The Blood Road

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Yup. Like I said, we’re—’

  ‘Any leads? Three-year-old girl goes missing, her parents must be frantic.’

  ‘We’re working our way through Tillydrone as I speak. Nothing so far.’

  ‘Tillydrone?’

  ‘Yup, going to be here all morning… Ah, damn it. Actually, now I think about it, I’ll probably be stuck here all afternoon too. Sorry. Can we reschedule our thing for later in the week?’

  ‘You’re in Tillydrone?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘That’s odd… Because I’m standing in a field a couple of miles West of Inverurie, and I could swear I’m looking right at you.’ He waved up the hill at her. ‘Can you see me waving?’

  ‘Shite…’ Chalmers ducked behind her car. ‘No, definitely in Tillydrone. Must be someone else. Er… I’ve got to go. The DI needs me. Bye.’

  The line went dead. She’d hung up on him.

  Those auburn curls appeared for a brief moment as she scrambled into her car, then the engine burst into life and the hatchback roared away. Disappeared around the corner.

  Subtle. Really subtle.

  Logan shook his head. ‘Unbelievable.’

  Something rocky thumped out of the Audi’s speakers as it wound its way back down the road towards Aberdeen. Past fields of brown-grey soil, and fields of drooping grass, and fields of miserable sheep, and fields flooded with thick pewter lochans. On a good day, the view would have been lovely, but under the ashen sky and never-ending rain?

  This was why people emigrated.

  The music died, replaced by the car’s default ringtone.

  Logan pressed the button and picked up. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Guv? It’s me.’ Me: AKA Detective Sergeant Simon Occasionally-Useful-When-Not-Being-A-Pain-In-The-Backside Rennie. Sounding as if he was in the middle of chewing a toffee or something. ‘I’ve been down to records and picked up all of DI Bell’s old case files. Where do you want me to start?’

  ‘How about the investigation into his suicide?’

  ‘Ah. No. One of DCI Hardie’s minions already checked it out of the archives.’

  Sod.

  ‘OK. In that case: start with the most recent file you’ve got and work your way backwards.’

  ‘Two years, living it up on the sunny Costa del Somewhere and DI Bell comes home to dreich old Aberdeenshire? See if it was me? No chance.’

  ‘He had a pick and shovel in the boot of his car.’

  ‘Buried treasure?’

  A tractor rumbled past, going the other way, its massive rear wheels kicking up a mountain of filthy spray.

  Logan stuck on the wipers. ‘My money’s on unburied. You don’t come back from the dead to bury something in the middle of nowhere. You come back to dig it up.’

  ‘Ah: got you. He buries whatever it is, fakes his own death, then sods off to the Med. Two years later he thinks it’s safe to pop over and dig it up again.’

  ‘That or whatever he buried isn’t safe any more and he has to retrieve it before someone else does.’

  ‘Hmm…’ Rennie’s voice went all muffled, then came back again. ‘OK: I’ll have a look for bank jobs, or jewellery heists in the case files. Something expensive and unsolved. Something worth staging your own funeral for.’

  ‘And find out who he was working with. See if we can’t rattle some cages.’

  A knot of TV people had set up outside Divisional Headquarters, all their cameras trained on the small group of protestors marching round and round in the rain. There were only about a dozen of them, but what they lacked in numbers they made up for with enthusiasm – waving placards with ‘JUSTICE FOR ELLIE!’, or ‘SHAME ON THE POLICE!’, or ‘FIND ELLIE NOW!’ on them. Nearly every single board had a photo of Ellie Morton: her grinning moon-shaped face surrounded by blonde curls, big green eyes crinkled up at whatever had tickled her.

  Logan slowed the Audi as he drove by. Someone in a tweed jacket was doing a piece to camera, serious-faced as she probably told the world what a useless bunch of tossers Police Scotland were. Oh why hadn’t they found Ellie Morton yet? What about the poor family? Why did no one care?

  As if.

  The Audi bumped up the lumpy tarmac and into the rear podium car park. Pulled into the slot marked ‘RESERVED FOR PROFESSIONAL STANDARDS’. Some wag had graffitied a Grim Reaper on the wall beneath the sign. And, to be fair, it actually wasn’t a bad likeness of Superintendent Doig. Always nice to be appreciated by your colleagues…

  Logan stuck his hat on his head, climbed out, and hurried across to the double doors, swerving to avoid the puddles. Along a breeze-block corridor and into the stairwell. Taking the steps two at a time.

