Dark Blood

by MacBride, Stuart

  Richard Albert Knox tries not to smile. He can see them, reflected in the dusty screen of the dead television. Standing there at the lounge door like a pair of old women, gossiping.

  His knees ache, but that’s all right. A little pain never did anyone any harm. Sometimes it did them a lot of good. And after all those years kneeling on the concrete floor of his cell, the tatty old rug’s something of a luxury.

  But all that time on his knees really paid off, you know? Not like some of them dirty bastards in Frankland Prison; the time they spent on their knees was for a different reason. Not that Richard had anything to do with that, thank you very much.

  No.

  Well…only once, and it wasn’t like he had any option, was it? Not with a length of sharpened pipe waiting for him. They soon learned though, didn’t they? Felt the wrath of God. No one bothered him after that.

  He sneaks another look at his two minders from Sacro. Harry and Mandy. A right pair of do-gooders. ‘Oh aren’t we so special, volunteering to look after rapists and paedos?’ How stupid can they be?

  Richard can’t keep the smile off his face. They have no idea what’s coming their way.

  8

  DC Rennie scowled. ‘Is it me, or did the weather just get even crappier?’

  Logan watched the windscreen wipers clunk and squeal across the glass. Rain drummed on the roof of the CID pool car, made spreading puddles on the uneven pavements, shivered the branches of a tall leylandii hedge. The little cul-de-sac was quiet, just a few kids being bustled into cars for the last-minute school run. ‘You got the warrant?’

  Rennie dug it out of his jacket pocket. His short blond hair stuck up in all directions, as if he’d just fallen out of bed, and his face had the kind of unnaturally orange fake-tan glow any D-list celebrity would be proud of. ‘Thought nightshift were supposed to deal with this.’

  Logan scanned the paperwork – all duly noted and authorized. ‘You ready?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tough.’ He opened the car door and hurried up the path to the semi-detached house, hop-skip-stepping to avoid the deepest puddles, Detective Constable Rennie sploshing along behind him.

  They huddled under the little porch while Rennie thumbed the doorbell. ‘Argh…it’s trickling down the back of my neck!’

  ‘Better watch it doesn’t wash your tan off. You’ll go all streaky.’

  ‘Hey, at least I…’

  The front door opened. A young man peered out at them: black eye, bruised cheek, and swollen lip, one arm encased in plaster from elbow to palm. The Police National Computer check said he was eighteen, he looked a lot younger. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Mr Walker? Douglas Walker?’

  He flinched, one hand coming up to shield his bruised face. ‘Don’t hit me!’

  Logan held up his warrant card. ‘Police.’

  Walker sagged. Sighed, then turned and limped back into the building. ‘Close the door behind you, yeah?’

  Inside, it was a study in chintz. Walker levered himself down onto a floral sofa complete with lacy antimacassars. A gas fire hissed away to itself, the mantelpiece littered with glass ornaments, sparkling in the light of a standard lamp. Oil paintings covered the walls – scenes of Aberdeen in OTT gilt frames. Walker grimaced. ‘This about that car?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  The young man stared at the swirly beige carpet. ‘I didn’t know, OK? I thought the cash was legit.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ Logan edged in front of the fire, letting his trousers steam, ‘soon as you found out there was a problem, you were in such a hurry to give Kevin Middleton his car back, you fell down the stairs a couple of times?’

  Walker sniffed. ‘I’m not pressing charges. And you can’t make me.’

  Logan let the silence drag out for a while, but Walker kept his face towards the floor.

  ‘You want to tell me where you got four and a half grand in dodgy twenties?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘OK.’ Logan pulled out the warrant. ‘Douglas Walker, it is an offence to pass counterfeit moneys under section fifteen of the Forgery and Counterfeiting Act 1981, punishable by up to ten years in prison.’

  At that, Walker did look up. His face pale, mouth working up and down. ‘But…I…’

  ‘I have a warrant here for your arrest. On your feet.’

  ‘You can’t…’

  ‘Stand up, Mr Walker.’

  ‘Oh Jesus…’ He struggled upright, trying not to use his broken right arm. ‘I didn’t know, really I didn’t!’

  Logan slipped the papers back in his pocket. ‘Do you want to come with us voluntarily, or shall we do it the hard way?’

