Dark Blood

by Stuart MacBride

  Logan clamped his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘How do I turn the volume down?’

  Butler waved a finger at the Airwave handset. ‘Button on the left.’

  He pressed it until Beattie’s rant wasn’t hammering out of the speaker loud enough for everyone to hear.

  ‘…long enough. I’ve been patient with you, because of…you know…but that’s it. I’m making a formal complaint to the head of CID.’

  ‘Gordon, have you seen the news today? The Examiner outed Knox, what am I supposed to do?’

  There was a pause. Then, ‘It’s not “Gordon” any more. It’s “Sir”, “Guv”, “Guv’nor”, “Inspector”, or “Boss”. Meeting, today, Sergeant.’

  And then the bearded tosser hung up.

  Logan turned up the radio again – getting the tail end of a news report about the protests outside Richard Knox’s house.

  ‘…made a number of arrests, say the Newcastle-born rapist will be moved to a secure, undisclosed, location. Do you have an opinion about the demonstration? Maybe you were there? Then why not give us a call on 01224…’ Logan switched it off again.

  Bloody Beattie. How was he supposed to get a meeting organized at that short notice? It was…He frowned – Butler was staring at him.

  ‘Eyes on the road, Constable.’

  She fluttered her eyelashes a couple of times. ‘Trouble, Sarge?’

  ‘Do you think?’ He punched a mobile phone number into the Airwave handset. ‘Dildo? It’s Logan. I need another favour…’

  Julie sits back in her seat and says, ‘Fuck.’

  The TV’s on, but the sound’s turned off – the BBC News Channel playing them crowd scenes outside Knox’s house again.

  Tony wanders over to the window of the room they’ve rented in the same hotel as that tit Danby. Place is nice enough, if you like tartan. He hauls up the net curtains, letting in the view: skeletal trees scratching at the grey sky, some sort of park sunken way below street level, a railway line, a dual carriageway, a bunch of granite buildings…Grey, grey, grey. Like no bugger ever invented colour.

  Snowing again too.

  ‘Well?’ Neil’s lying on the double bed, feet dangling over the edge so Julie doesn’t shout at him for putting his shoes on the covers. ‘What’s the plan now, then?’

  Tony sniffs. ‘Need to find out where they’re moving him to.’

  Julie doesn’t even look up. ‘Sweetheart, where would we be without your lightning-sharp intelligence?’

  ‘Only saying.’

  And it’s razor sharp, not lightning. But Tony’s lightning-sharp enough to keep his mouth shut.

  Neil yawns. ‘We still going after Danby the night?’

  ‘I’d love to, Babe, but Danby’s useless without Knox.’ She frowns at the TV. ‘Supposed to pick them both up at the same time, can’t do that if we don’t know where Knox is.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll phone, like?’

  Tony settles back on the windowsill. ‘Might not get the chance. They’ll be keeping him under the thumb till things calm down.’

  ‘Doesn’t stop us grabbing Danby, does it?’

  Julie sighs. ‘If we grab Danby first they’ll know something’s up. Knox’ll be locked up tighter than a Scotsman’s wallet.’

  A vacuum cleaner rumbles down the corridor outside, someone whistling along to a pop tune Tony almost recognizes as it goes by. On the TV the local plod bundle a quilt-covered figure into the back of a police van.

  Julie pulls on a scuffed tan cowboy boot, the drug dealer’s blood all washed away. ‘OK, new plan: if we don’t hear from Knox, we just have to stick with Danby. Sooner or later he’s going to lead us right to him. Bish, bash, and indeed: bosh.’

  Tony sticks up his hand. ‘Bags not first to trail Danby.’

  Julie: ‘Second.’

  Too slow off the mark, all Neil can do is lie there looking out at the snow. ‘Ah…fuck.’

  31

  Logan waved a thank you to the patrol car and struggled through the snow, up the slippery steps, across the front podium – brown with sand and salt – and in through the front doors of FHQ.

  Big Gary was sitting behind the reception desk, his head propped up with one hand, a battered paperback lying on the desk in front of him.

  ‘Any messages?’

  The big man reached beneath the desk and thumped a pile of Post-its on the counter. Never even took his eyes off the page.

  ‘Anything important?’

  ‘I’m reading.’

