big happy Police Scotland family, you could take your pick: Tayside, Highlands and Islands, Fife? I’m sure your Queen’s Medal will open all manner of doors.’
‘Hadn’t really thought about it.’
‘You should, Logan. You should. The next ten months will fly by and then … poof! Professional Standards’ loss will be someone else’s gain.’ She held up the multicoloured willy warmer, letting the dangly bit … dangle. ‘I think it’s coming along nicely, don’t you?’
Urgh!
‘I really don’t think I—’
‘Now I’ve got the trunk and the ears done I can move on to Mr Haathee’s body and legs.’
Logan looked from the dangly bit to the dirty crocheted elephant perched on top of the filing cabinet with one of its button eyes hanging off.
Oh thank God for that.
‘Anyway, I won’t keep you.’ She went back to her non-willy-warming elephant. ‘Let me know how you get on with your journalist.’
No idea whose desk this was, but they had a serious Twilight problem. The cubicle walls were covered in posters of various greasy-looking sparkly vampires and shirtless young men smouldering for the camera. Not exactly wholesome.
Logan drew smiley faces on half a dozen Post-its and stuck them over the actors’ pouts, giving the desk a much more festive air. Then he logged on to his email and pulled up the front page of the Scottish Daily Post they’d been sent. The one with DI King’s face and ‘TOP MURDER COP WAS IN SCOTNAT TERROR GROUP’.
According to the byline, it’d been written by ‘SENIOR REPORTER, EDWARD BARWELL’ along with a mobile number and ‘HAVE YOU GOT A BREAKING STORY?’
Logan pulled over the desk phone and dialled.
While it rang, he called up a web browser and googled Barwell. The Post’s website showed an earnest-looking man in his early twenties, hair slicked back on top and very, very short at the sides. The kind of person who thought a checked waistcoat and a tweed jacket made him look both trendy and respectable, but came off more middle-aged Rupert the Bear. The list of articles that accompanied the photo suggested—
A voice in his ear: ‘Edward Barwell.’
‘Mr Barwell? It’s Inspector McRae from North East Division. Have you got a minute to talk about DI Frank King?’
‘On or off the record?’
‘Off.’
‘Why? What don’t you want people to know about?’
Nope, not playing that game.
‘OK. I’m sorry for bothering you. Bye.’ Logan had the handset halfway to the cradle when Barwell’s voice belted out of the earpiece:
‘Wait, wait! OK, off the record it is.’
Better.
‘You emailed through tomorrow’s front page and I’m looking into your allegations.’
‘Allegations?’ A laugh. ‘You’re kidding, right? They’re not allegations, Inspector …?’
‘McRae.’
‘Right, and is that M.A.C. or M.C.?’
‘It’s spelled: “off-the-record”, remember?’
‘Force of habit.’ There was a pause. Then, ‘Your DI King was in a Scottish Nationalist terrorist cell. I’ve enough dirt to run this for three or four days.’
Well that complicated things.
Logan opened his notebook and dug out a pen. ‘You’ve got proof he was involved in terrorist activities?’
‘You’re investigating him, you tell me.’ Then, when Logan didn’t, ‘The People’s Army for Scottish Liberation were big on blowing up statues and guest houses, weren’t they? And now there’s all these Alt-Nat arson attacks going on. Makes you wonder if someone like King should be out there investigating crimes, doesn’t it?’
‘Who told you he was involved?’
‘So you’re admitting he was in the SPLA?’
‘No, I’m asking who told you he was. If I told you Donald Trump was a Mensa member, it wouldn’t make it true, would it?’
‘You want me to hand over my sources to the police? Yeah, that’s going to happen. Let me saddle up my unicorn and I’ll ride over with the information.’
Rupert the Bear does sarcasm.
Logan sighed. ‘Look, I’m trying to get to the bottom of this, OK? Maybe it’s not a great idea to trash a guy’s career without a proper investigation?’
‘That a threat?’
‘No, it’s me wondering why you’re so interested in DI King.’
You could hear the big evil smile in his voice, it practically dripped from the handset. ‘Read the paper, you’ll find out.’ There was some rustling, a clunk, then a swell of voices in the background, as if Barwell had just stepped into a busy room. ‘Gotta dash – your media briefing’s about to kick off and I don’t want to miss a single minute.’ Then he hung up.
Logan put the phone down. Swivelled in his borrowed chair. Frowned at the now smiley-Post-it-faced vampires. ‘That could’ve gone better.’
He opened a new tab on the browser and called up Silver City FM’s website, ‘THE VOICE OF THE NORTHEAST SINCE 2008!’, following a link on their ‘NEWS UPDATE!’ page to a livestream of DCI Hardie’s press conference.
The picture was completely frozen and pixelated – the media briefing room at Divisional Headquarters. The bottom of the screen was taken up with the back of journalists’ heads, with a small podium in front of them. It played host to a projection screen, a backdrop covered in Police Scotland logos, and a desk covered with blue cloth. A row of uncomfortable-looking officers behind it – DCI Hardie in the middle, DI King to the left, and the Media Liaison Officer on the right. All three of them sharing a single microphone. Then the circular icon that meant the media player was buffering appeared, whirled for a bit, and finally the video started playing.
King was on his feet, mouth open. ‘… ask anyone with any information to come forward. Thank you.’
He sat back down and the Media Liaison Officer nodded at the assembled press pack as the words ‘JANE MCGRATH’ materialised at the bottom of the screen. Immaculate in her suit, with hair and makeup so perfect she could’ve been presenting the news. Polished to the point of being slightly creepy in an uncanny valley kind of way. Her voice was much the same. ‘Any questions?’
A flurry of hands went up.
It
