‘You know I don’t, but—’
‘Then shut up and let me do my job.’
The morphine pump bleeped and whirred, making Gary sag further into his pillows, the creases easing from his face a little. Breathing a little better. ‘I miss... I miss the family... holidays the most... We should... we should do that... again.’
‘Yeah, totally, Dad. But we’ll go to the place first, right?’
The wobbly smile returned. ‘You were so happy, running... up and down the beach with... with your kite... Remember Scruffy? You loved that wee dog.’
‘Describe the place to me, Dad, so I know you remember it.’
Logan stood. ‘OK, that’s enough.’
‘Come on, Dad, they say you’ve forgotten, but I know you remember it.’
‘And we’d have barbecues and... your mother would make potato salad... and Scruffy would always get the first sausage...’
‘Dad, focus.’ Voice harder now, running out of patience. ‘Where is the place?’
‘You used to love those summers, Haiden... You and Scruffy and Mum and me.’
‘I’m not warning you again, Detective Inspector!’
‘Gah!’ King pulled his hand away from Gary’s, wiped it on the blankets. ‘This is a waste of time, anyway.’ He stood, kicking his chair away as he buttoned his suit jacket and glared at Logan. ‘We can’t afford to sod about here any more. Wrap it up.’ Then he turned on his heel and stormed off, barging out through the door.
It banged shut behind him.
It wasn’t the sort of thing a member of Professional Standards was supposed to say about a fellow police officer, but DI King really was a massive arsehole.
Logan shook his head. Sighed. Looked down at what was left of “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead. ‘I’m sorry. If you want to make a formal complaint, we—’
‘Do you remember... when that dead porpoise washed up... on the beach and Scruffy... Scruffy found it and rolled in it? God, the stink...’
Ah well, before he left, might as well have a bash at what they came here for.
Logan settled onto the edge of the bed. ‘Gary, can you remember someone called Robert Drysdale? He was in the People’s Army for Scottish Liberation, same as you. Do you remember him?’
Gary reached for Logan’s hand — the skin hot and papery to touch. ‘Those summers were magic.’ His eyes glittered with unshed tears. ‘Look after your mum, Haiden.’
Even after everything he’d done, it was hard not to feel sorry for a dying old man.
Come on, what harm would it do?
Logan nodded. ‘I will... Dad.’
‘Maybe we can go to Uncle Geoff’s house again next summer? You, me, your mum, and Scruffy...’ He gave Logan’s hand a squeeze. ‘You always loved that house.’ Gary’s eyes drifted up towards the stone circle. ‘It’s a beautiful country, Haiden. Scotland is the best... it’s the best country in the world.’ He blinked away the tears. ‘Put down your roots and keep them here. We are this land. Never... never let them take it away from you.’
Logan shoved out through the front doors, into Ravendale’s car park. Where the hell was...
There — over by the care home’s battered minibus. Detective Inspector King. On his phone, pacing up and down with one finger in his other ear. ‘Have you spoken to those Alt-Nat groups yet, H?... Well why not? Get your sodding finger out!’
Logan marched over, the heat of the morning just adding to the fires. ‘What the bloody hell was that supposed to be?’
‘Hold on, Heather.’ He put a hand over the phone’s microphone. ‘I’m doing my job.’
‘Lying to a dying old man?’
King’s face darkened. ‘Lochhead knows, OK?’ Jabbing a finger towards the building. ‘He — knows!’
‘SO DO YOU!’
King retreated a step, pulled his chin in. Clearly not expecting a shouting at. ‘I don’t—’
‘Robert Drysdale. He was in the PASL when you were, wasn’t he? He wasn’t in a “different cell”. You knew what they did to him.’
He licked his lips, then raised the phone to his ear again. ‘Heather, I’ll call you back.’ Put his phone in his pocket. ‘Look, I never had any—’
‘Then why bring him up? Why pluck that name at random from the ether?’
‘I...’ King puffed out a breath. ‘OK: Edward Barwell calls me up last night, after work, and says he’s going to tell everyone about Robert Drysdale. That I should take the chance to set the record straight before he did.’
‘What record? What did you do?’
‘Nothing! I hadn’t even heard of Drysdale till then. I had to google him.’
Logan stepped closer. ‘Then why does Barwell think you were involved?’
‘I... I don’t know.’ King can’t have liked the scowl that got him, because he held his hands up. ‘I don’t! He’s trying to make it look like I’m involved in some way, but I wasn’t. I didn’t even know who Drysdale was till last night!’
They stood there, in silence.
Then Logan turned his back and walked to the edge of the car park, where an eight-foot-high chain-link fence separated Ravendale Sheltered Living Facility from the airport.
A Puma helicopter taxied into position, readying for takeoff. Ferrying those still lucky enough to have a job offshore, away for another stint on the rigs. Which, let’s face it, had to be easier than trying to hunt down violent Alt-Nat nutjobs.
Logan pulled out his phone and scrolled through the contacts till—
What the buggering hell?
The person he’d been looking for was now listed as, ‘THE TERRIFYING TUFTYSAURUS REX!’
Rotten little... He stabbed the button and listened to it ring.
‘Sarge? Got another name for you. He was going as “Inde-pun-dancer”, but his real—’
‘What the hell did you do to my phone?’
‘Your phone?’ If that was meant to be an innocent voice, it needed work. ‘Why would I have done something to your—’
‘You know what, I’ll bollock you later. Right now I want you to look up Gary Lochhead’s wife. Where is she?’
‘Aha, so, we’re playing “Hunt the wife”, are we? Let’s see what we can see...’ The sound of a keyboard being punished rattled down the line. ‘Aha: Tufty wins! You want me to text you the address?’
‘Is it near?’
‘Two miles outside Fyvie: Clovery Woods of Rest. They buried her there six years ago.’
So much for that.
‘OK: give me Gary Lochhead’s known associates. Not just the recent ones — go all the way back about thirty years.’
‘Yes, Sergeant, my Sergeant.’ More keyboard noises. ‘Did you know someone stole my KitKat butty and hazelnut latte? Bloody police station is full of... Got it.’
‘I want someone called Geoff, could be either spelling.’
‘No Gee-offs or Jeffs. But I have a Jeffrey, if that helps?’
Might do. ‘Does he own property in Cruden Bay?’
‘Let’s have a look.’ He bashed his keyboard again. ‘Jeffrey Moncrief. Jeffrey, Jeffrey, Jeffrey, wherefore art thou Jeffery...? Oh. He’s currently doing life in Barlinnie for stabbing an English shopkeeper sixteen times then setting fire to the remains. This was in Argyll and Bute. No chance of parole, because he keeps attacking prisoners born south of the border, down Englandshire way.’ A pause. ‘He’s what we, in the law-enforcement trade, call “a total dickhead”.’