Читать книгу All That’s Dead - Stuart MacBride - Страница 20

Logan pulled into the visitors’ parking area, stopping in front of an Avril Lavigne clone in skinny jeans, Converse trainers, ripped Nickelback T-shirt; pierced nose, ears, and eyebrow; and the kind of hair that would’ve got you locked up in less enlightened times. She had a clipboard and a little knot of lanyards with her. Big Colgate smile.

Oh God … She was going to be perky, wasn’t she?

Quarter past eight on a Wednesday morning was far too early for perky.

Logan killed the engine and climbed out into the sauna formerly known as Aberdeen.

Four huge grey warehouses were gathered around the car park, all snug and secure behind an extra-high chain-link fence, guardhouse, and heavy-duty traffic barrier. Each of the warehouses had a number painted on it – 1 to 4 – but the biggest of the lot was home to the company logo too. A huge woodlouse silhouette – at least twenty foot tall – rendered in shiny gold-coloured plastic. Never mind the rest of Altens, you could probably see the thing from Lerwick. If not orbit.

Tufty clambered out of the car, tucked his laptop under one arm and stared up at the buildings. ‘Ooooh … Cool.’

Avril bounded up to them. Oh, she was definitely perky. ‘Inspector McRae, and Constable Quirrel?’ She thrust the lanyards at them. ‘Great to have you here?’ The sentence went up at the end, as if it was a question. ‘Now, I need you to wear your passes at all times?’ Another not question. ‘Can you do that for me? That’s great?’

Like, totally?

Was it wrong to have an almost unbearable urge to borrow Tufty’s pepper spray and give her a damned good seasoning?

Tufty made a little squeaking noise as he put on his lanyard. ‘This is so cool!’

‘I know, right? I love working here?’ She actually did a couple of hoppity-skippity dance steps. ‘Come on, guys, follow me to where the magic happens?’ Avril led the way to the main doors, holding them open and wafting them through into a wide room, decorated to look like an opulent cinema foyer.

Film posters lined the walls, the floor dotted with display cases full of movie props, awards, and trophies. A big mahogany-and-chrome reception desk dominated the space, with an old woman lurking behind it. Huge and pasty, with a round happy face, unnaturally brown hair. Arms like ham-hocks. Clutching a copy of Hello! magazine in her sausagey fingers.

Avril bounced around in a circle. ‘You should’ve been here last week, we had Joanna Lumley and Hugh Grant in for pickups?’ She put a hand on her heart. ‘Career highlight?’

The old lady looked up from her magazine. ‘Hey, Misty.’

Avril / Misty beamed at her on the way past. ‘Hey, Mrs Clark, got the boss-man’s visitors for him?’ She pointed at them. ‘You want anything from the canteen when I’m done?’

A big smile dimpled Mrs Clark’s cheeks. ‘Wouldn’t say no to a Tunnock’s or two.’

‘You got it!’ She pushed through a set of double doors, disappearing. Then poked her head into the room again. ‘Come on, guys?’

Yeah, definitely far too perky.

They followed her into a bland corridor, magnolia paint slapped on breeze-block walls, the polished concrete squeaking under Misty’s trainers. Grey doors lined the space, each one with a job or department title on a white plastic plaque. It all looked very … Hollywood.

Misty looked over her shoulder at them as she bounced along. ‘Mr Clark’s got a video conference with New Zealand at eight forty-five, so don’t be offended if I have to throw you out then? Nothing personal?’

At the end of the corridor, she swiped her ID through a card reader and ushered them into a cavernous space. You could’ve stored a jumbo jet in here and still had room for a dozen double-decker buses. The walls were that eye-nipping shade of green they used for special effects, but the space in between was filled with big chunks of scenery – what looked like the inside of spaceships, space stations, grungy futuristic street scenes and a weird red forest thing.

Misty marched them past a prison block to where a large man stood, facing the other way, hands on his hips as he watched a team of overalled techs dismantling some kind of fighter cockpit. Tall and wide with it, broad shoulders and a Peaky Blinders haircut styled into a greying shark’s-fin quiff. ‘Be careful with that, Quin! I don’t want to have to start again from scratch if this turns into a franchise.’

