King rubbed at his stubble again. ‘We’re going to have to wait at least two hours for a Scene Examination team. Had to draft one up from Tayside, because all ours are out at another sodding arson attack.’
‘Thought we had top priority? They told us we had top priority!’
‘A man died, Logan. Burned to death in the flat above his pub.’
‘Bloody hell...’ No wonder they couldn’t get anyone out here.
‘Yup.’ King puffed out his cheeks and took another look at the smeared blood. ‘Think Scott Meyrick’s hands are going to turn up in the post? Or his cock?’ King gave a small lurch to the side. He caught it fast enough, but it was still visible. ‘Or Christ-knows what.’
Maybe that explained all the aftershave?
Logan stepped in closer and sniffed. There was something underneath it. Something sour, lurking between all those extra-strong mints. ‘Have you been drinking?’
Those pink eyes narrowed. ‘I had one. One drink, with my wife, over dinner.’
One drink? With the wife that completely hated him? Yeah, that sounded plausible.
King stuck out his chest. ‘What?’ Then he shook his head and marched into the room, pretty much collapsed into one of the leather couches. Scowled up at the vandalised projection screen. ‘We’ve got two options. One: Haiden and Mhari are abducting their victims, mutilating, killing them, and dumping the bodies. Two: they’re actually trying to keep them alive for some reason.’ The words were slow and crisp, as if he was forcing the slush out of them first. But not quite managing.
One bottle, more like.
‘They sent us a video of Professor Wilson pleading for his life in a chest freezer, remember?’ Logan sighed. ‘This is probably the most high-profile case you’ll ever work on, Frank. The media are picking over every single thing we do and so are our bosses. You can’t turn up for work with a drink in you. Not now, not ever.’
‘Oh come on! How was I supposed to know I’d get dragged out here at...’ he peeled back his sleeve and peered at his watch with one eye — the other squeezed shut, ‘eleven o’clock?’
‘Suppose not.’ But that didn’t make it right.
King gave himself a bit of a shake. ‘So where are they keeping them? Where do Mhari Powell and Haiden Lochhead have access to?’
Oh for God’s sake.
‘We’re looking into that, already, remember?’
‘Urgh...’ He scrubbed at his face again.
Maybe more than one bottle. And probably something a lot stronger than wine.
‘Go home, Frank, you’re not helping the case or yourself by being here.’
King wouldn’t look at him. ‘Robert Drysdale.’
‘What about him?’
A long pause while King pursed his lips and frowned, as if he was working up to some big secret. ‘He’s... Yeah.’ Whatever it was, the moment passed. ‘Don’t suppose it matters now.’ King sagged back and stared at the ceiling. ‘You ever think about jacking it all in, Logan? About marching up to Hardie, Young, and all the rest of those useless tossers and telling them where they can stick this buggering job?’
All the time. Especially today.
Logan hooked a thumb at the patrol cars outside. ‘Come on: go home. I’ll get someone to drive you.’
‘Doesn’t matter what I do, I’m screwed. Can’t erase the sins of the past.’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘They’re going to tear me apart, Logan. They’re going to crack open my bones and feast on the bloody marrow.’
Probably.
‘We’re doing everything we can.’
‘I was doomed from the moment I decided Cerys was the one for me. My first real love... Sixteen years old and that was my life. Ruined.’
Logan helped him up. Close in, like this, the smell of alcohol was eye-watering. ‘It’ll look better in the morning.’
‘No. No, it really won’t.’
Logan sat back on the sofa and stifled a yawn.
Tayside’s Scene Examination team had cordoned off the blood spatters in the hallway, and now half a dozen of them were giving the crime scene laldy, all dressed in their scrunchy white SOC suits. Fingerprinting, swabbing, and photographing things.
For some reason, their Transit van — parked right outside the living room window — wasn’t the usual filthy grey with obscene slogans written in the dirt. Instead it was a pristine shade of recently cleaned white. They’d have to watch that, if any of the other divisional SE teams found out, they’d get drummed out of the Scene Examiners’ union.
Another yawn.
Urgh...
Should’ve gone home when King did. Or at the very least, when the Tayside team finally turned up. No one could say he hadn’t showed willing.
One of the SE team ducked out from under the tape cordon and padded across the marble on his blue-bootied feet. Stopped right in front of Logan, still wearing the full goggles-facemask-and-gloves outfit. Nodded back towards the bloodstains. You could’ve cut marmalade and sawn through jute with his accent: ‘Got some good fingerprints off the floor around where the body was.’
‘Body?’
‘Aye, body. You can tell from the blood patterns.’ He pulled down his facemask and gave Logan a lopsided smile. ‘I love blood patterns, me. Every little scarlet dot, shimmering like a ladybird, tells a story. You just have to ken how to read it.’
Logan smiled. ‘I know a forensic soil scientist you’d love.’
‘Ace.’ A nod. ‘So, I’d say our victim was standing when they were hit first — there’s fine particulates on the wall and the rubber plant at head height. Then he hits the floor — more blood, but radiating outwards, a few stray hairs caught between the tiles. Some smearing. And that’s when they cut him.’
‘They cut him?’
‘Oh yeah. He’s lying on his back, right? And they have a go at his face with something. You can tell, cos it’s quite a gusher to start with, so his body’s acting like a stencil. He tries to haul himself in here, see the slug trail?’ Pointing at the drag marks. ‘Then they haul him to his feet and frogmarch him out. By then it’s more dribbling than anything, so they’ve maybe packed the wound with something? You can see the foot-scuffs in the dribbles. And it’s definitely dribble, not flobble, cos it’s come straight down with a wee splash.’
Logan stared at him.
‘What?’
‘Normally, I have to batter Scene Examiners over the head with a stick to get even the vaguest predictions out of them.’
‘Oh, the official report will be full of caveats and bet-hedging, but we’re all mates here, right?’ He rocked on his blue-bootied heels. ‘So, Scotty Meyrick, eh?’
Had to hand it to Haiden Lochhead and Mhari Powell — to break in, overpower their victim, mutilate him, vandalise the living room, and vanish into the night taking him with them, before the police could turn up... That took skill. And planning.
The tech sucked on his teeth. ‘Never really liked him on the telly, bit too slick, aye? But he talked a lot of sense in them Telegraph articles. The trouble with Scotland is a bunch of numpties saw Braveheart and now they think if we could only sod about the hills in kilts all day, flashing our arses at the English, somehow everything will be all right.’
Logan stood, checked his watch: twenty to three. ‘How much longer do you think?’
‘I mean, Scotland voted to stay in the EU because we know it’s better to be part of something bigger, right? So why the hell would we want to leave the UK? Bigger’s always better.’ A cheeky wink. ‘Ask any woman.’
Logan blinked at him. Then handed over a business card. ‘If anything urgent comes up, call me.’