Dark Blood lm-6

by Stuart MacBride

  Logan pulled out his mobile phone while the constable cranked over the huge diesel engine.

  ‘Yes, I want you to get a patrol car out to…’ He frowned, turned to Butler. ‘Where the hell are we?’ Then repeated the address to Control as she drove them out into the blizzard. ‘Three IC-One males, one female, I want them picked up and charged with perverting the course of justice.’

  There was a pause. ‘Are you are aware it’s blawin’ a hoolie oot there?’

  The headlights turned the world into a snow globe, with the Land Rover at the centre, shaken by the howling winds.

  ‘Yeah, I kinda noticed.’

  ‘Can you no’ bring them in yoursel?’

  ‘Don’t have time. Tell Finnie I know where Richard Knox and DSI Danby are. I need an armed response unit to the McLennan Homes development south of Balmedie.’

  ‘Jesus, yer no shy the day, are you? Hang on…’

  Logan stuck the phone against his chest. ‘Does this thing not go any faster?’

  Butler didn’t even look round, kept her face straight ahead, eyes narrowed, staring out into the driving snow. ‘It’s Scott of the Antarctic out there.’

  The little country road twisted and turned, drystane dykes on either side disappearing under drifts of white.

  ‘Do your best, OK?’ Back to the phone. ‘So am I getting my ARU or not?’

  But the voice on the other end wasn’t the wee Teuchter from Control any more, it was the head of CID. ‘Sergeant McRae, tell me, was it my imagination, or did I instruct you to be in my office at five? Yet here we are at half four and you’re asking for a firearms team?’

  Logan filled him in on his visit to Bruce Lowe’s steading.

  ‘Hmm…Where are you?’

  Logan peered through the windscreen. A signpost flared in the gloom, reflecting back the Land Rover’s headlights. ‘Just coming into Newburgh now. So: firearms team?’

  ‘I’ll get an ARU out to Camberwick Green as soon as I can. In the meantime, you are not authorized to take any action until they get there. If you get yourself killed just to avoid our meeting I will be highly pissed off, is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Newburgh wasn’t a big place. The A90 — the main road north to Ellon and Peterhead — ran through the middle of the little town, and as soon as they turned onto it Butler put her foot down.

  Normally, at this time on a Wednesday, there would be a steady stream of traffic coming the other way, trying to beat the rush-hour out of Aberdeen, but today it was quiet. Just the occasional eighteen-wheeler crawling its way north.

  Butler’s Airwave handset bleeped into life as they reached the outkirts of Balmedie — Control calling to say that the firearms team had just left FHQ.

  Then it was Logan’s phone’s turn. He checked the display: DI Steel.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘They’ll no’ tell me what’s going on…’ A sniff. Silence. ‘Should arrest the whole bloody lot of them.’

  He tried to force a smile into his voice. ‘I’m sure it’ll be-’

  ‘So, have you sodded up all my cases yet?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s fine.’

  The Land Rover slowed, bouncing to a halt at a break in the central divide, opposite a sign saying ‘MCLENNAN HOMES — SITE TRAFFIC ONLY’. Then they rumbled across the other carriageway and up to the site gate.

  ‘Anything else going on?’

  Logan looked out at the high chainlink fence and the signs caught in the Land Rover’s headlights: ‘SITE PATROLLED BY GUARD DOGS’, ‘NO ENTRY TO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL’, ‘WARNING: RAZOR WIRE’, ‘DANGER OF DEATH’.

  He swallowed. ‘Yeah, no, everything’s fine. Tell Susan we’re all asking for her, OK?’

  They said an awkward goodbye, then Logan slid the phone back in his pocket.

  The gate was open, not all the way, just wide enough for a large car to squeeze through. Butler drove the Land Rover in. On the other side, the road was virtually invisible, a set of rutted tyre tracks disappearing into the gloom.

  Logan turned and peered into the back of the vehicle. ‘We got any weapons?’

  ‘Sarge? I thought we were meant to wait for the cavalry?’

  If this was America they’d have shotguns and tear gas and riot gear and ammo. Instead of which they had a big first aid kit, some road flares, and enough rope to build a bouncy bridge over the River Dee. Fat lot of good that was going to do.

