Blue Vengenance: A Logan Thorne DCI Scottish Detective Thriller

by Duncan Wallace

  “That’s what makes them dangerous,” I told her. “You wouldn’t look at them twice. It allows these guys to float, unnoticed, through life.”

  I felt my partner shudder a little.

  “Well, we don’t know they’re guilty yet, sir,” the brunette pointed out.

  “Guilty until proven innocent,” I said.

  “Sir, I think you’ve… isn’t it the other way around?” she asked in surprise.

  “Only to solicitors,” I said.

  I tried to picture the three young men together, Kennedy, Gibson, and Cooper, as friends out for a weekend of fun. I pictured them at the pub, sliding coins across the damp bar top for the fruit machine as they argued about whose round it was. Could I picture their hands wrapped around a woman’s throat? Their cruel laughter as they wrote their threatening messages? I stared at Gibson and Cooper’s blank eyes and thought of them trying to overpower Brown, McLuckie, or driving their car into PC Webster.

  I had to admit, it was difficult to imagine.

  Difficult, but not impossible. I’d learned a long time ago that killers don’t fit into a box. Once you try to put them in one, you’re always going to be two steps behind.

  My phone rang. Clarke. Again.

  I braced myself and answered.

  “Thorne? Where the hell are you?” she asked.

  The anger in her voice buzzed like a fly in my ear, and I could almost smell her perfume down the phone.

  “At the hospital,” I admitted since there was no point in lying now.

  Harding edged her knees away from me, as though my inevitable bollocking was contagious. I stood up to look out the window.

  “Have you been deliberately ignoring my calls?” Clarke snapped.

  “No, I left my phone on silent,” I said. “I didn’t want any more reason to be kicked out.”

  “Logan,” my boss said in a quiet voice as the anger melted away. “I don’t even know where to start. Another dead cop, one in hospital, a witness in surgery. How did it happen?”

  “It sounds bad when you say it like that,” I deadpanned.

  “What happened?” she asked again. “I tried to get into touch with PC Murray, but I was stonewalled by a nurse.”

  I covered up a laugh. “I know the feeling.”

  “Don’t be glib, Logan, this--” she started.

  “I’m not being glib,” I cut in.

  I turned around to look at Harding, but she was typing on my laptop, absorbed in something else.

  “I’m just fucking tired of watching our cops be wheeled away on stretchers,” I said in a quiet voice.

  “I know,” she sighed. “Just tell me what’s going on in the investigation.”

  I swallowed my retort to that. I could have told Clarke that she didn’t know anything about how I felt, that she didn’t see the faces of dead colleagues when she closed her eyes. I could have told her that she didn’t feel a buckling, suffocating pressure to end a case before anyone else joined the list of faces. But, as I reminded myself, this wasn’t her fault. It was the fault of one person only.

  Out in the car park, I watched as two cars went for the same spot. They faced off for a minute and tried to nudge into the space. When neither vehicles conceded, the drivers got out of their cars, slammed the doors shut, and appeared to yell at each other. Only in Scotland.

  “I’m not sure if it would be wise to go into too much detail, ma’am,” I replied, and I heard my boss inhale.

  “Logan, so help me God, if you don’t tell me I will pull this investigation,” she argued.

  “Fine,” I surrendered.

  A family loitered by the window next to me, and the man lifted up a small child to look at the view, so I lowered my voice further.

  “I’m not convinced the car accident is connected,” I said as I turned my back to the family. “It just doesn’t fit the killer’s M.O.”

  “I agree,” Clarke said. “I’ve had a look at the previous murders, and I think you’re right.”

  “You do?” I asked in surprise. “Okay… we’ve got a lead on two men who might be involved. I’m going to question them now.”

  “Right,” my boss said in her honeyed voice. “What do you need?”

  “Actually,” I replied. “I need protection for Madden, here at the hospital. I’m not comfortable enough with my theory to say he isn’t completely out of danger.”

  “Yes,” Clarke said with a hint of amusement in her tone. “They’re on their way.”

  “Should I wait for them?” I asked.

