Blue Vengenance: A Logan Thorne DCI Scottish Detective Thriller

by Duncan Wallace

  If the Owls did their jobs, then I’d have my answers in the morning. It was possible that this was the same man who had killed Brown and McLuckie, but it didn’t feel the same. There was no planning involved, and there was no way the man could have left his next clue behind unless he’d killed Harding as well. So who was his real target?

  I was stuck in my own thoughts and hadn’t paid much attention to the drive, but instincts had routed me home anyway. There was an empty parking space right outside my door, which was a small miracle. If Stacey were there, she’d say the free space was the Universe righting itself after my accident. I laughed softly to myself. Stacey wasn’t quite aware of the parking pandemic in Edinburgh city centre.

  The moon was half-cut above me as I stepped out from the car, and the light illuminated a silvery path to my front door. It was a quiet night along the street, and I limped along the path to my home. Then I felt a prickle on the back of my neck, as if someone was watching me.

  I glanced up and down the street. The road was crammed with houses, but all of the windows were dark, and I didn’t see a single twitch of a curtain or a slow burning lamp anywhere. I tried to shake off the paranoia but it clung to me like damp sand. I walked as quickly as I could to the door and took another look along the street. A cat strolled along the other side of the street, but that was it.

  I unlocked the door and winced as the keys turned loudly in the lock. It was an old door, stained a dark red and with a large brass handle that was nearly black. A large square of glass revealed the little hallway beyond, and I thought how easy it would be for someone to put their fist through the glass and twist the lock from the inside. I tried to laugh at myself and decided to stop watching so many horror movies.

  But even so, I double locked the doors that night.

  It was cold inside the house, so I wandered into the kitchen and turned on the central heating. The ancient boiler groaned as it came on, and then the radiators hissed as steam started to flow. I held my hands over the warmth until I could feel the cuts in my hands once again, and then I slowly made my way through the rest of the house.

  It could feel lonely walking into a cold, dark house, and I wondered if I'd be happier living with Stacey. Then I looked around at my sparse possessions, the single sofa and a cheerful rug, which I’d bought only out of necessity, and I tried to imagine the rooms filled up with Stacey’s things, specifically those small decorative items she loved to buy. I decided I preferred being on my own. The bareness soothed me because I could think with a clear head, and I liked that I could pack up and leave in one night should I need to. I didn’t want to be anchored down with clutter.

  I dug through the junk drawer until I found the gel and a packet of cotton balls. I cleaned out the wounds, dabbed on some antibiotic I found at the back of the drawer, and then went in search of plasters. All I found was an empty box, however, so I tossed it into the bin and retreated to my tiny living room.

  I pulled my laptop from my bag and collapsed onto the sofa. I flicked Forth 2 on the radio and hummed along to David Bowie’s Space Oddity. I told myself I would spend an hour or two going through the database again, but I never opened the computer. Instead, I fell asleep as I pondered whether the hit and run was a new clue in the murders of McLuckie and Brown, or something else entirely.

  I woke to dull sunshine filtering through my blinds, and it took me a moment to realize I wasn’t in my bed. I bolted upright, panicked I had overslept, but it was still early, only seven a.m by my watch. I hadn’t slept well, and my dreams had been filled with strange sounds and mysterious shadows that I could never quite see.

  My face felt stiff after being plastered against the sofa cushion all night, so I stretched my mouth a few times while I tried to calculate how many hours I’d slept in the last few days. It was a depressingly small number, and I gave up with a groan.

  My laptop was on the floor, just out of reach, and I remembered the last case I had looked at in the office had been an Arson with an intent to Endanger Life, which Brown and McLuckie had worked on together. A small part of the case had niggled at me when I read the file the first time, though I couldn’t identify what had seemed off. But something about the arson had lodged in my brain, and I suddenly remembered that there had been a brief moment in my dreams when a fire had flared to life and trapped someone that I couldn’t quite reach.

