Dark Blood

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Er…yeah. Thanks.’

  The warm interior carried the smell of Old Spice, underlaid with something else. Something sour and sickly.

  Wee Hamish pulled a silver hipflask from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the lid, then passed it over.

  Logan looked at it. ‘Actually, Mr Mowat—’

  ‘It’s all right, Logan, what I have isn’t catching.’ His voice was a gravelly mix of Aberdonian and public school. Sounding tired. ‘And after everything you’ve…helped me with over the last six months, I think you can call me “Hamish”, don’t you?’

  Logan accepted the flask. Forced a smile. ‘Thank you. Hamish.’

  He wiped the neck and took a swig. Whisky. It started a low fire in his innards, spreading its warmth up through his chest. ‘Good stuff.’

  ‘1974 Ardbeg.’ Wee Hamish took the flask back and knocked some back. ‘Can’t take it with you…’

  They sat in silence for a moment, just the rumble of the engine and the whine of the air vents. Then Wee Hamish pointed through the windscreen at the building site laid out on the fields below. ‘Four hundred houses, just like that. Planning permission for a hotel. Going to have a swimming pool. All legitimate and above board.’

  Logan kept his mouth shut.

  ‘Course, wouldn’t be happening if it wasn’t for Donald Trump.’ He took another hit of whisky. ‘What do you think, Logan: for it, or against it?’

  ‘Er…’

  ‘Keeping an open mind? Good. Good. Some say it’s a bad thing, that Trump steamrollered local opposition, then went blubbing to the Scottish Parliament when the planning department said he couldn’t have his golf course. Got them to overturn the decision. Others say it’s a good thing – it shows that Aberdeen’s open for business. Welcomes investment. Is looking to the future…’

  He stared at the hipflask in his hand. ‘The future’s a funny thing, isn’t it?’

  Logan shifted in his seat. ‘We’re pretty sure Malk the Knife’s development’s just one big money-laundering exercise. He’s using it to get a foothold in the North East…’ He trailed off to a halt. Wee Hamish was staring at him.

  ‘Do you play chess, Logan?’

  ‘Er…no. Not really. More of a Grand Theft Auto kind of guy.’

  ‘Shame. We shall have to do something about that.’ He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Mr McLennan is the Black King. He moves his pawns around the board, always pushing forwards. Drugs. Prostitution. Counterfeit merchandise. Then he has his bishops. Moving diagonally, back and forth from Edinburgh. Keeping an eye on the souls of his flock. His knights taking care of the opposition.’

  ‘I see…’

  ‘Do you?’

  Logan wriggled his toes in the warm air of the footwell. ‘It’s no secret Malk the Knife’s pushing in on your territory. We’re getting a huge influx of dodgy goods, forged money. Car theft’s up about three hundred percent. There’s more drugs out there than ever before.’

  The old man drank from the flask again, then screwed the cap on and slipped it back into his jacket. ‘You shouldn’t call him “Malk the Knife”, it’s disrespectful.’

  Logan opened his mouth, but Wee Hamish held up a crooked finger.

  ‘Never treat your opponent with disdain, Logan. When you do, you underestimate them. And when you underestimate them, you give them an advantage. Take it from me: it’s a lesson learned from many, many games of chess.’

  Pause.

  ‘OK. Mr McLennan it is.’

  Wee Hamish reached over and patted Logan on the shoulder, his hand unnaturally hot, making Logan’s skin prickle through the fabric of his shirt.

  ‘That’s good.’ The old gangster smiled. ‘I don’t like people trying to take advantage of my city, Logan. It worries me. Especially now.’ He went back to staring out through the windscreen. ‘A city needs a White King. Otherwise, how can it go to war?’

  Logan hobbled back across the cold, damp ground and jumped into Reuben’s BMW. The fat man turned and glowered at him. ‘Well?’

  Logan shrugged. ‘You could’ve let me put on a pair of bloody shoes. Feet are freezing.’ He fiddled with the climate control buttons. ‘How do you put on the heat?’

  Reuben slapped his fingers away. ‘Did I say you could touch my car?’

  Logan held his hands up. ‘Fine. Don’t mind me. I’ll just catch pneumonia and die. Perfect.’

