Blue Vengenance: A Logan Thorne DCI Scottish Detective Thriller

by Duncan Wallace

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  “Nail him,” the ACC said to me. “I’ll be watching.”

  “Just what I need,” I said and rolled my eyes. “A critical audience.”

  I could feel the ACC’s eyes on my back all the way down the hall. Thankfully, Harding didn’t protest when we stepped into the stairwell again and started up the stairs.

  “Where to?” Harding asked.

  “Back to Kennedy,” I said as I pushed open the door.

  I marched down the hall and shooed the officer away from the door. Before I entered the interview room again, I stopped for a moment, leaned against the walls, and closed my eyes.

  “Sir?” Harding asked. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m stepping into character,” I explained.

  “For the interview?” the brunette asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s like playing a part. You need to find the right persona.”

  “And what are you thinking?” she asked.

  “The only thing which has worked with this guy so far is the threat of physical violence,” I sighed. “He’s smart, but he’s not strong. He feels weak. That’s my play.”

  “Sir…” she warned.

  “Don’t,” I replied as I held up a hand. “Don’t argue with me.”

  Harding chewed on her lip but fell silent.

  “Right, I can’t have you in the room,” I told her.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because he needs to believe he’s alone with me,” I explained. “If you’re there, it neutralises any threat.”

  “Okay...” she began to say.

  “Not a word,” I cut in. “Go into the viewing room.”

  She left, and I breathed in the silence to focus on it. This was just like any other interview, I told myself. Don’t let it get into your head.

  I rolled my shoulders and went in.

  Duncan Kennedy looked to to be in the same position as I had left him. He had the unfailing expression of boredom and contempt on his face, which I couldn’t wait to remove.

  I ambled over to the table and switched on the tape with a lazy flick. I felt Kennedy’s eyes studying me as he tried to guess what I knew.

  “We found him,” I said. “We found the prosecutor. You’re finished.”

  He shook his head.

  “You only worked it out because I came to you,” he said. “Remember that. You’d still be looking.”

  “Not necessarily,” I remarked as I sat down and crossed my legs. “You’re not half as smart as you think.”

  Kennedy smirked, but I noticed how his eyes blazed.

  “So what do you think happens now?” I asked and raised an eyebrow. “The world changes their opinion of your son, just because his prosecutors are dead?”

  The man picked up a pen, toyed with it, and gripped it tight.

  “Do you feel that justice has been done?” I asked again as I watched Kennedy’s fingers discolour. “All anyone will remember about you, or your son, is that you were murderers.”

  I glanced at the camera and wondered what Clarke was thinking on the other side. The man opened his mouth to speak and then slapped his own wrist as though to discipline a small child. The sight unnerved me.

  “Ahh, detective, I know what you’re trying to do,” he accused. “It’s not going to work.”

  “What am I trying to do?” I asked in faux innocence.

  His cold eyes met mine, and he pushed out his lip in insolence. I sighed as I realized this wasn’t going to work. I stood up and made a show of turning the tape and the security camera off. Of course, Kenny didn’t know about the hidden recording devices in the walls.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” he stammered.

  I said nothing as I savoured his panic like a perfectly brewed pint.

  “Did you know Roger Brown was my friend?” I asked as I turned to look at Kennedy.

  His face furrowed, and he glanced at the two-way mirror.

  “There’s nobody on the other side,” I pointed out as my voice hovered on the edge of a threat. “Nobody will hear your story. Nobody who would help you.”

  I could picture Kennedy a month ago as he sat in his dark home study, energised by revenge as he plotted his plan. He thought he’d been so clever, that he’d conjured up the outcome to prove his theory that police officers were inept, not to be trusted. But he hadn’t planned on a locked room where no one would hear him. He couldn’t puzzle his way out of this situation.

  “Where’s the good cop to your routine gone,” Kennedy murmured.

  “There is no good cop,” I replied. “There’s only the bad.”

