Dark Blood

by Stuart MacBride

  Logan glared at her, then turned around and marched off towards the ranks of cameras, the inspector’s words ringing out behind him: ‘And see if you can’t scrounge up some more tea!’

  Half an hour later he was hunched over in the BBC Scotland Outside Broadcast Unit – which was a fancy way of saying ‘Transit Van Stuffed With Weird Bits Of Equipment’. A generator grumbled away somewhere behind a bank of knobs, switches, and flickering lights, just loud enough to be annoying.

  ‘I’d love to, but it’s company policy.’ The bearded bloke in the polar fleece, blew his nose into a damp hanky; never taking his eyes off the screen in front of him, where a rosy-cheeked reporter was doing a piece to camera, the snow whirling down around her head. ‘…sense of anger in Aberdeen tonight. We spoke to some of Richard Knox’s neighbours…’

  ‘We’re talking about an arson here.’

  The man twisted a dial on his little editing desk. ‘Mate, if it was up to me I would…’

  Logan sighed. ‘But?’

  ‘The BBC has to be seen to be impartial, otherwise no bugger’s ever going to trust us again. I’m not allowed to give you any footage without a warrant.’

  Which was the same reply he’d got from every other sod camped outside the cordon of ‘POLICE’ tape.

  ‘Can you at least show me it?’

  Mr Beard puckered up. ‘Give us a second, OK?’ Then he leant forward, clicked a button, and spoke into a little microphone. ‘That was great Janet, now can we try it again? And make sure you mention the campaign to have him deported.’

  The woman on screen scowled. ‘You can’t deport someone from Aberdeen to Newcastle, it doesn’t make any sense! And it’s flipping freezing out here.’

  ‘So say “repatriate”, “forcefully relocate”, or “hound out”. Something. Then you can come in, have a cup of tea, and get ready for the next bulletin: we’re live at twelve past.’ He let go of the button. ‘Bloody prima donnas.’

  He span around in his seat, ducking to avoid a dented anglepoise lamp. ‘Going to be on News at Ten anyway, so I suppose I can give you a preview…’

  He flicked a switch on the back wall of instruments and a small screen, mounted above what looked like an eight-track recorder, came alive with static.

  ‘Headphones.’ He pointed at a scabby pair hanging from a bent coat hanger looped through the equipment rack, the cable plugged in next to the screen.

  A quick rattle across a dirty keyboard, and the female reporter appeared again. Behind her Knox’s house was ablaze, sheets of orange and yellow billowing out of the lounge window, red sparks mingling with the falling snow, the upper windows glowing with flickering light.

  ‘This morning notorious rapist, Richard Knox, was escorted from his family home by police—’ The picture cut to familiar footage of the crowd surging outside the house. ‘—after angry scenes. Local residents, and people from as far away as Cheshire, descended on a quiet Aberdeen street when a North East newspaper revealed that Knox was living in the city’s Cornhill district.’

  Cut to a puffy-faced man with a strawberry birthmark across one cheek. ‘No’ right is it? Why should we be lumbered with Newcastle’s perverts?’

  Then a woman with her hair scraped back in a Torry face lift. ‘Revolting, so it is! It’s an utter disgrace!’

  A teenager with more acne than skin, nose like a sharpened pencil. ‘Nasty gay—’ Loud bleep. ‘—shouldnae ever been allowed out o’ prison.’

  Back to the reporter. ‘But events escalated this evening, as tensions, already running high, exploded into violence.’

  Another cut: night, snowing. The crowd had thinned down to the hard-core, frozen few. Then someone emerged from off camera, a lit petrol bomb in their hand. It sizzled across the screen, leaving a trail of glowing white, and the camera swung around to watch it explode against the granite wall of Knox’s house. The flash was bright enough to overload the camera for a moment, and then it was back in focus, just in time to catch the second bomb being thrown. It burst on the sill of the broken lounge window – sending burning petrol all over the curtains.

  ‘With Knox moved to an undisclosed location, the police are appealing for calm, but it seems unlikely that local anger will be defused so easily.’ Another shot of the reporter, staring straight at the camera. ‘This is Janet Milton, BBC News, Aberdeen.’

  The screen went blank.

  Logan pulled up one side of his headphones. ‘How do I rewind?’

  ‘Big black knob to your right.’