  The car lurched to a halt, throwing him backwards against his seatbelt. ‘Hoy! Careful.’

  Butler tapped him on the shoulder. ‘We’ve got company.’

  She was right. A set of headlights glowed in the darkness, getting closer.

  ‘Sod…’ Logan glanced left, then right. ‘Block the road.’

  The constable wrestled with the steering wheel, three-point-turning the Land Rover until it was parked side-on, then Logan reached into the back, grabbed a couple of the road flares, and clambered out into the snow.

  It was like being punched with a fistful of ice. He staggered, letting the car door slam shut in the wind.

  Fuck it was cold…

  He lurched over the rutted surface, about six feet from the Land Rover’s bonnet, pulled the plastic cap off of the first flare and struck the igniter across the end. It sputtered, then sent out a gout of lurid scarlet flame. Logan jammed the other end into the snow, then hurried around to the other side and stuck the second one behind the car.

  With the blue-and-white lights flashing in the middle, there was no way you could miss the police Land Rover.

  He hobbled back to the driver’s side. Butler wound down the window and said something Logan couldn’t hear over the howling wind.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, we’re supposed to wait!’

  Logan pointed through the whipping snow to the approaching headlights. ‘You want to let them just drive right past you?’

  Butler thumped back against the headrest, sighed, then undid her seatbelt and climbed out into the snow. She hauled on her gloves and hunched her shoulders up round her ears. ‘Must be bloody mad…’

  The headlights got bigger and bigger and then a huge black rectangle growled out of the snow. It stopped ten feet from their makeshift roadblock and sat there, with the engine idling.

  Logan wiped the snow from his face and stumbled through the gusting wind to the huge car, PC Butler swearing along behind.

  It was one of those massive Range Rover Sports jobs. The kind that looked as if they’d been designed out of Lego. Three people: two in the front, one in the back.

  Logan knocked on the driver’s window. It buzzed down and the driver smiled at him. She had blonde hair cut in a bob and jazz on the stereo.

  ‘Can I help you, Officer?’ English, probably from somewhere posh.

  The man in the passenger seat scratched his eyebrow, keeping his eyes on the road. The one in the back seat yawned, then ran a hand through his greying quiff. All very nonchalant.

  ‘Can I see some ID?’

  The woman’s smile got bigger. ‘I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours, Babe.’

  Logan gritted his teeth, unzipped his jacket and pulled out his warrant card. Trying to stop his pink fingers from shaking.

  ‘Nice one.’ She reached down between the seats, rummaged, then produced a black leather card holder. Handed it out of the window.

  Logan flipped it open.

  It was a warrant card, just like his, only where his said, ‘GRAMPIAN POLICE’ hers said ‘SOCA’.

  He checked it twice before handing it back. ‘Care to tell me what the Serious Organized Crime Agency is doing on a building site north of Aberdeen, Sergeant…Bultitude was it?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Logan stared at her.

  In the back seat, Elvis shifted from one buttock to another. ‘Close the window, eh, Julie; getting a draft, like.’

  The woman went to buzz the window back up again, but Logan slapped his hand on the sill. ‘We’re not finishe
d here.’

  ‘Yes we are, Babe.’

  He stared at her. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? Two men and a woman — you’re the ones who took Richard Knox from Bruce Lowe’s place. Where is he? And where’s DSI Danby?’

  The man in the passenger seat sighed. ‘Not again…’

  The woman’s smile became sharper. ‘That’s need to know, Sergeant.’

  ‘Don’t screw me about: where are they?’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Neil?’

  ‘Fuckin’ have it.’ The back door popped open and Elvis climbed out into the snow. Typical Geordie, he didn’t even have his coat on, just a black shirt picking up a dandruff coating of snow. He flexed his arms.

  Jesus he was big: six-foot-two, six-foot-three, arms like a body builder’s.

  Logan’s other hand dug deeper into his pocket, fingertips wrapping around the little canister of pepper-spray. Out of the corner of his eye he saw PC Butler take a step forwards, the harsh CLACK of her extendible baton clearly audible over the wind and the Range Rover’s engine.