  The man played with his cuticles and tried to look bored again, but I could smell the nervous sweat that started to form along his hairline.

  “Did you even know his first name?” I asked again.

  Kennedy sighed as though feigning disinterest, and I slammed my palm against the table to get his attention. Kennedy jumped in his seat despite his best efforts to appear unaffected.

  “Tell me how you got the poison,” I ordered.

  “Why would I do your job for you, Inspector?” he tutted.

  “See, this is why I think your wife is involved,” I said. “I think she could access it through her work.”

  “Interesting theory,” the man replied in a tight voice.

  “I bet she’s the real mastermind behind this operation” I sneered as I moved closer to him. “And you’re just her sad little puppet.”

  Kennedy’s eyes narrowed.

  “Why did you kill McLuckie so differently?” I asked. “Did you panic when he overpowered you? When he was stronger than you? Is that why you dumped his body like trash?”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Kennedy replied. “None of this matters.”

  He gestured to the room, to the tape recorder, and then to me.

  “It matters to me,” I said.

  I stood by the table so that my body loomed over his.

  “This was in place before you were even involved,” Kennedy answered. “It’s not all about you.”

  “You can still help yourself, Duncan,” I said. “You can help your wife. Do you know what’s going to happen to you? To her?”

  He shook his head tightly.

  “I will personally make sure your wife is arrested,” I warned. “I’ll make up some charge like obstruction of justice, and she’ll go to jail as well.”

  Kennedy continued to shake his head, but his eyes were closed as if he wanted to deny what I said.

  “Duncan!” I shouted and banged my palm on the table again.“Tell me how to stop it.”

  I walked around the table and sat back down to face him.

  “I know you’ve got another plan,” I said. “Do you want to rot in jail for the rest of your life? Do you want your wife to suffer without her son and husband?”

  I leaned across and grabbed his shirt collar, careful not to make any noise for the tape. The man winced and squirmed away from my touch.

  “You need to tell me how to stop it!” I shouted again.

  “It can’t be stopped,” he muttered. “It’s been happening for days.”

  I sat back in my chair. Days? I thought back to Sunday, when it had all started. Harding had called about Brown’s car, and I combed through our conversation on the phone. I thought back to the industrial estate where Brown’s car had been left, forgotten in an abandoned construction site. The memories flashed like an old film reel which had already become distorted by time. So much had happened since that day. We’d found the car, then we’d driven to the graveyard and found Brown’s body as well. What was I missing?

  “It can’t be stopped,” Kennedy whispered again as he met my stare. “It’s right here.”

  I tried to picture myself back in Brown’s car with the cold air nipping at my skin. Kennedy said it had already begun before I’d arrived. I was tied to every piece of this investigation, except what had occured before I was brought onto it. Brown’s car. Brown�
��s car was the first piece of the puzzle, the first bit of evidence to be transported to the station and scoured.

  How had Dr. Liu described the strange smell on Brown’s body? Sweet and bitter, almost nutty. Almonds. The scent in Brown’s car had been the same, too, only I hadn’t been able to place it at the time. Cyanide, that’s what Dr. Liu had said. But she’d also said Brown had ingested the poison, and so his body wasn’t toxic.

  My brain skimmed through all I knew about cyanide. It wasn’t much, but I’d watched a lot of WW2 documentaries, and that was when I felt something ping in my head. Cyanide is at its most dangerous when used in enclosed spaces, like a car, where the gas will be trapped. After that, all a person needed was a device to kick-start the chemical reaction into disaster.

  The pieces fell slowly into place, and the realisation was dazzlingly clear. Matthew London was in our custody just as Kennedy’s son had been. Both would die.

  Kennedy was going to blow the station sky high.

  Chapter 14

  I stared at Duncan Kennedy in horror. All of his fear had flooded away, and he smiled back at me, his face full of impish mischief. He put a hand to his lips in the classic request for quiet.