  A couple of uniformed PCs wandered downwards, chatting and smiling.

  They flattened themselves against the wall as Logan approached, all talk silenced, both smiles turned into a sort of pained rictus.

  The spotty one forced a little wave. ‘Inspector.’

  Logan had made it as far as the third-floor landing when his phone dinged at him. Text message.

  He pulled it out and frowned at the screen.

  The caller ID came up as ‘HORRIBLE STEEL!’ and his shoulders sagged a bit. ‘What do you want, you wrinkly monster?’

  He opened the message:

  Come on, you know you want to.

  Nope. Logan thumbed out a reply as he marched past the lifts:

  Told you – I’m busy. Ask someone else.

  He pushed through the doors and into a bland corridor that came with a faint whiff of paint fumes and Pot Noodle.

  A tiny clump of support officers were sharing a joke, laughing it up.

  Then one of them spotted Logan, prompting nudges and a sudden frightened silence.

  Logan nodded at them as he passed, then knocked on the door with a white plastic plaque on it: ‘DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR STEPHEN HARDIE’.

  A tired voice muffled out from inside. ‘Come.’

  Logan opened the door.

  Hardie’s office was all kitted out for efficiency, organisation, and achievement: six whiteboards covered in notes about various ongoing cases, the same number of filing cabinets, a computer that looked as if it wasn’t designed to run on coal or hamster power. A portrait of the Queen hung on the wall along with a collection of framed citations and a few photos of the man himself shaking hands with various local bigwigs. Everything you needed for investigatory success.

  Sadly, it didn’t seem to be working.

  Hardie was perched on the edge of his desk, feet not quite reaching the ground. A short middle-aged man with little round glasses. Dark hair swept back from a high forehead. A frown on his face as he flipped through a sheaf of paperwork.

  He wasn’t the only occupant, though. A skeletal man with thinning hair was stooped by one of the whiteboards, printing things onto it in smudgy green marker pen.

  And number three was chewing on a biro as she scanned the contents of her clipboard. Her jowls wobbling as she shook her head. ‘Pfff… Already got requests coming in from Radio Scotland and Channel 4 News. How the hell did they get hold of it so quickly?’

  Hardie looked up from his papers and grimaced at Logan. ‘Ah, Inspector McRae. I would say “to what do we owe the pleasure?” but it seldom is.’

  Number Three sniffed. ‘Only positive is they don’t know who our victim was.’

  Number Two held up his pen. ‘Yet, George. They don’t know yet.’

  George sighed. ‘True.’

  Logan leaned against the door frame. ‘I take it Superintendent Doig’s been in touch?’

  ‘Urgh.’ Hardie thumped his paperwork down. ‘You know this is going to be a complete turd tornado. Soon as they find out we’ve got a murdered cop who faked his own death, it won’t just be a couple of TV crews out there. It’ll be all of them.’

  ‘Did you ever hear rumours about DI Bell? Backhanders, evidence going missing, corruption?’

  ‘Ding-Dong? Don’t be daft.’ Hardie folded his arms. ‘Now: we need to co
ordinate our investigations. PSD and MIT.’

  ‘Honest police officers don’t run off to Spain and lie low while everyone back home thinks they’re dead.’

  ‘You can have a couple of officers to assist with your inquiries.’ Hardie pointed at his jowly sidekick. ‘George will sort that out.’

  She smiled at Logan. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t lump you with the neeps.’

  ‘Should think not. And I could do with a copy of the investigation into DI Bell’s so-called suicide, too.’

  ‘I think Charlie’s got that one.’

  Sidekick number two nodded. ‘I’ll drop it off.’

  Logan wandered over to the whiteboards and stood there, head on one side, running his eyes down all the open cases.

  Hardie was trying on his authoritative voice: ‘My MIT will be focusing on catching whoever stabbed Ding-Dong. You can look into … his disappearance.’

  Logan stayed where he was. ‘You’re running the search for Ellie Morton?’

  ‘I expect you to share any and all findings with my team. You report to me first.’

