The Scene Examiners’ Transit was parked next to the one remaining patrol car, Steel’s dust-covered MX-5, and the duty undertaker’s discreet grey van — its rear doors lying wide open. Waiting.
All they needed now was the Procurator Fiscal, Pathologist, and six tons of hostile media coverage to make today complete.
Superintendent Bevan’s New Zealand accent was perfect for sounding incredulous. ‘And there’s no sign of him anywhere?’
‘I’ve got a lookout request on King and the car, the entire team’s going door-to-door in Cruden Bay, patrol cars out searching the roads...’ He made it as far as the living room window — where the SE team were clearly visible photographing and fingerprinting and sampling everything — turned around and paced towards the cliffs again. ‘I don’t know what else we can do.’
‘Logan, it’s DCI Hardie.’
Oh great, Bevan had him on speakerphone.
Logan made a silent wanking gesture. ‘Yes, Chief Inspector?’ You miserable useless git.
‘Are we saying this is connected to the revelations in today’s paper?’
‘No. Maybe. I doubt it.’ He stopped at the edge of the cliffs, where a line of blue-and-white tape cordoned off a path down through the gorse and broom to the beach below. Not that they’d get a lot of joy from the beach — the tide was nearly all the way in, stealing any footprints and trace evidence Mhari Powell would have left behind. Sunlight sparkling gold off the deep blue water. ‘Actually, you know what? Yes, it is. He’s out there taking risks because someone threatened his job this morning. Thin ice, treading water, sharks. Remember that?’
Hardie cleared his throat. ‘Yes... Well... I’m sure there were faults on all sides.’ The defensive tone got replaced by something altogether more belligerent. ‘But if he’s got nothing to hide, why hasn’t he called in?’
Moron.
‘How are we getting on with a warrant for his mobile phone’s location?’
‘Logan? It’s me again.’ Bevan. ‘They’re rushing it through now. But if he’s got his phone switched off...’
Which, given that every time Logan called the thing it went straight through to voicemail, he probably had. Idiot. ‘I’m worried he’s caught up with Mhari Powell and she’s done the same thing to him that she did to her brother.’
Hardie made a strange growling sound. ‘Well, if no one else is going to say the obvious conclusion, I wilclass="underline" what if he’s joined her?’
Oh, that deserved another wanking gesture. ‘With all due respect—’
‘He was in a nationalist terrorist cell when he was younger, what’s to stop him being in an Alt-Nat one now?’
‘But—’
‘Are you saying it’s impossible?’
Oh for God’s sake.
Logan sagged. Ran a hand over his face. ‘No. But why would he pick—’
A new voice joined the call, clipped, tight, and far too loud. ‘We’ve got a press conference in fifteen minutes, what exactly am I supposed to tell them?’
Logan held the phone away from his head, so she wouldn’t hear him groan. Then forced a smile into his voice: ‘Jane. Didn’t know you were there.’
‘The media are already ripping our backside wide open with this one, can you imagine what they’re going to shove up it when we tell them that A: we still have no clue who Mhari Powell actually is. B: she’s killed her brother, Haiden Lochhead, who, by the way, we told everyone was the criminal mastermind here.’ Jane got even louder, till she was almost shouting. ‘And C: DI King, who’s all over the papers as a former bloody terrorist, might have run away to join forces with MHARI SODDING POWELL!’ A small scream of rage belted down the phone. ‘Did I miss anything out, in this cavalcade of cocking disasters?’
‘Yes.’ Logan pulled his shoulders back. ‘That I’m an inspector with Professional Standards and I don’t take kindly to people yelling at me!’
Bevan stepped in again. ‘All right, all right. Things are a bit heated right now, but let’s take a deep breath and remember we’re on the same team here. All right?’
No one said anything.
‘All right.’
He turned away from the cliffs and started towards the cottage again. ‘You can’t tell them King’s joined forces with Mhari Powell. Superintendent Bevan?’
‘Logan’s right.’ She could’ve put a bit more conviction in her voice, but at least she was on his side. ‘There’s no proof the Detective Inspector’s done anything of the sort.’
Jane groaned. ‘It’s a lovely thought, Superintendent, but trust me: that’s not how the media works. This isn’t about proof, it’s about perception. If we try to spin this like he’s a hero and it turns out he’s run off to join his terrorist mates, the media will crucify us.’
‘So don’t tell them anything.’
‘Then, when it comes out, they’ll crucify us for trying to cover it up!’
Well, there was no point arguing with Jane — Media Liaison Officers were like bulldogs, only less flexible — maybe Superintendent Bevan could be the voice of reason? Worth a go, anyway.
‘Boss? You’re the senior officer here.’
‘We can’t lie to the press, Logan. And we can’t lie by omission either.’ A sigh. ‘Besides, if you’re swamping Cruden Bay with officers flashing DI King’s photo, someone’s going to connect the dots.’
‘Probably all over social media as we... Yup. Here, look at this.’ Scrunching noises came from Jane’s end. ‘Look at it!’
Then a grunt from Hardie. ‘Oh sodding hell. That’s all we need.’
‘Now we have to make a statement.’ Jane’s voice got louder, as if she was looming over the speakerphone. ‘You listen to me, Inspector McRae: you — need — to — find — him. OK? You need to find him now, before this utter cluster-wanking disaster gets any worse!’
‘I’m doing my best.’ He hung up, stuffed his phone away. Shook his head.
Oh, it was easy shouting the odds and making demands from the safety of Divisional Headquarters, wasn’t it? Didn’t see any of them out here trying to actually make a bloody difference.
The duty undertakers emerged from the cottage, carrying a silver-grey plastic coffin. Looked heavy.
What the hell did everyone expect him to do: magic a result out of thin air? ‘Izzy Wizzy, Let’s Get Busy!’ wasn’t going to cut it this time.
Sodding DI Sodding Frank Sodding King. Why did he have to go make everything worse?
The duty undertakers levered the coffin into their van and clunked the doors shut. Goodbye Haiden Lochhead.
Come on, Logan. Finger out. Let’s go find DI King.
And kick his backside for him.
Hard.
Steel leaned back and draped her elbows over the metal handrail, face turned to the setting sun. Basking in all her wrinkly glory. E-cigarette poking out the side of her mouth, making thin plumes of fruity fog. Pineapple, going by the smell.
Logan scowled down at the river below, where it disappeared under the bridge, its summer-drought level augmented by the high tide. ‘They still there?’