Harry looked at Mandy. ‘Is that…?’
‘Well…’ Mandy stood. ‘I mean, if it’s OK with Sergeant McRae?’
‘Erm, yeah. Why not. We’re going that way anyway.’
Danby didn’t say a word.
Logan hurried out into the sleet, opened the rear passenger door and snibbed on the child lock, before ushering Knox into the car. Then scurried round and climbed in the other side. Danby got behind the wheel.
Logan leant forward. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to drive, sir? I mean, I know the town, and the force insurance policy doesn’t—’
‘I’m perfectly capable of driving a car, Sergeant. And I do know how to work a sat-nav.’
Knox turned and smiled at Logan as Danby took them to the end of the road and out into the sparse Sunday morning traffic. ‘Graeme doesn’t want to sit next to us. Barely said a word on the plane on the way up, like.’ Knox reached across and tapped Danby on the shoulder. ‘That not right, Graeme?’
The superintendent ignored him.
Knox shrugged. ‘Don’t know what you’ve got to sulk about, I’m the one spent seven years in prison with a bunch of perverts – don’t see us complaining.’
Still nothing.
Knox hugged his carrier bag. ‘See, I don’t bear a grudge, cos I know it’s what I needed to make us a better person. Learned a lot in prison, like. About the nature of man; good and evil; the haves and have nots. That kind of stuff.’ He rested his forehead against the window. ‘Shared a cell for while with this bloke…let’s call him “Charley”. Charley turned his back on God when he was eight years old. Used to be a choir boy, know what I mean? Priest got a bit carried away with the whole sacrament thing – “eat this for it is my flesh”. Only he was talking about his knob.’
Danby threw the car round the corner onto Rosehill Drive. The sky was almost black, hurling sleet down on the grey city. Traffic on the other side of the street sent up little geysers of spray as they jolted from one pothole to the next.
‘Charley was doing a sixteen stretch. He liked to break into people’s houses at night and tie them up. Beat the shit out of the wife, then make her watch while he forced the husband to suck his dick. “Do it, or I’ll fuckin’ slit the bitch’s throat…” Thought it was only fair, like.’
Logan glanced back over his shoulder. The ancient council van was three cars back, struggling to keep up with Danby’s driving.
Beside him, the weaselly little man gave the carrier bag a squeeze. ‘Said it didn’t always go according to plan, though. One time the bloke won’t go down on him; man’s on his knees, hands tied behind his back, but he won’t do it. And Charley’s screaming at him, and the wife’s crying, and he cuts her. Not much, just enough to show the husband he’s not screwing around, like. And the bloke opens his mouth, and Charley sticks his cock in, and the guy tries to bite it off.’
Knox rocked back and forth in his seat, shaking with laughter. ‘He’s going at it like a bloody mad terrier, shaking his head, sinking his teeth right in…Brilliant. Charley got his cock out and showed us – like a half chewed sausage it was. Had to have about twenty stitches. Ah…’ He wiped a hand under his pointy noise. ‘So funny.’
Logan looked at him. ‘What happened to the husband and wife?’
Knox sniffed. ‘Killed them, didn’t he? Whole family – think he said they had a couple kids too. Course, Charley’s running round with blood pouring out his bitten cock, getting his DNA everywhere, like. Had to burn the house down in the end. Got away with it too.’
Silence.
‘All because that priest made him turn his back on God. Fascinating bloke, like, you wouldn’t believe how much Charley knew about picking locks, bypassing alarm systems, getting rid of evidence…’ Knox gave Logan a wink. ‘Course, might’ve made the whole thing up, you know? For all I know he got too frisky with someone’s Jack Russell and didn’t want anyone to think he was a pervert.’
Danby snapped on the radio, then poked at the buttons until something orchestral thumped out of the speakers. North Anderson Drive was usually quiet at this time on a Sunday morning, but one lane had been blocked off to allow orange traffic cones to breed. There was no sign of anyone actually working, but it was enough to force the traffic to crawl all the way from Middlefield Road to the Haudagain roundabout. The other side of the Don was barely visible through the sleet; the whole scene rendered in shades of grey, punctuated by angry red taillights.
