All That’s Dead. Stuart MacBride

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СКАЧАТЬ his parking space?’

      ‘In your dreams.’ Another three booming knocks.

      Still no answer.

      Well, can’t say she didn’t try.

       ‘God, can you imagine the press release?’

      A grin. ‘Aberdeen University is delighted to announce the passing of its least favourite professor, due to sexual misadventure.’

       ‘He died as he lived, being a wanker.’

      OK, one last try: Una turned the handle … and the door swung open.

      She stepped over the threshold into a manky kitchen. Dirty dishes in the sink and stacked up on the work surfaces. Piles and piles of dusty books. A half-empty bottle of white wine sitting out on the filthy kitchen table, bathed in sunlight. The stale smell of hot pennies and mouldy food.

      No doubt about it, the man lived like a pig.

      ‘Nicholas?’

      She stood there, head cocked, listening.

      A faint whining came from the other side of the door through to the rest of the house, accompanied by the scrabble of paws. Urgh … That revolting little dog of his, Satan, or whatever it was. The one responsible for all those landmines.

      ‘NICHOLAS? IT’S DOCTOR LONGMIRE! NICHOLAS?’

       ‘Speaking of eulogies, it’s Margaret’s retirement bash on Thursday. You want to give a speech?’

      ‘Do I jobbies, like.’

      She walked towards the scrabbling door … Then stopped. Stared down at the kitchen table with its lonely bottle of Chardonnay, paired with a single, untouched glass. From the doorway, the table had looked filthy, maybe spattered with mud, but from here, closer, it definitely wasn’t mud. It was blood. Lots, and lots of blood.

      On the other side of the door, Satan whined.

      ‘Well they better not ask me to give the old cow’s going away speech. You’ve heard her “opinions” on gay rights. Honestly, that woman can—’

      ‘Joe …’ Una swallowed and tried again, but her voice still sounded like she was sitting on a washing machine approaching the spin cycle. ‘Call the police, Joe. Call the police now!’

       3

      Bloody stairs.

      Logan lumbered his way up them, peaked cap tucked under one arm, his cardboard-box-full-of-stuff in the other – a spider plant sticking its green fronds out of the open flaps.

      They hadn’t updated the official Police Scotland motivational posters on the landing while he was away. Oh, they’d mixed things up a bit with a handful of new memos; regulations; guidelines; and ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?’ posters; but there was no getting away from ‘OUR VALUES’; ‘RESPECT’; and that beardy bloke in his high-viz and his hat, standing in front of the Forth Bridge, looking about as comfortable as a cucumber in a pervert’s sandwich shop: ‘INTEGRITY’.

      Two doors led off the landing, one on either side.

      Logan stopped in front of the one marked ‘PROFESSIONAL STANDARDS’, straightened his epaulettes, took a deep breath and—

      The door banged open and a chunky bloke with sergeant’s stripes burst out, lurching to a halt about six inches from a collision. He flashed a wide grin, showing off a golden tooth, then stuck out a signet-ringed hand for shaking, the other signet-ringed hand holding the door open behind him. ‘The prodigal inspector returns! How’s the …’ He mimed stabbing someone. ‘You know?’

      Logan shook the hand and did his best to smile. ‘Leonard. Your kids well?’

      ‘Rabid weasels would make less mess.’ A sniff. ‘Need a hand with that?’ He reached out and took Logan’s box off him, gesturing with it towards the open door. ‘Looking forward to your first day back at the Fun Factory?’

      Not even vaguely.

      ‘Yeah … Something like that.’

      Another grin. ‘Deep breath.’

      Logan did just that, then stepped through into the main office. Sunlight flooded the open-plan room. Meeting rooms and cupboards took up one side, with cubicled workstations filling the remaining space. A squealing laser printer, more of those motivational posters, only this lot were ‘personalised’ with sarcastic speech balloons cut from Post-it notes.

      Every desk was populated, more officers bustling about, the muted sound of telephone conversations.

      Wow. ‘OK …’

      Ballantine’s mouth pulled wide and down, keeping his voice low. ‘I know, right? We’re helping our beloved Police Investigations and Review Commissioner look into a couple of Strathclyde’s more recent high-profile cock-ups. And on top of that we’ve got a home-grown botched raid in Ellon that ended up with a geography teacher having a heart attack; and a fatal RTC in Tillydrone last night.’ A grimace. ‘High-speed pursuit between an unmarked car and a drug dealer on a moped. Wasn’t wearing a helmet, so you can guess what’s left of his head.’ Then Ballantine boomed it out to the whole room: ‘Guys, look who it is!’

      They all turned and stared. Smiling broke out in the ranks, accompanied by shouted greetings, ‘Guv!’, ‘Logan!’, ‘Heeeero! Heeeero!’, ‘McRae!’, ‘Welcome back!’, and ‘You owe me a fiver!’

      Logan gave them a small wave. ‘Morning.’

      A matronly woman marched out of a side office, her superintendent’s crowns shining on her epaulettes in the sunlight. Her chin-length grey bob wasn’t quite long enough to hide the handcuff earrings dangling from her lobes. A warm smile. Twinkly eyes, lurking behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. She popped her fists onto her hips. ‘All right!’ Her full-strength Kiwi accent cut through the chatter like a chainsaw. ‘That’s enough rowdiness for one day. Back to work, you lot.’

      Her smile widened as she raised a hand. ‘Inspector McRae, can I see you in my office please?’

      Great. Didn’t even get to unpack his box.

      Logan followed her inside, past the little brass sign on the door with ‘SUPT. JULIE BEVAN’ on it.

      The room was surprisingly homey, with framed pictures of an orange stripy cat; photos of Bevan and what were probably her children, going by the resemblance, in front of London and Sydney landmarks. But pride of place was given to a big frame containing a faded photo of an ancient green-and-white car and what looked like a speeding ticket. The usual assortment of beige filing cabinets played home to a variety of pot plants and a grubby crocheted elephant with its button eyes hanging off.

      Bevan settled behind her desk. She was probably aiming for encouraging, but there was no disguising the note of disappointment in her voice: ‘Inspector McRae, I appreciate that it must be a shock to the system, having to get up in the morning after a year recuperating СКАЧАТЬ