Blue Vengenance: A Logan Thorne DCI Scottish Detective Thriller

by Duncan Wallace

  “Okay, who is it?” she asked in a quiet voice.

  “Matthew London,” I said. “He was the prosecutor on Kennedy’s case.”

  “How do you know this?” Clarke asked.

  “I have Kennedy’s father in custody,” I admitted. “He came to us and confessed.”

  “Christ, Thorne!” she barked then remembered the solicitors’ presences and lowered her voice. “When were you going to tell me?”

  “I need to get to Matthew London,” I stated. “Now.”

  “You need the address?” she guessed.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “And I wanted to update you.”

  She raised an eyebrow but didn’t try to contradict me. Clarke sat down at her computer and began to search. I concentrated on my breathing and tried not to imagine what could be happening to London at that moment.

  “Okay,” the redhead said as she scribbled the address on a post-it note.

  “But I’m sending support with you,” she said as she reached for her phone.

  “No!” I snapped. “If Kennedy has a person on the outside, someone to carry on the job, I don’t want to spook them.”

  “Thorne--” she warned.

  “If something goes wrong, just blame it on me,” I said. “I’ll take the heat.”

  “You bet you will,” she mumbled. “Fine. Go.”

  She offered me the orange post-it. As I took it, Clarke’s hand held onto the slip of paper, her fingers millimetres from mine. My own hand twitched in response.

  “Logan,” she said. “Be smart.”

  I nodded, but I’d already turned away so I couldn’t see if she believed me or not.

  I burst out from the ACC’s office as dramatically as I had arrived, and I saw the solicitors jump again. I didn’t have time to wait for the lift or to answer any more questions, so I ran to the stairwell and flew down the steps at a dizzying pace. At the bottom, I shouldered the fire exit door open and burst out into the car park. I rang my partner, and she picked up immediately.

  “Where are you?” I asked her.

  “I’m just leaving the hospital,” she replied.

  “Meet me at another location,” I ordered. “I’ll send you the address.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “It’s the home of the third victim,” I pressed. “The prosecutor on Kennedy’s case. His name is Matthew London.”

  “London,” she whispered. “Right.”

  I heard her car kick into life.

  “Harding?” I called out before she hung up.

  “Yes, sir?” she asked.

  “Be careful, okay?” I warned her.

  The Brit was quiet. I heard people walk past her car and the low murmur of their conversations.

  “You, too,” she said finally, and then her voice crackled and the line went dead.

  My phone buzzed with a text from Clarke.

  London is at home.

  I guessed that she’d called his work and asked if he was in the office. But that didn’t necessarily mean he was at home. He could be anywhere. He could already be dead. I swallowed my panic and tried to focus on the driving. I watched school kids walk down their street, still in their uniforms, but their ties were undone, and their blazers had been shoved into bags. They laughed at their phone screens. I couldn’t believe people still joked around, still walked slowly down a road without needing to rush. I pressed down on the pedal.

  Matthew London lived on a quiet residential street in New Town. I pulled up outside a four-storey, light-bricked apartment house. The blocks were an old-build, elegantly shabby in the way I’d learnt that wealthy people liked to live.

  Harding was already there. She waited next to her car and gazed up at the building. I wondered if she was remembering her old life.

  “Did Kennedy give up the name?” she asked me.

  “He left a clue in the notes,” I replied. “Dr. Liu managed to uncover it.”

  Harding whistled.

  “This is getting a bit Sherlock Holmes, sir,” she said. “It’s frightening how well-thought-out Kennedy’s plan was.”

  “Yes, but we’re going to stop it,” I reminded her.

  We rushed up a set of stairs to a large blue door. There were three flat buttons on the side, and M. London was in the middle. I pressed the button and it emitted a long, flat buzz.

  Nobody responded.

  “He’s in, right?” Harding asked as I pressed the buzzer again.

  “He’s not at work,” I replied, my mouth dry.