  I realized the psychology of arson and of the recent kills shared some similarities. Both crimes were revenge-driven, fuelled by anger, and committed by a culprit struggling with their emotional state. But I had to admit that there were large differences, too. The arson had been reckless and had crackled dangerously out of control.

  In contrast, my unsub was meticulously careful, even in his acts of daring. Yes, he had killed McLuckie on the police station’s doorstop, but he had done so deliberately out of view of any CCTV and preliminary interviews showed no eye-witnesses had seen a stranger fleeing the scene.

  Perhaps the arsonist had learned from his earlier mistakes and become the more efficient and calculating killer we were now hunting. I stretched across the floor, grabbed the laptop with the tips of my fingers, and dragged it back to the sofa. The arson file was still open on the screen, and I flicked through the pages as I tried to find what had caught my attention.

  But my brain still felt fuzzy, and I knew I needed a hot shower and caffeine before it would function properly again. I stood up and realized that every joint had gone stiff after yesterday’s abuse. A groan escaped my lips as I forced myself to walk up the stairs to the bathroom.

  Somehow, I managed to turn on the hot water and then peel off yesterday’s clothes. I waited until steam had filled the room before I stepped into the shower. The heat felt good, and my muscles began to loosen. My knees and palms, however, began to bleed again, and a small pool of red formed around the drain. I sighed and quickly scrubbed off the remnants of the previous night’s activities.

  Once I was clean and covered in antibiotics again, I made my way back to the kitchen. Hunger gnawed at my stomach so I rummaged through the cabinets, though I knew there wasn’t much there besides some pouches of oatmeal and some stale biscuits.

  So, I was grateful to stumble on a packet of Lorne sausages, and I then remembered Stacey had slipped them into the fridge a few days ago. She’d had them spare and said I could eat the sausages after work one night. Well, first thing in the morning was close enough, so I found a pan and turned on the stove. I smiled as I cooked, and the meat spitting frantically in the pan filled the room with a pleasant, homey smell.

  When the sausage was done, I slipped it onto a plate, added some ketchup, and sat down at my little table. The meat was exactly what I needed, and I felt like a real human again by the time I’d polished off the last bite.

  Feeling a good deal happier, I gathered up what I would need for work and then stepped outside once again. It was drizzling in true Scottish fashion, at a slant as the north air blew the drops of rain sideways. I knew that rain like I knew the local pizza joint, and I expected it at my door at least three times a week.

  It was eight a.m. when I arrived at the station, and I was still in need of caffeine. I couldn’t stand the thought of drinking the bitter yet bland canteen coffee, and so I decided to nip across to Brews-Agents, so named for its ability to sell you a latte with your book of stamps. It was my favourite shop in Edinburgh, or maybe it was just my most frequented. I could buy a newspaper and a double-shot americano at the same time, which was often all I needed.

  The tinkling bell on the door announced my arrival, but I couldn’t see anyone else in the place, not even a barista at the coffee machine. Then a young man rushed out of the staff door and nodded by way of greeting. He was a spotty, dirty-blond teenager I hadn’t seen working there before. The tips of his hair were dyed neon-green, usually a sign that someone was trying to hide a boring personality. The cropped trousers and bright purple socks didn’t help, either.

  “Sorry,” he nearly shouted.<
br />
  His high-pitched voice bounced around the empty store, and I felt myself wince at the sound.

  “Have you been waiting long?” he asked. “I had to take an, erm, emergency call.”

  One headphone still peeked out from the collar of his t-shirt, and I could hear a faint bit of music. The boy casually reached towards his waistband and fiddled with something, and the music faded away.

  “Just got here,” I replied. “I’ll take a double-shot americano and a paper.”

  My eyes drifted around the shop as the blond barista made my coffee. It was a popular store for police and local cafe workers alike, though for different reasons. The coppers usually raided the cold drink fridge and bought up all the snacks, while the chefs frantically searched for ingredients they’d forgotten to order. I’d once seen a bar manager plead for a bag of limes. It hadn’t been a pretty sight.

