from his head, so she wouldn’t hear him groan. Then forced a smile into his voice: ‘Jane. Didn’t know you were there.’

  ‘The media are already ripping our backside wide open with this one, can you imagine what they’re going to shove up it when we tell them that A: we still have no clue who Mhari Powell actually is. B: she’s killed her brother, Haiden Lochhead, who, by the way, we told everyone was the criminal mastermind here.’ Jane got even louder, till she was almost shouting. ‘And C: DI King, who’s all over the papers as a former bloody terrorist, might have run away to join forces with MHARI SODDING POWELL!’ A small scream of rage belted down the phone. ‘Did I miss anything out, in this cavalcade of cocking disasters?’

  ‘Yes.’ Logan pulled his shoulders back. ‘That I’m an inspector with Professional Standards and I don’t take kindly to people yelling at me!’

  Bevan stepped in again. ‘All right, all right. Things are a bit heated right now, but let’s take a deep breath and remember we’re on the same team here. All right?’

  No one said anything.

  ‘All right.’

  He turned away from the cliffs and started towards the cottage again. ‘You can’t tell them King’s joined forces with Mhari Powell. Superintendent Bevan?’

  ‘Logan’s right.’ She could’ve put a bit more conviction in her voice, but at least she was on his side. ‘There’s no proof the Detective Inspector’s done anything of the sort.’

  Jane groaned. ‘It’s a lovely thought, Superintendent, but trust me: that’s not how the media works. This isn’t about proof, it’s about perception. If we try to spin this like he’s a hero and it turns out he’s run off to join his terrorist mates, the media will crucify us.’

  ‘So don’t tell them anything.’

  ‘Then, when it comes out, they’ll crucify us for trying to cover it up!’

  Well, there was no point arguing with Jane – Media Liaison Officers were like bulldogs, only less flexible – maybe Superintendent Bevan could be the voice of reason? Worth a go, anyway.

  ‘Boss? You’re the senior officer here.’

  ‘We can’t lie to the press, Logan. And we can’t lie by omission either.’ A sigh. ‘Besides, if you’re swamping Cruden Bay with officers flashing DI King’s photo, someone’s going to connect the dots.’

  ‘Probably all over social media as we … Yup. Here, look at this.’ Scrunching noises came from Jane’s end. ‘Look at it!’

  Then a grunt from Hardie. ‘Oh sodding hell. That’s all we need.’

  ‘Now we have to make a statement.’ Jane’s voice got louder, as if she was looming over the speakerphone. ‘You listen to me, Inspector McRae: you – need – to – find – him. OK? You need to find him now, before this utter cluster-wanking disaster gets any worse!’

  ‘I’m doing my best.’ He hung up, stuffed his phone away. Shook his head.

  Oh, it was easy shouting the odds and making demands from the safety of Divisional Headquarters, wasn’t it? Didn’t see any of them out here trying to actually make a bloody difference.

  The duty undertakers emerged from the cottage, carrying a silver-grey plastic coffin. Looked heavy.

  What the hell did everyone expect him to do: magic a result out of thin air? ‘Izzy Wizzy, Let’s Get Busy!’ wasn’t going to cut it this time.

  Sodding DI Sodding Frank Sodding King. Why did he have to go make everything worse?

  The duty undertakers levered the coffin into their van and clunked the doors shut. Goodbye Haiden Lochhead.

  Come on, Logan. Finger out. Let’s go find DI King.

  And kick his backside for him.

  Hard.

  Steel leaned back and draped her elbows over the metal handrail, face turned to the setting sun. Basking in all her wrinkly glory. E-cigarette poking out the side of her mouth, making thin plumes of fruity fog. Pineapple, going by the smell.

  Logan scowled down at the river below, where it disappeared under the bridge, its summer-drought level augmented by the high tide. ‘They still there?’

  ‘Hud oan, I’ll check.’ She tutted a couple of times. ‘So far we’ve got about two dozen journos, five camera crews, and five outside broadcast vans too.’ Another puff of pineapple vapour. ‘I stand corrected – six, outside broadcast vans. That’s Sky News turned up.’

  ‘Great.’ Logan banged his hand on the railing, setting it ringing like a miserable bell. ‘How could he just disappear?’

  Steel shifted, turning so she was next to him, facing the coast. ‘Longest day of the year, today.’

  ‘Bloody feels like it.’

  ‘Oh, no, wait, that was yesterday. It’s Friday today?’

  Logan straightened up. Risked a glance across the river at the Kilmarnock Arms Hotel, with its besieging horde of the nation’s press. ‘If he’s lying dead in a ditch somewhere …’

  A pineapple-scented sigh. ‘Look, there’s bugger-all we can do the now, right? Till we find Kingy, or your car, we might as well go grab a bite to eat. I’m starving, are you starving? I’m starving.’ She pushed away from the railings and wandered off, in the opposite direction to the cameras. ‘Starving, starving, starving.’

  How could she even think about food right now?

  What if they couldn’t find King? What if Mhari had him? What if—

  ‘HOY, LAZ: FINGER OUT, EH?’

  Logan scrunched up his face. Nodded. Then followed her.

  The sky deepened overhead, fading to a heady purple at the horizon. Stars twinkling away out to sea. No sign of the sun, from here
– it was hidden behind the old-fashioned Scottish houses that lined the easternmost edge of Boddam – but its light still painted that side of the heavens with pale blue and gold.

  ‘Come on, Laz, eat up.’ Steel stuffed a chunk of battered haddock in her gob and worried at it. ‘Had to pull strings to get you that. Chippy was meant to be shut.’

  She’d parked her MX-5 next to a sandstone shed thing that had a slate roof, a Scottish Water Authority sign, and a view out over the wee bridge to a cheery red-and-white salt-shaker of a lighthouse, gilded and glowing in the setting sun.

  Logan picked at a pale-yellow chip. ‘Not really hungry.’

  ‘Fish supper, pickled onions, tin of Irn-Bru, and a Mars Bar for dessert – all of which I’m claiming on expenses, by the way.’ She popped a chip of her own, chewing with her mouth open. ‘Besides, it’s a beautiful evening. What’s no’ to love?’

  ‘How about the fact that our colleague might be dead?’

  A sigh. ‘You’ve got to compartmentalise, Laz. If you’re full-on, weight-of-the-world, bleeding-heart, troubled-cop-tastic the whole time, all you’re gonna get is ulcers, depression, and an early slot at the crematorium. There’s nothing we can do right now.’ Another chunk of fish disappeared. ‘Might as well keep your strength up.’

  ‘Not the point.’ He scowled down at his congealing fish. ‘And you can’t claim this on expenses – I paid for it.’

  ‘Kingy will be fine. Stop wetting yourself: he’s a big boy. He was in the People’s Army for Scottish Liberation, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah, but—’

  ‘There you go, then. Mhari Powell’s no’ going to hurt one of her own, is she?’

  Logan stared at Steel as she gnawed lumps out of a pickled onion. ‘Mhari Powell literally stabbed her brother in the back.’

  Steel frowned. ‘Ah. There is that.’ A shrug. ‘Now shut up. You’re putting me off my chips.’

  Steel stamped on the brakes and hauled her MX-5 off the main road and into a potholed car park. It wasn’t huge: only a dozen spaces, each one marked out by logs. A lone patrol car sat sideways across the far corner, blocking the track that led away across the landscape to Slains Castle.