‘Nothing like being at home, is it, Graeme?’ Knox wiped a hand across the window next to him, clearing a space in the fog. ‘Do you still see Billy Adams’s wife?’
Danby stared straight ahead, following the stream of flickering brake lights.
‘Think he ever found out? Think that’s why he topped himself?’
The superintendent’s voice was a dark rumble. ‘Leave it, Richard. Know what I’m saying?’
‘Just wondering. Trip to a graveyard makes you think about things like that, doesn’t it? Death. Life. Betrayal.’
‘I said, drop it!’
Knox shrugged, then went back to staring out of the window.
21
Logan stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets. ‘He’s going to catch his death.’
Danby shifted his weight, and grimaced. ‘What a shame that would be.’
They were standing in the lee of a small mausoleum, about thirty yards from where Knox was kneeling, head bent in prayer, in front of a weathered headstone, carrier bag clutched to his chest. A gust of wind brought in another flurry of sleet, shivering the skeletal trees dotted between the graves.
The Sacro team had positioned themselves a respectful distance from Knox and his devotions – trying to control a writhing umbrella that looked determined to make a break for freedom.
Logan watched Danby rubbing his leg again. ‘You OK?’
‘When it’s really cold the metalwork in my leg contracts. Nips a bit.’
Grove Cemetery perched on a steep slope overlooking the River Dee, a huge Tesco supermarket, the Grampian Country Chickens factory, and a sewage treatment plant. Today Logan could barely see the lights twinkling on the other side of the river – the view swallowed up by the low clouds and driving sleet.
A train grumbled past on the line at the top of the graveyard, windows full of miserable faces on their way north.
Logan craned his neck looking through the trees at the bottom of the hill, towards the wee park where Samantha still kept her Portakabin-style static caravan. Not that she spent much time there any more.
Danby turned his head and spat, the wind whipping it away before it could spatter someone’s headstone. ‘Soon as we’re back at the station, call Frankland Prison: I want the name of everyone Knox shared a cell with. We’re looking for someone done for housebreaking and rape. Then crosscheck for unsolved murders where a house was burnt to destroy the evidence – two or more victims. The bastard might’ve got away with it up till now, but that’s about to change, know what I’m saying?’
Logan nodded. ‘Was already on my to-do list.’
‘Good.’
Knox still hadn’t moved.
Danby hunched his shoulders, pulling his upturned collar closer to his ears. ‘Should’ve brought a bloody hat.’ The top of his bald head was getting pinker and pinker in the driving sleet. ‘Or stayed in the car.’
The DSI turned and glowered downhill at the car park, where the scabby maroon council Transit van sat between the CID pool car and a massive black Range Rover. The surveillance team would be sitting with the engine running, heaters on full, sharing a tartan thermos of hot coffee.
Bastards.
Logan cleared his throat. ‘Why’s Knox so obsessed with DI Billy Adams?’
Danby kept his eyes on the ex-council van. ‘DI?’
‘I did some digging.’
Sniff. The superintendent sent another gobbet of spit flying. ‘Did you now.’
The only sound was the
wind, slamming into the exposed cemetery, the creak of the bare trees, the distant rumble of traffic on Auchmill Road.
Ah well, it’d been worth a go.
Danby sighed. ‘Billy was a friend, known him since we were both in uniform. Never really wanted promotion, said he liked it at the sharp end. Spent three months infiltrating Michael “Mental Mikey” Maitland’s operation.’ The big man gave a small, unhappy laugh. ‘Far as Mikey’s crew were concerned, Billy was a cop on the take: ready to do favours for a reasonable price. But he was really following the money.’
‘So why’s Knox being such a—’
‘Organized crime. Clue’s in the name, know what I’m saying? They don’t make millions out of drug running and hide it under the mattress anymore: they’ve got lawyers, accountants, trust funds, offshore holding companies.’
Logan frowned. ‘But what’s that—’
‘If you’ll bloody shut up for a minute, you’ll find out.’
Silence.
‘We only started looking into Knox for the Brucklay rape and abduction because Billy tipped us off. There were rumours Mikey’s principal accountant had “unusual tastes”.’
