Blue Vengenance: A Logan Thorne DCI Scottish Detective Thriller

by Duncan Wallace

  There was a sudden burst of sunshine, and Clarke had to shield her face. It was a nice delaying tactic, though it would only buy her a few seconds.

  “We are not prepared to…” the ACC began and then stopped to clear her throat. “We’re not prepared to comment on any details at this time.”

  “But don’t you believe any potential danger or motives should be made available to the public?” the woman from the Standard asked again.

  Clarke spotted me at the corner, and her lips parted for a moment as our eyes met. For a moment, I thought she would hand the impromptu press conference over to me as she introduced me as the SIO and threw me to the wolves for questioning. But by her own suggestion, she couldn’t admit that I was pursuing this case. She also knew that I didn’t come across that well in the newspaper, where journalists too often described me as surly or uncooperative.

  Clarke broke eye contact first and muttered some bland reassurances. I was about to slip around the side of the building and try my luck at the back door when I heard Crinkle yell out a question.

  “Do you suspect a financial motivation for Chief Constable Brown’s murder?” he barked.

  That question did turn my head. A financial motivation? There had been no ransom demand, nor did Brown have any real money. The force was a notoriously under-paid institution, and not even senior bosses were exactly Rockefellers. Crinkle slowly turned his phone from Clarke’s confused face to mine, and I watched as his fingers zoomed in on my frown.

  There hardly seemed a reason to go around to the back now, and Crinkle probably had whatever it was he wanted. I huffed and strode towards the main entrance. I shook my head at ACC Clarke as I ducked behind her, and I hoped Crinkle had a lovely shot of my backside.

  “As I said, we’re not prepared to discuss any--” was all I heard before the doors swallowed me up.

  Instead of going straight to CID, I decided to head to Forensics to see Dr. Liu. Though the pathologist had promised to contact me with any news, I’d worked with enough lab rats over the years to know that it was faster to stop by and pick up the results in person.

  I slipped into an empty lift as a tinny, instrumental version of ‘Thriller’ trickled from the speakers. I tried to tune it out as I thought about Crinkle’s question, and why he thought money was somehow a motive. It was certainly possible that he was just trying to sensationalise the story and twist the facts into lies. It wouldn’t be the first time. But there was something in his smile that suggested he thought he had a real story.

  The lift arrived in the depths of the basement, and I ducked out just as some weird remix of ‘Season of the Witch’ started to play. Apparently, we were going to spend the month of October listening to vaguely scary songs. I followed the signs once again and found myself outside the coroner’s office once again. I took a deep breath and braced myself for impact as I knocked on Dr. Liu’s office.

  She pulled the door open with a smile, and then, as she realised it was me, the smile vanished. The doctor looked less composed than normal, with her dark hair tucked into a careless ponytail and only a shiny layer of balm on her lips rather than her usual lipstick.

  As she glared, I offered a sheepish smile. I suppose I deserved the animosity. Last time I’d been in the department, I’d ignored her instructions, ran from the lab, and informed Clarke that Dr. Liu had allowed me to stay in the autopsy suite during the procedure.

  “What do you want?” she asked flatly.

  “To apologise?” I suggested as I tried to meet her eyes.

  “Please,” the doc sniffed in disdain. “You’re not sorry at all. Why don’t you stop embarrassing us both and ask me what you really want to know.”

  I swallowed a smile while she tapped her fingers impatiently on the edge of the door. She’d always had an uncanny knack for reading people, especially me.

  “Have you ever thought of joining the force?” I asked.

  “And have to work with you?” she asked in fake horror. “No, thanks.”

  I sighed and gave her my most repentant look. She held onto her angry glare for a few moments and then finally shook her head and smirked.

  “Am I forgiven?” I asked when it seemed safe to do so.

  “Not a chance,” she said as she cocked an eyebrow. “But unfortunately I’m still obliged to pass information to you.”

  “You’ve found something?” I asked.