One of the dismantlers gave him a thumbs-up.

Misty pounced to attention beside the big man. ‘Mr Clark? I’ve got your visitors?’

He turned, a smile dimpling his cheeks. Definitely his mother’s son. Except he had a Vandyke with an elongated white goatee and red-framed glasses. ‘Logan McRae! As I live, breathe, and exude sheer sexual chemistry.’ He stepped forward and swept Logan up in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground. ‘How are you? God, that thing last year! Completely gobsmacking.’

Barbed wire twisted beneath the skin of Logan’s stomach, digging its metal spikes deep inside.

He had to force the words out between gritted teeth: ‘Let me go, let me go, let me go!’

‘Oh, yes, the stabbing! Sorry.’ Mr Clark let go and stepped back, grimacing. ‘Are you OK? Do you need something?’

Logan bent double, one hand pressing against his midriff, hot air burning in his lungs as he swallowed a couple of deep breaths.

‘I’ve got painkillers! Naproxen, Tramadol, Co-codamol, you name it.’ Mr Clark waved at their perky guide. ‘Misty, grab some Vicodin and a bottle of water, would you, honey?’

Logan raised a hand. ‘I’m OK, I’m OK.’ He straightened up, slow. Hissing all the way. ‘You caught me off guard, that’s all.’

Misty perkied at him. ‘It’s no trouble, really? I can totally go get you some?’

‘No. No drugs. Thanks. I’m good.’ Liar.

‘OK.’ She did a couple of bounces for Mr Clark. ‘I’m getting your mum some Tunnock’s? You want?’

‘Can’t: diet.’

‘All-righty then.’ She turned and skipped off, back the way they’d come.

Weirdo.

Mr Clark put a hand on Logan’s shoulder and steered him past a killer robot as Tufty scurried along behind. ‘Oh, Logan, Logan, Logan …’ The hand squeezed. ‘Anyway, about last year: you haven’t done anything about the film rights yet, have you?’

‘Well, serving police officers can’t really—’

‘I’m thinking a hundred-and-twenty-minute thriller with David Tennant playing you. Well, it’s him or Ewan McGregor.’

‘It’s just we’re not allowed to—’

‘What do you think about Tilda Swinton for Steel?’ They passed the weird red forest, with its asymmetric leaves and twisted scarlet branches. ‘Too tall? I think she’s too tall. It’s so great to see you again!’

Logan cleared his throat as they made for the nearest exit. ‘I didn’t get to thank you for the fruit baskets. They were—’

‘I love Helen Mirren, but then she brings all that Prime Suspect baggage to a crime drama, doesn’t she?’ Mr Clark pushed open a bland grey door and propelled them into another magnolia breeze-block corridor. Only this one was lined with whiteboards, covered in scrawled schedules and bits of storyboard. More grey doors. ‘Or how about Michelle Gomez? Because Steel’s got that …’ He made a theatrical gesture with one hand. ‘You know?’

No. Logan most certainly didn’t.

‘I really—’

‘There’s something a bit sexy about her, isn’t there? She’s got that frisson of something almost animal in her magnetism.’

Don’t think about her naked. DON’T THINK ABOUT HER NAKED! Too late – the image was seared across the back of his mind again, in hideous pink-o-vision. And after all the effort he’d gone to, trying to forget …

Logan shuddered. ‘I’ve never noticed.’

Through another door into a stairwell. Up they went.

Tufty’s voice echoed in the enclosed space. ‘I noticed once. In the pub. But then she beat me about the head and neck with a packet of Quavers and that was that.’

Mr Clark gave Logan’s shoulder another squeeze. ‘And we’ll need to invent a good sidekick for you. It’s a trope of the genre, after all.’

‘Ooh, ooh!’ Tufty scurried up alongside. ‘I’d make a great—’

Logan jabbed him with an elbow. ‘Thanks for agreeing to help us find whoever posted that first tweet, Mr Clark.’

