Blue Vengenance: A Logan Thorne DCI Scottish Detective Thriller

by Duncan Wallace

  I narrowed my eyes at her.

  “But you said I should only trust this case with people I trust,” I growled.

  Her face fell sadly and it hurt me to watch.

  “When did you stop trusting me, Logan?” she asked. “It wasn’t always like this.”

  “You know when,” I scoffed.

  There was a knock at the door, and Clarke hissed in frustration. She walked over and opened it an inch, just enough to talk to the person on the other side.

  “PIRC are on the phone for you, ma’am,” a man hissed.

  “Thank you,” Clarke replied. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  She shut the door, but I could see the officer still hovering nearby. He watched us through the glass wall with more curiosity than this meeting deserved.

  “The storm is beginning,” my boss said as she sighed and rubbed her eyes.

  “What do Investigations and Review want with you?” I asked.

  “That’s for me to worry about,” Clarke insisted. “You’ve got enough to do.”

  “Fine,” I said and put the Lucozade on the table.

  “Can’t you get over it all, Logan?” the redhead asked.

  “I am over it,” I pressed.

  “You don’t seem to be,” she persisted.

  “Then your perceptions are wildly off,” I replied in a firm voice.

  “Fine,” she said as she rolled her eyes. “I asked for privacy because I wanted to tell you that we’re appealing to the public for information, and I thought you might start shouting as soon as you heard.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “We won’t say anything about you being SIO, or that we’re viewing the murders as linked,” my boss explained. “We just want any witnesses to come forward, or quite frankly, anyone with a little bit of information because I think we’re running on fumes.”

  “We’re going to be flooded with false theories and confessions,” I argued. “Do you know how many people will come forward because they crave the attention from a police officer questioning them? And all of the calls, no matter how ridiculous, will need to be recorded and assessed.”

  “You won’t need to do anything,” Clarke assured me. “You’ll only investigate any credible witnesses that come forward. Martina will do the rest.”

  “Who's that?” I asked.

  “Press liaison,” my boss replied.

  “Why wasn’t she talking to the journalists this morning?” I asked.

  “I just brought her over from Newington,” Clarke said. “We need an extra set of hands.”

  “I agree,” I said. “I think we need somebody who can deal with the press.”

  Clarke and I looked at each other for a heartbeat, and then her gaze shifted to the Lucozade on the table.

  “I still want case updates,” she said finally.

  “I’ll email you,” I said.

  “Great,” she snapped. “Why don’t you email me when you catch the killer, too, so we never have to speak in real life.”

  She marched from the room without waiting for an answer, and I watched her stride across The Pit without a backwards glance. I picked up the drink and wrapped my hands around the chilled bottle, and I decided I shouldn’t let it go to waste. I opened it, took a sip, and then started the long walk back to my own office.

  Back in The Pit, the men had resumed their betting, and I overhead an idiot PC put £20 on Australia. He would lose, I knew that much for sure.

  I was nearly to my office when a young woman ran towards me. She was very young, with clear skin and long, wavy hair that flowed down her back. She smiled at me like we were old friends and held her hand out before she’d even come to a stop.

  “Inspector!” she called out as she clattered to a halt.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  “ACC Clarke told me to introduce myself,” she trilled. “I’m Martina, the liaison officer.”

  The woman finally grabbed my hand and shook it too firmly. I noticed there was a tiny tattoo of an arrow inked on Martina’s wrist, and a large diamond on her third finger. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-three.

  “What’s the surname?” I asked as I scanned the room, but Martina didn’t seem deterred by my lack of enthusiasm.

  “Merrin,” she said, and then I noticed she’d risen up onto her tiptoes, like a bird about to take flight. “But you can call me Martina. I wondered if you could give me any information about the suspect you’re looking for?”

  “I can’t discuss it with you,” I said and peered at the woman.

  “Well, sir, the thing with the press,” she started, “is that if you won't throw them a bit of meat, they turn quite ravenous and nasty.”

  “And if we do give them anything, they turn that way, too,” I reminded her.

  “But still, if I could just pass on a bit of--” she said.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Merrin,” I cut in, as I sidestepped the officer. “I’ll give it some thought.”

  I escaped to my office and glanced back at Merrin to see her crestfallen face. She seemed to take a deep breath before her previous cheeriness was restored again.

  I hadn’t intended to be malicious, but I knew Merrin’s type. Perky and perfect on the surface, and she would do anything to maintain that facade. There would be very little depth there, and what there was wouldn’t be very interesting.

  Harding sat where I’d left her, and as I walked into the office, I saw Kennedy’s face staring out of both computer screens.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Kennedy’s social media accounts,” she replied. “I thought I could look through his friends. But there’s several hundred.”

  “Don’t they delete your accounts if you die?” I asked in surprise.

  “It’s up to the family, I think,” she said. “A lot of people like to comment on the person’s wall, write nice things and describe memories. Even to serial killers apparently.”

  “It seems a little grim,” I admitted. “To grieve so publicly.”

  “I actually agree with you,” she conceded.

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” I teased.

  My brunette partner smiled.