  “Don’t get too excited,” she warned. “We’ve sent the materials found in the victims’ mouths for further testing, but preliminary results suggest it’s from the same source.”

  “He used the same paper?” I asked.

  “Not that odd,” she noted. “If he bought a ream from the store, odds are that it all came from the same batch.”

  “But it wasn’t printer paper,” I mused.

  “Notebook, sketchbook, whatever,” she said. “Same rules apply. It probably came from the same batch.”

  Was it a deliberate choice, hoping that we’d become preoccupied with this line of inquiry at the expense of others? Or was it as simple as Dr. Liu suggested? That the killer had picked up a notebook while buying his groceries? If that were true, then the best we could hope to do was match the paper the notes were written on with the paper at the perp’s house. Either way, I couldn’t do too much with the information until the lab’s results were back. I tapped my foot impatiently as I tried to work out the next step.

  “It’s a start,” I said, “any chance you could bump up--”

  “Typical,” the dark-haired doctor cut in. “You detectives all think your cases are the most important. If I upgraded every piece of evidence to urgent, the word would lose any meaning.”

  “Come on, Anna,” I pressed. “Two of our own were killed. You saw the message, and you know what could happen next. I’d call that urgent, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Liu replied as she stared at me thoughtfully.

  “So…?” I said in encouragement.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she sighed.

  “Do you have an official cause of death for DI McLuckie yet?” I asked.

  “A cardiac stab wound, as suspected,” she replied. “But it was still atypical for a stabbing. The blade was very, very thin. And the killer had time to clean up again. We found blood at the scene, of course, but only after we treated the ground and the body.”

  “Was it cleaned well?” I asked.

  “Well enough,” Liu considered as she rested her angular cheek on the door frame. “Better than an amateur would do.”

  “So,” I mused. “It’s possible he’s done this before, right?”

  “Not my area, Logan,” she replied. “But, not necessarily. He could have just done his research. You don’t need to be a pro these days, just have access to the internet.”

  “That’s true,” I conceded. “Which is everyone in Edinburgh with a pulse. So, not very helpful.”

  I thought of the gap of time between McLuckie’s death and Ross finding the body. “How long do you think it took him to clean up?” I asked Liu.

  “Half an hour, maybe, if he’d worked quickly,” the doctor said as she adjusted her glasses. “Which would fit with the timeline.”

  I nodded.

  “And you’ll call me as soon as--” I said.

  “How about I just call you while it’s happening,” the black-haired pathologist cut in. “Does that suit you? Now, do you want to leave me alone so I can get on with it?”

  “Will do,” I said and raised a grateful hand in farewell.

  The doctor frowned and snatched my hand before I could step away.

  “What did you do?” she asked as she looked at my hand.

  I’d managed to forget about the scratches for a bit, but not that she’d reminded me, my palms started to itch.

  “Oh, long story,” I said “Remind me to share it with you some time.”

  “Have you cleaned it properly?” she asked as she peered at the marks.

  “It’s fine,” I replied as I
rolled my eyes.

  I tugged my hand from her grasp as gently as I could and turned down the hall.

  “Logan,” the pathologist called. “You are being careful, aren’t you? I don’t know if you’ve heard, but detectives are dropping like flies.”

  “I heard a rumor,” I replied.

  We exchanged a long look under the fluorescent lights, and then her lovely face disappeared behind the door.

  I mulled over Dr. Liu’s statements as I made my way up to CID. Why had the culprit killed my two colleagues with very different methods? Perhaps he’d had more time with Brown, and knowing that McLuckie’s death would need to be quick, had chosen to stab him. Could it mean that Brown’s murder felt more significant to the killer, since he’d taken the time to plan out such an elaborate scene? Perhaps it was the most important one, in his eyes.

  I walked into The Pit. The shift change hadn’t happened yet, so the office was still quiet and piles of paperwork waited on desks. The Owls pulled on their coats and signed off final documents while eyeing the stack of papers apprehensively. I guessed that they didn’t want to be sucked into reports at the last minute.