  Logan flipped through the stack of yellow stickies. ‘Rennie, Rennie, Beattie, Rennie, Beattie…’ These went in the ‘when hell freezes over’ pile – there was no way Logan was talking to DI Beardy Beattie until Dildo called back. And he’d still not forgiven Rennie for grabbing Samantha’s bum.

  Then there were a couple of burglary victims looking for an update; someone wanting to know why no one had found his missing Mercedes yet; a woman from the Independent wanting an interview about Knox, another complaint from Douglas Walker’s idiot lawyer, and right at the bottom, one from DI Steel.

  A summons to her office.

  He stuck the Post-its back on the desk. ‘Any idea what Steel’s after?’

  Big Gary sighed, his jowls inflating and deflating like a pair of ruptured space hoppers. He marked his page with a Curly Wurly wrapper, then slammed the book shut. ‘Why can’t you buggers leave me alone for five minutes?’

  Logan stared at him. ‘Sorry for interrupting your reading time, Gary. My apologies, mate, I thought you were manning the sodding desk.’

  The sergeant narrowed his eyes. ‘Meant to be on my break, but that useless tit Jordan’s still in the bog.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Where’s that PC I sent you off with?’

  ‘Butler? Left her up at A&E watching a used-car dealer.’

  ‘For how long?’

  Shrug. ‘Till the doctors give us the all clear to bang him up.’

  ‘Oh for…’ Big Gary pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘How am I supposed to manage resources if you buggers in CID treat Uniform as your own personal property?’

  ‘You really are in a foul sodding mood today, aren’t you? Not my fault Jordan’s got the squits.’

  The desk sergeant scowled, then made a big show of opening his book again. ‘And you better get back to that wee shite Barrett.’ Big Gary’s voice jumped an octave and went all nasal, ‘of McGilvery, Barrett, and McGilvery.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Says it’s a disgrace his poor wee client’s been kept in over the weekend waiting for his shot in front of the Sheriff.’

  ‘Then his client shouldn’t be circulating forged twenties, should he?’ Logan rearranged all the Post-its back into a single stack. ‘When’s he up?’

  Big Gary checked the charge book. ‘Court One at two fifty.’

  Logan checked his watch. ‘Just enough time to have another crack at him.’

  Douglas Walker slumped over the interview room table, the fingers of one hand wrapping themselves through his unwashed, greasy hair. Twisting it into little curls, then letting them go again. The fibreglass cast on the other arm lay flat against the chipped Formica. He smelled of stale sweat, overlaid with something sour.

  Logan glanced up at the camera bolted to the wall, watching the little red light winking. ‘Come on, Douglas: you’re up in front of Sheriff McNab in twenty minutes. Sure you don’t want me to put in a good word for you?’

  ‘Lawyer.’

  It was the only thing he’d say: ‘Lawyer.’

  State your name for the tape. ‘Lawyer.’

  Do you know why you’re here? ‘Lawyer.’

  Would you like a cup of tea? ‘Lawyer.’

  ‘Let me paint a little picture for you, Douglas. What’s going to happen is that your idiot lawyer, Captain Baldy the Estate Agent, is going to stand up at ten to three and waffle for a bit about criminal law – which he knows sod all about – and then Sheriff McNab – who’s an utter bastard – will ask how
you plead.’

  Douglas Walker just kept on playing with his hair.

  ‘Your lawyer will make you plead “not guilty”, even though we all know you are, and then McNab’ll set bail.’ Logan smiled. ‘And that’s where it gets interesting. If you can’t make bail, you end up in Craiginches for six or seven weeks, till the trial date. If you can, you’re out on the street for tea time; then the press harassment starts. They camp outside your house, take photos, talk to neighbours—’

  Douglas’s head snapped up.

  ‘Think how proud your mum and dad are going to be when they get back from holiday!’

  The young man fidgeted with the rim of his cast, tugging little bobbles out of the tube-bandage lining. ‘They…They can’t put my name in the papers. I’ll sue!’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Defamation of character! Slander. Libel, whichever one it is. They can’t—’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Douglas. All they’ll say is you’ve been charged with passing a large sum of counterfeit currency. Can’t be libel when it’s the truth.’

