Mhari wiggles the bottle at Haiden and he shrugs, then takes it. Lowers his mask.
‘Slàinte mhòr.’ He takes a big scoof of brandy. Shudders as the sweet grapey liquid hits the back of his throat. Forces it down. ‘Gah...’
Mhari puts her bloodstained hand on his white-suited chest. ‘Oh, baby, we’re nearly done. We’re so close.’ Then she steps in close and kisses him, her breath like petrol from the brandy. ‘Soon we can do anything we like.’
Now that’s more like it. He smiles, slow and sexy. ‘Anything?’
She laughs, then grabs him and kisses him again — deeply this time, with lots and lots of tongue. Breaks for air and stares through the open door at Scotty Meyrick’s half-arsed escape crawl. ‘But first we have to take care of our new friend, before the cops get here.’
34
Two patrol cars sat on the wide gravel drive, blocking in a fancy BMW Roadster. The one nearest the massive, garish, house still had its blue-and-whites on, the flickering disco of misery reflecting back from the wall of glass that fronted the property.
The sign by the gates was a slab of granite with ‘CAIRNHARN COTTAGE’ on it, which was a bit of an understatement. Scotty Meyrick’s house was huge. One of those places that got featured in property supplements as ‘HOME OF THE WEEK!’ — had to be at least five bedrooms in there; landscaped gardens; the edge of a tennis court poking out behind one corner of the house.
Logan pulled his Audi into the only gap left and climbed out.
Not often you got to describe a night in Aberdeenshire as ‘sultry’, but this probably qualified. The air, thick and sticky. Smelling of dust and something... chemical. Like the warm verruca-plaster scent of chlorine. Which probably meant there was a pool as well.
A pair of security lights cracked on as he crunched his way to the house, flooding the gravel with their harsh white glare.
Logan stopped outside the front door, pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, and let himself in.
Big porch, a line of jackets on a row of hooks. Large mirror on the wall opposite, because God forbid you should step out of your front door looking anything less than your fabulous best.
The porch opened on a massive hall, more like a hotel lobby than someone’s house. The marble floor was speckled with dark red, a pool of it in the middle of the room. Bloody handprints. Bloody footprints. Not as much as there’d been in Professor Wilson’s kitchen, but still...
Whatever Mhari and Haiden had done to Scotty Meyrick wasn’t good.
A thick streak of scarlet stretched away towards the cavernous living room, as if their victim had tried to escape, but barely made it to the open doors.
A lone PC stood with her back to the room, all done up in the full stabproof-and-high-viz kit, talking into her phone. ‘No, there’s no sign of the householder. Dundee Bill and Smithy are out searching... Uh-huh... OK.’ She groaned and sagged. ‘Inspector McRae? Why do we need some Professional Standards toss—’
Logan cleared his throat. Nice and loud before she could hang herself.
She froze. ‘Oh God, he’s behind me, isn’t he?’
‘He is. And since we’ve got off to such a great start, perhaps you can tell me why there’s no one out there stopping every Thomas, Richard, and Harold barging into our crime scene?’
‘Got to go.’ She hung up and turned, pulling on what was probably meant to be an ingratiating smile. It didn’t go with her wide turnip face. ‘Inspector McRae! Great to see you up and about again. You know, after what happened last year.’
‘I want this scene secured, Constable.’
‘Ah... Well, the thing is, we don’t even know if it’s a proper crime scene yet, because—’
‘Scott Meyrick, who’s been quite clear about his anti-independence stance, was abducted while on the phone to his agent.’ Logan counted the points off on his fingers: ‘She heard screaming, the floor’s covered in blood, and, let me guess, he’s nowhere to be found?’
Pink rushed up Constable Turnip’s cheeks. ‘Yes.’ The pink darkened. ‘I mean, yes, sir. Boss. Guv?’
‘Good. Now we’ve got that cleared up, get this sodding crime scene secured!’
She scurried off towards the front door, phone clamped to her ear again. ‘Guthrie, whatever you’re doing, stop it and get back here. Nosferatu’s Ninjas have arrived...’ Banging the door behind her as she vanished into the porch.
Unbelievable.
OK, so giving her a hard time wouldn’t exactly help to dispel Professional Standards’ reputation as ‘a bunch of sinister bastards’, but if you presented your backside for kicking you couldn’t complain when someone took a run up and planted their boot square between your cheeks.
And where the hell was the cordon? The bloodstains on the floor should’ve been taped off by now. Sodding amateurs.
He squatted down a couple of inches past where the splatter ended. A lot of blood, but not a life-threatening amount. Well, at least not bleeding-to-death threatening.
Maybe Haiden and Mhari had planned something more, but had to cut it short? After all, according to Scotty Meyrick’s agent the two of them knew she was on the phone, listening as they did whatever it was they were doing to him. Knew she’d phone the police. Knew that patrol cars would be racing over here, lights and sirens blaring. Knew their time was running out...
Logan stood and followed the blood smear to the lounge door.
This room was massive too: the front wall, solid glass, looking out at the patrol car and its flashing blue-and-whites. A big sound system against one wall, a collection of tan leather couches, a big glass-and-chrome coffee table, far more pictures of the house’s owner than was healthy — even for a committed egomaniac.
‘Ostentatious’ was the word that sprung to mind.
The only things spoiling Scotty Meyrick’s nouveau-riche narcissistic look-at-me-I’m-famous theme were the St Andrew’s cross spray-painted across a large projection screen in dripping blue aerosol and the word ‘SPITE!’ graffitied on the opposite wall, taking in several of the ego-photos.
They knew the police were on their way, but they still hung around to do that...
Foolhardy, reckless, or maybe they just didn’t give a toss any more? Not now Hardie had outed them to the whole world. And there was no way that didn’t make them a lot more dangerous.
Hardie was such a stupid—
‘For God’s sake!’ DI King’s Highland accent boomed out in the hall. ‘Get out my bloody way!’
‘Please, Guv: I’ve got to do crime scene management or Inspector McRae will have my ovaries.’
See? Applying boot to backside had the desired effect.
‘Oh for...’
There was a pause — presumably that would be PC Turnip making King sign in — then the man himself lurched into view. He wasn’t his usual dapper, if slightly sweaty self. A bit rumpled, to be honest.
King stopped in the doorway to the living room, rubbing a hand across his blue-stubbled jaw as he frowned down at the blood smear. His suit looked as if he’d slept in it, purple bags under his pink eyes. He stuffed a mint into his mouth, crunching it down with a grimace. ‘Got here as soon as I could.’
A waft of aftershave made it across the room to where Logan stood. Sharp and overpowering.
Logan backed away a couple of paces, but it followed him. ‘Scott Meyrick. That’s three Anti-Nat, Pro-Union figures missing in eight days. I think Haiden and Mhari are escalating.’