  ‘Is there a problem, Sarge?’

  The big man just looked at the pair of them, then smiled. Cricked his neck from side to side.

  A gust of wind buffeted Logan. ‘There’s a firearms team on its way. You won’t even make it back to town.’

  Sergeant Bultitude clapped her hands. ‘A firearms team? How, exciting! Will they have guns?’ She dipped back out of sight, then came back with a semiautomatic pistol clutched in her hand. ‘Like this one?’

  She brought it around until it was pointing at Logan’s face.

  He felt his bowels clench. Held his hands out, palms open. ‘Let’s not-’

  ‘This is how it’s going to go down, Babe. You get back in your little plodmobile and drive away. Nice and peaceful. Otherwise…’ She made a little circular motion with the gun barrel.

  Logan stared up at her. Swallowed. Tried not to tremble. ‘Where’s Knox?’

  Bultitude pursed her lips. ‘Brave. I like that.’ She nodded, back towards the building site.

  ‘You actually did it? You sold him to Malcolm McLennan’s mob? You’re supposed to be police officers!’

  A shrug. ‘Your Malk the Knife’s the tip of a Europe-wide smuggling iceberg: drugs, goods, people, weapons. Worth millions every year. Richard Knox is a nasty little rapist, but he’s worth a lot to certain people down south. We sell him to Mr The Knife at a knock-down price, and we get an in with everyone.’

  ‘You can’t just-’

  ‘You know what he did: what he got away with. Dozens of old men, tortured and raped. And you want to let him walk?’ She snorted. ‘Sweetheart, at least this way they get a bit of justice.’

  Logan stared at her. ‘What about Danby: you sell him too?’

  The woman from SOCA sighed. ‘I’m afraid Detective Superintendent Danby’s been a naughty boy. We got a call from Knox a couple of weeks ago — Danby offered to smuggle him out of the country for a cut of Mental Mikey’s rainy-day money. That’s not nice, is it?’

  Fuck.

  Another blast sent Logan lurch-stepping, driving icy daggers into the back of his head. The big man glaring at PC Butler didn’t even wobble.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Sorry, Babe, that’s need to-’

  ‘Answer the fucking question!’

  Her eyes narrowed, lips thinning over bared teeth.

  The man in the passenger seat buried his head in his hands. ‘Oh Christ, here we go…’

  The gun had drifted away, now it was back pointing at Logan’s face. ‘I don’t like your-’

  ‘Julie…’ The passenger leant over and touched her shoulder. ‘Don’t. Last thing we need is local plod on a mission, getting in the way, you know what I’m saying?’

  ‘Nobody talks to me like that.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ He licked his lips. ‘Look, we can’t tie Danby to Mental Mikey’s money, can we? Not if Knox has given the bloody stuff away. We’ve got nothing on him, like.’

  ‘This Sweaty-’

  ‘We’re going to have to let him go anyway, know what I’m saying? It’s not worth the aggro.’

  There was a pause.

  She pulled her face into a tight smile, eyes narrow slits as she stared at Logan. ‘You want Danby?’ The driver’s door popped open and she climbed down, stomped through the whipping snow past Angry Elvis and around to the Range Rover’s boot. She hauled the hatch up with one hand — the other still wrapped around the gun — reached in and dragged something out.

  It hit the ground with a thud and a grunt. Just as Logan turned the corner.

  ‘You want him? You can have him.’

  Detective Superintendent Danby lay on his side in the snow, dirty-white bath robe rucked up around his middle, the skin on his legs and buttocks worryingly pale.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘When he wakes up, tell the corrupt bastard he’s mine.’ She slammed the boot shut again. ‘Neil, get your arse back in the car. We’re leaving.’

  Elvis flexed his shoulders again. Curled his hands into fists. ‘We going to let these Jock bastards-’

  ‘Maybe you didn’t hear me, Babe?’

  The big man froze, eyes darting back towards the Range Rover. ‘I…’ He cleared his throat. Spat. The wind snatched it away before it got anywhere near the ground. He got back in the car.