‘It’s Zander, Logan. Zander. You know that.’ At the top of the stairs he pushed out into another corridor, but a much fancier one this time: plastered and decorated, carpets on the floor, pictures on the walls. ‘And if Golden Slater Productions can help, it’s my pleasure.’ Zander opened a door marked ‘VISUAL FX’ and swept them into a large room, broken up into cubicled workstations.

No two were the same, as if there’d been a competition to see who could customise theirs the most. A pirate ship, a jungle, cowboys, aliens, My Little Ponies, cavemen …

Post-it notes and lines of coloured string covered the walls, intermingled with schedules, storyboards, concept sketches … Another display case full of awards over by the fancy coffee machine. A big screen nearly covered the end wall, filled with some very plastic-looking figures lumping their way through a scene. Like a really cheap video game.

Half a dozen people in shorts and assorted geekdom T-shirts were gathered around the storyboards, another four poking away at their computers.

Zander leaned in close to Logan, dropping his voice as if he was about to impart a state secret. ‘You’ve timed it well – we finished post-production on a hardcore sci-fi serial-killer thriller, last week. Spectacular stuff, redefines the genre.’

Oh ho.

Logan raised an eyebrow.

Zander rolled his eyes. ‘Not that kind of “hardcore”.’

Tufty wandered off, peering into the trophy cabinet, like Charlie getting his first glimpse of the Chocolate Factory.

And no, that wasn’t a euphemism.

Logan pointed at the computers. ‘So …?’

‘We’ve just started pre-viz on a steampunk blockbuster – which will completely blow both your socks off, then come back for your toes – meaning I’ve got about thirty / forty servers sitting idle you can play with. State of the art. Spared no expense.’ Then he turned, raising his voice so it carried across the room. ‘Hoshiko? Got a minute?’

A short, middle-aged woman in an American baseball shirt, jeans, and trainers looked up from where she was working on the storyboards. The slightest hint of a Japanese accent as she looked Logan up and down. ‘This them?’

Zander nodded. ‘Yup.’ He gave Logan a wink. ‘Hoshiko’s worked for Hayao Miyazaki, Peter Jackson, and Katsuhiro Otomo. I was so lucky to get her!’

She didn’t smile. ‘Damn right you were.’ Then she stuck her hand out to Logan, palm up. ‘You got an algorithm for me?’

‘Tufty?’

‘Hmmm?’ The daft wee sod was still staring at the trophies. ‘Are these really AVN and XBIZ awards?’

Zander popped his eyebrows up, and gave his head a little waggle. ‘Far be it for me to blow my own you-know-what, but there’s a fair few Prowlers and F.A.M.E.s in there as well.’

At that Hoshiko did smile. ‘We wiped the floor, every year we entered.’

‘Of course, that was back when we still had time to make adult films.’ Zander smiled at Tufty. ‘If you’re a big porn fan, I can probably dig you out a few comps on DVD if you like?’

Tufty spun around, face going a hot shade of pink. ‘Me? Porn? No, no, I was … I like to keep up with social trends and … Ahem …’

‘Nonsense, no trouble at all.’ He whipped out his phone and poked the screen. ‘Misty? Can you find me a copy of Crocodildo Dundee for one of our police officer guests, please?’

‘That’s really not … It …’ The blush had officially gone nuclear. ‘But …’

Now, the kind thing to do would be to change the subject and spare the wee lad any more embarrassment.

Nah.

Logan grinned. ‘Say “thank you” to the nice gentleman, Tufty.’

It looked as if the tips of his ears were about to combust. ‘Thank you?’

Zander spread his arms wide. ‘My pleasure. Now, Hoshiko?’

She hooked a thumb over her shoulder at a vacant workstation. ‘Come on, Porno Boy, we’ll get you set up, then you can tell me about this algorithm of yours …’

Zander’s office was huge – the meeting table that ran down the middle big enough to seat twenty. It was lined with movable electronic whiteboards and flipcharts, displays plastered in yet more storyboard drawings. He perched on the edge of a fancy-pants desk, with a large leather chair behind it, a couple of monitors on cantilevered arms, some flowers in a vase. The whole thing reeked of power.