  “Do you work around here?” the boy asked as I paid for my coffee and newspaper. His accent was thick in a way I didn’t hear often anymore.

  “Around, yeah,” I replied as I took the coffee. “Why?” The cup burned in my scratched palms.

  The boy shrugged.

  “We don’t get many tourists in,” he explained. “And I don’t reckon I’ve seen you before.”

  “I do come in a lot,” I admitted. “But I don’t recognise you, either.”

  “Aye, well, I’ve been on deliveries,” he said as he smiled proudly. “Just been promoted. Oh, do you work across the street? At the station?”

  I wasn’t sure why, but my instinct suggested I shouldn’t tell this boy the truth.

  “I’m not a copper,” I lied. “I just do the I.T.”

  He frowned.

  “That’s a shame,” he said. “I would have liked some insider information.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked in a bored voice.

  I took a sip of too-hot coffee and grunted. It tasted different than normal, and I felt coffee granules stick between my teeth. I guessed the boy hadn’t quite gripped the mechanics of the machine yet.

  “Haven’t you seen the papers?” he asked as he pointed to the rolled up print in my hand. “We all heard about that dead cop found round the corner. Beaten to death, I heard. But I won’t be repeating that until it’s proven. Fake news and all that.”

  “Right,” I said. “Good for you. Hang on, did you say it’s in the paper?”

  I groaned internally.

  “Couldn’t believe it, though!” The barista exclaimed and ignored my question. “I dump our bins in that alleyway all the time, and sometimes go out to smoke a--”

  He stopped abruptly and shot me a panicked look.

  “Well, not me,” he said. “Other people.”

  I swallowed a smile.

  “I heard about it at work, but not too much,” I said as casually as possible. “I’m based in a separate department. Were you working last night?”

  “Aye, I was, but I wasn’t supposed to be,” he said as he raised a bushy eyebrow. “A girl rang in sick, said she had food poisoning. If you call going to a party is having food poisoning. She shouldn't have asked us all to follow her Instagram if she’s pulling stunts like that.”

  The blond boy looked at me as though I should agree with him.

  “That’s wrong,” I finally offered.

  “I didn’t tell the boss, but I think he found out,” the boy continued. “He said he was going to have a talk with her.”

  “So,” I asked again. “Did you see anything odd last night?”

  I was afraid to appear overly eager for information, but the boy must have enjoyed his audience after being trapped in the delivery van for so long because he leaned in closer.

  “I suppose I did,” he said mysteriously. “But it wasn’t odd, it was more strange…”

  The boy’s voice tapered off dramatically. I wondered if I should remind him that those two words held the same definition.

  “We don’t get many nice cars around here,” he explained. “I mean, sure, there are decent cars, but nothing too fancy.”

  He tapped a nail on the counter, as if to emphasize a point.

  “And I know cars,” the blond boy continued as he nodded solemnly. “My dad buys them as junk and fixes them up like brand new. So I thought it was weird to see the new Toyota speeding out of here like a bat out of hell last night.”

  I shifted my weight and took another sip of coffee. My heart had started to thud in my chest, but I managed to keep up my mildly interested facade.

  “Really?” I asked casually. “Do you remember what time that was?”

  “Hmm,” he stood up straight and wiped the steam wand with a cloth.

  I felt sure he was deliberately taking his time, but I could be patient. I took another sip and watched him wipe down a nonexistent wet spot on the counter.

  “It was definitely late at night, because we’d already closed up and were doing a stock take,” he said. “I remember we had to keep the windows shut because we were playing music so loud. Maribou State, do y’know them?”

  He shot a glance at me, then seemed to second guess himself.

  “Aye, it might be a bit too young for you,” he declared.

  I rolled my eyes and willed him to get on with it. There was a clock above the till, and I realised I’d already wasted ten minutes in the shop. I hoped he’d eventually have something worthwhile to tell me.