  Walker bit his bottom lip, setting it bleeding again.

  Rennie took out his handcuffs and the young man whimpered.

  ‘Voluntarily, I’ll come voluntarily.’

  ‘Good move.’ Logan scribbled that down in his notebook, then got Walker to sign it. He pointed the eighteen-year-old towards the door. ‘Anything I should know about before I get a team in here to tear the place apart?’

  ‘My mum and dad are in Corfu…’ He wiped a hand across his eyes. ‘They’ll kill me.’

  Rennie grinned. ‘If I was you, I’d be more worried about my new cellmate.’ He made an obscene, pokey-pokey hand gesture.

  Logan scowled at him. Then turned back to Walker. ‘You got any more counterfeit money on the premises?’

  Walker stared at the carpet again, snivelling. He took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘There’s another three grand in a holdall in my wardrobe.’

  He led them upstairs to a medium-sized bedroom at the front of the house, overlooking the surrounding homes and south towards the River Dee, barely visible through the rain. An easel sat in front of the window, with a landscape of Bennachie sketched out in rough charcoal strokes. The whole place smelled of linseed oil and turpentine.

  Walker pointed at the wardrobe sitting next to an unmade single bed. ‘In there.’

  Rennie snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves and went rummaging.

  Logan examined the canvas. ‘Those paintings downstairs yours?’

  ‘Yeah…’ The young man sniffed. Rubbed at his eyes again. ‘Doing a degree at Gray’s School of Art.’

  ‘They’re good.’

  He shrugged, a blush creeping up his cheeks. ‘I was trying to capture the—’

  ‘Got it!’ Rennie dragged a black holdall from the mass of shoes and trainers, holding the handles wide apart so Logan could see inside. Lots of little folded bundles made of crisp twenty pound notes.

  Logan told him to zip it up again. Then turned back to Walker. ‘You sure you don’t want to just fess up now? Save us all the legwork?’

  ‘I…erm…’ He sniffed. Looked out of the window at the rain-drenched landscape. ‘Think I should speak to a lawyer.’

  Logan slumped back in the visitor’s chair and rubbed his face with his hands. ‘Like interviewing a bloody cardboard cut-out.’

  DI Steel picked one of the clear plastic evidence pouches from the pile on her desk and peered at the stack of notes inside. ‘There’s no’ another couple of grand knocking about you forgot to sign into evidence, is there?’

  Logan looked at her. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  She dumped the cash back on the desk. ‘You any idea how much it’s going to cost to put wee Jasmine through a decent school?’

  ‘Jasmine?’

  ‘If it’s a girl.’ She opened her top desk drawer and pulled out a set of screwdrivers and a pair of pliers. ‘Want to help vandalize a window lock?’

  ‘No.’ Logan picked up the discarded packet of counterfeit cash. ‘You notice it’s all in drug-dealer-bundles? Four twenties laid flat, one twenty wrapped around them at ninety degrees, then the whole lot folded—’

  ‘Aye, thanks, Captain Sesame Street, but I do actually know what a sodding DDB looks like. Detective inspector, remember?’

  ‘Just saying it’s a bit odd, OK? Would have thought
counterfeit notes would come in big stacks, hot off the presses. Looks like this lot’s been done up for junkies and pushers.’

  Steel selected a flat-head screwdriver from the set and swivelled her chair around, hunkering over the catch on her office window. ‘What’s Wallace saying about it?’

  ‘Walker, not Wallace. Douglas Walker. He’s saying bugger all, wants to speak to a lawyer first.’

  ‘Jesus, no’ again.’ Dig, dig, poke, poke…

  ‘Says he heard about that case where the European Court decided someone’s human rights had been violated by not letting them have a lawyer during questioning.’

  Steel sighed. ‘Human rights my crinkle-cut arsehole. Tell you, the Americans got the right idea – waterboard the lot of them. Pass me those pliers, eh?’

  Logan did as he was asked. ‘Still say it’d be easier to go outside and smoke like a normal person.’

  ‘You think this Walker kid’s going to crack?’

  ‘Going to let him stew for a couple of hours. Conned him into coming in on a volley, so there’s no time limit. Maybe drop a few hints about doing a deal if he gives us his supplier. Usual vague lies.’ Logan checked his watch. ‘We got that MAPPA meeting in ten minutes. I’m off for a fag. Want one? Or you going to stay here practising your housebreaking?’

