The Blood Road

by Stuart MacBride

  Rennie grimaced, accelerating down the road. ‘Well, that was fun.’

  ‘Bloody Colin Bloody Miller!’ Logan pulled out his phone and poked at the screen. Listened to it ring. ‘Pick up, you rancid little…’ A click. ‘Colin? Why the hell didn’t you tell me you’d tracked down DI Bell’s Spanish family?’

  Miller tutted a couple of times, then, ‘You used to be a lot more polite on the phone.’

  ‘You should’ve told me he had another family in Villafff…weren…’

  ‘Villaferrueña. It’s a middle-of-nowhere teeny-wee village. Population about a hundred and fifty? Boring. You’d love it.’

  ‘This is an ongoing investigation!’

  ‘Aye, and you can read all about it in tomorrow’s Aberdeen Examiner. Now, if there’s nothing else, I’m away to that nice butcher in Rosemount to pick up some steaks for tea. You know how Isobel loves a good slab of meat when she’s been post-morteming all day, but.’

  ‘Colin!’

  A laugh rattled down the phone. ‘I know stuff you don’t. If you want to play quid pro quo at some point, you know where to find us.’ Then the connection went dead. He’d hung up.

  ‘Damn it.’ Logan lowered his phone.

  Rennie looked across the car at him. ‘We could get a warrant?’

  ‘Yes, because we’ve done such a great job of that recently.’ Logan shook his head. ‘You know what? Not my case: not my problem. DCI Hardie can deal with it.’

  The identikit houses and identikit streets drifted past the car windows as Rennie made for the dual carriageway again. ‘Guv? That reporter– the one who looks like a really thin bloke – she said, “was the Ellie Morton case connected to Stephen MacGuire going missing?”’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Who’s Stephen MacGuire?’

  Good point.

  ‘No idea.’ Logan pulled up a web browser on his phone and thumbed in the name. Set it searching.

  A link to the Clydebank Herald and Post website came up and he followed it. Waiting for the page to load. ‘Here we go.’ The headline ‘FAMILY’S FEAR FOR MISSING STEPHEN’ filled the screen. Scrolling down revealed a photo of a small blond boy, smiling a gap-toothed smile. Lots of freckles. A dark-purple birthmark spread itself across one cheek and along the side of his nose.

  ‘“Stephen MacGuire, brackets four, went missing from outside his East Kilbride flat at half past eight this morning.” Blah, blah, blah. “‘A wonderful little boy who lights up every room he walks into,’ said his distraught mother, Janice, brackets twenty-three.”’

  Rennie nodded. ‘Any word of a stepdad?’

  ‘No, but the mother’s partner says, “Stephen would not just wander off, I am sure someone must have taken him.”’

  ‘There you go – it’ll be him. The partner.’

  ‘“We are desperate to get our beloved son home. Please, if you have any idea where Stephen is, get in touch with the authorities before it is too late.” Why do newspapers have to make everyone sound like robots? “Before it is too late.” Who talks like that?’

  Another nod. ‘It’s always the mum’s new bloke.’

  Logan put his phone away. ‘Don’t see how a kid getting abducted in East Kilbride has anything to do with a wee girl snatched from Tillydrone.’

  ‘All that “Stranger Danger” stuff is a waste of time. We’d be better off teaching kids to run away from their stepdads.’

  ‘…appealing for any information on missing four-year-old, Stephen MacGuire. Stephen was last seen outside his home on Telford Road at eight thirty-two this morning…’

  God, it was a lovely day. Not so nice back home with its wind and rain, of course, but out here? With the mighty Cairngorms rising on either side of the road, purpled with heather? The majestic Scottish sky a bright saphire blue? The sun shining down on natives and tourists alike? Who wouldn’t love this?

  ‘…distinctive port wine stain birthmark on his left cheek. Stephen was wearing blue jeans, a red sweatshirt with a panda on it, brown trainers, and a light-blue jacket…’

  The sign went past on the left, ‘FÀILTE DON GHÀIDHEALTACHD ~ WELCOME TO THE HIGHLANDS’ above a stylised illustration of the landscape, complete with trees and a shining loch.

  Lee grinned as his trusty old beige Volvo grumbled past it at a sensible 58 miles per hour: some wag had added a wee Nessie to the loch. Had to love the imagination of these people.

