Let the bollocking commence.
Logan put on his best reasonable voice. ‘We’re not the ones abducting them, Boss.’
‘Is that supposed to be funny, Inspector?’
‘We’ve got lookout requests on the go, Mhari and Haiden’s photos distributed to every force in the UK, three teams going door-to-door, we’re doing a fingertip search of—’
‘And then Jane comes in and shows me this!’ He slapped a hand down on a printout. ‘Well?’
Nope. No idea.
Jane leaned forward, waving a copy at him. ‘Robert Drysdale? You giving me insomnia at two in the morning, remember that?’
‘I remember, because I wasn’t in bed, I was still working.’
Bevan cleared her throat, little wrinkles furrowing her brow. ‘Logan, how did Robert Drysdale’s name crop up in your investigation?’
‘Why? Who is he?’
Everyone turned to look at the newcomer.
She nodded. ‘Very well.’ Slightest hint of a Glaswegian accent, hidden under a public-school upbringing. ‘But this goes no further than this room, am I clear?’
Now they were all looking at him instead.
Yeah, whatever this was, it wouldn’t be good.
‘OK...’
‘Robert Drysdale was a member of the People’s Army for Scottish Liberation, twenty-nine years ago. He went missing in November that year and his body turned up a week later in an abandoned bothy outside Strichen.’ A dramatic pause, as if what she’d just said meant anything to Logan. ‘Someone had hammered thirty galvanised clout nails into his arms, legs, chest, and head. They were seventy-five millimetres long, so they went in a fair distance.’ She reached into a leather satchel at the side of her chair, coming out with a series of photographs. Handed them to Logan.
The first picture showed a dark, manky little room, with holes in the plaster, another in the ceiling, dust and dirt, streaks of bird shit on the walls. A naked man filled the middle of the shot, strung up by the neck from an overhead beam, arms tied behind his back. The photographer’s flash had caught the nailheads, making them shine like stars against his blood-darkened skin. Whoever took the shot obviously had a flair for the dramatic, because they’d caught the graffiti on the wall behind the body in perfect horror-film style.
One word, in dripping red paint: ‘JUDAS!’
The next six shots were close-ups of the bruises and contusions, the rope around his neck, the nails... They stuck out about five or six millimetres from the flesh, the nailheads on top of their shiny metal stalks like sinister mushrooms.
Last one in the set: an abandoned bothy on a mountainside somewhere. Broken windows, guttering hanging off, rough stonework, corrugated steel roof. The landscape smothered in snow.
He flipped back to the first shot. ‘There are definitely similarities. Scott Meyrick had “spite” painted on his living room wall, “the Devil makes work” was on the note with Professor Wilson’s hands, and Councillor Lansdale got “three monkeys”.’ Logan frowned at the newcomer. ‘You think Mhari and Haiden are taking inspiration from a thirty-year-old murder?’
She shrugged. ‘When your Media Liaison Officer,’ pointing at Jane, ‘mentioned Robert Drysdale this morning, I recognised his name from a cold-case review Strathclyde ran not long after I joined.’
‘Let me guess: Drysdale informed on one of his fellow PASLers? “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead found out and they made an example of him.’
‘Robert Drysdale’s real name was Detective Sergeant Martin Knott. He joined the PASL as part of Operation Kelpie.’
A murdered undercover cop.
Great: things weren’t just worse, they were a hell of a lot worse.
Bevan sighed. ‘So you can see why, when his name came up...?’
Big Tony stuck a fist on his desk. ‘If we’ve got a chance to put someone away for DS Knott’s murder, I want to know about it.’
‘We’re doing everything we can, Boss.’ Logan had another squint at the photos. ‘But until we find out where Haiden and Mhari are hiding, or where they’re keeping their victims?’ Why did Drysdale have to be an undercover cop? Come on: options. Think. How do we work through this one? ‘We... can try fronting up Haiden’s father again? Give him a grilling about the murder? If he was involved, maybe he’ll want to boast about it?’
‘Why on earth would he do that?’
‘He’s got less than four months to live, Boss. What’s he got to lose?’
Hardie clearly felt it was time to make his presence felt, crossing his arms and nodding as if he’d been in charge all along, instead of sitting there like a sack full of damp pants. ‘Good. Go. Keep me informed. But be back here by twelve — we’ll have to brief the press about Scott Meyrick.’
Logan turned to Superintendent Bevan and raised an eyebrow. She nodded.
‘Will do.’ He’d almost made it to the door, when:
‘Inspector McRae?’ The new superintendent was staring at him. ‘You didn’t say how Robert Drysdale’s name came up.’
Ah. No, he hadn’t. And it would have been nice if no one had spotted that little omission.
‘I can’t remember. Someone must have mentioned it last night.’ Liar. But DI King was in enough trouble already, without Logan pouring unleaded on the fire. An innocent shrug. ‘It was pretty late.’
She pointed at the door. ‘OK, then.’
Big Tony’s voice boomed out as Logan slipped into the reception area: ‘And make sure you find something!’
Logan clicked the door shut and... Where was King?
The row of seats was empty, just Mr Ugly The Receptionist in here, clattering away on his keyboard.
Logan waved at him. ‘What happened to DI King?’
‘Phone call.’
Either that or he’d gone AWOL with a half-bottle of vodka...
DHQ wore the muffled silence of early morning — ten to eight, so dayshift uniform were all out keeping Aberdonians from doing horrible things to other Aberdonians. All the major teams had done their daily briefings and sodded off, leaving the place to the support staff and the handful of officers who’d found an excuse to hide inside rather than go traipsing about in the blazing sun. Which would be tempting, if it wasn’t for Chief Superintendent Big Tony Campbell’s parting words.
Logan was reaching for the door to the MIT incident room when it banged open and Tufty bustled out into the corridor, a pink folder tucked under one arm.
‘Sarge!’ He flashed Logan a smile and a wee wave. ‘Cool. About Mr Clark’s steampunk film, are you one hundred percent definitely certain I can’t be in it?’ Making with the big puppy eyes.
Not this again.
‘You’re a police officer.’
‘Yeah, but I could go to Comic-Con and be on panels and people would dress up like my character and I’d be completely funky and I’d never ask for anything else ever again! Promise.’
Logan stared at him.
‘Oh noes.’ His shoulders sagged. He shuffled his feet. Cleared his throat. Then raised his folder. ‘Well, suppose I’d better get this over to the media office then.’ And scuffed away, like a kicked dachshund. ‘Pity poor Tufty...’
Bless his little Starfleet socks, but that lad was a complete and utter weirdo.
Logan let himself into the incident room. It was probably the only busy office in the whole building — phones ringing, support officers answering them, overlapping conversations as details were taken and notes made. The HOLMES team busy hammering data into the system, the printer in the corner churning out action after action. Milky had perched herself on the edge of someone’s desk, flipping through paperwork on a clipboard while Heather commandeered a whiteboard — humming ‘Uptown Girl’ to herself as she printed the names of Alt-Nat groups on it in big red letters.