  The Transit’s side door slid open and there was the reporter. She froze, one foot up on the van’s floor, thick flakes of white specking her shoulders and hair; nose and ears a deep shade of pink. Her forehead creased. ‘Where am I supposed to sit?’

  Logan turned his back on her, twisting the big black knob till she appeared on screen again.

  ‘Come on, Greg, this is ridiculous.’

  ‘Shut the door, eh, Janet? Freezing me nuts off here.’

  ‘You’re freezing yours off? What about mine?’

  ‘There’s a thermos in the cab…’

  Logan stuck the headphones back on and set the report running again. Shutting out the argument.

  ‘But events escalated this evening, as tensions, already running high, exploded into violence.’

  The first petrol bomb was too quick – the cameraman didn’t have time to catch much more than the rough shape of someone wrapped up in a padded jacket hurling the bottle. But the second time he’d got the camera around in time to catch the thrower centre frame.

  Logan hit pause.

  It was either a very effeminate man, or a slightly butch woman. Difficult to tell with all the padding. They had a black-and-white bobble hat pulled down over their ears, wisps of dark hair sticking out of the bottom. Eyes screwed up, nose crinkled. A checkered scarf covered the lower half of their face, and they were wearing what looked like a blue North Face jacket – the logo just visible on the left chest – with matching gloves.

  So that probably meant no prints on the bottle.

  Logan frowned, then took off the headphones and hung them back on the improvised hook. ‘Do you have any other shots of who threw the petrol bomb?’

  ‘You’re bloody impossible, Gavin! How am I supposed to work under these conditions?’ The reporter stormed out and slammed the side door shut.

  Gavin rubbed his hands across his face. ‘No idea. Maybe in the crowd shots?’

  ‘Any chance you could—’

  ‘Mate, I’ve got a live bulletin on in ten, a…’ He lowered his voice, ‘A reporter with PMT who won’t deliver her bloody lines properly, a dodgy sound desk, and about three thousand other things I’ve got to do before we hand over to the London studio. What do you think?’

  Logan sighed. ‘OK, OK. I’ll get a warrant.’

  The man nodded. ‘Good idea. Now, if you don’t mind…?’

  Logan stood off to the side, watching the woman from BBC Scotland doing her live broadcast for the News at Ten. ‘It’s too early to tell yet, Simon, but Grampian Police issued the following statement this afternoon…’

  Behind her, Knox’s house was a blackened shell, steam and thin ribbons of greasy smoke rising from the blackened windows while the Fire Brigade rolled their hoses up.

  A fake English accent sounded at Logan’s shoulder. ‘’Allo, ‘allo, what’s all this then?’

  He didn’t even have to check. ‘Evening Colin.’

  The wee reporter rubbed his leather-gloved hands together, the rigid finger joints sticking out at odd angles. ‘Brass monkeys, but.’

  ‘Isobel give you a late pass, did she?’

  ‘Why, fancy a pint later?’

  ‘Can’t: on the wagon.’

  ‘Fuck me, must be serious.’ Colin blew into his cupped, gloved hands, wreathing them in a white cloud. ‘Any off-the-record statements you’d like to make for your old mate?’

  Logan frowned for a minute. ‘Ye
ah. Can you say: “sources close to the investigation think the media are a bunch of sketchy bastards for standing about filming Knox’s house burning down when they should have been calling the Fire Brigade”?’

  ‘Ah…’ Colin bit his top lip and stared at his shuffling feet. ‘It was…Well, you always think someone else must’ve…Ahem.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll bet you do.’

  Logan hunched his shoulder. Now the fire was out, winter was reclaiming the street.

  ‘You still got Grumpy the Photographer with you?’

  ‘Driving us mental with his moanin’. You’d think he’d be happy to get a nice juicy story like this, wouldn’t you? Got to be better than coverin’ some crappy cow auction at Thainstone.’

  Logan glanced back along the street to where DI Steel was slumped in the passenger seat of a pool car, cigarette smoke drifting out into the frigid night.

  ‘How’d you like to help the police with their enquiries?’

  35

  The photographer’s battered Volkswagen was parked under a streetlight, three doors down from the smouldering remains of Knox’s house. Probably moved to keep its delicate rusty bodywork safe from the riot Colin’s article had caused. The car’s owner was out in the middle of the road, the hood of his parka zipped all the way up, hiding his bald head, a huge camera pressed to the fur-trimmed porthole. Capturing the Fire Brigade’s retreat.