  ‘…morning. Police are keen to trace anyone who was in the area at the time, especially the drivers of a green Citroën Picasso and a grey Nissan Micra…’

  An idiot in a BMW overtook him, even though there was clearly a coach-load of day-trippers coming the other way. Roaring past, then slamming on its brakes to screech back into the left lane. Idiot. It was people like that who caused accidents.

  ‘…following statement.’

  A rough woman’s voice replaced the newsreader’s more professional tones. ‘While we can’t rule out a connection with the disappearances of Ellie Morton in Aberdeen, and Lucy Hawkins in St Andrews, I have to say that it’s very unlikely.’

  Aw, bless.

  ‘We have a considerable number of officers out searching the area as we speak, but I have to stress: if you saw Stephen MacGuire this morning, or have any idea where he is, I urge you to come forward and talk to us.’

  It was all rather sweet, really. Pointless, but sweet.

  ‘Stephen’s family are obviously very distressed at this time, so if you have any information, please get in touch by calling one zero one. Help us bring Stephen home.’

  And the newsreader was back. ‘Sport now and Aberdeen are looking to bring home three points from their Ibrox fixture this weekend. The Dons have been riding high since the start of the season and—’

  Lee switched the radio off.

  A full-scale manhunt – well, full-scale child-hunt – was excellent news. Nothing like a bit of publicity to whet people’s appetites.

  He took his eyes off the road for a brief moment and looked in the rear-view mirror – at the pet carrier in the boot, partially covered by a tartan blanket. ‘Did you hear that, Stephen? You’re famous!’

  A pair of watery green eyes blinked back at him through the pet carrier’s grille door. Freckles and tears on the wee boy’s pale cheeks. That distinctive port wine birthmark. The chunk of duct tape across his mouth.

  ‘Isn’t that exciting? All those policemen out looking for you? I bet they’ll have your picture on the lunchtime news and everything.’

  Stephen snivelled and cried.

  Which was only to be expected. He’d had a pretty big day after all: being bundled into a car boot by a woman he thought was his mum’s friend, then sold on at a disused-petrol-station in the middle of a run-down industrial estate. It was probably quite overwhelming for a wee lad.

  Still, that was no reason to mope, was it?

  ‘How about a sing-song to pass the time? Come on then, all together now: A hundred green bottles, hanging on the wall,’ belting it out, with a smile in his heart and his voice, ‘A hundred green bottles, hanging on the wall, and if one green bottle, should accidentally fall, there’d be…?’

  He glanced in the mirror again. Stephen stared back with his tear-stained cheeks and duct-tape gag.

  ‘Oh, that’s right. Sorry.’ Lee shrugged. ‘Never mind.’ Deep breath: ‘There’d be ninety-nine green bottles, hanging on the wall…’

  ‘But how?’ DCI Hardie’s voice whined out of the phone, making him sound as if someone was slowly beating him to death with a haddock. ‘How did they find out so quickly?’

  The Asda car park was getting busier as workers in Dyce’s industrial estates and oil offices rolled up to buy something for lunch. At least it had stopped raining.

  ‘No idea, but you know what the press are like. They don’t have to go through official channels, they can just bribe people.’ Logan hunched over the pool car’s boot. Shifted his phone – freeing up his other hand to rummage about in one of the cardboard boxes from DI
Bell’s house. Well, ex-DI Bell’s ex-house.

  This one was nearly all clothes, suits and shirts and trousers, crumpled and mangled where they’d been rammed in.

  ‘And he was living in Verti…?’

  ‘Villaferrueña.’ There were socks in here too. And Y-fronts. ‘There’s probably more info, but Miller’s saving it for the front page tomorrow. Unless we’ve got something we can trade?’

  ‘I’ll get on to the Spanish cops, see what they can dig up.’

  ‘The press are having a feeding frenzy outside Mrs Bell’s house, by the way. And from the sound of things they’ve started making stuff up.’ Some ties. A ten-pin bowling trophy sat at the very bottom of the box; the little man on top’s head had been snapped clean off.

  ‘Wonderful. Well, I’ve got a press conference starting in half an hour. Looking forward to that about as much as my last colonoscopy.’

  Should probably go through all the jacket and trouser pockets too.

  ‘When Rennie gets back, we’re off to speak to Sally MacAuley. Bell was obsessed with her case, so maybe…?’

  ‘But probably not.’

  ‘Probably not.’

