Читать книгу All That’s Dead - Stuart MacBride - Страница 18

Something horrible and tinny blared out of the clock radio, followed by, ‘Goooooood Morning Aberdeeeeeeen! It’s six o’clock – I know, I know – and you’re listening to OMG it’s Early!, with me, Rachel Gray.’

Urgh …

Logan peeled his eyes open and blinked at the ceiling. The curtains were shut, but bright-white light glowed around the edges, as if the aliens had come to abduct everyone.

‘We’ve got a great show for you this sunny June morning. So wakey, wakey, hands off snakey, it’s time to rock!’

‘Noooo!’ Tara’s hand appeared from beneath the duvet and bashed him on the head. Voice a pained mumble, ‘Make it stop! Make it stop!’

He fumbled with the controls. ‘Gnnn …’

‘Here’s the Foo Fighters with “Learning to Fly”, fight that Foo, guys, we can’t—’

Silence.

Tara grumbled, turned over – taking a good quantity of the duvet with her – and said something very unladylike.

Logan lay there grimacing. Six in the morning. Who got up at six in the morning? Then he sighed, rolled out of bed, and slouched his way through to the shower.

Sod this for a game of soldiers …

Light spilled in through the kitchen windows, making the tabletop glow as Cthulhu sat in the middle of it washing her bum.

Logan stuck the slice of toast in his mouth, holding it there with his teeth as he ripped open a sachet of chicken-and-liver and schloched it into the bumwasher’s favourite bowl. It lay there, in a jellied slab, like some foul internal organ. He put it next to her biscuits and dipped into the fridge for the big Tupperware box of barbecued sausages and the smaller one of leftover fried onions. Chewed on his toast as he carried both out into the hall and dumped them by the front door.

No chance of forgetting them there.

Brushed toast crumbs off his black Police Scotland T-shirt.

Yawned.

Slumped.

Mornings used to be a lot easier.

He fastened his inspector’s epaulettes and stared up the stairs, listening for signs of life.

Nothing. Because they were all still asleep. Because none of them needed to be at work by seven. Jammy buggers.

‘God, I miss being off on the sick …’

He tucked his box o’sausages under one arm, balanced the onions on top and bumbled his way out the front door, into the searing bright morning. The day had barely started and it was already far too hot. Like living in a deep-fat fryer. God knew what it’d be like by lunchtime.

He plipped the locks on his Audi and hurried down the steps.

Froze.

Sod.

Hurried inside again and grabbed his peaked cap off its hook at the bottom of the stairs.

Checked his watch: six thirty-seven.

‘Gah!’

No doubt about it: whoever invented mornings was a sadist.

It wasn’t easy, limping his way up the Bucksburn station stairs, a waxed-paper cup of scalding coffee in one hand, the big box of sausages – topped with the container of onions and his flat cap – in the other. But he hadn’t dropped anything yet.

He was halfway up when Shona burst out of the PSD office, stomping her way down towards him, face flushed and creased, teeth bared. Deep wrinkles slashed their way across her forehead, barely concealed by a sweaty brown fringe. Mid-forties, going on homicidal.

He tried his best cheery voice, ‘Happy birthday, Shona!’

She didn’t stop. ‘Bloody printer hates me!’

‘Oh fine, fine. Thanks for asking. You?’

Shona stomped past him, the muscles bulging in her clenched jaw as she forced the words out, ‘You lot better have chipped together and bought me a sledgehammer! Cos when I get back, that printer’s dead! DEAD!’

He stayed where he was as she growled her way down to the bottom and away through the double doors.

‘Yup. Great to be back.’ Logan limped up to the top and pushed through into the main office.

It wasn’t as busy as yesterday – most of the desks were unpersoned – but Shona’s was really easy to spot. Mylar balloons bobbed in the air above it, streamers hung in rainbow-coloured drapes all over the cubicle walls, a big banner with “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!” pinned to the wall.

Subtle.