Logan opened his mouth. Shut it again. Then turned to stare at the weaselly little man kneeling in front of the gravestone. ‘Knox worked for the mob?’
‘Graduated with a BA in accounting and finance from Northumbria University. He was their main money man. That’s why he got away with raping old men for so long; a visit from Mental Mikey’s boys tends to encourage amnesia in victims and witnesses.’
‘But…no self-respecting criminal’s going to put up with that, they’d carve “nonce” in his forehead and string him up by the goolies.’
Danby laughed, a deep rumbly sound that boomed out over the graveyard. Knox didn’t even look up.
‘Sergeant, think about it. That weedy strip of piss over there is the only person Mikey knows won’t roll over on him if something goes wrong. Knox’ll always keep his trap shut about his employer’s operation, because if he breathes a word, Mikey can tie him to at least half a dozen rapes. And prison’s a dangerous place when your ex-employer’s a vicious bastard with connections.’
Over by the grave, the man in question reached out a hand and caressed his granny’s headstone.
Logan finally got it. ‘And let me guess: there’s no way the CPS is going to turn a blind eye to Knox abducting and violently raping someone’s grandad, not even to get info on a mob operation. So he can’t cut a deal.’
‘Exactly. Long as Knox doesn’t go mad, keeps the rapes down to a couple a year, it’s manageable, know what I’m saying? Look at premier league football, never did them any harm, did it?’ Danby rubbed at his calf. ‘When we arrested Knox for the William Brucklay rape, Mikey got him the best lawyer; made sure Knox’s mum went to a good care home. And Knox kept his mouth shut. Seven years he was inside, never said a single word about Mental Mikey’s empire.’
Danby shivered as another gust of sleet battered across the graveyard. ‘Think I’ll wait in the car.’
Logan glanced over at Knox – still praying. ‘That’s why you’re up here, isn’t it? You think he’ll talk to you.’
‘That nasty piece of shite knows everything there is to know about Mental Mikey’s operation. Crack him and you could tear the whole thing apart, know what I’m saying?’
The DSI turned his back and limped towards the exit.
Logan shouted after him, ‘So…why does he keep winding you up about Billy Adams, then?’
Danby didn’t even turn around.
‘Because he’s a sex offender. Manipulating people is what they do.’
Logan picked his way between the graves, lurching as the wind strafed the cemetery with slivers of ice, joining the team from Sacro.
Mandy had her whole body hunched up, stamping her feet, huddling under the bucking umbrella her partner was holding. ‘We’re not going to have to do this every Sunday, are we? I can’t feel my toes any more.’
Harry wiped a sleeve across the underside of his nose. ‘Could be worse. At least we’re out of that mould-ridden filthy—Fuck!’
The umbrella whipped inside out: a satellite dish on a stick. Harry tried to force it back into shape while the wind hammered them.
Mandy grabbed Logan’s sleeve and nodded at a life-sized statue of an angel, perched atop a big square plinth on the other side of the path.
‘Erm…I…’
‘It’s OK, Sergeant, I’m not going to molest you.’ She led him over into the relative shelter of the angel’s wings. ‘Wanted to have a word with you about our boy over there.’ Mandy nodded in the direction of the praying Knox.
‘Still creeping you out?’
She shuffled round, using Logan as an additional windbreak. ‘I think he’s in touch with someone, passing messages. Got no proof though, and I can’t exactly spin his pad, can I?’
Logan must have looked as confused as he felt, because she sighed and said, ‘Spin his pad: search his cell?’
‘Mobile phone?’
She chewed at the inside of her cheek. ‘Probably. I’m guessing he’d want to keep it close, so…maybe that plastic bag he takes everywhere like a sodding security blanket?’
‘Trouble is, we can’t really do anything about it, even if he has. There’s nothing about owning a mobile phone in his prevention order.’
‘No, but his SOPO says he can’t make contact with other people on the Sex Offenders’ Register. And if he’s got a mobile, we can’t tell if he is or not.’
They watched Knox pray for a moment.
Mandy nodded. ‘Be a shame if he violated his order and had to be banged up again for a couple of years, wouldn’t it?’
‘Terrible shame.’
