‘We did that ninety seconds ago, you muppet.’
‘Ah. Right.’ He eased his extendable baton from its holster, sniffing the air. Dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Can you smell that?’
Logan took a deep breath... A warm, crackling smell familiar from years of bonfire parties. ‘Wood smoke.’
‘The world’s most horrible barbecue...’
Oh sodding hell.
Logan snapped out his baton. ‘We’re too late!’ Charging into the woods, shoving branches out of the way, stumbling over the uneven ground, breathing hard.
They burst out from the trees into a wide clearing full of knee-high grass and weeds. Clumps of reeds. Scrambling coils of brambles reared like frozen explosions, punctured by the vivid-green curl of ferns. And, at the centre of the clearing: a ring of stones, their grey surfaces speckled with lichen and moss. Most of them had fallen over, but a few still stood as tall as they had five thousand years ago. Ancient and feral.
The recumbent stone lay on its side at the opposite end of the circle, like an altar, flanked by a vertical on the right and a fallen stone on the left. A fire crackled beside it, coiling out pale grey wood smoke. But it was what loomed behind the altar that really caught the eye: a rough wooden tripod, fashioned from fallen trees — about twelve foot high and tapering to a point. The individual trunks weren’t that big around, barely more than you could encircle with one hand, but together they were clearly sturdy enough to support Gary Lochhead’s weight.
He dangled from the apex, dressed in a pair of tartan jammies, a noose around his neck, the rope looped over where the trunks were lashed together.
He wasn’t dead yet, though. His legs twitched, bare feet swinging, shoulders shaking, both hands behind his back, face scarlet but heading rapidly towards purple. Eyes bulging as Mhari sliced his dusty pyjama bottoms off with a huge shiny hunting knife.
Or at least, it was probably Mhari — difficult to tell with the black hood over her head, but who else could it be?
Logan broke into a run. ‘YOU THERE! STOP! POLICE!’
‘YOU HEARD HIM!’ Tufty charged through the tussocks and undergrowth, waving his baton over his head. ‘DROP THE WEAPON!’
Mhari turned, her knife glinting in the sunlight. She’d cut two eyeholes in the hood, but up close it looked more like a pillowcase. Baggy and square-cornered. ‘You’re too late.’
Closer.
‘DROP IT! DROP THE KNIFE NOW!’ Tufty peeled off, heading for the right-hand side of the recumbent stone.
Logan took the left. ‘It doesn’t have to end this way, Mhari.’
A genuine laugh. ‘Yes it does. Of course it does.’
Gary Lochhead’s struggles were getting weaker as his face darkened. Naked from the waist down.
Tufty made it behind the stone, slowing, his free hand up, palm out. ‘Come on, Mhari, he’s your dad. You can’t do this.’
She looked at the knife in her hand, then up at Gary’s body. He wasn’t struggling any more. A nod, then Mhari pulled at a slipknot and her father’s body crashed to the ground.
Oh, thank God for that.
Logan inched nearer. ‘That’s better. Now, put the knife down.’
‘I dragged him here. I hanged him till he was barely conscious.’ She tilted her black-hooded head to one side. ‘Why would I put the knife down? This is where the important bit starts.’
Tufty edged closer. ‘He’s your dad, Mhari!’
‘WHY DO YOU THINK I’M DOING IT?’ She wiped at her eyes through the hood. ‘Lung cancer.’ Jabbing the knife towards Gary’s half-naked body. ‘He’s a hero! All his life he’s been fighting for Scotland and you think he’s going to die in some crummy care home?’
Couldn’t be more than six foot between her and Logan now. He stepped around the recumbent stone — past a bright-blue duffel bag and an abandoned shovel — closing the gap. ‘Put the knife down and you can tell us all about it.’
‘Our generation needs a William Wallace moment of its own. Something relevant to the slack-jawed masses sleepwalking their way through life. Something to wake them up!’
‘Inspector McRae’s right, Mhari: butchering your dad isn’t going to do that. Come on, let us help him, yeah? Before it’s too late?’
‘Oh I’m not butchering him, “Mary Sievewright” is.’ Mhari pointed at another tripod — a smaller one this time. A smartphone was mounted on top of it, a little red light winking on the screen. ‘Mary’s doing it as revenge for Professor Wilson, Councillor Lansdale, and Scott Meyrick. Filming it and posting it to every Unionist website she can find. “LOOK WHAT I’VE DONE!” she’ll cry. “LOOK WHAT THESE SCOTTISH BASTARDS DESERVE!”’ Mhari whipped off her hood and beamed at them, eyes wide. ‘And our side will turn that into a rallying cry. The people who were asleep will answer and join us. Together, we’ll drive the English from our country like the scum they are!’ Finishing with her arms out as if expecting a round of applause.
Unbelievable.
Logan shook his head. ‘It’s too late, Mhari. They’ll know it was you who killed him.’
‘They won’t care.’ She lowered her arms and stepped towards Logan. ‘Welcome to the post-truth world, Inspector. Welcome to alternative facts and conspiracy theories, echo chambers and filter bubbles. People don’t care what’s true any more, they care about what reinforces their beliefs.’
Tufty had made it as far as Gary Lochhead. ‘Sarge? I don’t think he’s breathing.’
‘It’s over, Mhari. Put the knife down.’
‘His death can mean something. We can cast the English out of Scotland! Rise up and be the nation again!’ Hauling in a deep breath to bellow it out: ‘FREEDOM!’
Yeah...
Maybe not today.
Logan unclipped the pepper spray from his utility belt and emptied half the canister right into her face.
She spluttered, staggered away a couple of paces, eyes screwed shut, free hand coming up to wipe the liquid from her skin... Then screaming rang out across the clearing as she dropped the knife and clawed at her cheeks. Fell to her knees. Wailing.
Tufty lunged for Gary Lochhead, kneeling beside him and wrestling with the noose. Hauling it free and feeling for a pulse. ‘He’s definitely not breathing!’
‘CPR. Mouth-to-mouth. Don’t let him die!’ Logan shoved Mhari onto her front and pulled out his cuffs. ‘Mhari Powelclass="underline" I am arresting you under Section One of the Criminal Justice, Scotland, Act 2016, for the murders of Councillor Matthew Lansdale and Haiden Lochhead...’
48
The fire had gone from a crackling blaze to a hot red glow, perfect for cooking. But, thankfully, Gary Lochhead’s innards were no longer on the menu. A couple of paramedics knelt beside him: one working away at chest compressions and humming ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ to herself, while her partner fiddled about with a defibrillator.
‘Clear!’
Paramedic Number One stuck her hands in the air and Gary Lochhead spasmed. Then she felt for a pulse. ‘Come on, come on, come on...’
On the other side of the stone circle, Steel scuffed her feet through the long grass, vaping away and talking to someone on her mobile phone. Rennie was on his phone too, pacing around one of the upright stones, face creased. Both of them too far away to make out what they were talking about.
Not that it mattered.
Not now they had ‘Mhari Powell’ in custody.
She sat with her back against a fallen stone, her face a study in beetroot and scarlet. Cheeks glistening with tears, top lip and chin glistening with snot. The delightful aftermath of a face full of pepper spray. She glowered up at Logan through bloodshot, swollen eyes. ‘This changes nothing.’