  “They’ve been briefed,” she replied. “You should get going.”

  “Okay,” I hesitated. “Thanks.”

  I expected Clarke to come up with a sarcastic put down or faux amazement that I’d expressed gratitude.

  “You don’t need to thank me, Logan,” she said in a quiet voice. “It’s my job to support you.”

  I swallowed.

  “By the way…” I started. “You should know that the press have been at the hospital asking questions.”

  “I know,” she sighed. “They’ve been here, too. We’re under a microscope now, Logan. No fuck ups.”

  “No fuck ups,” I agreed and hung up.

  I held the phone in my hands for a moment. The two angry drivers had left and neither of them had won the spot. Instead, a motorcycle had claimed the prized territory. I smiled as I watched the biker stroll across the lot. It was all such a typical day that for a moment I could forget why I was even at the hospital.

  “Okay,” I said, turned round, and then took the laptop from DS Harding. “We can’t sit around and wait for Madden to wake up from surgery.”

  I looked at Gibson and Cooper’s pixelated faces again. They were similar to the guys I’d grown up with, kicked balls around the park with, and smoked illicit cigarettes in their garages with. They could belong to any average street in Scotland. I shook my head. I had to play this one carefully.

  “Let’s not bring them into the station,” I said.

  “But…” Harding frowned. “Wouldn’t it be better to control the environment of the questioning?”

  “Did you get that from a book?” I smirked.

  Harding looked at her feet.

  “I don’t want these guys to have time to verify their stories,” I said. “I want them to be embarrassed and flustered when two cops show up at their workplace.”

  “You don’t know where Gibson works,” she said.

  “True, but you do,” I guessed. “Isn’t that what you’ve just been looking at?”

  “Yes,” she replied and smiled impishly. “Grant works at a place called Empire, out near Leith.”

  ‘I knew it,” I teased. “You’re becoming so predictable. In all the right ways.”

  “I’m glad you added that last part,” she said.

  “Is this Empire a car garage?” I asked.

  “It appears so,” Harding replied.

  “So Grant has access to a lot of vehicles,” I said as I pursed my lips. “Interesting.”

  “I thought so,” Harding agreed. “So, Leith?”

  “Leith,” I agreed.

  We passed the Trauma Centre once again on our way out of the hospital. Harding slowed her step, and I mimicked her. A large man bumped into my shoulder but didn’t apologise. The corridors were busy with people, so I leaned into her and spoke quietly since you could never be sure who exactly was listening.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked my partner.

  “Do you think he’ll be okay?” she asked in return.

  “Murray?” I clarified. “Yes, he’ll be out of here in a week.”

  “I don’t mean just that…” her voice trailed off, and she bit her lip. “I mean psychologically.”

  I looked around us. A porter was making a selection from the vending machine nearby. It appeared casual enough, but he was selecting his choice too carefully for my liking, so I urged Harding to walk on.

  “It’s not like it used to be after an ordeal,” I reassured th
e brunette. “When we were told to just get on with it, pretend like it didn’t happen, all that rubbish. There are psychologists in the department now, and trained counsellors. Murray will be able to talk to them.”

  “I can’t believe they used to do that,” she disapproved.

  “You don’t know half of it,” I said. “When I was on the beat, there was a detective who suffered PTSD after having responded to a car pile-up on the M9. They denied his sick pay.”

  “Jesus,” Harding responded. “That’s awful.”

  “But you’ll never truly be rid of that tough Scot mentality,” I said and shrugged. “It’s why we’re all so great.”

  I squinted through the low sunshine as I searched for my car. It must have been late afternoon by then. The last few days had felt endless, and I wasn’t sure if we were even still in the same season.

  “Oh, is that why, sir?” Harding teased. “I’ve been wondering.”

  I located the car among the sea of similar vehicles and unlocked the doors. We both climbed in, and I drove slowly to the exit. I inserted my parking ticket into the machine and waited for it to calculate how much I owed.

  “£6.80,” I muttered with contempt. “I’m being mugged in broad daylight.”

