The Blood Road

by Stuart MacBride

  6

  Superintendent Doig placed a bag of currants on his desk and followed it up with one of candied peel. Then one of dates. Making sure they stood in a straight line, as if they were on parade. ‘Now, you see, Logan, the trick is to get your fruit in to soak early.’ A tall man with a big forehead surrounded by closely cropped hair. The wee bald patch at the crown glowing with fine little hairs, deep creases around his eyes as he smiled and added a packet of suet to his fruity soldiers. Doig frowned at a bit of fluff on his black police T-shirt. ‘Tsk…’ He picked it off and dropped it into the bin – a rectangular one, presumably because it was easier to align with the desk.

  Everything in its proper place: the photo of a British Blue cat on his desk, precisely lined up with keyboard, pen holder, monitor, and notepad; the framed commendation from the Chief Constable exactly equidistant between the filing cabinets and the whiteboard; the perfect crease in his trousers, the perfect shine on his superintendent’s pips, the perfect mirror gloss of his boots.

  His smile faltered when he looked at Logan slumped there in one of the visitors’ chairs. ‘Is something wrong?’

  Logan rubbed his face with both hands. ‘Urgh…’

  ‘A Christmas cake can be a tricky thing, Logan. It’s important to follow proper procedure.’

  ‘One: it’s October. Two: I’m not “Urgh”ing about your cake, I like cake, I’m “Urgh”ing about Detective Sergeant Lorna Sodding Chalmers.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Well … I’m sure you did your best.’ A bag of dried cherries joined the ranks. ‘Now, as I was saying: it’s important to get your cake prepared in plenty of time so you can feed it. You want your cake nice and moist and boozy.’

  ‘I hate to do it, but I’m going to have to recommend disciplinary action.’

  ‘I like a mixture of brandy and whisky. Sherry’s too … trifley for me.’ Sultanas appeared next.

  ‘She’d clearly been in a fight today, but denied the whole thing. Lied right to my face. We didn’t even get onto what she was doing at the crash site this morning.’

  ‘And of course, it has to be black treacle.’ The tin joined the growing battalion.

  ‘I got Rennie to go digging. There’s no sign she ever worked with DI Bell. So why was she at the crash site?’

  Superintendent Doig looked up from his troops. ‘And how is Simon getting on?’

  ‘Rennie?’ Logan pulled his chin in. ‘Why?’

  ‘I know he’s only on temporary loan from CID, but if he’s fitting in, perhaps we should make it permanent?’

  ‘Yeah… Anyway: about DS Chalmers—’

  ‘I do love Christmas, don’t you?’ Doig went back to smiling at his packets of fruit.

  ‘Allan, can we focus on my problems for a minute?’

  ‘People think it’s a bit odd, a grown man obsessed by Christmas, but when you’re adopted you know how important human kindness is. Everyone needs a bit of hope.’

  Logan sat up. ‘Are you saying I shouldn’t recommend disciplinary action?’

  ‘Oh God, no. If DS Chalmers really is sitting on intel that could save Ellie Morton she needs a short sharp shock, not mollycoddling.’ Next up: a packet of ground almonds. ‘What’s happening with DI Bell?’

  ‘Early days, Guv. Early days.’

  ‘Hmm…’ Doig blinked what had to be the longest eyelashes known to man. ‘I know it’s petty of me, Logan, but it’d be nice if Professional Standards discovered something useful before DCI Hardie and his troops.’

  ‘Whatever Chalmers knows, it probably won’t save Ellie Morton. A three-year-old girl, missing for four days with no ransom note? Chances are she’s already dead.’

  ‘Well, you might as well get it over with, then.’

  Logan groaned, pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. Selected ‘DS LORNA CHALMERS’ and listened to it ring. And ring. And ring. And—

  ‘This is Lorna Chalmers’ voicemail. Leave a message.’

  He hung up. ‘No answer. Shock horror. She’s been avoiding me for days.’

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk. Chief Superintendent Napier used to say that getting hold of you was like trying to catch oiled eels in a barrel of slippery socks.’ A bag of demerara sugar took up position at the rear of the column.

  Logan pulled over Doig’s desk phone, knocking over a couple of soldiers – much to their commander’s distress – and dialled Chalmers’ number. Listened to it ring again. ‘Come on… Pick up the damn—’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘DS Chalmers, it’s Inspector McRae.’