  Aye, right. ‘And Superintendent Doig agreed to that? Doesn’t sound like him. I’d probably better check, you know: in case there’s been a misunderstanding.’

  A harrumphing noise from Hardie. Busted.

  Logan gave him a smile. ‘Ellie’s been missing for, what: four days?’

  DS Scott tapped his pen on the whiteboard. ‘DI Fraser’s working that one. My money’s on the stepdad. Got form for indecent exposure when he was young. Once a pervert…’

  A nod. ‘I’ll give Fraser a shout.’

  Hardie harrumphed again. ‘If I can drag you back to the topic for a brief moment, Inspector: DI Bell’s files. Where are they?’

  ‘DS Rennie’s going through them.’ Logan turned and pulled on a smile. ‘You wanted us to look into the historic side of things, remember? Bell’s disappearance?’

  A puzzled look. ‘But I only just told you that.’

  Logan’s smile grew. ‘See: we’re already acting like a well-oiled machine.’

  2

  The canteen was virtually deserted. Well, except for Baked Tattie Ted, in his green-and-brown tabard, worrying away at the deep-fat frier while Logan plucked a tin of Irn-Bru from the chiller cabinet.

  Logan pinned his phone between ear and shoulder while he went digging in his pocket for some change. ‘Anything?’

  The sound of rustling paper and creaking cardboard came from the earpiece, followed by a distracted-sounding Rennie. ‘Nada, zilch, zip, bugger-and-indeed-all. Not that screams “lots of money went missing!” anyway.’

  Two fifties, a ten and a couple of pennies. They jingled in Logan’s palm as he walked to the counter. ‘Of course it might not be about an old case. Maybe his personal life was what made him up sticks and disappear?’

  A groan. ‘Please don’t tell me I’m wading through all this stuff for nothing!’

  The canteen door thumped open and in strutted a woman made up like something off the cosmetics counter at Debenhams. Jane McGrath: in a smart trouser suit, perfect hair, folder under one arm, phone to her ear, and a smile on her face. ‘That’s right, yes. … Completely.’

  She waved at him and helped herself to a cheese-and-pickle sandwich and a can of Coke. Tucked a packet of salt-and-vinegar under her arm. ‘That’s right. … Uh-huh. … Yes. I know, it’s terrible. Truly terrible.’ She pinned the phone to her chest and her smile blossomed into an evil grin – mouthing the words at Logan: ‘Isn’t it great?’ Then back to the phone. ‘It’s a miracle their injuries weren’t even more serious. I don’t need to tell you how many police officers are hurt in the line of duty every year. … Yes. … Yes, that’s right.’

  Rennie whinged in his ear. ‘Guv? You still there? I said, tell me I’m not—’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Simon: it’s not for nothing if you find something. And see if you can text me a list of DI Bell’s sidekicks.’

  ‘Hold on…’ The sound of rustling papers. ‘OK. Let me see… Here we go. Most recent one was Detective Sergeant Rose Savage. God that’s a great police name, isn’t it? Sounds like something off a crime thriller. Detective Sergeant Rose Savage!’

  Jane dumped her sandwich, Coke, and crisps on the countertop. ‘I’ll talk to the hospital, but I’m pretty sure we can get you in for a ten-minute interview: “brave bobbies suffer broken bones chasing cowardly criminal!” … Yes, I thought so. … OK. … OK. Thanks. Bye.’ She hung up and sagged, head back, beaming at the ceiling tiles. ‘Ha!’

  ‘Find out where this Sergeant Savage works now and text me.’

  ‘Guv.’

  Logan put his phone away as Jane launched into a little happy dance.

  ‘Guess who just got all that crap about us being rubbish off the front page. Go on, I’ll bet you can’t.’

  Logan frowned. ‘Hospital?’

  ‘Two uniforms were chasing down a burglar last night, he wheeches through some back gardens then up and over a shed. They clamber after him and CRASH! Pair of them go straight through the shed roof.’

  ‘Ooh… Painful.’

  ‘One broken arm, one broken leg. Which was lucky.’

  She had a point. ‘Especially given the amount of pointy things people keep in sheds. Shears, axes, forks, rakes, bill hooks—’

  ‘What?’ She pulled her chin in, top lip curled. ‘No, I mean: lucky they got hurt in the line of duty. Newspapers love a good injured copper story.’ That kicked off another bout of happy dancing.

