“Acquired Taste” Wilson for Witchfire, thought it’d be good to have a genuine constitutional scholar involved: bring a bit of authenticity to the way society operated in the film. Just because it’s alternative-history, doesn’t mean it has to be fake nonsense.’ His expression soured. ‘What a pain in the arse that man was.’
‘Yeah, I’m hearing that a lot.’
‘Could start a fight in a bowl of soup. And not lumpy soup either: consommé. I bet you could boil socks and he’d—’
Logan’s phone burst into ‘If I Only Had a Brain’ again, and he slumped. Pulled the damn thing out. ‘Sorry, I’d better …’ He answered it. ‘Rennie, if you’ve called up to nag, don’t. We’ll be in when we’ve—’
‘Boss, there’s a package turned up at the BBC. You need to get over there, ASAP!’
Yes, because that didn’t sound like he was being set up for something horrible, did it?
‘What kind of package?’
‘Didn’t say, but I know King’s on his way now. Lights and music, so it must be a biggie!’
A package delivered to BBC Scotland. Well, if King was hotfooting it over there, then it had to be connected to the Professor Wilson Case. And if it was connected, then Logan had to get there sharpish too. Because the scapegoat’s scapegoat had no intention of letting the original-issue scapegoat screw things up and land him in it.
‘OK, OK. I’m on my way.’ He hung up and slipped the phone back in his pocket.
Zander’s shoulders curled forward, the cat clambering up onto them. ‘I’m guessing Gilbert and Sullivan had it right about a policeman’s lot?’
‘Got to go. Can you …?’ Pointing through the door and down a bit, where the Visual FX department probably was.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after the little lad for you. Make sure he stays out of trouble.’
‘Yeah, good luck with that.’ Logan made for the door. ‘And don’t let him have any more caffeine!’ After all, things were bad enough as it was.
A large Jiffy bag, torn open at one end, sat on the desk. And not just any old desk, this was the one used for on-camera interviews. The one with a grainy out-of-date photo of Aberdeen in the background – the ugly warty lump of St Nicholas House still clearly visible in the shot, even though it’d been torn down years ago.
The tiny studio was barely bigger than a single bedroom, with ancient audiovisual equipment piled up against the walls, filling the space behind the remote-operated camera where it couldn’t be seen. Lights hung from a ceiling rig, all of them angled to point at the Jiffy bag, making it glow against the grey Formica. A sickly shade of yellow-orange.
Logan had a squint at the address label, laser printed onto a plain white sticky square:
Professor N Wilson,
C/O The Muriel Kirk Show
BBC Scotland
Beechgrove Terrace
Aberdeen AB15 5ZT
Muriel Kirk adjusted the sunglasses perched on top of her greying hair and bounced from foot to foot, as if she was about to climb into the ring and punch someone. A visual reinforced by the trainers, joggy bottoms, and ‘I RAN THE MELDRUM MARATHON!’ T-shirt. Not an ounce of fat on her.
Her producer was a saggy man with a receding hairline, grey beard, and blue cardigan – even in this heat. Sweat shone on his top lip as he fiddled with his cardie pockets.
King popped an extra-strong mint, crunching as he stared at the package. ‘And no one else has touched this?’
Mr Cardigan shook his head. ‘It came in the morning post, but it was addressed to Muriel and she’s not on air till one, so—’
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