LITMIR.BIZ

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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 was difficult to tell who was who, going by the back of their heads, but a few of those journalistic haircuts were familiar, especially the trendy short sides and slicked top of Edward Barwell. Sitting there, between someone from the BBC and the Aberdeen 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 …’

       7

      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

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