  Despite the early morning inactivity, I found my partner, DS Harding, at her desk. She appeared to be bleary-eyed and was hunched over a steaming mug.

  “I hope that’s coffee,” I said as I approached.

  Harding took a sip and grimaced.

  “It’s not,” she said. “I wish it was.”

  “Have we run out?” I asked and glanced at the kitchen in panic.

  “No,” she reassured me. “But apparently this tea is naturally caffeinated.”

  I leaned in. The tea smelt like my overgrown garden, and I hurriedly retreated.

  “Not sure if it’s worth it, Harding,” I said in disgust. “I think I’d rather be tired.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” she sighed and mournfully blew on her drink.

  “How long have you been here for?” I asked.

  “A while,” she replied and then yawned. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Me, neither,” I admitted. “I had all sorts of weird dreams, like being run over. Why do you think that is?”

  “In dream analysis, it means your life is in conflict with another person,” the brunette said with a straight face. “Maybe that’s why.”

  “Right,” I snickered. “It’s got nothing to do with actually being knocked down by a moving vehicle.”

  “Speaking of, how are you feeling?” she asked and then looked at the time. “I thought you’d be here a bit earlier. I was getting worried.”

  “Just a bit cut and bruised,” I said as I shrugged. “Completely fine otherwise. And I was here earlier, but I got held up interviewing a possible eyewitness.”

  “Oh?” Harding asked as she visibly perked up. “Anything promising?”

  “He said he saw a brand new Toyota speeding out of the car park last night.” I explained. “But I’m not sure how reliable a witness he is.”

  “Drunk?” Harding guessed.

  “Stoned,” I admitted. “But it’s something we didn’t have before.”

  Harding began to laugh. The sound was infectious, and I felt my own smile widening.

  “Sir,” she said as she shook her head in disbelief. “Only you could find an early morning witness and then get him to admit to a cop that he was stoned.”

  “He wasn’t the brightest lad,” I said. “But to be fair, I didn’t say who I was. Any lead on the registration?”

  “Yes,” my partner said. “It’s partly why I came in early actually. The Owls woke me up at the crack of dawn.”

  Harding pulled up her emails and then clicked on a report.

  “So… oh, hang on sir, do you want to sit down?” she smirked. “You are an invalid.”

  “You do remember I’m your boss, right?” I joked. “Carry on, please.”

  “So, the car belongs to an Arther Reid,” the Brit said.

  She clicked on an attachment and Reid’s driver’s licence appeared on the screen.

  “What does he drive? A Toyota?” I asked as the thought occurred that Jack O’Connell may have spotted the car which had nearly killed me.

  “Hang on,” Harding said as she scrolled back up her screen.

  My fingers tapped on the desk as I tried to remember what I could about the car. But all I could dredge up was a basic car shape and a pair of bright headlights.

  “No, he doesn’t,” Harding said in an apologetic voice. “He drives a Peugeot.”

  “Okay,” I sighed. “Never mind.”

  “Once I saw Reid’s picture, I realised I’d seen him before,” Harding added with a smirk.

  “What?” I cut in. “Where?”

  “On my street,” she explained. “He’s been in and out of my neighbour’s house for the last four months. Mr. Matthews has a new job and it takes him away from home. I think Mrs. Matthews has been lonely.”

  “Oh, right,” I said with a shake of my head. “So they’ve been having an affair?”

  “I assume so,” Harding replied with a shrug. “Or Mrs. Matthews has been having a lot of trouble with her boiler.”

  I frowned.

  “Reid is a plumber,” Harding added in clarification.

  “Okay.” I said. “I thought ‘boiler’ was millennial speak for something else.”

  The chestnut-haired southerner laughed.

  “Maybe it is, but I wouldn’t use millennial talk around you, don’t worry,” she said.

  “Is Mr. Matthews based at home this week?” I asked.

  “I called his work and asked.” Harding replied. “They said he is. Perhaps Reid wanted to check out the competition and got a little carried away?”

