Dark Blood

by Stuart MacBride

  If anything, it was even colder than it had been yesterday, their breath trailing behind them as Logan led the way through the minotaur’s maze of metal shelving. ‘Over here.’

  Dildo took his glasses off, wiped them dry on a cloth, and put them back on again. ‘Where?’

  Logan waved a hand, indicating the eight shelves packed with the stuff they’d taken out of Polmont’s flat.

  ‘Oh buggering hell! All of it?’

  ‘Yup.’

  Dildo hauled a box out and thumped it down on the scuffed floorboards. ‘Got to be twenty below in here, and this’ll take sodding ages.’

  ‘You get cracking and I’ll go see what I can do.’

  By the time Logan returned, trundling a battered oil-filled radiator in front of him, the man from Trading Standards was surrounded by iPhones. He held one up to the light and sniffed. ‘Definitely fake.’

  Logan peered at it. ‘Looks OK to me.’ He uncoiled an extension lead and plugged the radiator in. ‘Should help a bit.’

  ‘Watch.’ Dildo pressed something and the screen came to life, revealing a display that looked nothing like it did on the TV adverts. ‘They make them by the bucket-load in China, ship them over hidden in containers. You know how much this costs to make? Peanuts…Well, prawn crackers anyway.’ He pointed at the radiator. ‘That thing working yet?’

  ‘Give it a minute.’

  Logan picked up one of the iPhone boxes. It had all the documentation and everything. ‘So they’re crap then?’

  ‘Depends on your definition of crap. You can make phone calls, and you can run a couple of applications, play MP3s, but that’s about it.’

  He stuffed it back in the box. ‘Hair straighteners are fake too. And the portable DVD players.’ Dildo grabbed a cardboard box marked up with the Grant’s Vodka logo, clinked it down on the floor, and hauled the flaps open. Then took out a clear glass bottle and handed it over. ‘What do you see?’

  Logan shrugged. The bottle was cold, deep-chilled in the fridge-like warehouse. ‘Vodka?’

  ‘Try again.’

  Logan turned it over. ‘Cheap vodka?’

  ‘God, it’s like teaching a monkey to yodel…’ Dildo prodded the red-and-silver label. ‘Now do you see anything?’

  ‘You, being a dick?’

  ‘Read the sodding label!’

  Logan did. According to the bottle it was Grant’s Vodka, seventy centilitres, thirty-seven-and-a-half-percent. Produced and bottled in Great Britain, Glen Catrine Distilers, Catrine, Ayrshire, Scotland. ‘So?’

  ‘How do you normally spell “Distillers”?’

  ‘D-I-S-T-I-L-L…Oh.’ Logan stared at the label again.

  Dildo grinned. ‘Do you think a genuine distillery might actually be able to spell the word “Distillers”?’

  ‘It’s counterfeit.’

  Dildo took the bottle back. ‘There’s two or three bottling plants for this stuff somewhere down the south of England. Trading Standards have been after them for years – shut one down and two months later another one springs up.’ He stuck the bottle back in the box.

  ‘Who the hell makes fake Grant’s Vodka? It sells for, what: eight quid a bottle? If you’re going to counterfeit something, counterfeit the expensive stuff.’

  ‘Mate, I’ve seen faked Tetley tea bags, Surf washing powder, Heinz baked beans.’ Dildo held his hands against the radiator’s peeling paint. ‘Boots were selling fake Colgate in 2008. Toothpaste. Someone managed to slip it into the wholesalers and they didn’t notice for nearly a fortnight. I mean, nobody got hurt, it was still toothpaste, but it sure as hell wasn’t Colgate. Trust me: if you can sell it for a profit, someone, somewhere, is counterfeiting it.’

  Logan stood there for a minute, staring at the boxes and boxes from Polmont’s flat. Then down at the pile of hair straighteners, still in their original – fake – packaging. They were the kind that made a good Valentine’s Day present for a loved one, if you wanted to let them know you weren’t a tight-arsed skinflint…

  ‘Dildo?’

  ‘I don’t think this thing’s working.’ He slapped the radiator.

  ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’

  Logan lowered the two mugs carefully down on top of a case of not-Grant’s Vodka. Then pulled out the evidence bags he’d wedged under his arms.

  Dildo pulled a face. ‘What, did you fly to India and pick the tea leaves yourself? I’m freezing here.’

