Читать книгу All That’s Dead - Stuart MacBride - Страница 19

Logan shifted in his squeaky leather seat. ‘I don’t know what else you want me to say.’

Detective Superintendent Young frowned back at him from the oversized TV screen mounted on the far wall. To be honest, Young was a bit intimidating in person – being a rugby-player-sized lump with big meaty fists covered in scars. Throw in the small dark squinty eyes and he looked like the kind of person who’d tear your head off for spilling his pint or looking at him funny, and being on screen didn’t really diminish that.

Jane McGrath was sitting next to him, in the boardroom at DHQ, as immaculate as ever, as if she’d been moulded from plastic. The only thing out of place was the expression on her face: as if she really wanted to scrape whatever she’d just stood in off her shoe.

Young picked up his printout of the Scottish Daily Post’s front page, or at least the one that was meant to appear today, but hadn’t. ‘Was he in a terrorist organisation, or not?’

Logan shrugged. ‘He went to a few PASL meetings.’

Jane stared at the ceiling for a beat. ‘God damn it.’ Then sat back in her seat. ‘Well, that’s that, then, isn’t it? We’re screwed: he’s got to go.’

‘Now,’ Superintendent Bevan pulled on a serious schoolteacher voice, the authority undermined a teeny bit by her Kiwi accent, ‘before we do anything rash, perhaps we should take a step back and think about this dispassionately.’

‘“Dispassionately”?’ Jane shook her head. ‘It’s a PR disaster. Forget “Fingerprintgate” or “Sex-In-The-Woods-gate”, every major news outlet will be lining up to jam spiky things up our backsides! Great big spiky—’

Young hit her with his printout. ‘All right, Jane, we get the picture.’

‘I’m talking pineapples here!’

Bevan tried the voice again. ‘That’s no reason to indulge in knee-jerk reactions.’

‘Jane’s right, Julie.’ Young held up a hand. ‘I know, I know. But DI King has become a liability. He’s a diseased limb: we have to amputate before the infection spreads and takes the whole body with it.’

‘Who’s to say a judicious dose of antibiotics couldn’t work every bit as well?’

She had a point.

Logan joined in, going for calm and reasonable: ‘DI King says he only joined the PASL to impress a girl.’

‘Hmph.’ Jane curled her lip. ‘We’ve all done strange things for love, but you should really draw the line at joining a terrorist cell. How am I supposed to spin that?’

‘He was sixteen.’

‘He was an idiot!’

‘Most sixteen-year-old boys are.’

Bevan nodded. ‘All I’m saying is that if we throw DI King to the crocodiles because he was a horny teenager, that’s it for him. The press will tear him apart. No more career. Even if he changes divisions – they’ll find him and drag it all up again.’

‘They’re going to tear him apart anyway. We got lucky today: the Scottish Daily Post bumped their exclusive, but they’re going to print it sooner or later, and when they do …’ She banged a hand down on the table. ‘This is our chance to get ahead of the story and act like we’re on the front foot for a change.’

‘But—’

Jane turned to Young. ‘Suspend him now, and it’ll look like the Post are reacting to our diligent man management. We won’t put up with this kind of thing, etc.’

‘That’s not—’

Young held up his hand again. ‘What’s the point of having a Professional Standards if we can’t use them to hack a festering limb off and cauterise the wound?’ He waved the printout at them. ‘My department’s not coming down with gangrene!’

Logan sucked a breath in through his teeth. ‘Seems a little harsh.’

‘Or, alternatively,’ Bevan pursed her lips, frowning, ‘and hear me out here: we could take a different route. What if we do full disclosure? Lay it all out for them in a frank and open interview with DI King. “How I stopped being a bigoted tosspot and learned to love the English.”’

On the screen, Jane narrowed her eyes. ‘I’m listening.’

‘We’re always telling people how racism and homophobia and sectarianism and anti-Semitism and Islamophobia are wrong, yes? Surely, if people are prepared to change we should celebrate that, not keep kicking them because they used to be racist. Celebrate that change.’

There was silence and frowning.

Then Young turned to Jane. ‘Well?’

‘Hmmm … I might be able to sell that, but we’ll need some insulation in case it all goes tits up. Something to stop our fingers getting burned.’

‘Agreed. If DI King can catch whoever abducted Professor Wilson, it’ll vindicate NE Division for keeping him on the case. Even better if he can get the Professor back alive.’ A nod, then a scowl. ‘But if he can’t, we look negligent for not suspending him. And I, for one, am not bending over for a pineappleing.’

Jane bit her top lip for a moment, staring off into the middle distance. ‘How about this: we put someone in to “support” him? That way, if he fails, we’ve at least got plausible deniability.’

Ah the joys of Police Scotland politics. Setting some poor sod up to take the blame if it all went wrong – but the top brass would grab the glory if it all went right. Nothing ever changed.