  The little lane snapped into focus as Wee Hamish’s Porsche headlights came on, then the huge 4×4 backed up, swung around, and squeezed past them, half up on the grass verge.

  And then it was gone.

  Reuben performed a clunky seven-point-turn, and headed back the way they’d come.

  They bumped off the cracked road and onto proper tarmac, roaring back into town at well over the speed limit. The sky had an ominous dark-orange tinge, low clouds reflecting back the streetlights as they drove down the Ellon Road and across the Bridge of Don.

  Reuben broke the silence. ‘Glove compartment.’

  Logan looked at him. ‘What about it?’

  ‘Open the fucking thing, you moron.’

  Inside, there was an AA card, a Scottish road atlas, and a standard white envelope. The thing was sealed, stuffed full to bursting. Logan pulled it out. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Mr Mowat says it’s relevant to your interests.’

  Logan eased up one side of the flap, but Reuben smacked his hand.

  ‘Don’t open that in here! Fuck’s wrong with you?’

  Logan hit him back, whisky and wine burning in his stomach. ‘I’m getting pretty bloody sick of you acting like a dick the whole time!’

  Reuben jammed on the breaks. ‘Who the fuck you think you’re talking to?’ This time it wasn’t a smack it was a slap, a backhand right across Logan’s cheek, hard enough to bounce him off the headrest. ‘Clean out your lugs, Officer, you never, ever speak like that to me again. Understand?’

  Logan leaned forward in his seat, feeling his cheek starting to swell up, the taste of blood in his mouth where he’d bitten his tongue. ‘Fuck…’ Bastard. Fucking fat bastard. Fucking—

  ‘Better learn to show some respect, McRae, or I’ll—’

  Logan slammed his elbow into the bridge of Reuben’s nose. The car lurched forward and stalled as blood poured down Reuben’s face.

  Oh…fuck.

  Reuben was going to kill him. He was going to drag him out into the middle of nowhere and fucking kill him.

  DO SOMETHING!

  The big man’s hands came up, but Logan hit him again. Another elbow in the face, splitting his lip. Again. And again. Fast. Furious. Vicious. Not giving the fat bastard time to recover or fight back. Hammering into Reuben’s skull as he tried to cover his bleeding face with his hands. The big man didn’t cry out, didn’t whimper; the dull thunk, thunk, thunk of bone on broken skin and Logan’s grunts the only sound.

  A car horn blared from somewhere behind them.

  Logan slumped back in his seat. Teeth gritted. Elbow aching as Reuben curled forwards, shuddering, dripping bright-red on the leather upholstery, his breath a harsh bubbling wheeze.

  ‘I’m a police officer.’ Logan wrenched his seatbelt free. ‘You EVER touch me again, I’ll fucking kill you!’

  He hauled the door open and staggered out.

  That car horn sounded again, the driver mouthing obscenities through the windscreen. Logan stuck two fingers up at him, stuffed the envelope in his back pocket, and marched away up George Street in his socks.

  Fucking Reuben.

  He ran a hand across his eyes. His fingers were trembling, heart pounding, feeling sick as the adrenaline rush slowly faded, leaving nothing but the booze behind.

  Now what was he supposed to do? No way Reuben would ever let this go. Hitting him once had been bad enough, but panicking and doing it again and again?

  God, his elbow was really sore…

  The first drop of rain slapped against the back of
Logan’s neck, getting heavier as he hobbled along the cold pavement. Brilliant. As if the day needed to get any worse. By the time he was passing the university playing fields, it was chucking it down, a freezing deluge that soaked right through his shirt, socks and trousers.

  The Bobbin was just up ahead, lights blazing from its windows, a little knot of smokers huddling in the lee of the porch over the front door. Banished to lung cancer and pleurisy. Logan hobbled inside.

  The pub was getting busy – students from the university clustered around low tables, vintage Meatloaf pounding out of the jukebox.

  Logan squelched his way to the bar, then closed his eyes and swore. No wallet. Reuben wouldn’t let him go back for his coat.

  And Logan hadn’t said a bloody word about it, had he? No, he just got in the car like a good little boy, because Reuben was a big, fat, scary bastard…

  Oh, he was so screwed.