  ‘Don’t moan. Couldn’t find the milk.’ Which was a lie. What he’d had difficulty locating were the items confiscated from Angus Black when he’d been picked up. The IB had signed them back into evidence after checking for fingerprints and PC Sniffles had promptly filed them in the wrong place.

  Logan stuck the evidence bag on one of the shelves. ‘Did you get anything out of our friend the used car salesman, by the way?’

  Blank look. ‘Remind me?’

  ‘Kevin Middleton, got a dealership out by Kirkton of Skene?’

  ‘Oh, yeah: Sicknote paid him a visit yesterday. Impounded one cut-and-shunt, a pair of “unsafe for road use”, and three clocked four-by-fours. Result.’

  ‘Speaking of results…’ Logan held up the evidence bag with the hair straighteners in it. ‘These look fake to you too?’

  Dildo groaned. ‘Have I not got enough to do with all this stuff?’

  ‘Humour me.’

  ‘Tea.’ He helped himself to a mug, wrapping his gloved hands around it, shrouding his face in steam. Getting condensation in his goatee beard. ‘Open the box and check the grub screws on the handle. If they’re hexagonal heads, the thing’s real.’

  Logan did, getting Amido black fingerprint powder all over his hands. ‘Phillips screwdriver.’

  ‘Fake.’

  They went through the same process with the rest of Angus Black’s merchandise – Dildo drinking his tea and straddling the radiator, calling out instructions and occasionally asking to see something. Everything was counterfeit.

  ‘Perfect.’ Logan smiled and downed the rest of his lukewarm tea. ‘I’ve got to get back to the station, you be OK here?’

  ‘In the cold? On my own? You ungrateful sod.’

  ‘And you won’t need a lift back, will you? I mean, you’ll have to get the Shop Cop van down here to cart all this stuff away when you’re finished, right?’

  Dildo stared at him. ‘You’re a rotten bastard, McRae, I ever tell you that?’

  Logan scooped everything back into their respective evidence bags and hurried off. ‘Thanks, Dildo.’

  He weaved his way through the stacks of seized items with Dildo’s parting shot echoing around him.

  ‘A rotten bastard!’

  Logan barged through the door and clunked it shut behind him, finding himself in a little airlock festooned with posters for local bands he’d never heard of, the doormat soggy with melted snow. He stomped his feet, adding to the mush, then pushed through into the pub proper.

  The Tilted Wig was once the exclusive drinking hole of lawyers and their assistants from the Sheriff Court across the road, but ever since the High Court had taken over the old Clydesdale Bank building on the corner of Marischal Street and Union Street – next door – the clientele had become a little less exclusive. Now they let anyone in.

  Logan brushed the snow off his shoulders and scanned the faces. Just after twelve and one or two were making serious efforts to not see any more of the afternoon if they could possibly help it. Like Angus Black, sitting at a scuffed wooden table, basking in the glow of the one-armed bandit, a pint of heavy, and three empty shot glasses. He polished off a fourth and added it to the graveyard.

  ‘It didn’t go well then?’ Logan settled into the chair opposite.

  Angus looked up, closed his eyes, and swore. ‘Have you not done enough damage?’ He took a bite out of his pint, then went back to staring at the table.

  ‘Nope.’ Logan dumped the evidence bag with the iPod Nanos in front of him. ‘Recogniz
e these?’

  ‘Trial’s in six weeks. My brief says I’m looking at fourteen years. You believe that? For a little bit of H? Who’s it hurting?’ He went back to his pint. ‘Like living in Nazi Germany.’

  Logan poked the bag. ‘You said you got these from your Edinburgh friends: Gallagher and Yates. They tell you they were all fake?’

  Angus swore some more, then let his head sink to the table. ‘Fucking hell…I need a drink.’ He went up to the bar and came back with what looked like three double whiskies in the same glass. ‘I’d get you one, but this is all your sodding fault.’

  ‘They really screwed you, didn’t they? Fake iPods, counterfeit money – irony is, if they’d given you fake heroin as well, you wouldn’t be looking at a fourteen stretch. Well, not unless you tried to sell it.’

  ‘Ha-bloody-ha.’ He took a big swallow of whisky, shuddered, then followed it with a mouthful of beer. ‘And I didn’t get the cash from them, thank you very much.’