  “I think it’s public attention-seeking, and people racing to become chief mourner,” she said. “There’s glamour in being the most upset. Look at Jackie Kennedy. But it’s actually worked out in our favour here.”

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “Look at this,” she said and angled the screen towards me.

  “Hey, dude,” I read out loud. “I feel like I’ve lost a brother today, and it fucking sucks. Seriously, I feel like I’m walking round with an arm chopped off, or my guts hanging out. Nothing will be the same without you. Love you forever, bro.”

  “Okay,” I peered at the name. “Joe Gleeson. Did you pull up his record?”

  “Not quite,” Harding said and grinned. “I was thinking of printing out Kennedy’s most active online friends, then showing the pictures to Madden and see if he recognises any.”

  “Good idea,” I said and nodded slowly. “Nice work.”

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” Harding mimicked. “And I was thinking, Kennedy’s mother owns The Caledonian. Why don’t we approach her and ask for help in identifying the co-worker?”

  “Do you really think she’d help us?” I asked, my voice laced with skepticism. “The police officers who allowed her son to die in their custody?”

  “But, that wasn’t us specifically,” Harding argued.

  “It was this station,” I reminded her.

  “We could say that we’re trying to prove her son’s innocence?” my partner suggested.

  “Absolutely not,” I said as I shook my head. “We’re not manipulating a grieving mother for information we could discover ourselves if we worked hard enough.”

  “But--” Harding started to protest.

  “Hold that thought,” I said to Harding as I felt my phone ring.

  “It better not be your
girlfriend again,” the brunette grumbled.

  “DCI Thorne,” I answered.

  “Hi, Detective!” a breezy, female voice answered. She was Irish, and I braced myself thinking it was a cold call. “This is Siobhan from The Caledonian. You rang and left us a voicemail yesterday?”

  “Aye, I did,” I said in surprise.

  Since discovering who owned the newspaper, I hadn’t expected a return call, and certainly not one from someone who sounded happy to talk to me.

  “I’m so sorry for the delay,” the voice breezed. “We’re a little bit short-staffed here and…”

  I heard muffled yells in the background. The woman spoke louder into the phone.

  “And it’s a tad busy at the moment,” she continued. “But I’m absolutely delighted to be speaking with you now, Inspector.”

  I cocked a cynical eyebrow. I knew the woman was doing her job, but her cheeriness was overwhelming.

  “What can I help you with?” the receptionist asked.

  I heard more shouts, a few thuds, and a machine whirred.

  “Inspector?” she asked again, her tone determinedly bright.

  “Ahh, I was hoping you’d provide me with a list of payroll,” I explained hesitantly. “I just need some basic information for all your staff.”

  “May I ask what this is in regard to?” Siobhan quizzed.

  “I’m not at liberty to disclose that yet,” I said as Harding snickered.

  “Well, Inspector, I’m sure you understand that I need to confirm with my manager first,” the woman chirped.

  “Who's your manager?” I asked and crossed my fingers that the paper had many levels of seniority.

  “We’ve just lost our in-house HR manager, so I’ll have to take it to Mrs. Kennedy now,” Siobhan said.

  My heart sank as I imagined the bereaved mother laughing hysterically at the request.

  “Okay,” I sighed. “Great.”

  “Which station are you with, sir?” she asked.

  I thought quickly. I didn’t want Grace Kenndy to associate me with the precinct who arrested her son, just in case she was still willing to help some police officers.

  “You can just give Mrs. Kennedy my name, and this personal number,” I offered.

  It wasn’t our usual practice of returning calls, and I could sense the woman’s confusion as she paused.

  “Well, sir, I’m sure I can easily find out where you work,” the receptionist hurried, as another loud noise erupted.

  “Oh, no, you can just--” I said.

  “It’s no problem, detective!” she cut in. “Have a lovely day!”

  Then there was only silence.

  “That’s just perfect,” I mumbled as I put the phone back in my pocket. “We’ll never hear from them.”

  “Were you expecting to?” Harding asked.

  I shrugged and turned back to the screens. Kennedy still stared at me from a too thin face, and I sighed.

  “Okay,” I said as I rubbed my eyes. “We need to cross examine CCTV footage of last night with the footage from O’Connell’s friend, and then we start ruling out vehicles and concentrate on that green Toyota which followed us-”

  “Oh, actually, sir,” Harding cut in. “That Toyota was a rental. Ops tracked down the plates and spoke to the rental company, who gave us the driver’s name. Mr. Gibson is not a local and claimed that’s why he was driving so aimlessly.”

  “Really?” I frowned, not quite believing it.

  “They confirmed it,” Harding said as she shrugged. “The Gibsons are from Belfast, just arrived here this morning.”

  “Okay,” I muttered as I took another sip of Lucozade and rolled the taste in my mouth. “I suppose it’s another lead we don’t have to chase after.”

  “Have you started to wish we had a larger team yet, sir?” Harding asked.

  “We seem to be managing so far,” I pointed out. “Clarke has brought in a woman to deal with the media.”

  “So far we are, yes,” my partner said, but she looked pained. “But we have so much to follow up on. Should I send these friend profiles to Madden? See if he recognises any?”

  I frowned.

