off to accident and emergency?’
‘Don’t be daft, of course we checked. Besides, that’s his manky Volvo outside, how was he going to get there, fly?’
Good point.
‘Hmmm …’ Logan moved on to the wall of dogs. Nine photos, each with its own little plaque. ‘“Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov – 1966 to 1984.” And this one’s “Lev Davidovich Bronstein – 1985 to 1999”. Bit of a mouthful when you’re calling them in for their dinner. Whatever happened to “Spot” and “Stinky”?’
The muscles tensed along King’s jaw for a moment, his face closed and unhappy. ‘Do they teach you this at Professional Standards School? How to avoid answering questions and be phenomenally annoying.’
If only he knew how close to the truth that was.
Logan gave him a nice bright smile. ‘The Scottish Daily Post emailed us tomorrow’s front page, wanting a comment.’ A couple of swipes and the front page popped up on Logan’s phone screen: a photo of DI King scowled out beneath the headline, ‘TOP MURDER COP WAS IN SCOTNAT TERROR GROUP’.
He turned the phone, so King could see.
It was like watching chunks of ice falling off a glacier as King’s face sagged, eyes wide, mouth open in an expression of complete and utter horror. ‘Oh God …’
Logan nodded and put his phone away. ‘Maybe we should have a wee chat?’
The living room wasn’t much better. Books, books, dust, and more books – heaped up on the floor around a tatty leather sofa. A massive stereo system complete with racks and racks of vinyl took up the space where a TV should have been, the speakers big enough to pass for sarcophaguses. Or was it sarcophagi?
King looked as if he was ready to be buried in one of them, anyway. He half-sat, half-collapsed into the sofa, sending a puff of dust billowing out from the underside. Motes of it glowed in the sunlight as he put his head in his hands. ‘They’re going to fire me, aren’t they?’
Logan shrugged. ‘Well, you can see how it looks: here you are, working the disappearance of a prominent Brit-Nat academic, and all the time you were a member of …’ Nope, drawing a blank. Logan pulled out his notebook and checked. ‘“The People’s Army for Scottish Liberation”. Soon as the media get hold of that it’ll be like throwing an injured piglet into a bathtub full of piranhas.’
‘I was sixteen! Sixteen and stupid. And she was pretty and Welsh.’ King sagged even further. ‘I just wanted to impress her.’
‘Welsh?’
‘And I only went to a couple of meetings! Till I found out Cerys was shagging Connor O’Brien behind my back.’ He rubbed at his face. ‘She said it was all about “uniting the Celtic nations to cast out the English oppressors and break the final bonds of imperialist subjugation”.’
Which was probably code for a threesome. ‘Well, she does sound fun.’
‘After all, India managed to win its independence, why couldn’t we?’
‘Only, from what I remember, the PASL weren’t so keen on the peaceful protest approach, were they? More into blowing up statues and abducting politicians. Not very Gandhiesque.’
King waved a dismissive hand. ‘That wasn’t the People’s Army for Scottish Liberation, that was the Scottish Freedom Fighters’ Resistance Front.’
Don’t smile! ‘Splitters.’
‘I didn’t do anything!’
‘The Post says it’s got proof.’
‘I don’t hate the English – my wife’s English, my kids are half English. Hell, Josie was born in Newcastle!’ He curled forwards, knees against his chest, arms wrapped around his head for a muffled scream.
Which, given the circumstances, was understandable.
There was a photo in the hall of a handsome woman in what had to be her late forties. Fiery red hair swept back from a high forehead, green eyes, and a twist to her mouth that made it look as if she was about to burst out laughing at any moment. The wooden frame was worn through, nearly to the glass along the bottom.
Logan ran his fingers along it. Smooth.
King’s voice growled out through the living room door. ‘For God’s sake, Gwen, can you just support me for once in your life? … No. And to be honest, I think it’s the least you could do!’
Probably best to give him a bit of privacy. So Logan eased that door shut and opened the only one he’d not seen inside yet.
Bathroom: and not a huge one, made to feel even smaller by all the towels on the floor, and the overflowing bin, and the skeletal remains of long-dead loo rolls, and the discarded empty boxes and pill packets, and the impressive collection of bleachy / toilet-cleanery bottles around the pan. All smothered by the ever-present geological layers of dust. An archaeologist would have a field day in here …
Was that a scraping noise?
Logan stopped, head on one side, ears straining to pick up the—
Yup, there it was again. Not in here, though.
He backed into the hall, just in time to see the taller, broader, less pregnant of the two Scene Examiners lumber out of the kitchen in his rustly SOC suit, carrying a blue crate with a couple of brown-paper evidence bags in it. He’d pulled down his facemask, revealing a swathe of glowing shiny red skin, coral pink lipstick and a bit too much blusher for the natural look. Grimacing as a drip worked its way down his cheek. ‘Gah … Never join the SE, Inspector. You think it’s bad wearing black in this heat? Try a sodding Tyvek suit. It’s like a waterfall of sweat from my balls all the way down to my socks.’
‘You make it sound so romantic, Charlie.’
‘I squelch when I walk.’ And to prove the point, he squelched away down the hall and out the front door.
That scratching noise sounded again.
And was that a whimper?
Logan peered up the stairs.
Yup, definitely coming from up there.
He climbed up to a tiny landing, where yet more books lay in wait, narrowing a space that was already claustrophobic because of the coombe ceilings. Two doors led off it, one of them rattling slightly as whatever it was scraped and whined.
The noise stopped as Logan turned the door handle.
He pushed it open, revealing a bedroom littered with yet more books. Discarded clothes lay heaped up on a wicker chair in one corner, a laundry basket overflowing in the other. A mound of cigarette stubs, ground out in a saucer. The whole room reeked of stale washing, fags, and a sort of dirty sweaty funk normally reserved for spotty teenagers.
No doubt about it, King’s