  She marched back to the driver’s door and climbed inside. Buzzed the window up. Then put her foot down. The huge four-by-four’s wheels span, sending a spray of snow and ice across Danby’s pale, crumpled body. And then it was off, swinging around the police Land Rover, over one of the road flares and away into the distance.

  Logan let out the breath he’d been holding in, then bent over and clutched his knees. Dear God…

  PC Butler appeared at his shoulder. ‘Shame. I was looking forward to tearing that big bastard’s head off.’

  He looked at her. It was official — he was surrounded by nutjobs.

  ‘Help me get Danby back to the car.’

  They cleared a space on the back seat, then bundled the DSI inside. There was an electric blanket thing in a box in the boot with its own heavy battery pack. They draped it over him, then wrapped him in layers of space blankets, the crackly silver and gold sheets making him look like a baked potato.

  Butler strapped the detective superintendent into place. ‘Hospital?’

  ‘Building site.’

  ‘Damn.’

  They left the road flares burning, and Butler did another slithering three-point-turn to get the Land Rover facing the right way. Then Logan told her to kill the blue flashing lights as they drove deeper into the development.

  ‘You sure about this, Sarge?’

  ‘Nope.’ Logan pulled out his phone. No signal. He reached over and plucked the Airwave handset from Butler’s shoulder.

  Control still didn’t have an ETA for the firearms team. The whole Bridge of Don was gridlocked after a bendy-bus slid sideways across all four carriageways between the bridge and Balgownie Road, trying to avoid a three-car pile-up. They were having to divert via Grantham in snow-laden rush-hour.

  The message from DCI Finnie was to sit tight and not do anything stupid.

  Logan hit the disconnect button.

  PC Butler looked at him. ‘We’re going to do something stupid, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yup.’

  52

  The development loomed out of the blizzard — skeleton houses, the hunched shapes of machinery. First stop the site office.

  The lights were on, but when Logan sent Butler out to try the door it was locked. No one inside.

  A little after five and the sun was long gone, now everything beyond the reach of the headlights was enveloped in darkness.

  The Police Land Rover bumped over something in the snow, the front end rearing up, then the back. Behind them, Danby groaned again. At least he was still alive. Probably more than they could say for Richard Knox.

  Butler let the four-by-four rumb
le to a halt. ‘Think we’ve run out of road.’

  Logan peered into the whirling white and inky black. Last time he was here with PC Martin and her cadaver dog, Wardrobe, the further away from the site office they got, the more complete the houses were. Assuming they hadn’t just staked Knox out to freeze to death in the great outdoors, he’d be in something that at least had a roof on it.

  The Land Rover was fitted with a roof-mounted spotlight. Logan grabbed the handle and flicked the switch. A crack sounded above his head and the harsh white beam leapt out through the snow.

  He fiddled with the handle, swinging the spotlight about, trying to get a feel for it, then did a slow sweep left to right. Didn’t matter how strong the light was, it could only penetrate so far before the whirling flakes consumed everything.

  He pointed towards the nearest property with a roof. ‘That way.’

  The Land Rover bumped and rolled its way slowly through the drift-covered landscape. The first house was dark. So was the second one, blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape snapping and writhing outside it. The third was dark too. But a pale glow oozed out from the downstairs window of house number four.

  ‘There.’

  Logan snapped off the spotlight. Butler killed the engine and the headlights. Darkness. Now the only sound was the howling wind and the creak of springs as the Land Rover rocked with each blast.

  ‘Right.’

  They both stayed where they were, in the dark, watching the house through the windscreen.

  Butler cleared her throat. ‘We got any sort of plan?’

  No.

  Logan licked his lips. Melting snow plastered his hair to his head, trickling down the back of his neck and into his collar. ‘I’ll take the front, you go round the back.’ He pulled his damp sleeve back, exposing his watch. ‘What time have you got?’

  She checked. ‘Quarter past.’

  ‘Right, we go in at twenty past. Quietly, understand?’

  Butler nodded and they synchronized watches. ‘You sure about this, Sarge?’

  ‘Nope. You?’

  The constable pulled out her extendible baton, undid her seatbelt. Took three deep breaths. Opened the door, and jumped out into the night.