  “Did you see anything else about the car, other than it was a Toyota?” I tried to steer the conversation back on topic. “How fast was it going?”

  “It was topping sixty, easy,” he mused. “I’d bet anything that there are tyre marks out in the car park. But all I saw was that it was dark-coloured. Blue, or black, maybe.”

  “Blue or black,” I repeated. “That’s not much to go on.”

  “To be honest, my memory is a little vague,” the boy said and then laughed to himself. “We’d just smoked the back room out and--”

  “Right, okay,” I cut in.

  The doorbell tinkled again, and a few more locals walked in. The boy greeted them and nodded meaningfully to me. I held up my hands in surrender.

  “Sorry if I wasted your time,” I said.

  “Nae bother,” he said pleasantly. “Hey, if your cop mates need to question me, I won’t mind.”

  “I’ll let them know,” I replied.

  Then his expression turned sullen, and he turned to scowl at the clock on the wall behind his head.

  “I’ll be here all day anyway,” the barista said.

  “What’s your name?” I asked. “In case they need to talk to you.”

  “Jack,” he replied. “Jack O’Connell.”

  He turned to take a new batch of orders, and I seized the opportunity to slip out of the door. I walked around to the back of the shop to where I’d seen deliveries being received. I planted myself by the door to the shop and looked towards the car park. I couldn’t see the alleyway, but there was a good view of the rest of the car park, as well as the exit where he’d probably seen the car. If the Toyota had really been speeding that quickly, then surely someone else had noticed. I stepped away from the shop and looked up. There was a security camera staring straight at me.

  I circled the shop, examining which spot had the best vantage point, and decided it was definitely the back door. As I left, I looked through the shop's dirty windows, and I watched customers gather at the till and speak to Jack as he nervously frothed their hot milk. I imagined that they were gossiping about my case. Two dead policemen in one day? I wasn’t surprised it had already been seized by the press and public alike.

  I wondered how Brown’s death was being reported and if we were pushing the suicide line or not. I got my answer when I unfolded the newspaper and saw the article I’d been dreading.

  Two Dead as Killer Hunts Down Local Police. As I had suspected, a cop had leaked to the press again. I was right to have shut down the case after the discovery of McLuckie’s body. Eager journalists breathing down my neck was the last thing
I needed.

  There was a brief, obligatory article detailing Brown’s celebratory career, though little about McLuckie apart from naming his new bride, Michaela. I skimmed through Brown’s biography and noted with surprise that he’d tried for the army in the late nineties. What had I been doing back then? I was a fresh-faced PC, working the Sunday night shift, blissfully ignorant of what crimes I’d soon be facing.

  It stopped raining as I walked over to the station. I drained my coffee in a single mouthful and then threw it away. A large area was still cordoned off, and through a small patch of trees, I saw a suited-up forensics team searching in the grass by the stream.

  I walked around the corner to the station’s entrance and then halted in my tracks. Five journalists were crowded outside the door, and ACC Elizabeth Clarke stood on the steps in front of them. She wore a white silk shirt, a dark knee-length skirt, and a string of pearls around her neck. It was an outfit appropriate for announcing a problem while also reassuring people that she was solving it, and I wondered if she had called for a press conference.

  But her bag hung from the crook of her arm, and she held a water bottle awkwardly in one hand. It looked more like she’d been ambushed on her way into work, and I felt a twinge of sympathy.

  Robert Crinkle was in the group but relegated to the back, behind the more established journalists. He smiled slyly as we made eye contact, but I refused to react. Instead, I watched Clarke, who seemed nervous and also exasperated.

  “Do you have concerns that another police officer will be targeted?” a woman called out.

  I recognised the woman journalist as one of the regular staffers from the Evening Standard, and I sighed to myself. The Standard was a respected newspaper with a lot of local contacts. They could easily become a frustrating obstacle for me if I couldn’t find a way to rein them in.