  Harding snickered but kept a straight face when I glanced at her. I paid the bill with my card and pulled out of the car park. Harding’s phone dinged as I made the turn, and she dug it out of her bag.

  “Sir, your friend Scott has been in touch,” she said.

  “Aye, what did he say?” I asked.

  “He says the closest cameras to Leonard Street are turned off,” she replied.

  “Turned off?” I blinked in surprise. “On a residential road?”

  “Well, he’s just talking about the cameras on the closest main road,” the brunette explained. “The residential area outsources their cameras to a privately owned security company. They were in use. But Scott is having more trouble accessing their footage.”

  “Sounds about right,” I huffed. “Private companies don’t lend cops a hand unless they’re forced to.”

  “He’s working on it,” Harding said.

  I rubbed my forehead.

  “Okay,” I replied. “Tell him thanks.”

  The drive to Leith was quick, and Harding spent the entire time on her phone. I spent the trip trying to sort out why the three men would be so hell bent on killing cops in such a dramatic fashion. There were no sudden flashes of inspiration by the time we arrived, though, and I felt a twinge of frustration as we pulled in at the shop.

  Empire was a local, modest-sized garage, able to squeeze in six vehicles at a push, I guessed. The outside walls were the colour of tin and just as rusted. The building backed up against a small field, and a dense patch of woods laid just beyond that. I noticed the trees looked thick enough to hide troublesome items from casual view, perhaps even a smashed up car.

  I parked up, then opened the car door, and a breath of freezing air blew in.

  “Here, sir,” Harding said as she wiggled out of my jacket. “You might want this back.”

  “I think so,” I admitted and put it on.

  The collar smelled of Harding’s floral perfume, and I had to admit that it was more pleasant than the odors that usually lingered on the fabric.

  “I want you to lead the questioning,” I told the brunette.

  “Me?” she asked. “Why?”

  “I have a feeling he’ll be more forthcoming with you,” I explained. “And it’s good practice.”

  “Okay,” Harding agreed but fiddled uneasily with a piece of hair.

  We stepped out of the car, and I quickly donned the jacket. Once I was wrapped in its warmth again, I looked around the lot. It didn’t look very busy. There was a rusty motorbike missing a wheel parked outside, and as I looked closer, I realised the brake cable was snapped in two. I winced thinking of the driver in that collision.

  I knew this area from my time on the beat. There was a pub up the road which served only one type of customer. Hardened, grizzled drinkers who threw their glasses back in two mouthfuls and threatened one another with pool cues. The smashed windows were never fixed because what was the point? They’d only be wrecked again the following weekend. I’d been called there a few times in the past, usually late on a Saturday night, when the clientele had become incoherent from fitting in a day’s worth of booze into one evening. I glanced back at my BMW in worry and made sure it was locked.

  Instead of doors, there were two large, half-shuttered entrances, and we ducked underneath one. I walked behind my partner and forced her to take the lead.

  It was no warmer inside the garage, and I pulled my jacket tighter around my body as I looked around for signs of life. There were four cars being worked on. Two had their bonnets propped open, and the others appeared almost finished. None of the vehicles were damaged, I realised with a jolt of disappointment. But then, it wouldn’t make sense to bring in a smashed up car when it could be easily hidden in the woods out back.

  A man with a babyish face sat on an upturned bucket and cleaned the insides of a front motorbike wheel with a filthy rag. His hair was light-blond, and I wondered if he could be the man Madden had described.

  The man hadn’t acknowledged our presence even though our footsteps echoed through the space. He muttered under his breath, and his mouth downturned in anger. It made me wonder if cleaning the bike was some kind of punishment, or if it was his way of escaping whatever had made him so angry.

  “Hello?” I called out, and my voice echoed against the tinny walls.

  There was a rustle of movement, the sound of a metal tool being dropped, and then three men emerged from the room next door to greet us. And by greeted, I mean they folded their arms and stared at us without saying a word. They wore dark-blue overalls with oil splattered up the side and the same dusty boots. They looked older than me, though that was only because their faces were haggard from the stress of a quiet business.

  “Can I help you?” one of the men asked in a throaty growl as he stepped closer.