  ‘No…’ It came out low and quiet. ‘They can’t put my name in the papers. They can’t!’ He raked his fingers through his oily hair. Harder and harder. ‘They can’t…’

  Logan sat back. ‘Dear God, a member of Generation-Y who doesn’t want his name in the papers. Don’t you crave your fifteen minutes of fame, Douglas? Your chance to shine for all the other brain-dead X Factor Celebrity Come Dancing on Ice MasterChef junkies?’

  Douglas curled up, until his forehead thunked against the table. ‘They can’t…’ Voice small and trembling.

  ‘You know what?’ Logan scooted his chair forward. ‘You’re right to be scared, because your friend Kevin Middleton – the nice man who sold you that second-hand Honda Civic? We arrested him this afternoon. He says you’ve been supplying him with counterfeit money, not just the notes you tried to buy the car with. The Sheriff’s not going to like that, is he? An extra twenty grand of dodgy cash on the streets, because of you.’

  He buried his head in his arms. ‘I’m fucked…’

  ‘Yes, you are. And I’m the only person who can un-fuck you. Now where did you get the money from?’

  ‘Yeah, if you could, thanks…’ DI Beattie shifted his phone from one side to the other, and looked up at Logan standing in the office doorway. ‘Can I call you back?’

  He hung up and stared. ‘I’ve been phoning you all day.’

  ‘My mobile had a run-in with a sledgehammer. That meeting’s set up for half past four, today – two from Trading Standards and one of the Revenue’s top people.’

  Beattie’s face broke into a big, hairy smile. ‘That’s brilliant news.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Look, about earlier…’ He paused, obviously waiting for Logan to jump in and say it wasn’t a problem. Don’t worry about it. Water under the bridge.

  Well, sod him.

  Logan let the silence stretch, enjoying it.

  ‘I wanted you to know I didn’t put in a formal complaint.’

  And then he wasn’t enjoying himself quite so much. Feeling like a bit of a child for making Beattie struggle for it.

  ‘I hope this means we can work together now?’

  ‘Yes…Guv.’ Didn’t matter if he was trying to act like a grown-up or not, there was still no way Logan was calling the beardy idiot ‘Sir’ or ‘Boss’. That would be taking things too far.

  ‘OK.’ Nod. ‘Good…Half four.’ Beattie looked around his office. ‘I don’t think we’ll all fit, but—’

  ‘The Shop Cops have got a meeting room organized at St Nicholas House. All we’ve got to do is bring the biscuits.’

  The smile became a grin. ‘Excellent. Biscuits, yes…’ He produced a fiver from his wallet and handed it over. ‘You see to the biscuits and I’ll get going on the PowerPoint presentation.’

  Logan suppressed the urge to shudder. ‘Yes, Guv.’

  ‘And Logan…?’

  ‘Yes, Guv?’

  ‘Good work. Thanks.’

  Logan actually took a step back. It’d been ages since a DI had bothered to say thank you for anything. Maybe Beattie wasn’t such a tit after all?

  Steel was in her office, two doors down, with her feet up on her desk, frowning at a pile of paperwork. Probably trying to work out who to palm it off on.

  Logan knocked on the open door – please let someone else have to deal with whatever crap she had on her desk.

  ‘Ah.’ She looked up. ‘Just the wee man I’ve been looking for.’

  Bugger.

  ‘Shut the door, and lock it.’

  Logan did, while the inspector cracked open her office window, then pulled out her cigarettes and jiggled the pack at him.

  ‘Trying to cut down.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ She lit up, exhaling a happy cloud of smoke and sighing. ‘So, what did our friend the art student have to say for himself?’

  ‘Sod all. Doesn’t want his name in the papers, doesn’t want to cut a deal, doesn’t want to go to prison.’

  Sniff. ‘Silly git.’ Her left hand drifted down below the desk. ‘Still, McNab’ll stick him out on bail and we can have another poke in a couple of days. If we can be arsed.’

  ‘Got some good news on Polmont though: all the stuff we got from his flat is knock-off – even the vodka’s fake. And guess who had identical counterfeit goods on him?’

  ‘Basil Brush?’

  ‘Angus Black.’ Logan placed Angus’s statement in the middle of Steel’s desk. ‘Apparently he got the drugs and the gadgets from a pair of Edinburgh heavies called Gallagher and Yates.’

  ‘Who typed this?’ She held the statement out at arms’ length. ‘Can barely read a bloody thing.’

