‘Any idea at all?’
‘He wouldn’t tell me.’ The tears overflowed her eyes, little jagged sobs making her rock in her seat. ‘And now... now he never... he never will!’
Logan punched the code into the lock for the door to reception, holding it open for Mhari to shuffle through.
She dug a hankie out of her grey sleeve, blotting her eyes and cheeks. Sniffing as she looked up at him. ‘If you find Haiden, you won’t tell him, will you? You won’t tell him I told you where he was?’
‘Promise.’ Logan walked with her to the exit, Steel scuffing along behind. ‘If you think of anything else, if you remember anything, doesn’t matter how small, you can call me at any time.’ He handed Mhari his business card. ‘And if Haiden gets in touch, tell him he needs to speak to us, OK? We want to stop him getting in any more trouble.’
She nodded. Wiped her eyes again, apparently forgetting how much makeup she had on — the hanky removing enough foundation to reveal the skin beneath. The greens and purples of a well-established bruise. Then Mhari took a deep breath and walked out through the doors.
Soon as they’d closed behind her, Steel sagged. ‘Pfff... Talk about drinking the Kool-Aid. I mean, I’m all for independence, but by the Sainted Crotch of the Hairy Jesus.’
‘Think she knows more than she’s saying?’
‘Yeah. But what are we going to do, waterboard her?’ Steel curled her top lip. ‘Better no’ say that too loud — don’t want to give Kingy ideas.’
Outside, Mhari stopped, turned, and waved at them through the glass.
They waved back.
Her hand fell to her side, then she walked away. Down the stairs and off towards Broad Street. With her bruised face and bruised heart.
Logan sighed. ‘Might be worth sticking a grade-one flag on the house.’
‘Don’t know about you, but see if I was Haiden Lochhead? No way I’d be coming back. Off to the land of burgundy, brie, and baguettes I jolly well sod.’ Steel shook her head. ‘Soon as that video hit? Welcome to Splitsville, man.’
‘Splitsville?’ He smiled at her. ‘What on earth have you been watching?’
‘I’m down with the cool kids.’ A scowl. ‘And speaking of someone who isn’t...’
King barged through the door into reception, face dark and twitchy as he hurried across the floor towards them. ‘Nine-nine-nine call from Council Headquarters: there’s a suspicious package at Councillor Lansdale’s office.’
That was all they needed.
‘Bomb threat?’
‘Worse. It’s postmarked last Thursday, the day after he went missing. And it stinks of rotting meat.’
And just like that, a bomb would’ve been better. ‘Sodding hell.’
‘And we all know what that means.’ King pointed at Steel. ‘You: get round there and take possession. I want it back here and analysed ASAP.’
She curled her lip. ‘When you say “it stinks”, do—’
‘And no delegating! Take Milky with you: I want everyone who touched that package IDed, interviewed, fingerprinted. DNA if you can talk them into it. Every single one of them gets their alibi checked.’ He paused, but she didn’t move. ‘Go!’
‘Gah... Bloody hell.’ Slouching away, muttering to herself as she pushed out the doors and into the sunshine. ‘Arrogant, condescending, badger-wanking, cock-trumpet...’
The door thunked shut and King massaged his forehead. ‘Does that woman ever do what she’s told without a fight and a serious bollocking?’
‘No. And there’s someone else needing one.’ Well, two someones, but they’d have to take turns. And right now it was DI Frank King’s. ‘What the hell is wrong with you? You can’t seize someone’s phone like that.’
‘Those messages from Haiden—’
‘She’s a witness, we need her cooperation! This isn’t a TV cop show: there are procedures, rules. And I don’t care how much pressure you’re under, you don’t get to do whatever the hell you feel like! You want her phone? You get a warrant, or you ask her permission. You — don’t — just — take — it!’
‘I...’ He pulled his chin in. ‘Her phone’s evidence in an ongoing—’
‘No. You need to listen to me, Detective Inspector: your balls are on the chopping board with this case, all it’ll take is one formal complaint from Mhari Powell for Hardie to cut them clean off.’
Pink spread across King’s cheeks. He looked away. ‘All right, all right. I get it.’
‘Make sure you do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for round two.’ AKA: Tufty’s turn. Logan pulled out his phone and turned it on again. Twenty unread text messages and four voicemails, all with the word ‘TUFTY’ in their caller ID. He pressed the ‘CALL’ button and walked away from King. Grinding his teeth as it rang and rang.
‘Sarge!’
‘Tufty! What in God’s name do you think you’re—’
‘Sarge! Boss! Guv! I’ve—’
‘I don’t care if you’ve been offered the role of Leading Sodding Lady, you’re supposed to be a police officer so start acting like one!’
‘Leading...? No, no; it’s—’
‘This bumbling cutesy act has to stop! We’re investigating a bloody—’
‘WILL YOU PLEASE LISTEN TO ME!’
Right, it was time for a serious boot up the arse.
But before Logan could lace it up, Tufty was back again: ‘I got a hit off my algorithm. I know who sent that first tweet about Professor Wilson.’
Oh for God’s sake.
‘It was Haiden Bloody Lochhead! We worked that out yesterday, you complete and utter—’
‘It wasn’t him.’
What?
Logan swallowed. ‘It wasn’t?’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! I texted and I texted and I left messages and I texted again.’
‘I swear to God, Constable Quirrel, if you don’t tell me who sent that tweet, I’m going to hunt you down and stuff your—’
‘It was Mhari Canonach Powell. Only she’s not Mhari Canonach Powell. Not the real one, anyway.’
Logan stared out through the front windows, where Steel was marching off towards Marischal College. The same direction Mhari had disappeared in.
‘Sarge, you still there?’
‘How can she not be the real one?’
‘I did a search. The real Mhari Canonach Powell’s registered address is a residential psychiatric facility two miles outside South Shields.’
‘So she’s mentally ill?’ Which explained the swivel-eyed Alt-Nat rant about Imperial Aggressors and the English teat. ‘Give them a call, tell them she’s escaped.’
‘She’s not a nutter, Guv, she’s one of the nurses. Studying to be a psychologist. Hold on, I’ll send you a photo from her Facebook.’
Logan’s phone announced an incoming text from ‘FEAR THE TUFTY!’ It was a photo: a gaggle of women in their twenties, all wearing very skimpy tops, very short skirts, and very high heels. All making pouty duck-faces. If you screwed up your eyes, the one in the middle — wearing a sash with ‘BIRTHDAY GIRL!’ on it — sort of looked a bit like Mhari, but it clearly wasn’t her.
‘Maybe she’s the one taking the photo. Did you think about that?’
Tufty’s voice was thin and tinny through the phone’s speaker. ‘It was Mhari’s twenty-third birthday party. In Newcastle. Last night. And here’s one of her getting arrested at that anti-Trump rally...’