  Harding flashed her badge, and the man’s eyes narrowed. His lips were upturned in disgust. Cops didn’t have a great reputation around the area, though I still had hope that they might respond to Harding. I cleared my throat and put a hand on my taser gun. My eyes didn’t leave their faces as they glared at us. They were not especially strong-looking men, just big in the stomach, but that didn’t mean much if they became a threat. I tried to mentally calculate how long it would take to disable them. A few minutes, as long as the blond guy didn’t join in.

  “We’re looking for Grant Gibson?” my partner asked.

  Harding’s clear British accent cut through the tension. The men frowned at one another. I could almost hear the thoughts forming in their heads. Should they do as the coppers ask and give up their mate, or pretend like he’s not there?

  After a few moments, the men all looked at each other, and one of them gave a slight nod. They must not have liked Grant all that much, because they decided to give him up rather than face obstruction charges.

  “There,” the tallest man said and nodded to the guy who washed the car. “Grant!”

  The blond man looked over at us, and I realised why I hadn’t immediately recognised him from the photos. He’d lost a lot of weight, and his face was skinny and sharp as cut glass. He’d dyed his hair, too, since in the photos he’d been ginger. Grant looked at us with sleepless eyes. The effect made him seem older, and if I hadn’t known his real age, I’d have guessed he was in his early thirties. He got up from his bucket and walked over to us.

  Grant’s eyes bounced between Harding and me in suspicion. I stared at his face and looked for any hint of guilt. Was his confusion just an act or did he truly have no idea why we were there?

  “Do you mind if we have some privacy?” Harding asked the three men in a purposefully girlish voice.

  “Where in England are you from?” the shortest man asked my partner in amazement.
/>   “From the--” Harding started to say.

  “She’s from down the road,” I cut in. “It’s nice at this time of year. You should go there.”

  The man sneered at me but then proceeded to gather their things. As I waited for them to leave, I looked around the garage a bit more. A single desk was cluttered with folders and loose paper, and above it, a nude calendar. The woman representing October, appropriately accessorized with a broomstick, looked completely photoshopped. I’d never seen the appeal of those calendars. They were often given away with tabloid newspapers, and, as expected, I clocked The Mail on the desk, too. I just hoped Harding wouldn’t notice the calendar since she hated them more than I did.

  The men put on their coats and brushed past us. I heard them mumble about pints in the pub as they ducked beneath the door, but then one of the men turned and looked back.

  “Alright, Grant?” the man called back.

  “He’ll be fine,” I replied instead and smiled widely.

  The men didn’t look convinced, but Harding threw them a girlish smile, and the trio walked away. I waited until the sound of their footsteps had faded and then turned towards Grant.

  “Do you mind if I take a look around the back?” I asked with nonchalance.

  Grant narrowed his eyes and studied me for a moment. “Interested in cars, are you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I lied.

  I wanted to see if they were hiding any vehicles out of sight, but if I had to pretend to be interested in one of the beaters in the back lot, I could manage that. Grant looked at Harding and seemed to realize he would be left alone with a good looking woman, and so he shrugged at me and grinned at Harding. I nodded encouragement at Harding and then stepped back out into the cold air.

  My teeth chattered in the low temperature as I walked across the tarmac and around the corner, noting the bins full of dented Budweiser cans along the way. Old wooden doors, prised from their hinges, were piled up high, and curiously, there was a large wooden owl, which looked delicately hand carved. I shook my head. It was a strange place, and I wondered if the three men had some sort of side business to help pay the bills when the garage wasn’t doing well.

  I heard the sound of moving water and went to investigate. There was a riverside path, which appeared to circle through the woods and beyond, to God only knows where. But calling it a river felt too generous. It was a dank, soupy stretch of water, with supermarket trolleys bobbing like ducks in the current. There were no actual ducks to be seen, nor any other wildlife for that matter. I watched the poisonous water lap up against the river banks. It was suspiciously dark and thick, more like oil than water. I threw a stone in, and it settled on the surface for a second, before being sucked into the gloomy depths. There were plenty of good hiding spots in these parts.