A pair of small raggedy cats chased each other across the meeting table. Pausing every now and then to stare at Logan as if he might be edible.

But by far the most impressive thing about the room was the floor-to-ceiling window that made up one entire wall, overlooking Soundstage 1 in all its gloomy glory.

Zander caught one of the cats as it battered past, holding it against his chest so it could chew at his goatee. ‘When the oil industry took a tanking, I was able to get this whole thing for a song. Had to soundproof everything and expand out the back, but still. Much better than our last place.’

Logan looked down through the huge window. ‘Do you still see DI Insch?’

The dismantlers were loading the chunks of fighter cockpit onto trolleys and wheeling them away.

‘What, David? Oh yes. He’s off doing second unit scouting for the new film. Iceland.’

Logan nodded. ‘Tell him I said, “Hi,” OK?’ Seemed a bit inadequate after all these years, but what else was there?

Zander’s reflection stepped up beside Logan’s in the glass, one of the cats perched in his arms, on top of his belly. ‘You think whoever sent that first tweet abducted Professor Wilson?’

‘Maybe. Whoever it was, they knew he was missing a day before we did, so …?’

‘Hmmm. It’s a shame Wilson was such a tit.’ A sigh. ‘You know, when I first came up to Aberdeen, I had a boss who called me an F.E.B. for two whole years. “I don’t know, ask the FEB.”, “Hey, F.E.B., get the teas in, yeah?”, “You know, Zander, you’re my favourite F.E.B.”’

Nope. Never heard of that one.

‘F.E …?’

‘“Fucking English Bastard”.’ Zander shook his head. ‘Said it was “only a bit of banter”. You try replacing “English” with “black”, or “Jewish”, or “gay” and see how bantery it feels then. Hate’s hate.’

‘Sounds like a lovely man.’

Zander waved that away. ‘Oh, I rose above it. Showed him there were no hard feelings last year by buying the company and firing him.’ A smile. ‘I know it sounds vindictive, but he was stealing equipment and sexually harassing the young man on reception. Only had himself to blame, really.’

Down below, the last chunk of cockpit was wheeled away for storage.

‘So how did you know Professor Wilson?’

‘Is he really dead?’

Logan shrugged. ‘Hope not.’

Zander rubbed his goatee on the cat’s head, setting it purring. ‘Made the mistake of hiring Professor “Acquired Taste” Wilson for Witchfire, thought it’d be good to have a genuine constitutional scholar involved: bring a bit of authenticity to the way society operated in the film. Just because it’s alternative-history, doesn’t mean it has to be fake nonsense.’ His expression soured. ‘What a pain in the arse that man was.’

‘Yeah, I’m hearing that a lot.’

‘Could start a fight in a bowl of soup. And not lumpy soup either: consommé. I bet you could boil socks and he’d—’

Logan’s phone burst into ‘If I Only Had a Brain’ again, and he slumped. Pulled the damn thing out. ‘Sorry, I’d better …’ He answered it. ‘Rennie, if you’ve called up to nag, don’t. We’ll be in when we’ve—’

‘Boss, there’s a package turned up at the BBC. You need to get over there, ASAP!’

Yes, because that didn’t sound like he was being set up for something horrible, did it?

‘What kind of package?’

‘Didn’t say, but I know King’s on his way now. Lights and music, so it must be a biggie!’

A package delivered to BBC Scotland. Well, if King was hotfooting it over there, then it had to be connected to the Professor Wilson Case. And if it was connected, then Logan had to get there sharpish too. Because the scapegoat’s scapegoat had no intention of letting the original-issue scapegoat screw things up and land him in it.

‘OK, OK. I’m on my way.’ He hung up and slipped the phone back in his pocket.

Zander’s shoulders curled forward, the cat clambering up onto them. ‘I’m guessing Gilbert and Sullivan had it right about a policeman’s lot?’

‘Got to go. Can you …?’ Pointing through the door and down a bit, where the Visual FX department probably was.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after the little lad for you. Make sure he stays out of trouble.’

‘Yeah, good luck with that.’ Logan made for the door. ‘And don’t let him have any more caffeine!’ After all, things were bad enough as it was.