One more letter to go and she was done. Time for an ice-cold Diet Coke in the canteen with Lewis — who wasn’t nearly as cute as he thought he was.
Beever held the final envelope up and bared her teeth at it. Ooh, that wasn’t good. The address was written in green ink and you know what that meant: it’d been written by a nutter. Her dad swore on the Sunday Post that green ink was a clear sign of being dangerously fruit-loop mental.
Still, that was Councillor Lansdale’s problem, not hers.
She knocked on the door, but there wasn’t any answer.
No shock there. According to the papers he was totally the victim of some sort of Alt-Nat conspiracy, but Mrs Onwuatuegwu in Finance swore on a stack of Take a Breaks that he’d done a midnight flit with one of the temps in Waste and Recycling. And apparently the temp was twenty years younger than him. Total shudderfest, right?
No wonder the dirty old pervert got mail from nutters.
Beever grabbed the green-ink envelope and let herself in.
Not a huge room. Kinda a slap in the face, to be honest, considering how nice some of the other temporary offices were. Didn’t even have any pot plants or paintings — just a photo of Councillor Lansdale, standing there in all his saggy middle-aged glory, shaking hands with the Lord Provost.
Lansdale was one of those shirt-and-tie-with-a-jumper-on-top-under-a-suit-jacket kinda guys. Never met him, but he couldn’t have looked more #MeToo if he tried. Bet he was the kind of guy who...
Beever stopped.
Sniffed.
What the hell was that funky smell?
She dumped the green-ink envelope on top of the pretty much overflowing in-tray.
It was, you know, like if you go away on holiday? Only you forget to empty the fridge, and when you get home the bacon’s green and there’s mould growing on the leftover corned beef?
A bunch of packages sat in the middle of the desk. Two Amazon boxes and a trio of Jiffy bags.
Big fat bluebottles crawled all over one of the bags, more feasting on whatever that brown yuck leaking out the bottom was, soaking into the leather desk blotter.
God, complete horror show.
She inched closer. Nostrils twitching.
That mouldy corned-beef stink was definitely coming from the Jiffy bag: rank and dark, catching in the base of her throat like she was going to blow chunks any minute — Weetabix and banana everywhere.
Whatever was in that bag it wasn’t good. Wasn’t good at all.
Beever swallowed hard. Then picked up the desk phone and called Security.
25
It was getting crowded in King’s MIT office as Superintendent Young’s promised extra bodies milled about, making the place look untidy. Far too many of them for the manky wee room. Which meant Logan had to squeeze and ‘pardon me’ his way over to where King stood staring at one of the two new whiteboards.
‘God, it’s like a rugby scrum in here.’
‘Hmm?’ King kept his eyes on the board. Someone had stuck photos of Professor Wilson, Haiden Lochhead, and his dad, Gaelic Gary, to the white surface with little magnetic dots in cheerful colours. Red lines connecting the three of them, a printout of the crime scene report, and lots and lots of question marks. ‘Thing is, what if there isn’t a connection?’
‘The fact Haiden posted Wilson’s hands to the BBC does kinda suggest there is.’
‘Not what I meant.’ King poked Haiden’s photo with a finger. ‘If he targeted Wilson just because he’s a high-profile anti-independence figure, then there’s no real connection connection, is there? Maybe they never met at all, and who Wilson is isn’t as important as what he represents. He could be anyone. Haiden doesn’t—’
‘Boss?’ It was Heather, mobile phone clamped to her chest. ‘There’s some woman downstairs in reception, won’t give her name. Says it’s urgent and she has to speak to you.’ A shrug. ‘Well, you or Inspector McRae.’
Interesting.
Logan raised an eyebrow at King. ‘Perhaps we’d be better together?’
He got a scowl in return. ‘I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.’ King pushed his way through the crowd, making for the door. ‘H: Make sure everyone’s got something productive to do.’
‘Boss.’
King stopped on the threshold and looked back at Logan. ‘Well? Are you coming or not?’
Fair enough.
Logan skirted a knot of plainclothes officers and joined him. ‘Wonder what this mystery woman wants.’
‘Bet it’ll be a waste of time.’ King shoved the door open and they stepped out into the corridor.
And froze.
Steel was meandering away from them, mobile phone pinned between her shoulder and her ear, leaving her hands free for a big cup of coffee and a Danish pastry. Nibbling and sipping as she went. ‘Did he?... Yeah... Well, that’s what happens when you smear Nutella on—’
‘You!’ King pointed at her. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Oops. Call you in a sec.’ She balanced her Danish on the coffee’s lid, stuck her phone in her pocket, turned, and graced them with a pastry-flaked smile. ‘Just coming to see you, Guv.’
‘You’re supposed to be in Peterhead, interviewing Haiden Lochhead’s cellmates!’
‘No I’m not.’
King’s eyes bugged. ‘I told you to go!’
‘No, you said “someone has to go speak to Haiden’s cellmates”, so I sent DC Harmsworth. He’s a miserable git anyway, might as well give him something to be miserable about.’
He just stared at her.
Another nibble of pastry. ‘I can start recording our conversations, if that makes things any easier?’
‘Fine.’ He marched past her, heading for the stairs. ‘Then you can make yourself usefuclass="underline" with me. Now!’ He battered through the double doors, leaving Logan and Steel alone in the corridor.
She puffed out her top lip and made a squeaky farting sound with it. ‘He’s always like this when he’s not getting his leg over. See if you can talk him into having a surreptitious wank for all our sakes.’
Now there was a mental image nobody wanted.
‘Do you have to wind him up the whole time?’
‘Part of my roguish charm.’ She fell in beside Logan on the way to the doors. ‘So where we going?’
‘Reception. Anonymous visitor.’
‘Cool. You and Kingy go ahead and I’ll stay here and finish up my—’
King’s voice boomed out from the stairwell. ‘I SAID NOW, DETECTIVE SERGEANT!’
She squinted one eye shut. ‘Or maybe we should just have him fixed? Our neighbour’s Collie went from The Hound of the Baskervilles to Lassie Come Home when they whipped off his nadgers.’
To be honest, it was probably worth a go.
Mhari Canonach Powell was waiting for them by the ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?’ posters — Haiden Lochhead glowering out at her as she fidgeted with her lank off-blonde hair. She’d dressed in dowdy shades of beige and grey, and plastered her face with makeup — foundation, blusher, eyeshadow, and bright scarlet lipstick. The resulting mask almost managed to conceal the bruises that had been clearly visible yesterday evening.
Logan waved at her and she blinked back at him, eyes shiny and pink. On the verge of tears. Then the front door opened behind her and she flinched. Shuffled to one side, eyes down, as a grubby hairy man in a filthy pinstriped suit staggered in and lurched up to the desk.