  Steel sniffed, then dumped the screwdriver on her desk. ‘Aye, what the hell.’

  Outside, on the rear podium car park, it was teeth-chatteringly cold. The tall, rectangular ‘U’ shaped bulk of FHQ acted as a windbreak, but the granite buildings it backed onto blocked out the low sun, leaving the whole place shrouded in deep-freezer shadows.

  Logan sparked up a cigarette, hands cupped around the glowing tip for warmth, Steel shivering beside him, fingertips rammed into her armpits. Stomping her feet and swearing out a stream of white smoke and breath.

  ‘Fuck me, it’s cold.’

  ‘Any word from your chiz yet?’

  She grimaced. ‘Bugger’s still no’ answering his phone. Got the GSM trace though, looks like he’s staying somewhere south-east of Balmedie.’

  ‘Want to take a run over after the MAPPA meeting?’ Logan took a deep drag on his Benson and Hedges, then spluttered it out in a rumbling cough as the back door opened and the familiar, porky figure of DI Beardy Beattie lumbered out, hauling on an Arctic-explorer-style padded parka. Logan stuck two fingers up in the man’s direction. ‘Wanker.’

  If Beattie heard, he pretended not to, just clambered into one of the CID pool cars and drove away.

  Steel pulled the cigarette from her mouth. ‘You know…people are beginning to notice.’

  ‘Good for them.’ Logan took another puff. ‘Notice what?’

  ‘Your attitude.’ She turned till she was staring out at the little frost-covered stairway down to the mortuary. ‘There’s been complaints.’

  Typical.

  ‘It’s Beattie, isn’t it? That useless tosser thinks I’ve got nothing better to—’

  ‘It’s no’ just Beattie, OK? It’s everyone.’ She flicked away a nub of ash. ‘The DCs are fed up with the sarcasm and the shouting. The DIs are fed up with you complaining all the time and stinking of booze. The DCI’s fed up of everyone moaning to him about it. And I’m fed up defending you the whole sodding time.’

  Silence.

  Logan sucked hard on his cigarette. ‘My sarcasm? My shouting? What about that fucker Finnie? And—’

  ‘Enough, OK? Enough…’ Steel turned and stared at him, eyes crinkled at the edges, mouth turned down. ‘It’s no’ about Finnie, it’s about you. Either you pull your socks up, or people are going to start making it official.’ She poked him in the chest. ‘That sound like fun to you: spending all your time getting hauled up by Professional Standards?’

  Logan glowered at her. ‘And you agree with them? That it?’

  ‘Fucksake, I’m trying to help you!’ She stormed off a couple of paces, then turned and stormed back. ‘You used to be a bloody good cop, you really did. A team player. But right now you’re a fucking haemorrhoid dipped in Tabasco. A broken-glass suppository. A…’ She paused. Frowned. ‘A barbed-wire butt-plug!’

  ‘Oh don’t be—’

  ‘Whatever’s wrong with you, get over it. Or you’re going to end up out on your ear and no one’ll be sorry to see you go.’

  He dropped his half-smoked cigarette and ground it out with the toe of his shoe. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Get a bloody haircut.’

  Logan backed into the boardroom, carrying a tray covered with wax-paper cups and a plate of pastries. He placed it in the middle of the long, polished table and everyone stopped what they were doing to scramble for the jammy doughnuts. Leaving him with a greasy-looking apple turnover, a white coffee, and a sulk.

  Bunch of bastards. Complaining about his attitude, like he was the worst person in the whole bloody place. Hell, he wasn’t even the worst person in the room.

  Like all Multi-Agency Public Protection Arrangements meetings the place was packed with people doing their best to come up with ‘defensible decisions’. Decisions they couldn’t get blamed for if anything went wrong. Social Services, the Council, Sacro, and Grampian Police, all covering their arses and hoping to God that Richard Knox would eventually get fed up of Aberdeen and bugger off back down south. Become someone else’s problem.

