Milky groaned. ‘Media will love that.’
‘Agreed. It’s not worth the risk.’ King crunched his way through another mint. ‘Heather: get a dog team organised. I want those woods search-and-sniffed ASAP.’
A lopsided smile. ‘We could take Gibbs instead? He could do with the exercise.’
‘A proper dog team, H, not you and your mental cocker spaniel again.’
She sighed. ‘Guv.’ Then pulled out her phone and went to stand in the corner, one finger in her ear as she made the call.
‘Good.’ King pointed at Milky and Tufty. ‘And you two: Professor Wilson’s colleagues need interviewing. We’re looking for enemies, fights, threats. Was he depressed? Do they think he might have harmed himself? Make sure you check every single alibi – you know what academics are like.’
Tufty’s hand shot up again. ‘Ooh, ooh! What about the social-media side of things, Guv? There’s all these Alt-Nat accounts gloating about the Professor being dead, and all these Unionistas wading in to do battle against them. It’s Keyboard Armageddon out there.’
‘What about it?’
A slightly puzzled look. ‘We need to investigate, don’t we? Who are they? How did they know something happened to Professor Wilson before we did? A sticky digital trail of clues could lead us straight to the murderer!’
Milky rolled her eyes. ‘It’s like he’s been half drowned in Idiot Juice …’ She checked her watch. ‘We could ask the forensic computer-geek team?’
‘Have you seen their backlog?’ King shook his head. ‘We’ll have died of old age by the time they get anywhere near it.’
Tufty still had his hand up, but now he was bouncing in his seat too. ‘I can do it! I can! I has resources and mad skillz and stuff!’
King scowled at him. ‘You’re interviewing academics for the rest of the day and liking it.’
‘But—’
‘Interviews!’
The wee loon sagged in his seat, all the bounce taken out of him. ‘Guv …’ To be honest, he only had himself to blame.
Logan waved at King. ‘We’ve got someone at PSD who might be able to take a look. Does all our computer forensics.’
A little bounce made its way back into Tufty. ‘Honestly, I could do it. It’s no trouble.’
‘Go.’ King pointed at the door. ‘Away with you.’
And the last bounce died. ‘Guv.’ Tufty scuffed his way from the room.
Milky stood. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye ont lad.’ Then she followed him out.
King turned to Logan. ‘This IT guy of yours, is he …’
A kerfuffle in the doorway made them both look as DS Steel appeared, arms out, stopping Detective Constable Way from escaping. ‘Hope you’re off on a tea run, Milky. Two and a coo for me.’ A suggestive wink, then she stepped aside, letting Milky squeeze past.
There was a pause as King pulled himself up to his full height, chest out. Frowning down at Steel. ‘Well?’
She stuck both hands in her pockets and sauntered in. ‘What-ho, sharny bumholes?’
King stiffened. ‘Is that how you speak to superior officers?’
Apparently.
‘I’ve finished your stupid door-to-doors and you know what I got? Go on: guess.’
Heather emerged from the corner, stuffing her phone back in her pocket. ‘Guv? I’ve managed to sort us a dog unit, but we’ll need to wait till they’ve finished in Banff. They’re dunting a druggie’s door in at half one.’
‘What I’ve got,’ Steel stuck a hand down the front of her shirt and had a rummage – rearranging things, ‘is sore feet, midge bites, and a sweat-sticky cleavage. It’s like a teenager’s wet dream down here.’
Logan shuddered. ‘Urgh …’
King turned his back on her. ‘They give you an ETA, Heather?’
‘Minimum two hours, plus travelling time.’
Steel extracted her hand and wiped it on her suit trousers, leaving a damp smear. ‘Did a three-mile radius and you know how many houses I found? Six. Six houses full of weird wee teuchtery people with webbed feet and no chins cos Mummy married Uncle Daddy.’
‘Two hours?’ King sighed. ‘Not ideal, but it’ll have to do.’
Heather tried her lopsided smile again. ‘Sure you don’t want to give Gibbs another go?’
‘Inbred old gits didn’t have a pair of teeth between them. Whole place reeked of banjos and “squeal piggy!”’
‘We’ll need to get on to the Superintendent: try and drum up some more bodies.’ King took out his phone ‘Have a word with—’
‘HOY!’ Steel banged a hand down on the nearest desk. ‘Are you tossers even listening to me?’
They might not have been before, but they were now.
King’s eyes bugged. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Should think so too.’ She stuck her nose in the air. ‘And you’ll be delighted to know that the media have got hold of your professor’s disappearance. Bloody Aberdeen University issued a press release.’
With that, all the indignation hissed out of King like a deflating turnip. He sank into one of the recently vacated office chairs and sagged back, staring up at the baggy ceiling tiles. ‘Great.’
Then his phone launched into ‘Fairytale of New York’ again. He groaned and curled into himself, arms wrapped around his head.
Steel grinned at Logan. ‘What you doing here?’ Then pointed at the groaning King. ‘Going to fire the wee man?’
‘Just popped in on my way to the canteen.’
‘Hmph. Nice for some, swanning about like something off Darth Vader’s glee club.’
‘So you didn’t find out anything useful at all?’
‘From the Teuchter Patrol? Nah.’ She plonked herself down in a chair. ‘“Professor Wilson is a loner”, “Professor Wilson is a pain in the hoop”, “Professor Wilson never puts his bins out on the right day”. Only thing we know for sure is he went missing sometime between eighteen past eleven on Sunday night and twenty to ten, Monday morning.’
Heather raised an eyebrow. ‘How can you possibly—’
‘Last tweet he sent was eleven eighteen; first Alt-Nat tweet crowing about his death was twenty to ten. It’s no’ exactly Celebrity Eggheads, is it, H?’
A blush spread itself up Heather’s neck and across her cheeks.
Steel pulled out her phone. ‘Honestly, you buggers forget I used to be a Chief Inspector, don’t you?’ She poked at the screen, eyes all narrow and squinty. ‘Here you go: “Corrupt Brit-Nat mouthpiece, Professor Wilson, has stained our proud country with his lies and filth for the last time. Death was too good for him. Enemy of the people!” Exclamation mark. Hashtag: “Rise up and be the nation again”, hashtag: “Scotland first”.’
Logan peered over her shoulder at the screen. ‘They leave a name?’
‘Aye: “Wally Knieve 1314”.’