  “I’d rather do it in person,” I said. “You saw what he’s like. I don’t think he’ll be forthcoming if he doesn’t feel valued.”

  “Bloody men,” Harding said and rolled her eyes. “Not counting you, of course, sir.”

  “Of course,” I smirked. “I’ll try to ring him, gauge his reaction. It would be better if we didn’t need to go round.”

  But when I rang Madden, all I connected to was his surly voicemail. I sighed and hung up without leaving a message.

  “He’s probably screening,” I guessed. “Looks like we’re going around there. Or I am, anyway. You can stay here and carry on working.”

  “I could try PC Webster instead,” Harding suggested. “I have his number. We should check in with them, anyway.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  I heard the muffled voice of the PC on the phone as Harding explained what we needed. I sipped my drink and watched the neighbouring office through the window. As always, the workers were hunched over their computers. I was glad not to have a desk-based job, though I spent more than my fair share of time behind a computer as well.

  “Wait, Webster, let me just speak to DCI Thorne for one moment,” Harding said and then pressed the phone to her leg. “They’re saying that Madden has found some long-lens photos of Kennedy from when Madden surveilled him. He says we’ll find them useful.”

  “Definitely,” I granted.

  “You can scan them and send over the digital copies, Webster,” the brunette offered.

  I turned back to the office across the road. Someone had brought a birthday cake, and most of the employees were heading towards a conference room. I watched as they crowded around the table, clapped, and then a man with a bright-orange tie blew out the candles.

  “No,” my partner warned.

  I turned around to see her frown and shake her head as if Webster could see her.

  “You don’t need to bring them over,” she insisted. “Just find a way to scan them in.”

  I sat up quickly and rapped my knuckles on the desk.

  “Tell them they can’t leave their post,” I demanded.

  “They’re talking about bringing Madden with them,” Harding whispered to me. “So we can interview him at the same time.”

  “He’s not to leave the premises!” I hissed. “This is Madden’s crazy idea, isn’t it?”

  “Hang on, let me put you on speaker,” my partner said into her phone.

  She set her phone on my desk and jabbed at the screen. I could hear Webster saying something about Madden wanting to explain where the pictures were taken.

  “Under no circumstances are you to drive Madden anywhere, Webster!” I shouted angrily. “You need to keep him in the--”

  But the rest of my warning was cut off by a loud crash, the sound of glass shattering, and then nothing but the empty silence of a disconnected call.

  Chapter 10

  We screamed out of the car park.

  My blue lights reflected in shop windows and slid over the curious faces of passersby, who turned around to watch us drive past.

  “What do you think happened?” I asked Harding without taking my eyes from the road.

  “I don’t want to say it out loud,” she replied.

  I sat forward and peered through the windscreen. There was a crack in the glass, I realised, and the tiny splinter crept up from the bonnet. I pictured the whole windscreen cracking in two and glass raining down on us like confetti. No, I thought, as I tried to empty my brain of gloomy thoughts. I needed to concentrate on my driving and not think about what we would find at Madden’s house.

  I did glance at my brunette partner, then, and she gripped the door handle with one hand and the front of her seat with the other. She moaned softly as she saw the speedometer climb up and felt the car lurch beneath us. I jerked the wheel t
o overtake a school bus full of children, and only then did I realise the time. Madden’s street was an access road, and I could only imagine how busy it would be.

  I swerved in and out of the late afternoon traffic. It was cruelly sunny, like the afternoon we’d found Brown, and I pushed that image out of my mind as well.

  We were just around the corner from Madden’s house. It had been eight minutes since the phone call cut off. Ambulances had already arrived at the scene, and cordons had been set up so cars couldn’t drive into the road. I left my BMW on a double yellow, and only just remembered to put out my police parking badge.

  Harding had her door opened before we’d even come to a full stop, and she sprinted ahead while I locked up and then ran after her. I heard the shouts of paramedics as they called frantically to one another, and the sound seemed to slice through the crisp, cool air.

  And then the sea of bodies and vehicles parted for a moment, and I saw chaos. The police car was parked across both lanes of traffic, in the middle of the road, and all of the windows had been smashed in. Shards of glass glittered on the road amidst pools of bright blood. The side of the car was dented and striped where the paint had been peeled away by another vehicle. There were two ambulances for three people.

  I found my partner near the edge of the scene and pulled her closer to me.

  “Listen,” I whispered. “We’re not going to have official jurisdiction over this crime at first. But we need to get ahead of it.”

  The brunette nodded in agreement.

  “Is there anyone you trust in Dispatch?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she muttered in reply. “Grace.”

  “Have her access any local security footage,” I said. “Tell her that we can’t put in a formal request yet, but there’s a guy called Scott in IT who will do it for her anyway. We need to be careful here. We can’t be seen to be treading on anyone’s toes. Cops can get nasty when you take over their crime scene.”

  “Scott?” Harding asked. “Okay, hang on.”

  My partner turned her back to the scene as she made her call, but I kept my eyes on the unfolding drama. I spotted two still forms on the road, but not much more as the paramedics leaned over the victims. I told myself that was a good thing, and I watched as one paramedic nodded to his partner.