  “Maybe,” I replied. “But why didn’t he get out of the car when I approached?”

  “I accessed Matthews’ employment file,” she said as she clicked on another email. “Look at the picture. Do you see any recognisable similarities?”

  I peered at the computer curiously. Matthews and I shared the same tangle of hair and thick jawline.

  “He’s your height, too, sir,” Harding added. “I checked.”

  “Maybe there is a little bit of a resemblance,” I mused.

  “Are you worried he’s better looking than you?” the brunette joked. “I wouldn’t be too nervous.”

  “No, Harding,” I warned. “I’m worried that Reid wants to kill this man. Or that he wants to kill me. Either way, I’m worried.”

  Harding’s smirk vanished, and she nodded as she looked at the two pictures again.

  “Well, we’re bringing Reid in anyway,” she said. “He’s still ripe for an interview, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely,” I agreed. “We can’t discount anyone at this stage.”

  We stopped talking as DCI Richards sauntered into The Pit. I leaned against Harding’s desk to watch him. He looked different, not smarter exactly, but more put together. He wore a suit for a start, which was very different to his usual untucked shirt and supermarket trousers, and his clothes seemed suspiciously free of their usual wrinkles. He walked stiffly as though he didn't know how to move in the suit. And if I wasn’t mistaken, his army-approved haircut looked freshly trimmed.

  “Christ,” I laughed as I understood. “Richards wants a promotion.”

  I nodded to Harding, and she watched him, too.

  “Richards as ACC?” she asked anxiously. “Surely not.”

  “If you’d have asked me two months ago, I’d have laughed in your face,” I said as I shrugged. “But now, anything is possible. Clarke will want her own people moved up, and she doesn’t like inferiors who disagree with her.”

  I saw Harding’s eyes follow Richards as he poured the last of the coffee pot into a mug and then put the pot back empty. She frowned as she watched him duck walk to an Owl’s desk and slop some coffee onto a folder.

  “But Clarke doesn’t like him, surely?” she asked.

  I shrugged again.

  “Maybe not,” I
said. “But he’s a notorious arse-kisser. He folds like that cheap suit he’s wearing. And she might want a deputy she can control.”

  Harding sniggered under her breath, and I glanced down at her. She was smiling.

  “So, that rules you out, then?” she teased.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “I think my chances of that were shot to hell a long time ago.”

  The constables and detective sergeants on the day shift began to emerge from the lifts. I watched as the room became a choreograph of rehearsed movement. The participants folded coats, threw damp umbrellas under their desks, and complained about the weather. A DS, whose name always escaped me, rushed eagerly towards the coffee pot, and then his face fell in comical disappointment.

  “Bloody hell,” he shouted. “If you finish it, make another pot!”

  I looked over my shoulder. DSI Richards had slipped quickly into his office and closed the door as quietly as he could. I shook my head at the thought of him becoming my boss, and wondered, briefly, if it was time to consider moving to a different station.

  I watched the cops settle into their tasks for the day, though it was largely accompanied by complaints as they surveyed the list of names on a call sheet, or stared at their overflowing paperwork tray. Where had the focused, maniac energy from yesterday disappeared to? I was glad I didn’t have to lead this team of half-asleep whingers.

  Then Clarke appeared from the stairwell. I guessed she had chosen the stairs to avoid the gossip-mongers, as I had the previous day. I looked her up and down quickly, then hoped she hadn’t noticed I’d done so. She looked exhausted from her journalistic massacre, and I noticed her hair was looking nearly as tamed. Clarke looked like she’d had less sleep than me, and I remembered that her office light was still on when I’d left the station last night.

  She nodded at me politely. I returned the nod, just as politely. I looked down to see Harding had noticed the exchange.

  “What exactly is the problem with you and--” she began to ask.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I cut in just as my phone vibrated.

  It was a single-word text from Clarke.

  Updates?

  I put the phone back in my pocket and ignored the look my partner gave me.

  “Let’s go into my office,” I said as I took in the new arrivals.