  And talking of Rennie – he was bumbling his way out through the supermarket’s main doors, pushing a small trolley with a wonky wheel. Not a care in the world.

  Must be nice to be that divorced from reality.

  Logan dipped into the box again. A handful of serial-killer thriller paperbacks with cheesy predictable titles on a ‘DARK DEADLY DEATH BLOOD DEATHLY DYING’ theme. ‘While I’ve got you: you’ll need a Senior Investigating Officer for the Chalmers suicide. Because she was a police officer?’

  ‘Are you volunteering?’

  ‘No. But what about DS Rennie?’

  ‘As SIO?’ A laugh barked out of the phone. ‘I’d rather put drunken hyenas in charge of my granddaughter’s third birthday party.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s done the training course; he’s worked on several murders; he’s not got himself suspended, demoted, or fired; and it’s an open-and-shut suicide. Not even Beardie Beattie could screw this one up.’

  ‘Hmmmm…’

  Rennie made a massive detour around a puddle, trolley juddering and rattling away as if it was having a seizure. The idiot was grinning like this was the most fun he’d had in ages.

  Maybe Hardie was right? Maybe making Rennie SIO was asking for—

  ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, but OK. On the strict condition that he goes nowhere near the media and you supervise him the whole time. And I mean the whole time.’

  Rennie arrived with his wobbly trolley. He pointed at the contents and waggled his eyebrows.

  ‘Do we have a deal?’

  Oh God… He was going to regret this, wasn’t he?

  ‘Fine. If that’s what it takes.’ Logan pointed at Rennie, mouthing the words in silence: ‘You owe me!’ Then back to the phone. ‘Got to go. Good luck with the press conference.’

  ‘We’ll need it.’ And Hardie was gone.

  Logan put his phone away.

  Rennie frowned. ‘Owe you for what?’

  ‘You’re now officially SIO on Laura Chalmers’ suicide.’

  His eyes bugged and a wonky grin lopsided itself across his face. ‘Woohoo!’ He even did a little dance between the puddles, finishing with a half-arsed pirouette. Pointing at his purchases again. ‘And to celebrate: one pack of spicy rotisserie chicken thighs, hot. One four-pack of white rolls. One squeezy bottle of mayonnaise. One bag of mixed salad. Bottle of Coke, bottle of Irn-Bru. Six jammy doughnuts for a pound. Luncheon is served.’

  The pool car’s engine pinged and ticked as it cooled, the bonnet dulled by a thin film of drizzle. From here the view was … interesting: looking down, past a couple of fields to the massive concrete lumps of the new bridge over the River Don. The fabled Aberdeen Western Peripheral Route, rising from the earthworks slow and solid. A dark slash across the countryside, trapped beneath the dove-grey blanket of cloud. About forty years after they should have started building the damn thing. Back when the area was awash with oil money. Before the industry tanked.

  Ah well, better late than never.

  Rennie passed in front of the car again, pacing round it in the rain. Idiot.

  The windows were getting foggy, so Logan wound his one down, letting in the distant roar of construction equipment and passing traffic.

  Rennie did another lap. ‘No, I’m not kidding, they made me SIO!’ A pause, then his voice went all deadpan. ‘Oh: ha, ha, ha. No, it doesn’t stand for “Seriously Idiotic Onanist”. Thank you, Sarah Millican.’

  Logan poked away at his phone again:

  Did DS Chalmers say anything to you about any leads she was following about Ellie Morton’s disappearance?

  SEND.

  ‘Senior Investigating Officer, Emma! They made me Senior Investigating Officer on the Laura Chalmers case. … Yeah, it is a pretty big deal.’

  Ding.

  HORRIBLE STEEL:

  Nice try. I’m still not clyping on her. Or speaking to you.

  ‘I guess they finally recognised all the great work I’ve been doing. … Oh yeah.’

  Logan frowned and picked out a reply:

  She’s DEAD, Roberta. Whatever secrets she had aren’t hers to keep any more.

  SEND.

  ‘Who’s your daddy?… Damn right I am.’

  No reply from Steel.

  Probably sulking. Or sodded off for a vape.

  Some things never changed.

  ‘OK, yeah. … Love you, Fluffkins. … OK, bye. … Bye. … Bye, bye.’ Rennie blew a half-dozen kisses, then hung up. Turned to see Logan staring at him. ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve got a mayonnaise moustache.’ Logan took another bite of chicken-thigh buttie – savoury and salty and spicy and creamy. Talking with his mouth full. ‘And that’s not a euphemism.’