  “What have you done?” I shouted in a panic.

  “I told you,” he repeated. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  I leapt to my feet and threw the door open. It slammed shut behind me as I stumbled into the hall. Harding and Clarke appeared moments later, confusion on their faces.

  “What is it, Logan?” Clarke demanded.

  “We have to get everyone out,” I stammered, and then, as I said the words, reality kicked in. “Right now.”

  “Sir,” Harding said and took my arm. “You need to explain.”

  I clenched my fist but understood.

  “Kennedy planted a bomb inside Brown’s car,” I said and then took a deep breath. “It’s right under our feet in Forensics, and it’s rigged to blow.”

  Harding dropped her hand and moved away from me, horrified.

  “When?” the ACC asked.

  I gripped my hair.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “Soon. We need the--”

  “I know,” she cut in. “I’ll call the bomb squad.”

  Clarke then immediately kicked into gear. She hit the fire alarm button and the long, skin-curling sound erupted inside the corridor.

  DCI Richards hurried towards us, a coffee in one hand, and a file tucked under his other arm.

  “Richards!” Clarke waved at him.

  “What’s going on?” he asked in a panicked voice.

  “I need you to take the man in that room outside and don’t let him out of your sight,” she ordered.

  “Who is he?” Richards asked and tried to glance inside.

  “Just do it,” Clarke snapped at him. “He’s in our custody.”

  The coffee cup trembled in Richard’s hand, but he didn’t argue.

  “You two,” I said as I looked between Clarke and Harding. “Get out. Go to the rendezvous point.”

  Harding was blinking back tears, but Clarke’s eyes were resolute, fiery.

  “Logan, if you think for one second that I’m going to leave my people--” she started to say.

  “I’ll gather them!” I shouted in frustration. “But go. Contact the unit.”

  The redhead glared at me but then looked at her watch and left.

  “I’ll see you outside, sir,” Harding said. “Because you will be there. Right?”

  The brunette’s voice trembled. I thought of where I’d been three months into being a DC. I hadn’t had to run from an explosion, I knew that much. I touched Harding’s hand.

  “Go,” I whispered.

  I wiped the sweat from my forehead. How much time did I have? The fire alarm wailed like a banshee in my ears. Richards escorted Kennedy from the interview room, and the man looked at me, and he smiled. He tapped his watch. Tick. Tock.

  I ran.

  Everywhere I looked I saw a clock, all of them counting down the minutes I had. I hit every fire alarm button I could find, and ran up and down the stairs, as I shouted into departments to evacuate.

  “Is this a drill?” a bored-looking PC asked me as he waited by the lift.

  “It’s not a drill!” I exclaimed and directed them all towards the stairs. “The lifts have stopped working.”

  The cops migrated down the stairs, but too slowly for my liking. I thought desperately if I should shout about the explosive car which rumbled beneath our feet, but I didn’t want to cause a mass stampede of panic.

  “Move it!” I cried at the top of the stairwell, and my frantic voice bounced from the walls.

  A woman caught my stare, and then her mouth opened in a silent scream. I wondered if she could see the explosion in the glare of my eyes. She pushed the person in front of her, and like a stack of dominos falling over, the crowd started to shove their way to the exit.

  I stumbled backwards once the stairwell was finally empty. It was so quiet I could hear my heart thudding. I prayed that everyone had followed the protocol of a fire drill and had safely removed anyone in custody. I glanced over my shoulder. I could go back and check that every corridor, every office, and every toilet was clear of people. I screwed my eyes shut, but all I saw was Kennedy’s smile, and how he’d tapped his watch. I ran towards the exit.

  The fresh air felt like a caress, and I looked up at the soft pink sky as I breathed deeply. Was that it? Were we safe now? I looked around at the many faces of my colleagues. They were relaxed as they complained about the cold weather, their greatest immediate concern. They stamped their feet and wondered when they could go back inside. I felt a tug of anxiety. I didn’t know how powerful the bomb was yet.