  He rummaged through his trouser pockets, coming up with a couple of pound coins and some smush. Just enough for a pint of Stella. A young woman with a pierced eyebrow and a ring through her nose stopped reading the job section of the Press and Journal for long enough to serve him. ‘Anythin’ else?’

  He took a deep gulp, the cold lager making one of his teeth ache. ‘Got a payphone?’

  She frowned. ‘You OK? Your arm’s all, like, bleeding and stuff.’

  He looked down – the dark-red stain started at his right elbow, fading to pink at the cuff. Reuben’s blood. Shirt was probably ruined now. ‘Phone?’

  She pointed towards the back of the bar. ‘Out of order. Some “funny bastard”,’ she made finger-quotes, ‘superglued the receiver into the cradle last night…Look, you need an ambulance or something?’

  ‘No.’

  That must have come out sharper than he’d intended, because she flinched back.

  He closed his eyes and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. ‘Sorry been a crappy day. Any chance of a taxi?’

  She sucked her cheeks in for a moment, then nodded. ‘Give us a second.’

  She went off to serve a big woman with a bad perm and a Six-Nations rugby top, then made a call on the cordless phone behind the bar. By the time she returned, Logan was halfway down his pint.

  ‘Fifteen minutes, OK?’

  ‘Thanks.’ He took his drink and squelched over to the only free booth in the place, collapsing onto the faux-leather bench. Shifting about, trying to get comfortable. There was something lumpy in his back pocket…Logan pulled out the envelope Reuben had given him.

  He peeled back the flap and peered inside. Money. A lot of money. ‘Sodding hell…’ It was full of fifties, twenties, tens, and fives.

  A quick look around to make sure no one was watching, then he counted out the notes onto the seat beside him, keeping his body between the cash and the rest of the bar. Three grand in fifties, five hundred in twenties, two in tens, and a dozen fivers. Three thousand, seven hundred and sixty quid in used, non-sequentially numbered bills.

  Just when he thought the day couldn’t get any worse…

  13

  Logan mashed his thumb against the flat’s doorbell again then turned and waved at the taxi sitting at the kerb. Engine running. Driver staring back at him. Safe and dry out of the rain.

  ‘Come on, Samantha…’

  Finally the building’s door swung open. She stood on the threshold, frowning at him, eyebrows shooting upwards. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘I need some cash for the cab.’

  She sighed. ‘Hold on.’ Samantha limped back upstairs, returning two minutes later with a dog-eared twenty. ‘This do?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Logan paid the driver then squelched after her up to the flat, leaving wet-sock footprints on the steps. ‘Christ, what a day…’

  ‘You’re wringing.’

  He peeled off his soggy shirt and chucked it in the kitchen sink, then did the same with his trousers and socks till he was standing there in nothing but his pale, goose-pimpled skin and damp, grey underpants.

  She handed him a stale-smelling towel from the washing basket and he scrubbed at his hair on the way to the fridge-freezer. The Wyborowa nestled between the frozen sweetcorn and the fish fingers – Logan pulled the bottle of vodka out and clunked it down on the working surface, followed by two shot glasses covered in frost. ‘Want one?’

  ‘Sure you wouldn’t rather have a cup of tea or something? You look frozen.’

  He filled one of the chilled glasses to the brim, then threw it back. His hand only shook a little.

  ‘Are you OK? I came home and the flat door was lying wide to the wall.’

  ‘Been better.’ He made another vodka disappear. Every time he bent his arm, pain radiated out from his battered elbow, a livid purple stain already spreading across the pale skin. He made another trip to the freezer for the bag of sweetcorn, holding it against the swollen joint.

  ‘Where’s your shoes and jacket? You trying to catch your death?’

  Logan dropped the towel around his shoulders, feeling the Wyborowa work its numbing magic. ‘I made pasta bake.’

  Samantha pointed at the casserole dish sitting on a trivet next to the microwave. His culinary efforts were all shrivelled and brown. Blackened in places. She hadn’t even tried it.

  And he couldn’t blame her. It looked bloody awful.

  ‘Was a nice thought, though.’ She peered into the sink, then pulled out his shirt, staring at the bloodstained sleeve. Then at him. ‘What happened to your arm?’

  Logan shrugged. ‘You wouldn’t believe what that cow Steel said to me today: apparently my attitude’s crap and everyone hates me. Oh, and I drink too much.’ He polished off another shot of Polish vodka. ‘Can you believe that? She thinks I drink too much.’