Logan nodded to a couple of officers in the process of logging on to their computers as he made his way across to his desk. Or at least, it used to be his desk. Someone had colonised it with Lord of the Rings stuff – posters and film stills on every available vertical surface, an ‘Eye of Sauron’ mug, and a tableau of action figures Blu-Tacked in place on top of the monitor: Gandalf and Frodo facing off against Saruman, an Orc, and, for some unknowable reason, Postman Pat.

He stared at the Tolkien shrine. ‘What happened to all my Gary Larsons?’

Probably went in the bin the day after they signed him off on the sick. Insensitive bunch of bastards.

Logan dumped his sausage collection on the desk, adjusted his seat, and powered up his crummy old police computer. Might as well do a bit of digging on—

‘Is Tufty!’

He swivelled his office chair around and there was Tufty, hurrying across the office towards him: eyes wide and twitchy, bags underneath them, a laptop clasped to his chest and a tin of Red Bull in his other hand. Talking much faster than any normal person ought to.

‘Boss, Guv, Sarge! Sarge, Sarge, Sarge, Sarge …’

OK.

‘I’ve been an inspector for two years, you half-baked spud. And shouldn’t you be off interviewing academics?’

‘Too early. Too early. They don’t start till nine and it’s only five to seven and I’ve been up all night and is that coffee?’ He squirrelled his way over to Logan’s desk and stood there, vibrating. A weird grin on his face as he stared at Logan’s latte.

‘How much Red Bull have you had?’

‘Been up all night working on the social media side of things, because I can do that in my spare time, right? Just cos I can’t do it in work time doesn’t mean I can’t do it when it’s home time, so I did it at home. Yes indeedy. Home, home, home, home, home.’ He put his laptop on top of Logan’s sausages and cracked open the Red Bull.

‘No, seriously, you need to stop drinking that stuff.’

‘But I has a success!’ The grin got even more manic. ‘There’s a dark web, lurking below the surface if you know where to look. I did run an algorithm on the first tweet about Professor Wilson and tracked the language usage across a selection of Alt-Nat accounts: Twitter, Facebook, Messageboards. FourChan, ThreeChan, TwoChan, OneChan, we have liftoff!’

‘Right.’ Logan took the tin of Red Bull from Tufty’s hand. ‘This is for your own good.’

‘But see, I did find the same person running multiple accounts!’

‘So you know who they are?’

‘Ah … Not yet. It’s always anonymous usernames and fakeity pseudonyms, and I don’t have enough resources to run through all the social media accounts that aren’t Alt-Naty so I can’t find linguistic markers in the outside real world cos that’ll take a lot of very big computers and all I’ve got’s a laptop and can I have my Red Bull back?’ Reaching for it.

‘Definitely not. You’re wired enough as it—’

‘Course if they’ve geotagged their posts I could use that to cross-reference their location with the nearest cell-towers and did you know you only need four tagged posts to identify an anonymous account with ninety-five percent accuracy?’

‘Great! So, get online and—’

‘You’d have to access the customer dataset of every mobile-phone company in the UK to do it, but you could maybe get a warrant …’ Tufty stuck his bottom lip out, showing off his teeth in some sort of weird bulldog impersonation. ‘Ooh! Or I could try hacking in and—’

‘No! No hacking things!’

He sagged, going from bulldog to dewy-eyed puppy. ‘But Saaa-arge!’

Logan stood and hooked a finger at him. ‘Follow me, Caffeine Boy.’ Marching across the open-plan office with Tufty scampering alongside – laptop clasped to his chest again.

‘Not Caffeine Boy. Caffeine Boy’s a sidekick’s name, I’m … SUPERTUFTY!’

Everyone turned to watch as he did the pose in the middle of the room.

‘Fighting crime, one bad guy at a time!’ Shadowboxing, one-handed. ‘Biff! Pow! Kerrrunk!’