  ‘I ran a PNC check – they’re Malcolm McLennan’s boys.’

  ‘What about…’ She pulled a face at him. ‘Malcolm McLennan?’

  ‘It’s his name isn’t it? Both have done time for drugs and extortion, and according to Angus Black their boss is a big bald guy with a huge dog.’

  Steel tapped the report against her cheek. ‘The elusive Mr Connelly?’

  ‘Plus…’ Logan pulled one of Polmont’s battered journals out of the pile on Steel’s desk and flicked through it to a page he’d marked with a yellow stickie. One of the sparky’s more legible entries. ‘“New shipment coming in for G and Y. Maybe leave it alone this time – think they suspect.” G and Y appear about every two weeks.’

  ‘Do they now?’ She grinned and scratched. ‘Smells like corroboration to me.’

  ‘And best of all, Angus gave us an address.’

  ‘Warrant?’

  ‘Couple of hours. McNab’s on the bench till four, and Harper’s in Lerwick for that fish farm murder.’

  Steel blew a stream of smoke out into the snow. ‘Get Uniform organized; soon as the warrant clears we’ll go pay Malk the Knife’s wee toerags a visit.’

  ‘Can’t.’ Logan pulled his jacket shut and buttoned it. With the window open it was getting nippy in here. ‘Got a meeting with Beattie, HMRC, and the Shop Cops at half four – supposed to be working out what to do about all the fake goods knocking about…I’d cancel it, but Beattie’s got his heart set on showing off his PowerPoint skills and I’m trying to be nice to him. Like you said.’

  Steel settled back in her chair, one hand foostering about under the desk. ‘You’ve done well, young grasshopper.’

  Two pats on the back in one day – throw in a bottle of wine and some energetic sex and this would be the best day he’d had in about…two years?

  Might as well push his luck. Logan put his head on one side and stared at Steel.

  She stopped scratching. ‘What?’

  ‘Why’s Danby so interested in Polmont?’

  Steel puckered up her face. ‘No’ going to let that one go, are you?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Silence.

  ‘OK. Seeing as you’ve been such a good bo
y: Polmont’s what we call a serial chiz. Before Aberdeen he was ratting on Malk the Knife in Edinburgh. Before Edinburgh—’

  ‘He worked for Mental Mikey.’

  Steel made guns with her fingers and shot Logan in the head. ‘Bull’s-eye.’

  Which explained a lot. ‘That’s why Danby’s got one of Polmont’s journals.’

  ‘Covers the time he was in Newcastle.’ Steel finished her fag and pinged the butt out into the snow. ‘Anything else while I’m feeling generous?’

  ‘Where are they sticking Knox this time?’

  ‘Strictly need to know.’

  ‘What, and I don’t—’

  ‘Right now, Danby’s arse is eating his panties: thinks the fewer people know where Knox is the better. And don’t look at me like that, this is for your own good. Trust me, if I could get out of knowing where the raping wee shite was staying, I would. Sooner or later Knox is going to go back to his bad old ways – the less involved you are, the better.’

  Logan settled into his office chair.

  The little detective sergeants’ cupboard was littered with boxes of files, all radiating out from Doreen’s desk. She was on the phone, haranguing the lab about how long it was going to take them to analyse all the samples she’d brought in, and how much of the CID budget it was going to cost.

  Biohazard Bob helped himself to one of Logan’s prawn cocktail crisps, crunching and talking at the same time. ‘You’d think she’d been asked to solve the Great Train Robbery, wouldn’t you?’ He nudged one of the file boxes with a scuffed shoe. ‘I mean, look at all this crap.’ Sniff. ‘And how come she gets all the classy cases? She gets “contract killing with expensive set of golf clubs”, I get “junkie booted half to death”. Where’s the bloody justice in that?’

  ‘Yeah, because you’re such a classy guy.’ Logan creaked the plastic lid off his extra large mochaccino. ‘Any more word on Knox?’

  Just because Steel was foretelling doom didn’t mean he didn’t still want to know.

  ‘That Liverpool psychologist was with him for a couple of hours. Apparently he’s worried our visiting rapist’s on a –’ Bob put on a big dramatic voice, ‘– “COUNTDOWN TO DISASTER!”. I swear to God, he even said it like that. “COUNTDOWN TO DISASTER!”’