Dark Blood lm-6

by Stuart MacBride

  Feeling rushes back into his body — fingers and toes burning with cold, legs and arms aching with it, his torso raw. He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a squeak.

  Julie grins down at him, then looks off towards the knot of people huddled by the patio doors. ‘Oh come on.’ She waggles the gun at them, then reaches into her pocket and pulls out the magazine clip. Slots it back into place. Racks a round into the chamber. ‘Do you really think I was going to give you a loaded gun? Might’ve hurt yourself.’

  Richard shivers his way to his hands and knees, shaking so hard he can barely breathe.

  Bruce’s head is down, his skin even paler than before, crying.

  ‘Tony, Neil, why don’t you take Mr Knox back inside and clean him up a bit?’

  The two heavies grab an arm each and drag him back into the house. Richard can’t even stand, his legs aren’t working, all he can do is tremble. Teeth clattering in his head.

  Oh God, he’s still alive…

  Through the kitchen, down the hall, and into a huge bathroom, all done up in black slate and glistening chrome. They heave him into a big enamel tub, then crank open the taps. Water sputters in, cold at first, then steaming hot. Richard scrabbles back, his pink toes going bright red, the skin throbbing and groaning.

  ‘Fuckin’ hell.’ Neil grabs the big mixer-showerhead above the shiny taps and thumps his hand down on the chrome button. ‘Don’t be such a bloody poof.’

  The showerhead judders, and hot water spurts out. He curls his top lip and holds it over Richard. ‘Stop wriggling! Your own fault for being a filthy little shit, isn’t it?’

  Needles, broken glass jammed into his cracking skin…

  And slowly the feeling fades, the warm water leaching its heat into his bones. It’s just starting to feel good when Neil twists the taps again, shutting it off. Leaving Richard shivering in the bottom of the tub.

  Tony, the quiet one, settles on the toilet lid and stares at Richard’s pink, naked body. ‘We had a deal, Knox.’

  Richard doesn’t say anything.

  ‘We had a deal and you fucked us over.’

  ‘I didn’t…I wasn’t-’

  Neil slaps him, hard across the face. ‘Where’s the money?’

  Richard’s mouth tastes of blood, sweet against the bitter tang of vomit. ‘I don’t…I don’t have it. It-’

  Another slap.

  ‘Bad time to get a sense of humour, Knoxy, WHERE’S THE FUCKING MONEY?’

  Richard wraps his arms over his head. ‘I don’t have it! Mr Maitland made me split it between his kids before he died…’

  This time it’s a punch, right in the stomach. ‘Where’s the money?’

  He curls up in the bath, sobbing. ‘I don’t have it, I don’t have it…’

  One in the kidneys. ‘Where’s the money?’

  ‘AAAAGH…Please, I don’t have it!’

  Then the door opens. ‘Hey, Sweethearts, how’s it going?’

  Tony sighs. ‘Says he hasn’t got the cash any more. Mental Mikey willed it to his kids.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a pain.’ She squats by the side of the bath and looks into Richard’s tear-filled eyes. ‘I’m disappointed in you, Babe. We bought you all that lovely Rohypnol and you used it a day early to disappear on us. You promised to give us Danby — you didn’t. And now you don’t even have the money…You’re no use to me, Darling.’

  She stands.

  Neil: ‘What you want us to do with him?’

  Not the gun again. Please not the gun again.

  Tony: ‘Sell him.’

  They all turn to look at the man sitting on the toilet. ‘Sorry, Sweetheart?’

  ‘Sell him. They’re all scrabbling to claim Mental Mikey’s empire back home, aren’t they? Cunningham, Dawson, that violent prick Smithy…Bet any of them would pay good money to get their hands on Knox. ‘Specially if we don’t tell them he’s not got Mikey’s cash any more.’

  Oh God, no…Smithy’ll kill him. And not quickly, Richard knows, because he’s seen it.

  Julie smiles. ‘Excellent idea. Might even give us a bit of leverage down south. Can’t do it direct though — too risky — but we could go through an intermediary. Someone local.’

  ‘What about that little weasel you’ve been getting info off?’

  ‘Who, Polmont?’ She shakes her head. ‘Silly bugger went and got himself killed, didn’t he, Babe? But I might know a man…’

  She pulls out her phone and steps out of the bathroom, leaving him alone with Neil and Tony again.