  I tapped my feet and looked at my watch. An old woman’s face appeared at the window next to the door. She glared at me.

  “If there were curtains,” I muttered to Harding. “They’d all be twitching right now.”

  “If there were curtains, you wouldn’t be able to look in and see what you’re missing,” Harding pointed out.

  “Hello?” a tinny voice called out of the speaker.

  My heart raced, and I saw Harding suddenly tense.

  “Mr. London?” I asked. “Matthew London?”

  “Yes, this is he,” the voice replied. “Who’s this?”

  “We’re detectives, can you let us in?” I asked. “We need to speak with you urgently.”

  London paused.

  I could almost hear his thoughts whizzing through police procedures, and his rights during interviews. But then the flat ring sounded again, and the front door unlocked.

  My shoes echoed loudly on the marble floors as we hurried through the main entrance. The hall was cavernous, with high ceilings and a glittering chandelier that hung barely provided enough light.

  “All this and no doorman?” Harding asked.

  “I imagine the doorman’s salary paid for that chandelier,” I replied.

  We walked quickly up the winding, black metal staircase. There was only one apartment on the first floor, and Matthew London waited at his open door. He was a tall, gangly man with long legs and ears that seemed to sprout from the side of his head like mushrooms. His sandy hair was damp from the shower.

  His eyes widened as he registered our breathlessness.

  Good. I wanted him to take our concern seriously.

  “What’s going on?” London asked as he blocked us from the apartment by resting his hand on the door frame.

  “Mr. London,” I said. “I don’t think you’ll want to have this conversation on your doorstep.”

  He looked at me uncertainly and moved to take up more of the space.

  “It’s okay,” I said and took out my badge. “We’re not here to arrest you. But I’d rather talk in private.”

  He scanned my badge and then glanced up and down the hallway.

  “There’s nothing that old bat doesn’t eavesdrop on,” he muttered and waved us inside.

  I swallowed a gasp at London’s apartment. I’d had no idea how well-paid prosecutors were. I’d never listen to their complaints about excessive work loads again. It was a sprawling mass of a place, self-consciously youthful and edgy with sanded, exposed brickwork and a country-style kitchen. He pointed us towards the chairs.

  My knees knocked against Harding’s as we sat on the small sofa. Matthew London sat on the opposite armchair and then leaned forward and clasped his hands. The top of his neck was red with sunburn, and I wondered where he’d been. Had the killer watched and waited for his return?

  “Mr. London, do you remember Ralph Kennedy?” I asked.

  “Hmm,” he mused, his eyes on a newspaper on the table. “Kennedy. Remind me?”

  “It was last year,” I said. “A man in his early twenties had strangled three women.”

  “Right,” London replied and winced. “Nasty case. It never went to trial, as I recall. We’d only gone through pretrial motions.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Kennedy was killed in custody.”

  “Aye, I remember that,” the sandy-haired man told me. “Lots of people said it was a good thing, that it saved the state the burden of cost. They said he deserved it.”

  �
��You didn’t agree?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” he frowned. “I’m a lawyer. He wasn’t convicted by a court of law, but it didn’t stop everyone having their grubby opinions. What happened to him was a crime, too.”

  “Did you ever have contact with his family?” I asked. “After the murder, maybe?”

  “No,” London replied, his face furrowed. “That’s not how it works. But I do remember his parents well.”

  “Why?” I asked and leaned forward as my heart thudded in my chest.

  “I came across his father in the men’s room at the courthouse,” he mused. “I was washing my hands, and when I looked up, the man was staring at me in the mirror. Very intently, too. It was unsettling.”

  Harding and I exchanged eye contact. The prosecutor clocked it and frowned at us.

  “You’ve had no other contact with him?” I asked again. “No letters, strange phone calls?”

  “No,” he replied. “What’s this about? Why are we discussing an old case? I’d have thought your lot would be busy with the recent killings.”