  Colin made a loud-hailer with his mangled hands. ‘Hoy, Sandy, you nearly done?’

  The man stayed where he was, taking another shot of a massive white fire engine grumbling and hissing its way out through the police cordon, the flash freezing the snow in midair.

  Colin pulled a face. ‘God forbid we should interrupt his muse. HOY, BALDY!’

  Sandy lowered his camera and turned, scowling away in the depths of his coat. ‘Can we fuck off home now?’

  ‘You downloaded everythin’ to the laptop yet?’

  Shrug. ‘’Cept this lot. Why?’

  ‘Car keys.’ Colin held out a hand.

  ‘Bastard…’ Sandy rummaged in his pocket, then dropped them into Colin’s black-leather palm. ‘I’m never getting home, am I?’

  Colin grinned. ‘I’ve seen your wife, you should be thankin’ me. Now away you go back to your wee photos.’

  They climbed into the back of the car, while Sandy stomped off towards the burnt-out house, swearing.

  ‘No pleasing some people.’ Colin pointed. ‘Laptop should be under the seat in front of you.’

  So were a bunch of empty crisp packets, and a couple of crumpled Coke cans…Logan’s fingers brushed against a flat rectangle of neoprene. He dragged it out and handed it over.

  Colin powered the thing up. ‘Right, let’s see if the wee jobby’s actually put them in the right…Buggering…’ His crooked fingers fumbled with the mousepad. ‘Fine, sod you.’ He hauled his right glove off. The pinkie stopped at the second joint, the finger next to it at the first, the puckered ends shiny and hard looking. He tried again, and the cursor wheeched through the menu structure. ‘Here we go.’

  The screen filled with the mob gathered outside Knox’s house, pinched faces, mouths caught open, screaming abuse, placards waving. It was a good photo, very atmospheric. Sandy might have been a miserable sod, but he knew what he was doing with a camera.

  Logan scanned the crowd, looking for a black and white bobble hat. ‘Next.’

  Colin hit the key and they were looking at the same shot a fraction of a second later. And again. Then another photo of the crowd. The house. A sequence of Knox throwing the curtains wide, then his eyes bulging, then Logan lumbering up in stop motion to drag them shut again. The window shattering. More shots of the crowd.

  Logan sat back in his seat. ‘Crap. This is going to take forever.’

  ‘How’s he taking it?’

  Standing in the hall, Mandy shrugged. ‘Think he misses his electric fire.’

  Knox was in the lounge, kneeling in front of the window. Praying. He’d switched off the lights, but a faint yellow glow seeped in from outside, accompanied by the distant hum of traffic on the North Deeside road.

  It was a nice little flat, the kind of place they liked to feature on those makeover shows, where the before always looked a hell of a lot better than the after.

  Three bedrooms, a galley kitchen, flat-screen telly, and central heating. Bliss.

  Harry shifted from foot to foot. ‘You want a cup of tea, or something? I’m making anyway, it’s no problem?’

  ‘Coffee: black, two sugars.’

  Nod. ‘Nice to be warm again, isn’t it? After that bloody great fridge of a place.’

  ‘The stink of mildew and mould.’

  Harry grinned. ‘Those mushrooms growing under the kitchen sink.’

  ‘All gone up in flames.’

  Silence.

  ‘You know.’ Harry worried at a loose button on his shirt. ‘Would’ve thought he’d be a bit more…upset. Family home, and all that.’

  Mandy stepped back and closed the lounge door. If Knox wanted to sneak off through the lounge window – good luck to him. The flat was on the fourth floor, so the fall would probably break his neck. Save everyone a lot of time and trouble.

  She followed Harry through to the kitchen, and watched him fill and boil the kettle. ‘I’m still not happy about the security.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ He shrugged. ‘They’ll get the CCTV installed outside tomorrow. We can manage for one night, right? You want a biscuit?’

  ‘What if there’s an auld mannie living next door?’

  ‘Rocky or Caramel Wafer?’

  ‘Got any HobNobs?’

  Harry handed over the biscuit tin. ‘Even if he gets all horny, he can’t do anything about it. Not with you and me here, and that pair from the Perv Patrol sitting out…’ Harry cleared his throat, then pulled on a smile. ‘Richard, you want a cuppa?’