‘Could be planning anything…’
The smile slipped from Logan’s face. Given Danby’s story about Mental Mikey Maitland that wasn’t exactly good news. ‘Excuse me a minute.’ He marched over to where Knox was kneeling.
The silly sod had to be frozen – sleet crusted across his shoulders and back, hair dripping wet, one hand clutching that carrier bag to his chest, the other on the lichen-speckled gravestone. ‘HERE LIE THE MORTAL REMAINS OF JOSEPH ALBERT MURRAY, BELOVED HUSBAND AND DEVOTED GRANDFATHER. ALSO EUPHEMIA ABERCROMBIE-MURRAY, DUTIFUL WIFE.’
‘Richard, I’m going to need to see what’s in the bag.’
Knox looked up, nose dripping, lips a pale shade of purple, eyes rimmed with red. ‘It’s private.’
‘I have to make sure you’re not violating your prevention order.’
He closed his eyes, worrying the plastic bag round and round. ‘Don’t want it to get wet.’
Logan stuck out his hand. ‘Now, Richard.’
Knox bit his lip. Clutched the bag tighter. ‘Promise you’ll be careful?’
‘Just give me the bloody bag.’
The little man did what he was told.
Logan pulled the handles apart and peered into the grubby, creased plastic. It was a book – a tatty bible, the blue fabric jacket scuffed and fraying.
‘Was Granny Murray’s: left it me in her will. Thought she was taking the piss at the time.’ Knox smiled, a lopsided thing made of sharp, squint teeth. ‘Had a lot of opportunity to read it in me cell though, know what I mean?’
Logan reached into the bag and opened the book, flicking through the pages. Some were held in with ancient amber Sellotape, others were smudged, passages highlighted in fading yellow, underlined in biro, tiny notes scribbled in the margins.
He closed the bible again. Stupid idea – why would Knox carry an illicit phone about with him? But it was too late to back down now. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to empty your pockets.’
‘At me granny’s graveside?’ The little man hung his head, then stood and held his arms out. ‘Go on then.’
Logan kept it quick: a once through Knox’s pockets then a pat down of arms, legs and torso. He passed the carrier bag b
ack. ‘Sorry. Thought you had a phone…’
Knox shrugged, clutching his plastic-wrapped bible to his chest again. ‘Just doing your job, like.’
‘Right, well…Let us know when you’re ready to head home.’
The cold feels good, you know? Like being a kid again, on his holidays, sitting on the living room floor, listening to Granny Murray telling stories about the old days. Grandad Joe asleep in the other chair, a copy of the Press and Journal draped across his chest, snoring quietly to himself. Mouth a gaping cavern of pink.
They took all his teeth away when he was doing his national service in Cyprus, like. Went out with a full head of hair and all his own teeth, came back a slaphead with a set of falsies. He takes them out after dinner and leaves them on the table by the ashtray. Smokes rollies that smell of herbs and spices.
His mam’s gone out for the evening, same as she does nearly every night since Richard’s da ran out on them. Trading wife and kid for some girl works down the chipper in North Shields. Can’t trust Geordie harlots – that’s what Granny Murray says – God turn His face against their sinful hearts. Then she spits in the fire, that little spatter of yellowy-white hissing against the glowing electric bars. Never up high enough to warm the room, like: just enough to let Grandad Joe sleep with that cavernous mouth of his hanging open.
Pink and glistening.
Richard sneaks a glance at his keepers – the man and woman from Sacro, huddled together under a broken brolly, the nosey sergeant shivering beside a big carved angel.
It’s a much fancier memorial than the simple granite slab Granny Murray picked out for her and Grandad Joe; she never was one for flash. The only decoration’s a bunch of porcelain roses, sealed away in a glass dome. Only the glass has cracked and the whole thing’s full of dirty water, the faded pink blossoms tainted with grey mould and trapped dirt.
Appropriate really.
He reaches around the back of the fake floral tribute, fingers drifting carefully through the matted yellow grass – don’t want to find some junkie’s needle the hard way, know what I mean? And then he finds it. A little rectangular box, about half the size of a toothpaste tube, hidden away in a little plastic bag.
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