  ‘Ta.’ Rennie wiped his face with a napkin, scrumpled it up and tossed it over his shoulder into the back of the car. ‘So far we’ve had a suicide, a collapsed coffin, a baying mob of reporters, and I’ve got my first SIO gig.’ He performed a little bum-wriggling dance in the driver’s seat. ‘Best day at work for ages.’

  ‘When we get back to the Big Top, write up your report on Chalmers’ suicide and submit it to the Procurator Fiscal. Then I want you to go through the boxes in the boot. See if you can find any of DI Bell’s old notebooks in there. Maybe we’ll get lucky for a change?’

  Rennie peered across the car at the bag on Logan’s lap. ‘You wanting that bit of skin?’

  ‘Nope.’

  He grabbed the slab of chicken skin and wolfed it down. ‘How come you always call him “DI Bell” now instead of “Ding-Dong”? Always used to call him “Ding-Dong”.’

  ‘Because you shouldn’t use friendly nicknames for police officers who kill people.’

  ‘Ah. Point.’

  Outside, a crane lowered another chunk of grey onto the massive Lego set crossing the river. A handful of sheep skirted the chunk of flooded grass at the bottom of the field. The sound of chewing and slurping filled the car.

  Rennie had another scoof of Coke. ‘Yeah, but maybe he didn’t mean to kill whoever it was we buried? Maybe it was, like, a fight to the death!’

  ‘Then why use the body to fake your own suicide?’

  ‘Convenience? Wasn’t like anyone else was using it.’ Another mouthful, bits of salad falling into his lap.

  ‘And the person who attacked him coincidentally happened to be a good enough match for height and weight that everyone would be fooled?’

  ‘Another point.’ Rennie polished off his buttie and sooked his fingers clean. Checked his watch. ‘Oops, nearly missed it!’ He clicked on the car radio, stabbing the buttons until ‘NORTHSOUND 1’ appeared on the dial and a horrifically upbeat pop song belted out of the speakers.

  Logan turned it down a bit. ‘My money’s still on Fred Marshall.’

  Rennie dipped into the doughnut bag. ‘Nah, can’t be. I read hi
s file: Marshall was six-two and built like a whippet. Ding… DI Bell was five-ten tops and built like a grizzly bear. No way you’d get them mixed up. Not even after a fire.’

  The song on the radio faded out, replaced by a teuchter accent so thick it had to be fake. ‘Ah, michty me, another Dougie’s Lunchtime Listening Classic there. Gets better every time I hear it! But it’s one o’clock now and we ken fit that means: here’s Claire with the news and weather. Aye, aye, Claire, fit like the day, quine?’

  Claire didn’t even try to do the accent. ‘Nae bad, Dougie. Commuter chaos came to Aberdeen this morning when a burst water main flooded the Denburn roundabout…’

  Logan frowned. ‘Six foot two?’

  ‘Well, probably a bit less once you took the top of his head off with a shotgun. But yeah, not the same body type at all.’

  ‘Good job we didn’t get those warrants then.’

  ‘…for missing three-year-old Ellie Morton, local businesswoman Jerry Whyte has put up a five thousand pound reward for any information…’

  Logan helped himself to a doughnut. ‘Better go through all the missing person reports for the month DI Bell allegedly killed himself.’

  ‘Assuming it was someone anyone would miss.’

  A woman’s voice thumped out of the radio, positive and confident. ‘I’m glad to be in a position to help. And if we all chip in, I’m sure we can make a difference.’

  Then Claire was back. ‘And we can go live now to Northeast Divisional Headquarters.’

  Rennie licked the granulated sugar from his lips. ‘What if he offed a homeless person? Or a crim?’

  ‘Thank you all for coming.’ DCI Hardie didn’t sound as if he meant that. ‘I can confirm that the body of a man found in a crashed car yesterday morning was that of Duncan Bell, a former detective inspector with Police Scotland.’

  Logan’s doughnut popped with sharp-sweet raspberry jam. ‘Then we’re screwed.’ He caught the drip with a finger. ‘They couldn’t get any viable DNA the first time round, and I doubt we’ll do any better. Bell didn’t set fire to that caravan by accident, he knew it’d cook the remains and cover his tracks.’