  Richard scrubs his hands across his damp, swollen face. ‘Please, you can’t-’

  ‘Wouldn’t fuckin’ like to be you.’ Neil throws a towel into the bath. ‘Dry yerself.’

  ‘I can get more money. I can-’

  The slap sends him crashing against the black-and-silver tiles. ‘I said, dry yerself!’

  Richard keeps his mouth shut and does what he’s told.

  Tony sits there on the bog, watching him. ‘Not the luckiest, are you? No cash, no mates, no one to protect you…Know how long Danby held out, before he told us where you were? Five minutes.’

  Neil curls his top lip. ‘Didn’t even have to show him the pliers, like.’

  ‘Can’t believe you thought he’d get you out of the country. How thick are you?’

  Julie comes back in, snapping her phone shut. ‘All sorted. Shall we…?’

  They drag him, limping, back through to the kitchen.

  He stands there, both hands cupping his balls.

  Bruce, Ellen, Matt, and Evans are down the other end, by the fridge, but the only ones who’ll look at him are Ellen and the old man. The other two’s eyes keep slipping away to the floor.

  Julie smiles at them. ‘Here’s the deal: we’re going to sell Knox’s scrawny, trembling backside to some really nasty Edinburgh gangsters. That way he gets what’s coming to him, and you lovely people get some compensation for what he did to your families. We split it fifty-fifty. Sound fair?’

  No one says anything. Well, she’s got that gun, hasn’t she?

  Richard sniffs. A tear falls to the tiles at his feet.

  Ellen bends down, scoops up the quilt Granny Murray made and flings it at him. ‘Here, you can take your shit with you.’

  Richard grabs it, bottom lip trembling, breathing in the smell of the old lady and her house. If they’re going to sell him to Cunningham or Smithy he’d be better off out in the garden with a bullet in his brain. At least that way it’d be quick.

  He wraps himself in the quilt. And then Ellen snatches something off the working surface — a tatty Asda carrier bag. ‘All of it.’

  Richard catches the bible before it hits him, clutches the crackly plastic to his chest, closes his eyes and thanks God.

  Evans steps forward and dumps the old suitcase on the kitchen floor. ‘I didn’t want it to end like this, but you deserve whatever’s coming to you, Knox. I hope you rot in hell.’

  Then Neil and Tony march Richard down the corridor, and back out into the snow. They plip open the locks on the big Range Rover, haul the boot open, and shove him inside. They’re back two minutes later with Danby, the bathrobe flapping open in the eddying snow.

  After the warmth of the shower, Richard’s hands and feet throb with the cold. Probably got frostbite, or hypothermia, or something like that.

  Tony throws the battered leather suitcase in on top of them. ‘Don’t go getting sexy with your roommate, OK?’ And then he slams the boot shut.

  Danby still has that tartan thing over his head. His skin’s cold, pale, and pebbled, like a supermarket chicken; his hands cable-tied behind his back. They haven’t bothered to do that to Richard. Don’t think he’ll put up a fight. Don’t care if he sees their faces either. Because they know he won’t live long enough to tell anyone.

  And he knows they’re right.

  Richard sniffs, wiping a tear away with his sore hand.

  The doors clunk open, then closed again. A big petrol roar as the e
ngine fires up, and something cheery burbles from the radio, then fades out so a DJ can say, ‘Wasn’t that great? We’ll be having the news with Lorna Knight in eight minutes, but first here’s a reminder from the Met Office, we’ve got a severe weather warning for the whole North East, so only travel if your journey is completely necessary, OK? In the meantime, curl up somewhere comfy-cosy and grab yourself another mug of hot chocolate. And speaking of Hot Chocolate, here they are with “You Sexy Thing”!’

  Richard lies down on the plastic boot liner and wiggles in close behind Danby, pressing chest to back, legs to legs, then wraps an arm around his chest, holding him close. Sharing what little body warmth he has as the car lurches away into the snow.

  Logan scrambled down from the Land Rover. Its blue-and-whites barely dented the blizzard, headlights reaching no more than a dozen feet in front of the bumpers.

  The house was isolated, a long rectangle of freshly pointed granite with a slate roof. Old-fashioned six-pane windows — that probably cost a fortune to reproduce in double-glazed wood-effect UPVC — glowing pale gold.