Yeah, there was no way Tufty was ever making sergeant. The top brass had a strict no-weirdos policy. Mind you, Karl had made it all the way to Inspector, so maybe it was more of a guideline?

Logan knocked on Karl’s door, not waiting for an answer before opening it and ushering Supertufty inside.

Karl was perched on his mushroom again, wearing a pair of big magnifying spectacles that made him look like a character in a sci-fi film. ‘Well, well, who’s this invading my sanctuary at this early hour? Hmmmmm?’

‘Oooh …’ Tufty stared at the collected computer kit in its racks and boxes. ‘Cool!’

Logan thumped a hand down on his shoulder. ‘Tufty, this is Inspector Montgomery. Karl, this is Constable Quirrel. He’s weird, but harmless, so you’ve got a lot in common.’

A wave from Tufty. ‘Hello, Boss. Or do you like “Guv” better? We can stick with “Inspector”, if that works? Ooh, Ooh, or how about, “Maz Kanata”?’

Karl peered at him over the top of his big glasses. ‘I have no idea who that is.’

‘It’s this really, really wise old character from Star Wars: The Force—’

Logan hit him.

‘Ow!’

Idiot.

‘Tufty’s been looking into the Professor Wilson social-media thing, and he’s found something, haven’t you, Tufty?’

‘I have, Tufty.’

‘Intriguing.’ Karl patted the worktop beside him. ‘Pull up a stool, kind Sir Tufty, and let us break bread. Well, we can share a Tunnock’s teacake, but symbolically it’s the same thing.’

‘Aye, aye, Inspector!’

Logan shook his head. ‘Don’t let him have any more caffeine. And if you need to put him down for a nap, do it somewhere no one’s going to fall over him.’

Tufty hopped up onto a spare stool and beamed at Karl. ‘Have you heard about using geotagged posts to identify anonymous accounts from mobile-phone-cell-tower records?’

Light the geek touchpaper and stand well back.

Logan reversed from the room. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ Closed the door. ‘God, imagine what would happen if they bred …’

A shudder.

Some things were too horrible to contemplate.

Ah well, back to work.

He’d nearly made it as far as his desk, when the main doors opened and someone backed in, arms full: Rennie, getting a bit on the chunky side, with a deep tan and bleached blond hair waxed into spiky curls.

Rennie turned, slow and careful. A big box of doughnuts acted as a tray, heaped up with tinfoil parcels and greasy paper bags and two of those cardboard things designed for carrying six take-out coffees at one time.

Logan nodded at the vast collection. ‘On a diet again?’

‘And I got you a Poseidon’s Surprise too, you ungrateful spudge.’

What the hell was a Poseidon’s Surprise?

Rennie winked at him. ‘How did you enjoy getting up at a proper time this morning? Bit of a strain after twelve months off?’

‘Like riding a bike. Barely even noticed the difference.’

Liar.

‘Aye, right.’ Rennie raised his burden an inch, then lowered it again. ‘Little help?’

Logan unloaded the tinfoil packages, bags, and hot drinks onto the nearest vacant desk. ‘Do me a favour and call DI King. Tell him I’ve commandeered Tufty for the morning. I don’t know if the silly wee sod’s even checked in for work yet.’

‘Tsk …’ Rennie sighed. ‘That’s what you get for recruiting an inferior sidekick. Look what happened last time you were lumbered with that eejit!’ He thumbed himself in the chest. ‘Sergeant Simon Rennie: shaves as close as a blade or your money back.’

‘Maybe, but Bevan won’t let you out to play till you’ve finished all your homework.’

‘Then, the dream team shall ride again!’ He put the box of doughnuts down, picked up a tinfoil package and tossed it to Logan. ‘Exit left, pursued by a bear.’ Rennie grabbed a tinfoil parcel of his own and headed for his desk.

‘Rennie! Where’s the—’

‘On Shona’s desk.’ He threw himself into his seat, unwrapped his breakfast with one hand and grabbed his desk phone with the other, ripping out a bite and dialling as he chewed. ‘Yellow? Yeah, I need to speak to Detective Inspector King.’

