Examiner.
Jane pointed at one of them. ‘Yes: Bob?’
‘Aye, Bob Finnegan, Aberdeen Examiner. Is Professor Wilson’s disappearance connected to Matt Lansdale going missing?’
She pulled on a smile that probably wasn’t meant to look as patronising as it did. ‘Not that we know of, Bob. But again, we urge anyone with information to get in touch. Who’s next?’
‘Only, see, Lansdale’s a high-profile anti-independence campaigner, just like the Professor. Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’
The smile got even worse. ‘Again: we’re not currently aware of any connection. Yes: Olivia.’
The woman sitting next to Barwell lowered her hand. ‘Olivia Ward, BBC News. What about all these arson attacks? Isn’t it likely that Professor Wilson’s murder is part of a coordinated campaign of domestic terrorism?’
King leaned forward into the microphone. ‘For the record: there’s no evidence that Professor Wilson’s been murdered. This is a missing persons inquiry.’
Edward Barwell didn’t even bother putting his hand up. Cocky little sod. ‘Are you sure, Detective Inspector?’
Logan sat back in his seat. ‘Oh God, here we go …’
‘You see, the Alt-Nat trolls are all over social media saying he is.’ Because cocky wasn’t bad enough, he had to be smug with it. ‘You have seen the tweets and posts, haven’t you?’
‘As I said, the inquiry is ongoing and we ask anyone with—’
‘Information to come forward. Yes.’ A nod. Difficult to be a hundred percent certain, only seeing the back of his head, but going by the voice? Logan would’ve put money on Barwell’s smile being even more patronising than Jane McGrath’s. ‘I’ll bet you do …’
The keyboard creaked and rattled as Logan picked out a conclusion for his report on Professor Wilson’s disappearance. Blah, blah, blah, forensically aware, blah, blah, blah, unknown perpetrator, blah, blah, blah, ongoing investigation focusing on—
His mobile launched into its generic ringtone.
Great.
‘Can’t even get five minutes peace.’ He pulled the thing out and answered it. ‘McRae.’
King’s voice growled in his ear. ‘I take it you saw that.’
So he’d called up to moan. Oh joy.
‘Watched it online.’
‘What’s he waiting for then? Barwell. Smarmy little git.’ King’s voice sounded … odd. As if he was being strangled, making the words slightly sharp and mushy at the same time.
‘Are you OK?’
Maybe he was having a stroke?
‘Oh, fine. Fine. I mean, I’m being investigated by Professional Standards, a national newspaper is threatening to tell the world I was a member of a terrorist organisation, my main case is a booby-trapped nightmare full of burning crap, and my wife’s …’ He cleared his throat. ‘You lied to Hardie. When he came into the office, you told him you were there to see Steel.’
‘I’m not your enemy, Frank. Hardie doesn’t need to know we’re—’
‘Investigating me.’
‘Do you want him to know?’
‘He’s going to find out sooner or later.’ A bitter sigh. ‘Soon as Barwell prints his front page, everyone will.’
The rattling kettle spewed steam in the tiny kitchen area. They’d managed to squeeze a microwave, toaster, teeny fridge, and a couple of cupboards in here, but there wasn’t any room left over for a sink – instead, a couple of two-litre bottles of supermarket water loitered on the windowsill.
Add to that one Logan and a Superintendent Bevan, and the place was packed.
She dropped a teabag into each of the mugs on the work surface. ‘And Barwell didn’t say anything about King’s PASL past?’
‘Not a word. Just sat there being smug the whole time.’
The kettle finished its juddering song and fell silent.
Logan filled the mugs. ‘Best guess? He’ll publish tomorrow. Don’t see him holding off now he knows King’s investigating an abducted unionist.’
‘I think it might be wise to get the media department to draft a statement. Better to be prepared than caught with our pants round our ankles. And we’ll want to present a united front.’ She pulled out a spoon and mashed away at the teabags, as if they’d been naughty. Not looking at Logan. ‘And you’re sure he’s not still involved?’
‘“Sure” sure, or “kind-of-certain-but-don’t-quote-me-on-that” sure?’
‘Then go digging, Logan. Go digging. Because if we’re going to stand up there and say he’s clean, he damn well better be.’
Ah, the delights of Interview Room Three, with its stained ceiling tiles, scraped walls, and a chipped Formica table covered in badly spelled biro graffiti. It was enough to make you nostalgic for the good old days.
The blinds were open, letting sunlight flood the room, glinting off the recording equipment and the camera mounted in the corner above the door.
For a change, Logan sat on the suspect side of the table – the one where the chairs were bolted to the floor, the one facing the camera, the one where the window was behind him. Meaning that Detective Constable Collins, had to sit opposite, squinting against the sunlight, sweat prickling out across his forehead, the stains under his arms darkening as he wriggled and fidgeted. Wee Bernie Collins: a shaved chimp in a brown shirt, his tie hanging loose like a Labrador’s tongue.
Logan gave him a reassuring smile. ‘It’s OK, Bernie; nothing to worry about. I’m trying to get a feel for DI King’s management style, that’s all; talking to people who’ve worked with him. You were on a team of his eight months ago, right? That attempted murder in Kemnay?’
‘Erm …’ Bernie’s eyes drifted up to the camera in the corner.He licked his lips. Blinked a couple of times. ‘Sorry, what was the question again?’
Ladies and gentlemen: Aberdeen’s finest.
‘How do you think DI King gets on with his English colleagues?’
Wrinkles appeared across that sweaty head. ‘What, other forces down south?’ Sometimes, with Wee Bernie, it was difficult to tell if he was being obtuse, or genuinely thick.
‘No, his colleagues here.