  Detective Inspector Duncan Ingram – in charge of monitoring every pervert, rapist, and paedophile in the north-east of Scotland – stood at the front of the room, writing up the exit strategy for Richard Knox on the whiteboard in squeaky green marker pen. Pausing every now and then to check his thin, military moustache was still obeying orders.

  It was a complete waste of time. Knox didn’t need an exit strategy, he needed an exit wound. Preferably from a shotgun to the back of the head.

  DSI Danby sat at the other end of the long, polished boardroom table, taking notes. DI Steel slouched in her seat, picking her teeth. And DCI Finnie stood in the corner, holding a murmured conversation with someone on his mobile.

  Ingram rammed the cap back on his marker pen, and supervised his moustache again. ‘Now, as you can see from the risk assessment matrix, we’ve got several environmental factors against us where Richard Knox is concerned. The house is within easy walking distance of one sheltered living facility, a bowling green, and Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. All places we can expect old men to be found on a regular basis…’

  Logan tuned him out.

  How could anyone complain about his attitude?

  This was so bloody typical of—

  Someone kicked him under the table.

  ‘Wh…’

  Steel was making less than subtle gestures towards the whiteboard. Mouthing, ‘Pay a-fucking-tention!’

  ‘…and that’s why,’ DI Ingram had written ‘HMP PETERHEAD’ on the board, ‘we have a disproportionately large number of sex offenders to manage. Of the three hundred and twenty-three currently living in the North East, about half are classed as “indefinite”. So they’re on the list for life…’

  Logan tuned him out again. It was all rubbish anyway, background info for a nodding DSI Danby. Now there was someone with an attitude worth complaining about. But did they? No, they had to whinge about Logan instead. Obviously, that cock-weasel Beattie was behind it all. Wanted taking out and—

  Steel kicked him again. Then turned and announced to the room, ‘How about DS McRae takes us through the surveillance routine?’

  Cow.

  Logan scowled at her, then stood and marched to the front of the room, snatched a red marker from the tray beneath the whiteboard and scrawled up a rough outline of the house in Cornhill that Knox had inherited. ‘We can’t put surveillance cameras in the house without Knox’s permission, so we’re going to set one on the lamppost opposite…’ Logan sketched in the street. ‘Here, and another one here. This gives us a coming-and-going view the length of Cairnview Terrace. He’ll get level one surveillance for the first week, then—’

  ‘Just
the one week?’ Danby shifted in his chair. ‘He’s not going to suddenly get better, you know what I’m saying?’

  Logan shrugged. ‘Budget constraints. One week of level one surveillance: round the clock with two officers in an unmarked van. After that we have to downgrade it to level two. We’ll try to keep an eye on the live video feed…depending on staffing levels.’

  ‘You’ll try to keep an eye on it?’

  ‘He’s going to have someone from Sacro with him round the clock anyway, so it—’

  ‘A bunch of volunteers? That’s not good enough.’

  ‘They do more support and monitoring of high-risk offenders than any other—’

  ‘Knox abducts and rapes old men.’ Danby thumped the table with a huge finger punctuating every word, ‘He – needs – constant – police – supervision.’

  ‘Yeah, well if you wanted him watched twenty-four-seven you should’ve kept him in Newcastle, shouldn’t you?’

  Danby’s eyes bugged in his head. ‘What?’

  ‘Look, we don’t have bottomless pockets up here, OK? Everyone dumps their sodding sex offenders on us and we’re supposed to just bend over and take it.’ Logan jabbed the whiteboard with his pen. ‘This is the best we can do. You want more? Get Northumbria Police to chip in and pay for it. He’s your pervert.’

  Steel buried her face in her hands. ‘Oh bloody hell…’

  DSI Danby was on his feet, face flushed, fists resting on the tabletop. Voice a thick, dark rumble. ‘I don’t care if everyone here’s used to your crap, Sergeant, but my warrant card says, “Detective Superintendent”. And if you want someone to bend you over, I bloody well will.’

  Silence.

  ‘Er…yes.’ DI Ingram cleared his throat, straightened his moustache again. ‘Anyway, if we’re done with surveillance, maybe we could move on to response times and contingency planning?’

  9

  ‘Are you out of your bloody mind?’ DI Steel slammed the office door behind her. ‘Did I say you could sit down?’

  Logan hauled himself up out of her visitor’s chair. ‘He was being a wanker.’