Logan paid Shona’s Happy Birthday Grotto a visit. Nodded at the streamers, banners, and balloons. A DIY poster with ‘YOU’RE 46 TODAY!!!’ on it in cheerful chunky letters. ‘Nice to see they kept it classy and low-key.’

All he got in response was a grunt. She didn’t even look up from her copy of that morning’s Scottish Daily Post. An army of squeezy bottles stood to attention beside her monitor: tomato sauce, brown sauce, fluorescent-yellow American mustard, sweet chilli, mayonnaise, barbecue – both smoky and sweet – and a thing of salad cream for the more sophisticated palate.

Rennie’s voice floated across the room. ‘Hello, DI King? … Hi, it’s Sergeant Rennie from Professional Standards … No, no. Nothing’s wrong.’

Another grunt from Shona.

Logan rolled his eyes. ‘Why yes, it is lovely to be back at work, thank you for asking.’

She sighed, then glanced up from her article. ‘You’re feeling better then?’

‘Not at this time of the sodding morning, I’m not.’ He unwrapped his parcel. ‘Ooh, fish finger butty!’ That called for a celebration, so he slathered it in a mixture of salad cream and tomato sauce, then took a bite. Crunchy and fishy and sweet and savoury all at the same time. Munching around the words, ‘Well? How bad is it?’

‘Being forty-six? Awful. I used to be a svelte young thing, Logan, pursued by the sexiest of gentlemen, I went on fabulous holidays and ate in the finest restaurants. And now look at me: it’s a red-letter day if I can get that sodding LaserJet to print double-sided.’

‘No, not being forty-six: DI King. In the paper. How bad is it?’

She frowned at him. ‘Nope, still not getting you.’

‘Front-page splash. You need glasses, Shona, your advanced age is clearly …’

She turned the paper around, so Logan could see the front page. Half of it was devoted to another anti-English arson attack – this time a bike shop in Aviemore – the other half to ‘STRICTLY STARLET’S “BOOZE-AND-DRUGS BINGE HORROR”’. Apparently Professor Wilson’s abduction only merited a tiny sidebar and ‘CONTINUED ON PAGE 7 ’.

‘Oh.’

Shona gave the paper a bash with the back of her hand. ‘What there is, however, is yet another column by everyone’s favourite D-list celebrity nobody, Scotty Meyrick, telling us how Scotland’s a bunch of ungrateful scumbags for not appreciating the benevolence of our Westminster overlords. What a great birthday present that was.’

Logan gave his butty another seeing to. ‘You going to send him a thank-you card?’

‘God save us from bloody “celebs” telling us what to think. Someone eats a kangaroo’s ring-piece on TV and suddenly they’re a political pundit?’

‘Can I have that when you’re finished with it?’

‘Urgh …’ She held the paper out. ‘Here, take the thing. My blood pressure’s bad enough what with birthdays and that buggering printer to deal with.’

‘Thanks.’ Logan tucked it under his arm and headed back to his desk, finishing his butty as he flicked through what passed for news at the Scottish Daily Post. Apparently, unless something happened within an hour of Edinburgh or Glasgow, it really wasn’t worth reporting.

The only exception lurked on page seven. For some reason, Edward Barwell hadn’t named-and-shamed DI King as an ex-Alt-Nat terrorist, instead he’d spent half a page banging on about Professor Wilson’s abduction and how it was undoubtedly connected to someone called Matt Lansdale going missing.

Matt Lansdale …

That journalist at yesterday’s press conference had called Lansdale a high-profile anti-independence campaigner, but other than that? Never heard of him. And clearly everyone was expected to know who he was, because there was sod all detail about that in the article.

Should probably try to find out, just in case it was related.