  Logan shifted in his seat. ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘That bastard who bought the car. Everyone’s always out to bloody screw you…’

  ‘The bloke who bought your car paid you in counterfeit cash?’ Logan picked up the bag of faux iPods, then put it down again, frowning. ‘Wasn’t a small place out by Westhill, was it? Middleton Family Motors?’

  Angus sent more whisky south. ‘None of your business.’

  ‘It was, wasn’t it?’ Logan grinned. ‘That’s brilliant!’

  ‘Were you always a complete—’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you? Middleton paid you in dodgy notes, and that’s what you bought your drugs with. How chuffed are this Gallagher and Yates going to be when they find out your money’s fake?’

  There was a pause, then the colour drained from Angus Black’s face. ‘Fuck.’ He stared at Logan, then banged his head off the table again. ‘Fucking…fuck.’

  ‘Want to have another think about turning them in, before they come looking for you?’

  30

  Logan stuffed Angus Black’s statement back in his pocket as PC Butler pulled up outside Middleton Family Motors. The used car lot was just as crowded as last time, even after Trading Standards had confiscated half a dozen illegal vehicles.

  Butler raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re not thinking of trading in that crappy car of yours for something here, are you, Sarge? Only this lot looks like a good sneeze and the wheels’ll fall off.’

  Logan climbed out. A layer of snow covered the bonnets, boots, and roofs, more thick white flecks drifting down from the gunmetal sky. It was cold enough to make his fingertips throb as he shuffled sideways between ‘BARGAIN OF THE MONTH!!!’ and ‘LOW MILEAGE SUPER-SAVER!!!’, heading towards the main entrance.

  The sound of a radio. A tractor grumbling in the distance, getting closer. A whurrrrrring noise somewhere on the forecourt, hidden amongst the vehicles.

  Logan paused. ‘Hello? I’d like to buy a car.’

  ‘With you in just a tick…’ The voice was coming from behind a brown Toyota with a dented wing.

  Logan inched his way through the cars, craning his neck to get a better look. A man in grubby blue overalls was squatting by the Toyota’s back wheel, a portable air pump connected to the saggy tyre.

  Logan pulled out his notebook and checked the details Angus had given him again. ‘Looking for a Volkswagen Golf, GTI, green if you’ve got it.’

  ‘You know, I think you’re in luck. I’ve…’ The man looked up and his voice trailed off. ‘Fuck.’ Middleton scrambled to his feet, eyes darting left and right, then he ran for it. Jinking between the jammed-in cars, making for the road.

  Logan hurried sideways after him, then jerked to a sudden halt as his jacket pocket caught on a wing mirror. There was a tearing noise.

  PC Butler was still over by the pool car, staring open mouthed.

  ‘Don’t just bloody stand there!’

  She charged forward, then skidded, arms pinwheeling. Her head disappeared from view and the word ‘Shite!’ echoed out across the little car lot.

  Logan yanked his pocket off of the wing mirror and struggled on.

  Middleton had made it to the road and a dull blue MX5 – just like DI Steel’s, only older and with a huge ‘ZOOM ZOOM 4 LESS!!!’ cardboard star wedged between the dashboard and the rearview mirror.

  He dug about in his trouser pocket, then clambered in behind the wheel. Threw the sales sign out into the street.

  Logan vaulted the bonnet of a Ford Mondeo, heels scraping through the inch-deep layer of snow. He slithered down the other side just in time to hear Middleton cranking over the Mazda’s engine.

  It spluttered a couple of times, then roared into life.

  Butler had her extendible baton out, limping towards the car.

  Logan crunched through a ridge of dirt-brown snow, reaching for the driver’s door, but the tyres screeched, and the MX5 lurched forwards.

  The back end shimmied from side to side, the little rear-wheel-drive sports car struggling for grip on the icy road.

  PC Butler froze, eyes wide, as the car fishtailed towards her. She dived onto the bonnet of a Volvo estate, lifting her legs high as the Mazda clipped the front bumper. Crunch. Chips of coloured plastic went flying.

  And then Middleton was past, accelerating around the corner, the back end kicking out again.

  Logan ran out into the road. Swore.

  Butler lay spread-eagled on the Volvo bonnet, breath turning the air above her white. ‘Jesus…’

  The sound of squealing brakes. Then, BANG.

  A horn, blaring.

  Logan hurried over to PC Butler and helped her to her feet. ‘You OK?’