  He staggered over to the door, clasping his collar around his throat with one hand and tried the doorbell. Then hammered on the door as well. Too cold for dicking about.

  PC Butler slithered to a halt beside him. She was dressed in the full Grampian Police outdoor-ninja ensemble: black trousers, black boots, black fleece poking out from under a black waterproof, fluorescent-yellow high-vis waistcoat with ‘POLICE’ across the back, and a black peaked cap jammed on her head. She’d even managed to scrounge up a pair of gloves from somewhere.

  ‘You want me to try round the back, Sarge?’

  Logan nodded, then hammered on the door again as Butler disappeared from view.

  It took nearly two minutes for someone to open the door, by which time Logan couldn’t feel his feet.

  A woman stood in the doorway: short, heavy-set, bleary eyed. It was her — the woman Wendy Leadbetter had picked out from the picture, the one with the ‘DIE — KNOX — SCUM!’ placard. She blinked at him a couple of times. ‘Can I help you?’ Geordie accent.

  Logan hauled his warrant card out of his pocket. ‘Police.’

  She looked at it, then looked at him. Then sighed. ‘Best come in.’

  They were in the lounge. Three men sitting around a roaring gas fire, two in matching armchairs, one on the couch, an open bottle of Lagavulin on the coffee table between them. The peaty whisky smelled like disinfectant in the silent room.

  One was the pale man from the crowd photographs — Bruce Lowe, the home owner. One was tall with grey hair and a red handprint on his cheek. And the third was Jimmy Evans.

  Logan stared at him. ‘Thought you were on your way down to Sunderland.’

  The old man shrugged and took a sip of whisky. ‘Surprise.’

  ‘So, let me guess,’ Logan turned to the third man, ‘that makes you the son?’

  ‘Matt Evans.’ He drained his glass, then reached forwards and topped it up again. The bottle trembled in his hand. ‘Knox raped my uncle.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  The woman slumped into the sofa, next to the old man, helped herself to a whisky. ‘Gone.’

  Jimmy Evans ran a hand across his bruised forehead. ‘We were going to hand him over to the police-’

  ‘Evans!’ Lowe scowled at him. ‘He doesn’t know any-’

  The woman waved her hand. ‘Oh shut up, Bruce. It’s over, OK?’

  A shape lumbered into view through the window: Butler, her black jacket and hat already caked with snow. She rapped on the glass. Logan ignored her. ‘What’s over?’

  Evans took a swig of pale-yellow whisky. ‘My brother never got over what Knox did to him. Chained to a wall, tortured, raped…And then when he goes to the police, what happens? Two big bastards come round and threaten to cripple his grandkids if he doesn’t change his story: say he lied about it.’

  ‘Knox was here and you let him go?’

  ‘Was never the same after that. Took Simon four years to die; just gave up in the end.’ The old man drained his glass. ‘Knox killed him, sure as if he’d stuck a knife in his guts. So when that policeman Danby called and said he wanted to-’

  ‘Evans! Keep your big gob shut!’ Bruce Lowe clambered to his feet and turned to Logan. ‘I just asked them back here for a drink, offer a bit of support. He’s drunk. You can’t-’

  ‘Don’t talk to my dad like that!’ Matt hauled himself out of his armchair. ‘Least he had the guts to go through with it, you couldn’t even shoot the little-’

  ‘I had nothing to do with-’

  ‘SHUT UP!’ The woman slammed her glass down on the coffee table. ‘Just…shut up.’

  The knocking at the window got louder.

  She sank back into the sofa. ‘We didn’t let Knox go, we sold him.’

  Logan could feel his mouth hanging open. ‘You sold him? Who the hell wants to buy-’

  ‘Some bossy cow turned up with two thugs. She said she could sell Knox to some gangsters who’re after him. Split the money with us. Supposed to be compensation for what he did.’ Ellen gave a short laugh, then picked up her glass again, greasy beads of alcohol shimmering on the sides. ‘They even had this…fat naked guy in a dressing gown with them, tied up with a bag over his head. Suppose they were going to sell him too.’ She took a swig. Bared her teeth. ‘Must be good money in perverts.’

  She had no idea.

  There was a clunk from the front of the house, a muffled voice saying, ‘Oh…boy that’s cold…’ PC Butler letting herself in. ‘Hello?’