Logan shook his head. ‘And who’s going to be the lucky scapegoat?’

The smile Jane gave him was half crocodile, half serial killer. ‘Well, who better than someone from Professional Standards? That would show we’re serious about it.’

Bevan stiffened in her seat. ‘Ah … Perhaps that’s not—’

‘And who better than a bona-fide police hero? Someone with a Queen’s Medal?’

What?

Logan stared at her. ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa! Wait a minute: I only got back to work yesterday!’

‘I like it.’ Young nodded. ‘Yes. McRae brings a lot of press goodwill with him.’

‘But—’

‘This way, if DI King turns out to still be a … what was it, “bigoted tosspot”? You can yank him off the case, Logan. And if he’s not, but he fails anyway, you can vouch that he’s really tried his best.’

Not a chance in hell.

Logan turned to Bevan, eyes wide.

Come on, say something. Tell them!

She took a deep breath. ‘Agreed.’

Agreed?

‘No, not agreed. I’m not—’

‘Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a Tulliallan Goon Squad descending in twenty minutes to moan about these arson attacks.’ Young stood, his top half disappearing off the TV. ‘Keep me informed.’

‘Bye.’ Jane’s evil smile widened a couple of inches as she pointed a remote at the camera. Then the screen went blank, leaving Logan and Bevan alone in the room.

He got to his feet. ‘Well thank you very much.’

‘Oh come on, Logan, don’t be like that. You were happy enough keeping an eye on DI King yesterday.’

‘“A watching brief”, you said!’ Throwing his hands out. ‘This isn’t even vaguely the same thing.’

‘Logan, you’re—’

‘You hung me out like a pair of damp socks!’

A sigh. ‘I’m sure it won’t be as bad as—’

‘I only got back to work yesterday and you’ve got me set up as the scapegoat’s scapegoat!’

Bevan went very still. ‘Logan, I know we’ve not worked together before, so I’m going to pretend you didn’t just talk to your superintendent like that. I appreciate things haven’t exactly been easy for you over the last year, but there’s only so far I’m willing to bend. Are we clear?’

Oh great, so now it was his fault?

Bloody, buggering …

He gritted his teeth. ‘Yes, Boss.’

‘There we go. All forgiven and forgotten.’ She stood and clapped her hands. ‘Now, why don’t we go sing “Happy Birthday” to Shona, cut the cake, then you can go support DI King. I’m sure he’ll be glad of the help.’

There was something slightly surreal about a group of twenty officers, all standing about in their Police Scotland black uniforms, singing ‘Happy Birthday’ while wearing gaily-coloured party hats. Pointy ones. As if this was some sort of celebration for ninja gnomes.

As the last note warbled away in questionable three-part harmony, a pink-faced Shona hauled in a breath and blew out the candles on her cake. Everyone cheered. Then a handful of them produced party poppers and set them off, draping her with streamers.

Bevan smiled at them all. ‘All right, all right. You can have a lot of fun without being stupid.’

Speaking of which …

Logan sidled over to Tufty and Karl – both of whom were wearing their party hats at very rakish angles – while Shona cut the cake.

‘Have you pair managed to find anything?’

A pout from Tufty. ‘Karl won’t let me have any more Red Bulls.’

Karl bared his teeth in a big broad smile. ‘I have to say, Logan, your young friend here is quite the kid who whizzes, oh my, yes.’ He gave Tufty a wee playful punch on the shoulder. ‘But I’m afraid we’ve hit an impasse. Brave Sir Tufty’s algorithmic methodology is inspired, but without more computing power, it’s like trying to push a ten-tonne blancmange uphill wearing nothing but flip-flops and an amusing hat.’ He raised his to the height of its elastic, then let go so it pinged back down again.

‘Cake?’ Superintendent Bevan appeared, bearing three paper plates with slabs of yellowy sponge on them. She handed one to Karl. ‘Here we go.’

‘Ooh, my! Is this the sainted cake of lemon drizzle I see before me?’ He helped himself to a mouthful, chewing with his eyes closed. ‘Divine!’

She gave one to Logan and the other to Tufty. ‘Birthday lunch at one o’clock. Logan’s brought enough sausages to feed a battalion.’

Karl slapped him on the back. ‘Good man.’

Bevan wandered off to distribute more slices and Tufty filled his gob, getting crumbs all down himself, mumbling through his mouthful. ‘If we had access to a bunch of high-powered servers we might be able to do something about it.’

‘But, alas, we are deficient in that kind of kit. So I’m afraid we’re done.’

Ah well, it’d been worth a try.

Logan took a bite of cake – sharp and sweet and bursting with lemon. ‘So if I could find you someone with a bunch of dirty big computers, you’d be able to track down whoever sent that first tweet?’