  ‘God, that was close…’

  He lurched around the corner – Butler limping along behind him – and froze. The little sports car was wedged in at forty-five degrees between the grass verge and a drystane dyke; front end crumpled; the folding soft-top torn off, exposing its soft chewy centre. A huge tractor idled in the middle of the road, massive, mud-covered wheels sitting on the sports car’s missing roof.

  The farmer clambered down from the cab, and stood, swearing at the deep scrape along the side of his tractor.

  Middleton was slumped over the Mazda’s steering wheel. Dark-red seeped out onto the white deflated sack of his burst airbag.

  PC Butler looked up from the Airwave handset pinned to her shoulder. ‘Control says the ambulance should be here in five or ten.’

  Logan nodded and added milk to all three mugs of tea, then lumped four sugars into the one on the end. As was traditional.

  Kevin Middleton pulled the dripping towel off his face. ‘Told you, I don’t need an ambulance.’ The right side of his face was bright pink and swollen, and a tail of red-stained toilet paper stuck out of one nostril.

  Logan handed him the hot, sweet tea. ‘You want more snow in the towel?’

  ‘I just want to go home.’ He sipped. Grimaced. ‘How much sugar did you put in this?’

  ‘Tell me about Angus Black.’

  There was a pause. ‘Never heard of him.’ Middleton pressed the towel gently back against his face.

  ‘He’s the one who sold you the green Golf GTI sitting on your junkyard forecourt.’

  ‘So what? I buy lots of cars.’

  Logan pulled out Angus Black’s statement. ‘He says you gave him six and a half grand for the car, in cash?’

  ‘Might’ve done.’

  ‘It was counterfeit, wasn’t it?’

  Middleton huddled over his tea. ‘When’s that ambulance getting here?’

  ‘You went back to Douglas Walker’s house, didn’t you? You went back for more counterfeit money. What did you do, threaten him? Beat him up again?’

  ‘Think I might have that internal bleeding…’

  ‘Good.’ Butler scowled at him. ‘Nearly killed me with that bloody car.’

  ‘Wasn’t my fault: road was slippy.’ He took another sip of
tea. ‘And I didn’t have anything to do with any dodgy notes.’

  ‘Then why’d you run?’

  No answer.

  Logan stood. ‘Soon as you’ve been checked out by the hospital I’m doing you for reckless driving, resisting arrest, and attempted murder.’

  Tea went everywhere, in a sticky beige spray. ‘I didn’t—’

  ‘You drove straight at PC Butler. I saw you do it.’

  ‘It was slippy!’

  ‘You tried to run me over.’

  Middleton slumped forwards in his seat. Shoulders rising and falling beneath the grubby boilersuit. ‘OK, OK. So I went to see Walker a couple of times, gave the cheeky wee fuck a smack.’

  ‘How much did he give you?’

  Middleton shrugged. ‘Twenty grand. Said that was all he could take without anyone noticing.’

  ‘And where’s the rest of it?’

  The garage owner’s eyes darted to the safe in the corner, then away again. ‘Spent it.’

  Sigh. ‘Fine, I’ll get a warrant.’

  Middleton just stared at his shoes.

  ‘It’s for you.’ PC Butler unfastened the Airwave handset and passed it over, keeping her other hand on the steering wheel as they followed the ambulance through the snow towards A&E. At least the blue flashing lights meant they were making decent time.

  Logan turned the radio down, putting Whitney Houston out of everyone’s misery. ‘McRae.’

  Detective Inspector Beardy Beattie’s bunged up voice boomed through the little speaker. ‘When’s the meeting?’

  Logan looked at Butler, but she just shrugged.

  ‘Meeting?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to get you on your mobile all day, honestly it’s—’

  ‘What meeting?’

  ‘You said you’d set something up with Trading Standards and HMRC. We’re supposed to be cracking down on those counterfeit goods.’

  ‘When did—’

  ‘Saturday morning! You said you’d do it. You stood there and told me you would.’

  Logan watched the ambulance squeeze between a massive four-by-four and a bendy bus. ‘I’m kinda in the middle of something.’

  ‘I don’t believe this.’ The sound of someone scratching their beard crackled out of the handset. ‘No, you know what: I do. You don’t give a toss about doing what you’re told when it’s me, do you? If it’s Steel, or McPherson, oh then you’re all over it, but you think you can ignore me because we used to work together, don’t you?’