  Logan called back: ‘In here.’

  The constable bumbled in, nose and cheeks bright pink. ‘What happened? I was knocking and everything.’

  ‘Get your notebook out.’ He pointed at Jimmy Evans. ‘You abducted Richard Knox and made it look like he raped you.’

  ‘We needed enough evidence-’

  ‘Evans!’ Bruce Lowe was on his feet again. ‘I swear to God, if you don’t-’

  ‘-make sure he’d go back inside for life this time. He-’

  ‘Don’t listen to him! We didn’t do anything, it was Knox!’

  Logan grabbed Lowe by the scruff of the neck and hauled him back into his seat. ‘YOU SIT DOWN AND YOU KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT, UNDERSTAND?’

  The man shrank back into the armchair.

  Logan loomed over him. ‘What about Harry Weaver? Was he in on it too? Or did you put the poor bastard in hospital for fun?’

  Lowe looked away. ‘It…Knox had…He was like that when we got there. Tied up on the bed, naked, blood everywhere. The woman too. We never touched them.’

  Silence.

  Logan turned to the rest of the room, ‘Where did they go? This woman who’s going to sell Richard Knox for you?’

  The old man topped up his glass again. ‘She said there was some Edinburgh gangster who’d act as go-between…’

  Logan stuck out his hand. ‘Car keys.’

  They looked at him. ‘What do-’

  ‘Give me your car keys. All of them.’

  A minute later he had two sets for the Mercedes, and one for the big black people carrier. The woman dropped her Clio key fob into his hand and Logan stuffed the lot into his pocket.

  ‘You will stay here and you will wait for a patrol car to collect you. Do you understand?’

  51

  ‘Babe, pull over and I’ll drive.’

  ‘I’m doing it, all right? Can’t see a bloody thing out there, like.’

  Julie sighs. ‘We’ll be all night at this rate.’

  Richard Knox peers through the metal grille of the dog guard, over the back seats, and out at the road. Thick curtains of white, billowing down from the darkness.

  He ducks back down.

  The big car thumps over something and Danby groans. Turns out the tartan bag’s just a pillowcase, held in place by a thick cable-tie round his throat.

  Knox’s hands are stiff from the cold, the left one barely working at all. Every time
he moves the fingers it’s like being stabbed, but he manages to ease the pillowcase out from under the cable-tie, and up over the big man’s head.

  Danby’s face is pale…well, except for the bruises, the black eye, and the swollen lip.

  Richard strokes the superintendent’s face, feeling the stubble scratch beneath his fingertips.

  Poor old soul…

  Then the big man coughs, his whole body rattling, face going bright pink. A deep ragged breath and he slumps back. A thin stream of spit dribbles out the side of his mouth.

  Richard takes a corner of Granny Murray’s quilt and wipes it away. ‘You sold us out. Said I could go away on me own, live me life somewhere.’

  Danby closes his eyes, breath coming in deep wheezes. ‘You…raped him…’

  Richard hangs his head.

  ‘You raped him, and he blew his head off with a shotgun.’

  ‘You said if I shared the cash with you, you’d help us escape. ‘Stead of which you set us up!’

  Danby laughs, but it turns into another coughing fit. Big man like that, you’d think he’d have more insulation against the cold, wouldn’t you? And he’s got a dressing gown on, all Richard’s got is a tatty old quilt.

  ‘You…’ Wheeze, shiver. ‘You did the same to me, know what I’m saying?’

  Got to admit he had a point there.

  ‘Don’t suppose it helps, but I’m sorry.’ Richard lies down again, wrapping himself around the superintendent, holding him tight. ‘They’re gonna kill us, aren’t they?’

  The big man’s head sinks back against the plastic boot liner. ‘If we’re lucky…’

  Logan slammed the front door shut and hurried over to the police Land Rover. He clambered into the passenger seat. Where the hell was Butler?

  She appeared from behind the Mercedes and hunched through the blizzard to the Renault Clio. There was something red in her hand. And as Logan watched, the Mercedes seemed to sink a couple of inches. A minute later the Clio joined it, then the people carrier.

  Butler climbed up into the Land Rover, a grin stretching her rosy cheeks as she folded a long blade back into a huge Swiss Army Knife. ‘Just in case anyone’s got a spare set of keys they’re not telling us about.’