  The response was muttered, but still clearly audible. ‘Oh for God’s sake…’ There was a pause, filled with what sounded like engine noises. ‘What do you want? I’m busy.’

  ‘They want to suspend you, Lorna, but I’ve talked them into giving you one last chance.’

  Doig raised an eyebrow at that.

  OK, so it was maybe a bit of artistic licence. Still worth a go, though. ‘Go into the office right now and tell DI Fraser what you know, or suspect, or whatever it is you’re chasing about Ellie Morton.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Work with me; I’m trying to help you here!’

  The contempt virtually dripped from the earpiece. ‘Remind me to send you a thank you card and a medal.’ Another pause. ‘Now, if you’re finished being beneficent and condescending, I’ve got work to do.’

  God’s sake, she was impossible.

  ‘Lorna, don’t be…’ Logan stared at the phone. ‘She’s hung up.’

  Superintendent Doig shrugged. ‘Some people just don’t want to be helped.’

  Lorna turned off the main road, into the little industrial estate, ignoring the five miles an hour speed limit as she roared past the line of warehouses. Slamming on her brakes so the Fiat slithered to a halt outside one of the Portakabins at the far end of the car park.

  A big sign decorated the front wall: ‘ABERRAD INVESTIGATION SERVICES LTD. ~ FAST, EFFICIENT, & DISCREET’ with a ram’s head above it for a logo.

  She climbed out into the rain and nothing hurt any more, adrenaline singing through her veins. She slammed the car door, pulled the hockey stick from the back seat and strode over there. Rolling her shoulders. Loosening up. Getting ready.

  She swung the stick, smashing its head into the glass panel that made up the top half of the Portakabin’s door, shattering it, sending the ‘COME ON IN, WE’RE OPEN!’ sign flying.

  Yes. This was more like it.

  Lorna backed away, cricking her neck from side to side, feet planted shoulder-width apart, stick at the ready. Took a deep breath ‘COME ON THEN! LET’S SEE HOW BRAVE YOU ARE NOW!’

  The door opened.

  Logan tucked the packet of Penguin biscuits under his arm, picked up the two mugs of tea, and wandered out into the PSD office. They’d taken over half of the floor, stuck a couple of offices down one side, a reception area, put in a cupboard-sized kitchen, and left the rest open plan. Divided up by the ubiquitous Police Scotland cubicles.

  A poster adorned one wall – a kitten climbing out of an old boot, beneath the slogan, ‘GO GET ’EM, TIGER!’

  Someone definitely go-getting-’em was Shona. Logan nodded at her as he passed, keeping his mouth shut. Because if you said anything to her she’d drag you into her ongoing battle with the office printer. She was belting it with a packet of Post-it notes, teeth gritted, her brown fringe flopping with every blow – exposing the toast-rack wrinkles that crossed her forehead.

  She gave it another thwack. ‘Print both sides, you useless pile of junk!’

  Brandon was on the phone, one foot up on his return unit, rocking his chair from side to side. ‘…only, and here’s the problem, I don’t think that was a wise thing to say to a member of the public, do you, Constable?’ He looked over at Logan’s mugs and raised two massive hairy eyebrows. Hopeful.

  Logan kept on going.

  The eyebrows fell again. ‘Because, Constable, when you tell someone to “bleep” off “ble
eping” filming you on their “bleep-bleeping” mobile phone and stuff it up their “bleeping bleephole”, they tend to make formal complaints!’

  Rennie’s cubicle lurked in the corner, mostly hidden by a wall of file boxes, archive crates, stacks of paperwork, and a faint miasma of beef-and-tomato. Its occupant sat hunched over, tongue poking out the side of his mouth as he traced a finger through a document and typed with his other hand.

  Logan stuck one of the mugs on Rennie’s desk. ‘Milk, two sugars.’

  A beaming smile. ‘Ooh, ta.’ Slurp. ‘And does one spy biscuits?’

  ‘One does, but only if one has actually discovered something useful.’

  ‘Oh.’ He poked at the papers spread across his desk. ‘I’ve been through all of DI Bell’s cases for the last ten years. Nothing with missing evidence. No gold bullion, or jewellery, or nonsequentially numbered banknotes, or works of art. If he was digging up loot I’ve no idea where it came from.’