  Logan paid for his Irn-Bru. ‘Working in Media Liaison’s really changed you, hasn’t it?’

  ‘And with any luck they’ll have a couple of good bruises as well. That always plays well splashed across the front page.’ She turned and danced away.

  Logan shook his head. ‘Why do we have to keep hiring weirdos? What’s wrong with normal—’

  His phone dinged at him and he dug it out again.

  A text message from ‘IDIOT RENNIE’:

  Sargent ROSE SAVAGE!!! (crim fiter 2 the stars) wrks out the Mastrick staton. On duty nw. U wan me 2 get hr 2 com in??

  Talking of weirdos…

  Logan typed out a reply:

  No, I’ll go to her. She’s less likely to do a runner if it’s a surprise. And stop texting like a schoolgirl from the 1990s: you’ve got a smartphone, you idiot!

  North Anderson Drive slid by the car’s windows, high-rise buildings looming up ahead on the right, their façades darkened by rain. A couple of saggy-looking people slouched through the downpour, dragging a miserable spaniel on the end of an extendable leash.

  ‘…heightened police presence in Edinburgh this weekend as protestors are expected to descend on the World Trade Organization Ministerial Conference…’

  He took the next left, past rows of tiny orangey-brown houses and terraces of pebble-dashed beige.

  ‘…avoid the area as travel chaos is extremely likely until Tuesday. Local news now, and the Aberdeen Examiner has its sights set on a Guinness World Record next week as it hosts the world’s largest ever stovies-eating contest…’

  Three teenaged girls hung about on a small patch of grass, sheltering beneath the trees to share what was quite possibly a joint. Passing it back and forth, holding the smoke in their lungs and pulling faces.

  Logan slowed the Audi and wound down the passenger window. Waving at them. ‘’Ello, ’ello, ’ello, what’s all this then?’

  ‘Scarper!’

  They bolted in three different directions, their hand-rolled ‘cigarette’ spiralling away into the wet grass.

  Logan grinned and wound his window back up again.

  And people said community policing was a waste of time.

  ‘…and I’m sorry to say that it looks like this rain’s going to stay with us for the next few days as low pressure pushes in from the Atlantic…’

  He turned down the next side street, past more tiny terraces, and right on to Arnage Drive in time to see one of the scarpering teenagers barrel out from
the side of another grey-beige row. She scuttered to a halt in the middle of the road and stood there with her mouth hanging open, before turning and sprinting back the way she’d come. Arms and legs pumping like an Olympian.

  Ah, teenagers, the gift that kept on giving.

  He pulled into the car park behind the little shopping centre, designed more for delivery vans and lorries than members of the public. The front side might have been OK, but the back was a miserable slab of brick and barred windows on the bottom and air-conditioning units and greying UPVC on top. All the charm of a used corn plaster.

  A handful of hatchbacks littered the spaces between the bins, but Logan parked next to the lone patrol car. Hopped out into the rain.

  It pattered on the brim of his peaked cap as he hurried across to the station’s rear door, unlocked it, and let himself in.

  The corridor walls were covered in scuff marks, a pile of Method Of Entry kit heaped up beneath the whiteboard for people to sign out the patrol cars, a notice not to let someone called Grimy Gordon into the station, because last time he puked in Sergeant Norton’s boots.

  ‘Hello?’

  No reply, just a phone ringing somewhere in the building’s bowels.

  The reception area was empty, a ‘CLOSED’ sign hanging on the front door. No one in the locker room. No one in the back office.

  Might as well make himself comfortable, then.

  The station break room was bland and institutional, with an air of depression that wasn’t exactly lifted by the display of ‘GET WELL SOON!’ cards pinned to the noticeboard, almost covering the slew of official memos and motivational posters. A window would have helped lift the gloom a bit, instead the only illumination came from one of those economy lightbulbs that looked like a radioactive pretzel. A dented mini-fridge, food-spattered microwave, and battered kettle populated the tiny kitchen area.

  Logan dumped his teabag in the bin and stirred in a glug of semi-skimmed from a carton with a ‘STOP STEALING MY MILK YOU THIEVING BASTARDS!!!’ Post-it note on it.