A shrug from Karl. ‘Possibly.’

A cakey grin from Tufty. ‘Definitely!’

‘Well,’ another shrug, ‘we’d stand a much better chance, anyway.’

Logan polished off the last of his cake. ‘Then I know just the person.’

Tufty cracked a yawn that made his head look like an open pedal bin, then shuddered and burped in the passenger seat of Logan’s Audi. Smacking his lips as he settled back again. Another yawn.

Logan took one hand off the steering wheel to give Rip Van Tufty a thump on the arm. ‘If you start snoring and farting, I’m throwing you out of the car.’

Aberdeen slid past the Audi’s windows, the traffic thickening along the bypass like clumps of fat in a swollen artery.

Another yawn from the passenger seat. ‘Tufty needs caffeine.’

‘Well, what did you expect, staying up on a school night? You knew you had work today.’

‘But I was beavering for the greater good!’

‘Lucky Rennie covered for you, otherwise you’d be up for a spanking, you silly wee—’ Logan’s phone vibrated in his pocket, then the car’s hands-free system got hold of the call, flashing ‘SUPT. BEVAN’ on the central display and blasting his generic ringtone out of the speakers. On, and on, and on, and on.

Tufty reached for the display. ‘Aren’t you going to—’

Logan slapped his hand away. ‘No.’

‘Oh.’ He pulled on a sappy look. ‘She does make a lovely lemony drizzle cake, though.’

Traffic was backed up around the next exit, giving everyone plenty of time to stare down into other people’s gardens. Logan changed lanes, bypassing the bypass’s vehicular clot.

Tufty puffed out his cheeks. ‘Saaa-aaarge? You know there’s all this controversy surrounding—’

‘If this is about loop quantum gravity again, I swear to God I’m going to pull this car over and stuff you in the boot.’

‘Ooh, I do like a bit of loop quantum gravity, but no, it’s like, you know all this stuff going on with Alt-Nats hating Unionists? Well, this guy on the BBC website was blatant racism, yeah? But the English aren’t a different race, are they?’

‘I should’ve taken Karl with me. At least he’s fractionally less annoying.’

‘No, but listen,’ Tufty turned in his seat, bleary little eyes all shiny and dark, ‘you can’t tell someone’s English by looking at them, can you? And what does being English even mean? Rennie says Berwick-upon-Tweed used to be part of Scotland, right? So if you were born there on the twenty-third of August 1482 you were Scottish, but if you were born on the twenty-fourth you were English, but you’d still be the same person, wouldn’t you?’

Logan groaned. ‘I’ve changed my mind: go to sleep. I don’t care if there’s snoring and—’

His phone burrrrrrred again, but this time it was ‘IDIOT RENNIE’ that appeared on the dashboard display as ‘If I Only Had a Brain’ from The Wizard of Oz burst out of the speakers. Well, tough: he wasn’t getting answered either.

‘So it can’t be racist to hate the English, it’s nothing more than good old-fashioned Scottish bigotry. Like when Rangers and Celtic supporters hate each other, because one lot don’t like the other lot’s flavour of Christianity.’

The tune faded away into nothing. Either Rennie had hung up, or it’d gone through to voicemail. ‘Tufty, am I not having a bad enough day as it is?’

‘I was supposed to be born in Glasgow, but my mum and dad didn’t want me growing up with all that, so they moved up to Banff instead and raised us secular, because—’

‘Please shut up, before I kill you.’

‘No, but you see—’

It was Tufty’s phone’s turn, warbling out something cheery in a brass-band kind of way. ‘Hey, hold on.’ He dug it out and took the call. ‘Hello? … Ooh, Sergeant Rennie, cool. I was telling the Sarge what you told me about Berwick-upon-Tweed and how it— Ah … No. Yes … Sorry.’

Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘Wish I knew how to get you to shut up that quickly.’

‘Yes, he’s here … OK … OK, I’ll ask him.’ Tufty put his hand over the phone. ‘It’s Sergeant Rennie. He says Superintendent Bevan wants to know why you’re not at DHQ helping DI King. Apparently, she’s not angry, just disappointed.’

Of course she was. Once a schoolteacher, always a schoolteacher.

‘Tell him to tell her we’re on our way now.’

A puzzled look stumbled across Tufty’s face. ‘But we’re not, we’re—’

‘Well Rennie doesn’t need to know that, does he? And if we get access to a load of high-end computers it is helping King out, isn’t it?’

His eyes widened. ‘Oh yeah …’ Back to the phone. ‘Hi, uh-huh, we’re on our way there now, so tell her not to worry … No, there wasn’t anything suspicious about the length of that pause … Nope … OK, bye.’ Tufty hung up. Grinned. ‘Didn’t suspect a thing.’

If that was true, there was no hope for Police Scotland.