  I couldn’t see Matthew London. Did that mean Clarke had arranged for his shelter elsewhere? I hoped so. I wanted to put many miles between him and the station.

  “Thorne!” Detective Inspector Richards hurried towards me and one hand gripped his bloodied nose in an attempt to staunch the flow. “That man you were questioning, he grabbed me, and--”

  “And what, Richards?” I cut in, dread rising in the back of my throat.

  “He took my firearm,” Richards cried, held up his hands in surrender, and fat drops of blood splattered on the floor.

  I felt a hot throttle of anger. How could Richards be overpowered by a civilian, by Duncan Kennedy no less, with his skinny bird legs? Richards eyes pleaded with me, and I stared into them.

  “Which way did he go?” I asked.

  Richards pointed to the wired fence and the scraggly patch of criss-cross grass which led to the high street. There was a large hole in the fence, made some months before by a pack of bored teenagers.

  “When?” I asked again in a voice thick with resentment.

  Richards squeezed his nose and winced.

  “Just a few minutes ago,” he replied. “What are you--”

  I took off before he finished his question. My face burnt from the effort of not shouting at him. There was a thud behind me, and then a long shadow merged with mine on the pavement. There was only one person it could be.

  “What are you doing?” I asked as I turned to DS Harding.

  “Coming with you,” she replied and blinked as though the question was ridiculous.

  “No,” I countered. “Go and tell Ops Support that Kennedy has stolen a gun, and--”

  “Yes, sir,” she cut in. “I’ll radio them. But I’m not going back.”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s dangerous,” I warned her.

  “What have you said to me, time and time again, today?” she asked.

  I shrugged as I scanned the crowds for Kennedy’s face.

  “That we’re a team,” she reminded me. “Or are we only a team when it suits you?”

  I turned to Harding.

  She glared at me with a stony expression, and I could tell she wasn’t going to budge.

  “I could do with another set of eyes,” I relented.
“Apparently he disappeared through that gap.”

  I pointed at the fence and the narrow path which twisted around the gnarled oak trees.

  “Thorne!” Clarke’s angry voice crackled from my radio. “You are not to follow the suspect without backup.”

  I stopped in my tracks while Harding hovered anxiously beside me. Then I saw a flicker of a movement, a boot sinking into the wet mud, the twirl of a coat hem.

  “I think that’s him,” I muttered to Harding, one hand on my firearm, the other on my radio.

  “I mean it, Thorne,” my boss barked. “Get the hell back here.”

  I figured I had one minute to close the distance until Kennedy disappeared into the nearby street. And then what would he do? Crawl out of sight as my world blew apart? I gritted my teeth as I started forward again.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” I muttered into the radio before I turned it off.

  Kennedy showed his face as we approached the trees. The wind whipped his hair back, and he bared his teeth at us like an eighteenth century villain. He stepped back through a bush, then he swivelled round and began to run.

  “Quick!” I yelled at Harding, because I knew what waited for us round the corner.

  It was a busy street, busy enough for Kennedy to lose himself in. A weekday evening was an easy time to move unobserved through the city, even if you were running. And then there was the gun he managed to take from Richards. There were hundreds of potential victims along the road if he decided to start shooting.

  Thorn bushes grazed my ankle, and I felt searing heat through my trousers, but I shook it off. We couldn’t stop. We stumbled onto the high street and into the sea of semi-drunk office workers who had stayed out after work. The crowds pressed in on us. I pushed and shouted as I paved a path through the sea of loose-tied men and sleepy-eyed women. I finally spotted him as he disappeared around the corner to the market street.

  “There!” I shouted at Harding.

  She saw what I did and nodded.

  People looked at me curiously as I yelled through the noise and confusion, and I wanted nothing more than to swat them out of my way. I ran after Kennedy with Harding right behind me. I turned the corner and was confronted by a maze of market stands.