Logan frowned at the article again, with its accompanying photo of Professor Wilson and ‘ALT-NAT THUGS TARGET BETTER-TOGETHER HEROES’ headline. Why hadn’t Barwell outed DI King? It was a juicy story – bound to shift a few papers and stir up a whole heap of controversy – so why bury it?

Rennie slouched across the room and perched on the edge of Logan’s desk. ‘You’ll be happy to hear that I’ve got young Tufters off the hook. And you were right: the silly wee sod hadn’t signed in this morning.’

‘Thought not.’ Logan sooked the tomato sauce and salad cream from his fingers. ‘You ever heard of a “Matt Lansdale”?’

‘Oh, and King says to tell you the SE have been on the phone. No viable DNA at the scene. Said to say, “They were right, the guy’s a ghost.”’

A ghost.

Logan frowned out the window. The rush hour was gearing up, but still a good half hour away from clotting like a fat-filled artery. A bus rumbled past.

‘Guv?’

Their guy was a ghost …

Two cars. A taxi.

‘Guv, you’re not having a stroke or something, are you?’

A Transit van with ‘THE TEENY BEETROOT BAKERY CO. LTD.’ down the side in cheery letters.

‘Hello?’

A ghost.

Soodding hell.

Logan turned back to Rennie. ‘He was wearing a Tyvek suit! That’s why Professor Wilson’s dog went for the Scene Examiners: they were wearing the same SOC kit.’

Rennie puckered his face. ‘Oooh … You know, after the BBC did that big documentary about the scumbags who abducted Alison and Jenny McGregor, it’s a miracle more criminals don’t do it. See if it was me?’

‘No wonder he didn’t leave any forensic traces.’ Logan poked at his keyboard, calling up the Police National Computer to run a search on Matt Lansdale.

‘He’s all dressed in white, he’s a ghost … Maybe we should call our abductor “Casper”?’

‘Only not so friendly. You didn’t see the blood spattered across the kitchen table.’ Logan’s search results popped up on the screen. Well, result singular, because only one entry came back: ‘REPORTED MISSING’ and last Wednesday’s date. Nothing else. ‘OK, back to the topic at hand: Matt Lansdale?’

‘Was he a finalist on X Factor?’

Logan tossed the paper over. ‘Journos are implying his disappearance is connected to Prof Wilson’s. All I’m getting on the PNC is that he’s missing.’

‘Pfffff …’ Rennie frowned at Edward Barwell’s article. ‘Can find out, if you like?’

‘Ta.’

‘And while we’re on the subject: you’ll never guess what I’ve managed to organise for Saturday. Go on, guess. You can’t, but try.’ Wiggling both eyebrows. ‘OK, OK, get this: Princess Unicorn’s Magic Bouncy Castle! How cool is that?’

Logan wheeled his chair back a bit, putting a little more distance between them. ‘Erm …’

‘And Mistress Fizzymiggins is doing a make-your-own-magic-wand-and-fairy-wings thing. And there’s going to be a pony!’

A pony? Why would there be a …

‘Ah, right: Lola’s birthday party!’

‘Donna’s even written a special song for her little sister that doesn’t include the words “Bumface Brain”. Can you help out with the Fairyland pony rides?’

‘Actually—’

‘Great. Right, I’ll go see what I can dig up about Matt Lansdale.’ He sauntered off towards the main doors, taking the Scottish Daily Post with him. ‘And don’t forget, it’s BYOT!’

BYOT?

Logan curled his lip. ‘What the hell is BYOT?’

But the doors thunked shut and Rennie was gone.

The man was a menace.

Logan stood to follow him … and stopped as Superintendent Bevan emerged from her office, holding a blue folder.

She gave him a smile. ‘Ah, Logan. Good.’ Then peered past him, at the desk. ‘Oh, are those your sausages? Lovely.’ Bevan marched over and picked up the Tupperware box. ‘We’ll pop these in the fridge, then you can come join me in the conference room.’

Why did that sound as if something horrible was about to happen?