  ‘What about forensics? They get anything off the car, or the pick and shovel?’

  ‘Tried chasing them up this morning: they laughed at me. Apparently we’re not the only case they’re working on.’ Rennie dug into his stacks of paper and came out with a ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?’ poster. He handed it over. ‘Media Department released that at lunchtime.’ Someone had done an e-fit picture of DI Bell, looking like he had when they found his body in his crashed car this morning. Only less dead. Above the e-fit, in big block capitals, was, ‘CARLOS GUERRERO Y PRIETO AKA: DUNCAN BELL’.

  Logan frowned at the poster. ‘Please tell me someone’s been to see his next of kin?’

  ‘Dunno, Guv.’

  ‘How much do you want to bet?’ He pulled out his phone and called Hardie. It rang for a bit, then crackled.

  Hardie’s voice had a strange hollow echo to it, the words broken and fuzzy. ‘Inspector McRae?’

  ‘DI Bell: has anyone delivered the death message yet?’

  ‘What? I can barely hear you. Hold on…’ A couple of thumps. A click. Some rustling. Then, ‘Urgh… Are you there?’

  ‘I said, has anyone delivered the death message to DI Bell’s next of kin?’

  ‘Reception’s terrible in the mortuary.’

  ‘Only I’m pretty sure his wife’s still alive. He’s got grown-up kids too: boy and a girl.’

  ‘Inspector McRae, did you drag me out of Ding-Dong’s post mortem for a sodding reason, because—’

  ‘And if we’re going to plaster the Northeast in posters with his face on them and “have you seen this man?”, they’re probably going to notice.’

  A moment’s silence, broken only by what might have been a muffled swear word.

  Logan took a sip of tea. ‘Would be nice if she heard it from us, before the press find out and go after her.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ Then a sigh. ‘I’ll get a Family Liaison Officer sorted.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Professor McAllister says Bell probably bled to death as a result of the stab wound to his right side. Straight through his ascending colon and severed a chunk of his small intestine. Wasn’t a whole heap of fun watching her remove that lot.’ Hardie huffed out a breath. ‘Anyway: knife went in deep enough to nick the common iliac vein, if that means anything to you? The hilt left a narrow rectangular bruise on the skin too, so we’re looking at a six-inch knife with a wide blade tapering to a point. Maybe a kitchen knife.’

  Wow.

  ‘Isobel said all that? Used to be you couldn’t prise a diagnosis out of her without a crowbar and two weeks’ notice.’

  ‘Not that it helps.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose it does.’

  ‘Anyway, better get back to it. Still got the urogenital block to dissect.’ What sounded like a shudder. ‘Always a favourite.’ And Hardie was gone.

  Logan hung up and stared out of the window.

  Cars and lorries and trucks and buses crawled their way along the dual carriageway outside Bucksburn station. Backed-up westbound by the roadworks and roundabout, eastbound by the traffic lights and potholes.

  Kitchen knife. So probably untraceable, unless they already had a suspect and something to match the stab wound with. Which they didn’t. And that—

  Rennie poked him. ‘So, about those biscuits?’

  Logan checked his watch. 16:30. Ah, why not. He opened the packet and tossed a Penguin onto the desk. ‘Here. Got to keep your strength up: big day tomorrow. Interviews and an exhumation.’

  ‘But … it’s Saturday tomorrow! I’ve got to take Donna swimming, then we’re off to KFC and ballet classes.’

  A shrug. ‘Ah well. I suppose we’ll just have to cope without you.’

  ‘No, but I want to come with!’ Rennie stood, arms spread in true martyr style as he gestured at his piles of paper and boxes. ‘All I ever do is go through files and stuff. I want to be out there, where the action is. Solving crimes!’

  ‘Well we can’t just put everything on hold for the weekend, Simon, I’ve got a JCB digger booked for half-nine tomorrow.’

  ‘Argh…’ He slumped back into his chair, hands over his face. ‘Emma’s going to kill me…’

  ‘Then man-up and take your daughter swimming.’ Logan pointed at the paperwork. ‘And when you’ve finished whatever it is you’re doing, you can pack up for the night. Whoever’s buried in DI Bell’s grave will still be dead on Monday.’

  7

  Rain sparkled in the Audi’s headlights as he pulled into his driveway, illuminating the yellow bulk of the skip sitting on the weed-flecked lock-block. Logan parked in front of it and sat there.

