‘Cells? And you say it wasn’t a terrorist organisation?’
This time the sigh brought with it a sad little smile. ‘I used to love being a police officer... Out on the beat, keeping people safe, banging up crooks and thugs. Now look at me.’
‘If you’re going to keep up the self-pity all the way to Dyce, you can get out and walk.’
‘It’s all right for you: you’re a decorated police hero with a Queen’s Medal, a hot girlfriend, a family, and a big house. All I’ve got is a cheating soon-to-be-ex-wife and a career circling the U-bend.’ He nodded. ‘Should march into Hardie’s office, hand in my resignation, and walk.’
OK, enough.
Logan thumped him on the arm. ‘What’s the point of running away? If people are picking on you: stand up for yourself!’
King turned to look out the window again. ‘Hmph.’
‘I’m right here with you, aren’t I?’
A long, slow breath. ‘I’m not going to survive this one, Logan. Be lucky if they just fire me. I’m done.’
Finally the lights turned green and they could crawl forward another car’s length.
‘In the words of Detective Chief Inspector Roberta Steel, as was,’ Logan put on the voice — gravelly and gin-soaked, ‘“You’ll no’ see the bright side with your heid jammed up your arse.”’
‘Yeah.’ King sagged in his seat. ‘She should hire herself out as a motivational speaker.’
Sunlight cascaded in through Ravendale’s windows, making the reception carpet glow with garish shades of brown, pink, and green. As if someone had gorged themselves on chocolate pudding, Ribena, and guacamole, before being copiously sick all over the care home’s floor.
The radio was on, playing something cheerful and bland as the same bland old man in his bland old cardigan behind the bland old desk hummed along, worrying away at a Sudoku book.
He looked up as Logan and King walked in and the smile of greeting faded from his face. ‘You again.’
King opened his mouth, but Logan got there first: ‘We’d like to speak to Gary Lochhead, please.’
‘Ah... Mr Lochhead isn’t having one of his better days, today.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, but we still need to talk to him.’
‘The pain’s so bad we’ve had to up his morphine.’ The receptionist looked left, then right, then over his shoulder, as if the KGB might be lurking nearby ready to steal his secrets. He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘You didn’t hear this from me, but the medical staff aren’t very optimistic about his prognosis. With patients in palliative care...’ A shrug. ‘We see a lot of this towards the end.’
Logan nodded. ‘We wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’
A pause, as Mr Bland chewed at the inside of his cheek. Then a nod. ‘Well, you can talk to him if you promise to keep it brief. He might not make too much sense though.’ Mr Bland picked up the desk phone and dialled. ‘I’ll get Denzil to see you through.’
The corridor outside number nineteen was a patchwork of light and shadow as the morning sun seared through the skylights.
King leaned back against the wall opposite Gary Lochead’s door. ‘What do you think, Good Cop, Bad Cop?’
Genuinely?
Logan frowned at him. ‘He’s dying, Frank. What are we going to threaten him with?’
‘True.’ He tilted his head to one side, eyes narrowing. ‘You know what? Maybe we could—’
The door opened and Denzil poked his hairy wee head out, bringing with him the sound of a radio tuned to the same station as the one in reception. A small, compact man, with powerful furry arms and a warm smile that faded into a concerned look. ‘OK. He’s stable, but he’s been in a lot of pain, so—’
‘Morphine.’ King loosened his tie. ‘We know.’
‘Right. Well, don’t tire him out, and I’ll be right here outside if... he needs anything. Or stops breathing. Or something like that.’
King pushed past him and into the room.
Logan gave Denzil an apologetic smile. ‘Been a long week.’ Then followed King into Gary Lochhead’s room.
The blinds weren’t quite fully drawn, and a shaft of sunlight fell across the hospital bed. A wall-mounted reading light was on, pointed towards Gary’s painting of that stone circle in the woods, making the colours glow. Shame it couldn’t do the same for the bloke who painted it.
He was slumped against his pillows, skin pale and shiny — like butter kept in the freezer. A full oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth, the clear plastic misted with vapour, and an IV line reached from a bag of something clear, through a feeder box, and into the cannula in the back of Gary’s hand. That would be the morphine, then. His NHS-blue blankets were rucked up at one side, showing off a liver-spotted leg, wishbone thin.
The cheery song on the radio burbled to an end, replaced by the kind of teuchter accent you could cut concrete with. ‘Aye, Aye, loons and quines! Gid Mornin’ Doogie’s got a wee bittie traffic update for yis. The A-berdeen bypass is closit Eastbound atween Parkhill and Blackdog fir a three-vehicle accident. So dinna ging that wye if yer—’
King switched the radio off and loomed over the bed. Voice hard and sharp. ‘Gary. We need to talk to you about Haiden.’
‘Gnnnnnghnnnph?’ Gary Lochhead’s head turned in trembling jerks and pauses, his pupils big as buttons, the mask muffling his words. ‘Haiden? Is that...?’
‘Sorry, no, it’s not.’ Logan pulled up one of the visitors’ chairs, positioning it level with Gary’s elbow, so he could see who he was speaking to. ‘Hi, Gary.’
‘Haiden, is that you?’
‘It’s not Haiden, it’s the police, we were here on Wednesday, remember?’
A shaky hand reached for Logan’s. ‘Haiden, they wanted me to clype on you, but I wouldn’t do it. I kept our secrets. I kept them...’
Oh, ho?
King widened his eyes at Logan, eyebrows up. Then he grabbed the other chair and squealed the rubber feet across the floor to the opposite side of the bed, sat, and pulled on a reasonable mid-Aberdonian accent. ‘Dad?’ He took hold of Gary’s other hand. ‘Dad, I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner.’
What?
Logan glared at him, making throat-slashing ‘Stop it!’ gestures.
But King turned the accent up instead. ‘Had to dodge the cops, yeah? You know how it is.’
A nod. ‘Buncha stupid bastards.’ Gary reached up with his free hand and slipped the breathing mask off, so it cupped his chin. Then trembled that hand down over King’s, making it the filling in a hand sandwich. ‘Is your mother OK, Haiden? You’ll look after her, for me, won’t you?’
‘Course I will, Dad.’ The lying sod was nearly squirming in his seat with excitement. ‘I did what you wanted. Got Councillor Lansdale, Professor Wilson, and Scott Meyrick.’
Logan leaned towards him, teeth bared, voice a hard hissing whisper. ‘This isn’t right!’
Gary gave King a shaky smile. ‘You’re a good boy.’
‘I took them out to the place, Dad. You remember the place? The place you told me to take them?’
‘I want to go home, Haiden.’
‘I know you do, Dad. I know. Shall we go past the place first? You remember the place?’
What started as a gurgling wheeze turned into a ragged coughing fit, painting the old man’s face an angry shade of purple as he rocked against his pillows, tears rolling down his cheeks. Until it finally hacked itself out in a painful mix of wheezing and groaning.
Logan’s whisper got louder and harsher. ‘Detective Inspector King, I’m warning you — this isn’t appropriate.’
King answered the same way: ‘You want Professor Wilson to die? That what you want?’