  Knox was standing in the doorway, wiping his sleeve across his eyes. ‘Me mam was born in that house.’

  ‘Mandy’s got chocolate bikkies…?’

  The weedy little man took a deep shuddering breath, then helped himself to an orange Penguin. ‘Kind of a relief, like. In a way…’ He peeled back the wrapper. ‘Was tying us to the past, wasn’t it? All them ghosts holding us back…Yeah. Maybe it’s for the best.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ Harry spooned bitter-smelling brown granules into three mugs, then sloshed boiling water over the top. ‘Onwards and upwards, eh?’

  ‘You know,’ Knox opened the fridge and peered inside, ‘’stead of takeaway tomorrow I could whip us up a prawn curry if someone nips down the shops? Feels like I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in months.’

  Mandy nudged the fridge door shut again. ‘Maybe later. Need to get stuff organized.’

  Knox stared at the vinyl floor for a moment, his cheeks flushing a deep rose pink. Shrug. ‘If you like.’

  Harry put a hand on his shoulder. ‘We’re getting another visit from Babs and Paul tomorrow, I’ll ask them to swing by Asda on the way: get the prawns and stuff. I like a nice curry, don’t you, Mandy?’ He stared at her, making his eyes go wide. Like she was supposed to feel guilty about denying Knox his little MasterChef moment.

  Sometimes Harry could be a bit of a tit.

  He nodded, like they’d all agreed it was a great idea. ‘Right, you let me know what you need, and I’ll phone Babs.’

  Knox smiled. It made his face even pointier, like a shaved rat. Then he scribbled down a long list of ingredients and handed it over. ‘Might as well do it properly like. Not the same if it all comes out of a jar.’

  ‘Sounds good – back in a tick.’

  Knox waited till the kitchen door clunked shut. ‘You don’t like us, do you?’

  Mandy shrugged. ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘The way you look at us. Like I’m still inside: a rule forty-three. Dirty fucker, who likes to rape old men.’

  ‘I just want
everyone to be safe.’

  ‘That’s not me any more. God reached out to us in prison. I was standing there, watching this bloke Rupert bleed to death on the landing, and I was thinking, maybe he’s got the right idea, you know? They gave him eight years, cos his home computer was full of photos: little boys getting shagged off the internet. Took a safety razor, snapped it open, and hacked through his veins from elbow to wrist. Couldn’t take the shame and the guilt any more…’

  Knox’s eyes were focussed somewhere between the vinyl floor and his knees. Biting his bottom lip.

  ‘Maybe your mate had the right idea.’

  ‘And that’s when I heard His voice. “Richard,” He says, “Richard you’re one of Me creatures, and I love all Me creatures. Doesn’t matter what you’ve done in the past, like, you’ve got a bit of Us in you. Put you on this earth to do Me work, didn’t I? Can’t go throwing it all away like this idiot.”’

  ‘Thought God spoke all “thee” and “thou”, like in the bible.’

  Knox looked up, staring straight at her with those rodenty little eyes. ‘It’s all God’s work, isn’t it? Everything we do serves His purpose.’

  ‘Even raping old men?’

  ‘War, Famine, Pestilence, Death. He made all them things. Ethnic cleansing, suicide bombers, drought, global warming, AIDS, swine flu, tidal waves, earthquakes…If you took everyone who died in the last hundred years, and stacked all the bodies up, it’d reach from here to the moon, four and a half times.’ A small smile. ‘Not given to us to understand His plans, is it?’

  Mandy didn’t know who was creepier, Richard Knox or his god.

  Julie sits on the end of the hotel bed, feet tucked up under her, watching the telly. It’s Sky’s twenty-four-hour news thing, some plastic-haired bloke being all serious about the situation in Afghanistan.

  Tony takes another swig from his mug, the sharp edge of cheap brandy, turning into instant warmth and sweetness. Think Julie would notice if he helped himself to another wrapper of fizzy coke? Probably. Then there’ll be some serious fucking fireworks.

  Have to make do with supermarket brandy.

  Neil clumps in through the front door, cradling a couple of big brown paper bags from KFC round the corner. The smell of deep-fried chicken wafts out into the cramped room. ‘Bloody freezing…’ He dumps the bags on the bed and wriggles out of his coat.