  Need to get that guttering fixed. And do something about the garden. Compared to the rest of the street it was a bit … well, ‘shabby’ was probably being generous. Call it an overgrown jungle instead. The rattling spears of rosebay willowherb shook beside a rhododendron bush big enough to swallow a caravan. A couple of beech trees lurked in the gloom, dropping their pale-cream leaves in the tussocked grass.

  Never owned trees before. Or rhododendrons. Or a garden, come to that.

  Still, one thing at a time.

  He climbed out and hurried up the drive, past the skip, to shelter under the porch.

  Ivy wound its way around the granite pillars supporting the little roof, reaching out from a massive wodge of the stuff that choked the living room window and curled into the gutters, hiding the blockwork. That would have to go too.

  He plipped the Audi’s locks and let himself in.

  ‘Cthulhu?’

  Click – the bare lightbulb showered the hallway in cold white light.

  Scuffed floorboards clunked beneath his feet, tiny tufts of fabric still sticking to the gripper rods where he’d torn the carpet up. Walls stripped to the bare plaster, white blobs of Polyfilla making it look like a child undergoing treatment for chicken pox.

  Logan peeled off his Police Scotland fleece and hung it over the newel post at the foot of the stairs. Tried not to think too much about the patch of brand-new floorboards surrounding it.

  At least the smell had gone.

  More or less…

  ‘Cthulhu? Daddy’s home!’

  He unbuttoned the flaps on his T-shirt and slid the epaulettes free on his way into the living room.

  It was almost pitch-black in here, the yellow glow of the streetlights dimmed to a septic smear by the ivy outside.

  Click – more chicken-pox walls, and bare floorboards.

  But at least he was making a start. Rolls of fresh paper lay piled up on the floor, by the wallpaper table. Two stepladders with a scaffolding board slotted into the steps between them. Pots of paint. A couple of cheap camping chairs, a sofa that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the skip on the driveway, and a decent-sized TV – even if it was propped up on breeze blocks.

  ‘Cthulhu? Where the hell are you, you…’ Logan smiled as she padded into the room. He squatted down and held out his hand.

  She prooped and meeped her way across the floorboards, huge f
luffy tail straight up, white bib and paws almost fluorescent in the harsh overhead light. Cobwebs sticking to her brown-and-grey stripes. Fur so soft it was like stroking smoke.

  ‘How’s Daddy’s bestest girl?’

  She did her little cat dance, treadling on the floor as she turned around him.

  ‘Oh, you’ve been hunting mouses? Good girl! Did you catch any?’

  She thumped her head into his thigh and purred.

  ‘Well, that is exciting.’ He scooped her up with a grunt, holding her upside down and rubbing her tummy as he wandered back through to the hall.

  More purring.

  ‘What? No, not really. It was a horrible day.’

  Up the stairs and along the landing. More chicken pox. Probably have to replace a few of the floorboards here too.

  ‘Someone abducted a little girl. Four days and there’s still no ransom note.’

  At least the master bedroom was finished: nice thick carpet, cheerful yellow walls, some framed photos above the double bed.

  ‘I know, I know: if they didn’t snatch her for ransom, then it’s probably sexual, isn’t it?’ He lowered Cthulhu onto the bed and stripped off his Police Scotland T-shirt. The scar tissue crisscrossing his stomach shiny and pink. Might be an idea to invest in some of those warm-white lightbulbs instead? Something a bit less intense and guard-towery.

  Cthulhu treadled on the duvet cover, making delighted noises.

  ‘That’s what I was thinking.’ He changed out of his boots and police-issue trousers. ‘Oh, you think she’s been abducted to order? Could be. Amounts to the same thing, I suppose.’

  A pair of paint-spattered jeans came out of the wardrobe.

  ‘Or maybe someone abducted her to sell on? A little girl’s got to be worth a fair bit on the open market. If you had somewhere to sell her.’ He did up the buttons. Fastened his belt. Frowned. ‘That’s a very good point. Maybe it is the fabled northeast Livestock Mart…’

  Cthulhu started in on a wash.

  ‘Or maybe it’s the obvious answer? The stepfather abused her, killed her, and hid the body somewhere.’ An equally painty T-shirt joined the jeans. ‘I knew you’d say that, but Chalmers interviewed him. His alibi’s sound.’