  “Well, that’s why we're here, Mr. London,” I said. “We believe the police officers were targeted in connection to Ralph Kennedy’s crimes and subsequent murder. And we think you’re in grave danger.”

  “Me?” he blinked. “Why? We didn’t even go to full court.”

  I sat rigidly in the seat. Everything in the flat was expensive, and made to look so, and I felt uncomfortable to sit amongst it. It wasn’t that I was fearful of knocking over a delicate sculpture, or muddying an Egyptian-woven rug, but I couldn’t help but price up such items in my head and then calculate how many weeks it would feed one of the families whose fathers I saw in and out of custody. Harding crossed her ankles and rested an arm on the side of the sofa. She was comfortable in this world even if she pretended to be separate from it.

  “You played a large part in the initial conviction,” I told London. “Just because it didn’t lead to a sentence, doesn’t mean a person wouldn’t blame you.”

  “What evidence do you have of this?” the prosecutor asked.

  “A lot,” I replied. “And we have the suspected killer in custody.”

  “Well, then,” he said then shrugged. “If you have him there, then I’m clearly safe.”

  “No, Mr. London,” I protested. “You’re not. You need to come with us and be processed into protective custody.”

  “Detective,” he chuckled. “I don’t mean to downplay your investigation, but if I had to hide out whenever I received a death threat, I’d never be able to leave the house.”

  “Mr. London, this isn’t just a death threat--” I began to say.

  “I appreciate your concern,” he cut in. “I really do. But this is the life of a prosecutor, I’m afraid. You can understand that. We both help put criminals behind bars, and they’re usually very angry about that. I’m not saying it’s right, I’m just saying that’s how it is.” He moved to get up.

  “Are those your children?” Harding asked him and pointed to a photo tacked on the American style fridge.

  “Yes,” he replied and looked at the picture for a long minute. “Two boys. They live with their mother during the week.”

  “I haven’t been a detective very long,” she confessed. “But DCI Thorne has. He’s seen every sort of case you could imagine. He knows how to assess credible threats, and now that we’ve worked together a while, I can tell you that he’s absolutely correct in this case.”

  She leaned forward for emphasis.

  “We’re not just informing you that you’re in danger out of obligation,” she paused. “We’re telling you it’s a fact.”

  Matthew London exhaled.

  “Do you want your children to grow up without a father?” Harding asked.

  “Of course, I don’t,” he replied in a soft voice as his gaze returned to the picture.

  “Then come with us,” she pleaded. “We can protect you, and them.”

  London looked between us. His eyes were expectant, as though waiting for us to collapse into laughter and declare it all a practical joke. But we sat back and waited.

  “Please, Mr. London,” Harding said again. “For your children.”

  “Alright,” the prosecutor sighed. “Wait here.”

  As he gathered up some belongings, I turned to Harding and smiled.

  “Well done,” I told her.

  “Why do you think that worked so easily?” the brunette asked.

  “You appealed to something greater than him,” I said. “His children. It forced him to take the threat seriously.”

  She nodded.

  “And it’s your shirt,” I added.

  “My shirt?” she asked and looked down.

  “It’s light pink.” I explained. “People find that colour approachable and non-threatening.”

  “You don’t wear it,” she huffed. “You still get people to talk.”

  “Exactly,” I smirked. “I don’t need it.”

  We left the apartment block with London, and as I turned back, I saw the old woman stare at us again with curiosity in her eyes. I smiled at her, and she scowled back.

  “Mr. London, you should ride with me,” I ordered. “DS Harding, follow us. Don’t let any car between us.”

  “Yes, sir,” Harding agreed.

  I scanned the streets while London made himself comfortable in my car, and once Harding was set, I finally slid into my seat and started the engine. As we drove back to the station, I kept glancing repeatedly at my passenger out the corner of my eye. He didn’t look terrified, at least, not as scared as I thought he’d be. Maybe he had received numerous death threats before, or maybe this was part of his normal working life. It was a good thing he was paid so much if that were true.

