All That’s Dead. Stuart MacBride

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      ‘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 СКАЧАТЬ