All That’s Dead. Stuart MacBrideЧитать онлайн книгу.
checked. ‘First one’s yesterday morning, nearly twenty-four hours before he was reported missing.’ She looked left, then right, then dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Which kinda implies someone out there was involved, doesn’t it?’
She had a point. Logan leaned against the chicken wire enclosure. ‘So what’s the plan?’
King pointed at Steel. ‘Right. Once … whatever the dog’s called has had his wee, I want you out there doing something useful. Interview the neighbours.’
Steel stared at him as if he’d just pulled a live squid from his trouser, then she turned on the spot, pantomiming a good hard look at the weeds and the trees and the whole middle-of-nowhereiness of the place. ‘What, the squirrels?’
‘Doesn’t matter how far out in the sticks someone lives, there’s always neighbours. Find them, Sergeant.’
That got him a scowl and a sarcastic, ‘Yes, Boss.’ Then she rolled her eyes at Logan, tucked the old-age terrier under her arm and ruffled the fur on top of its head, till it kind of resembled her own. ‘Come on, little man, let’s take you away from these nasty police officers that stink like a wino’s Y-fronts.’ Marching off around the side of the house.
King shook his head. ‘I swear to God, I’m going to end up killing someone. Probably her …’
‘Ahem.’ Logan waved. ‘Hello? Professional Standards, remember?’
There was a small flinch. ‘Don’t remind me.’ Then King straightened up, all in charge again. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an investigation to run.’
‘Actually, if you don’t mind, I’m going to hang about for a bit and observe.’
A pained look crawled its way across King’s face. ‘I—’
‘You’ll barely notice I’m here. Promise.’
‘Oh for … I didn’t do anything! I told you, I only joined—’
‘To impress a girl. I know. But …’ Logan shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t be doing my job if I just turned up for a quick five-minute chat, then sodded off again, would I?’
A deep and bitter sigh left King looking hollowed out and grey. ‘Right. Well, I suppose I’d better find out what happened to Professor Wilson, then.’
House martins massed over the outbuildings, chasing bugs, as Logan followed King along a dusty path. Past scaffolding and stacks of slates. Timber and bags of sharp sand. A cement mixer with teeth painted around the mouth, as if it were a World War Two fighter plane.
Most of the steading was an empty shell, stripped back to the bare granite, but the unit nearest the farmhouse was much nearer being completed. A crisp new roof and a coat of off-pink harling. The double glazing still had the blue sticky plastic on, but the hollow studwork was clearly visible through it. Watertight, but nowhere near finished.
King led the way between an overflowing skip and the remains of a cattle byre, to a stack of breeze-blocks where a middle-aged woman in a floaty paisley shirt sheltered out of the sun. She looked up from her phone when King cleared his throat.
‘Dr Longmire?’
She put her phone away. ‘Can I go now? Only I’ve got a faculty meeting at two and it’s my turn to bring the milk …’
‘It’s OK.’ King forced a smile. ‘My colleague and I just want to ask a couple of questions. Professor Wilson: did he have any enemies?’
‘Nicholas?’ A laugh sent her hair jiggling. ‘Did the man have anything but?’
Yeah, that wasn’t normal. Normally people shovelled on praise for the missing and the dead. Lifelong dicks were suddenly transformed into beloved role models and all it took was getting stabbed, strangled, bludgeoned, or abducted.
Dr Longmire sniffed. ‘Oh, don’t look at me like that. Nicholas Wilson will argue water isn’t wet for the sheer joy of winding someone up. Never met anyone who relishes a fight more, and I’ve been married twice.’
Logan leaned back against the byre. ‘He seems to have a lot of trolls on Twitter.’
‘Nicholas isn’t the kind of man who keeps his opinions to himself. All that hate hammering in his direction every day – any sensible person would’ve shut down their account and burned their computer, but not Nicholas. Not when he could call people “knuckle-dragging nationalist morons” in two hundred and eighty characters or less.’
King shot Logan a look that wasn’t exactly subtle: shut up, this is my investigation. ‘Are you saying Professor Wilson isn’t popular at work?’
‘He isn’t popular anywhere. I’m only here because I drew the short straw. And I mean that literally: we drew straws and I lost.’ She sighed and stood, picked up an empty plastic container that looked as if it’d housed an iced coffee in happier times. ‘Look, I’m not saying I wanted him dead or anything – and before you ask, yes I do have an alibi – but if someone were to rough him up a bit I wouldn’t exactly complain, OK?’
The kitchen still smelled like a butcher’s shop, the air in here thick and heavy and stifling. Uncomfortably warm.
Logan stood at the kitchen window, giving Dr Longmire a wee wave as her Fiat pulled out of the drive and disappeared down the lane.
King watched her go. ‘You’d better believe we’ll be checking her alibi.’
Bless his little sweaty socks.
Shirley and Charlie packed their equipment away in more blue plastic crates, the top halves of their SOC suits stripped down to the waist, sleeves tied around their middles. Showing off sweaty red faces and sodden Scottish Police Authority polo shirts.
Charlie’s blusher was all smudged by the heat, and his lipstick didn’t look much better. His eyeshadow and mascara might have started out as a perfectly crafted smoky eye, but they’d ended up more Heath-Ledger’s-Joker-meets-drunken-panda.
Shirley pulled off her Alice band and had a hearty scratch at her long blonde hair. ‘Gah … When I get back to the shop I’m going to climb into a cold shower and stay there till I evolve gills.’
Logan gave her a smile. ‘So … crime scene?’
She pointed at the table. ‘Just between you and me? That’s a lot of blood. Not a fatal amount, but you’d notice you were missing it. Want to know what else is missing?’ Shirley left a dramatic pause … ‘Fingerprints. And I don’t mean whoever-it-was-wore-gloves, I mean every surface that’s not covered in books or crap has been wiped. Don’t quote me, but from the lemony-fresh smell I’d put money on those disposable antibac wipes.’
King folded his arms. ‘You check the bin?’
‘No, because I’ve never done this before.’ She turned back to Logan. ‘Whoever it was, they weren’t your usual thickie. The two footprints we pulled from the garden are flat rumply things. No tread.’
‘So …?’
‘Take a bit of cardboard, cut it to the same shape as your shoe’s sole, then put it in a wee blue plastic bootie like this.’ She lifted one leg, showing off the blue plastic bootie on the end of it. ‘All you leave are the rough outline and some crinkles from the plastic.’
Great.
She nodded. ‘We managed to lift some good fingerprints from the study, just in case, you know: for elimination purposes. But there’s nothing in here to eliminate them against.’ A sigh. ‘Maybe we’ll get some DNA, but I doubt it. Your boy’s forensically aware.’
Scottish crime fiction had