  London tapped his fingers on his knee and looked out of the window curiously, but it was several minutes before he spoke.

  “Mr. Thorne?” he asked.

  “You can call me Logan now that I’ve turned up at your house and forced you to leave it,” I joked.

  He smiled. “Logan, then,” he continued. “Do you really think this is a viable threat to my life?”

  “Aye,” I confirmed. “I wouldn’t inconvenience you otherwise.”

  “Why do you think he picked me?” he asked. “Rather than the judge, or my co-counsel? Or anyone else on the case?”

  I looked over at the prosecutor.

  “I’m still trying to get in this man’s head,” I admitted. “But I think that, along with the cops who identified Ralph Kennedy, without you, his son wouldn't have been behind bars, and subsequently killed.”

  London frowned.

  “But that’s illogical,” he said. “If I hadn’t stood up in that court, someone else would have.”

  “Aye, I didn’t say it was reasonable,” I replied.

  “I don't know how you do it, Logan,” the prosecutor mused. “Keep your faith in people once you know their secrets.”

  I thought about his statement for a moment. I’d spent so many years trying to keep my work and home life separate that I didn’t stop to wonder why I had to do that.

  “I could say the same to you,” I finally said.

  When we got back to the station, we took London up to the detainee custody room. Harding pulled aside one of the officers and muttered into his ear. The prosecutor raised his eyebrows when he realised where we were.

  “I’m not secretly under arrest, am I, Logan?” he asked. “Because there are laws about that.”

  “You would know,” I joked. “It’s the safest place I can think of. And you’ll be under constant surveillance.”

  His eyebrows furrowed.

  “Don’t worry, you won’t get a taste of the criminal life,” I assured him.

  “Are you sure this is secure?” he asked.

  “Absolutely,” I replied, though I wondered who I was trying to convince more, him or me?

  I watched the officers lead London anyway, and he looked back at us, tipped an imagi
nary hat, and even managed to smile. Once he’d disappeared out of my sight, I felt a rush of anxiety. I pulled Harding away from the lifts.

  “It can’t be this easy,” I told her. “It can’t be over.”

  My partner blinked and looked around the station.

  “It’s over, sir,” she reminded me. “You found the third victim, and the killer is in custody. What could be left?”

  “Think about how long Kennedy has dreamt up this plan,” I mused. “Weeks, at least, right? Since his son died maybe? Why would he allow such a neat ending?”

  “Sir,” Harding said as she became more frustrated. “I think you’re searching for problems that don’t exist.”

  “Why would Kennedy have laid out the clues, turned himself in, and directed us towards the final victim if not because he’d planned for something more sinister?” I asked in a rush of words.

  “Where is this coming from?” she demanded as she grabbed her hair with both hands.

  “Don’t bother,” a voice floated behind us.

  I turned to see the ACC, who had clearly just stepped out of the lift and heard our every word.

  “Don’t bother?” I asked, but Clarke didn’t look at me.

  The two women stood at my side and faced each other.

  “DS Harding,” Clarke started to say. “I’ve learnt a lot over the years, and the most irritating thing I’ve accepted as inevitable, other than mandatory leadership meetings, is that Thorne’s instincts is bang on.”

  I looked at her, but she was still focused on Harding.

  “And if he has a gut feeling, it’s usually correct,” my boss said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Harding replied and eyed me.

  “It’ll piss you off, Detective, but you just have to get used to it,” Clarke warned.

  Harding smiled down at her feet.

  “Alright,” Clarke said.

  The ACC nodded at me, then she shrugged when I raised an eyebrow at the sudden show of support.

  “You better get on with it, then,” the redhead suggested.

  Clarke and I exchanged a long look, and I could see the fire that burned in her green eyes.

  “Sir?” Harding asked anxiously.

  I cleared my throat and tore my eyes away from Clarke’s face.