  Samantha didn’t say anything.

  Logan groaned, slumped in his seat. ‘God, not you as well!’

  ‘Well, maybe—’

  ‘Oh come on! So I have a wee drink every now and then.’

  ‘It’s not now and then, it’s every night.’

  ‘I give up.’ He poured himself another drink.

  She stuck her hands on her hips. ‘You asked.’

  ‘And it’s not every night.’

  ‘Really? When was the last time you went to bed sober?’

  ‘Look, it’s not like I’m an alki, OK?’

  Samantha’s chin came up. ‘Prove it.’

  ‘I don’t have to prove—’

  ‘Go a week without getting hammered every night.’

  ‘Just…’ He closed his eyes. Counted to three. ‘Can we not do this, please? I’ve had a really, really crappy day.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve had a bad day? Well you know what, mine was just fucking great. I got to spend eight hours scraping a thirteen-year-old girl’s internal organs off the underside of an articulated lorry.’

  Silence.

  Logan put the top back on the vodka bottle. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She settled back against the sink. ‘Go a week.’

  A week. No problem. Could do that easy. ‘OK.’

  He waited until she disappeared off to the bathroom to do her teeth, then opened the bottle again.

  Logan surfaced with a gasp, the duvet wrapped around his chest like a fist. Jesus…

  He struggled free and sat on the edge of the bed, shivering in the light of the clock radio. 04:21. Another happy night full of sand and severed heads. Only this time it had been Samantha buried out in the dunes.

  He turned and looked at her side of the bed. Empty again.

  Brilliant.

  Logan dragged himself through to the bathroom for a sulphurous pee. He stood there for a minute, trying to decide if he wanted to be sick or not. Mouth dry. Still a bit drunk…

  He coughed, retched a little, then bent over and howched a purple and black splatter into the sink. Red wine and saliva, looking like a tumour on the white porcelain. Logan washed it away with the cold tap, before splashing some
water on his face. His cheek had taken on an angry purple-and-yellow tinge where Reuben had hit him – top lip swollen, split and stinging. Could barely bend his right arm.

  Why did everything always have to be so screwed up?

  He knocked back a couple of paracetamol, then dumped the empty blister pack in the little stainless steel bin with all the blood-soaked toilet paper.

  He killed the bathroom light, hobbled back down the hall, eased the lounge door open and peered inside. Samantha was on the couch, stripy-socked feet sticking out from beneath the spare duvet.

  Logan shut the door as quietly as he could then slouched through to the kitchen for a pint or two of water, trying to sabotage the coming hangover.

  The sink was still full of his clothes, so he dragged everything out and stuffed them in the washing machine. Then remembered the envelope full of cash in the trouser pocket.

  It was all damp and wrinkly, but the contents seemed to have survived OK. All three thousand, seven hundred and sixty pounds of it.

  Could have used it to pay for the taxi, instead of standing out in the rain like an idiot waiting for Samantha. Should’ve used it. Stupid not to. What did it really matter anyway? Just because it came from Wee Hamish Mowat.

  Six months now he’d been doing…favours for Aberdeen’s biggest crime lord. Nothing illegal – he wasn’t getting people off with murder, tampering with evidence, or tipping Wee Hamish off when there was a raid on the way – just acting on information. Arresting rival drug dealers, shutting down someone else’s brothel, a dog fighting ring in Ellon. Taking other players’ pawns off the chess board. Pawns who needed locking up anyway.

  And not once had Wee Hamish felt the need to hand over envelopes stuffed with cash. To buy him.

  £3,760.

  ‘Fuck…’ Logan let his head thunk against the kitchen cabinet.

  Eighteen months ago he’d been the golden boy of Grampian Police and now look at him: everyone down the station thought he was a foul-tempered, alcoholic tosser; he’d just battered a mob enforcer half to death in the middle of King Street; and Aberdeen’s biggest crime lord thought he should be on the payroll. Woo hoo. Way to go. Fan-fucking-tastic.

  A new personal low.

  Logan stacked all the notes together into one pile, wrapped it up in kitchen paper, then crept out into the hallway and hid the lot in the airing cupboard, behind the hot water tank.