The Blood Road

by Stuart MacBride

  Rennie sneezed.

  Crowbar fidgeted.

  More incomprehensible shouting.

  More fidgeting.

  A lovely uncomfortable silence.

  Logan finally broke it. ‘You’re a strange friend, Craig. First you rat out Fred Marshall; then, when he disappears, you move in on his wife and raise his kid.’

  ‘When Jaime was born, Fred said, didn’t he? If anything happened to him, I had to promise to look after them!’ An embarrassed shrug. ‘You know: doing my bit. As a mate.’

  ‘Tell me, Craig, if I was to get a sample of Jaime’s DNA would it match Fred Marshall’s or yours?’

  His face flushed red as a freshly popped zit. ‘No comment.’

  ‘Yeah, thought so.’

  Hardie didn’t look up from his paperwork as Logan slipped into his office.

  ‘Have you got a minute, Chief Inspector?’

  Hardie’s shoulders slumped. ‘Inspector McRae. Lucky me.’

  ‘It’s about the Kenneth and Aiden MacAuley investigation. We—’

  ‘I’m going to stop you right there.’ He held up a hand. ‘Whatever it is: I don’t care. Go tell the Senior Investigating Officer.’

  Logan settled into one of Hardie’s visitors’ chairs. ‘Don’t think it would do much good. DCI Gordon’s still going to be off on the sick.’

  And at that Hardie looked up. ‘Please tell me you’re trying to be funny?’

  Logan shook his head.

  ‘Oh in the name of the hairy Christ!’ He crumpled the form he’d been reading, then did the same with his face. ‘Why the hell did I agree to do this job? I could’ve stayed where I was, banging up drug dealers, but no…’

  ‘Look on the bright side: at least DCI Gordon had his stroke before you took over. Not your fault Truncheon Tom forgot to assign a new SIO.’

  ‘Try telling our beloved leaders that.’ Hardie stared at the ceiling tiles for a moment. Sagged even further. ‘OK, OK, leave it with me. Gah…’

  Logan let himself out.

  Logan scuffed into his temporary office. Still no sign of any minions.

  Rennie was there, though, with his feet up on his desk, hands behind his head. Whistling a cheery tune.

  Logan dumped his fleece on the back of his chair and sat. ‘Should you not be working?’

  ‘Ten to six, Guv, shift’s over, time to go home.’ A grin. ‘Or better yet: time to go out and celebrate! Three and a half years the MacAuley case has been going on, and who gets the first breakthrough? We do. Ka-ching!’

  ‘Just because Crowbar Craig Simpson says something, doesn’t make it true.’

  Rennie held up a hand. ‘Don’t widdle on my parade, I’m having a moment.’

  ‘You’re having an idiot.’ He pointed at Rennie’s computer. ‘Did you get an address for Sally MacAuley’s private eyes yet?’

  A Post-it was produced with a flourish. ‘AberRAD Investigation Services Limited. Northfield Industrial Estate on Quarry Road. Open Wednesday to Sunday, ten till six thirty.’

  Logan stood and grabbed his fleece again. ‘Well don’t sit there like a sack of neeps: get the car keys! If we hurry we might make it before they close.’

  Rennie did a little wiggly dance in the driver’s seat as the pool car drifted across Northfield – singing along with some horrible autotuned nonsense on the radio, in what, to be honest, was a perfectly passable light baritone. Didn’t make it any less irritating, though. Especially as the whole thing was out of time with the groaning windscreen wipers:

  ‘Cos I’m a deep-sea diver, and I’m searching for your love,

  Got the sharks down there beneath me and the boats soar up above…’

  Logan hit him. ‘I’m trying to read, here.’ Then returned to his copy of Cold Blood and Dark Granite. According to Sally MacAuley, when the investigation stalled, they—’

  ‘And the octopus, he knows me, cos his heart is lost like mine,

  But we’re both sure we’ll find it, if you’ll only give us time…’

  ‘Seriously, I’ve read this page three times now. Shut up, or I’ll rip your ears off and make you eat them.’

  A humph emanated from the boy idiot. ‘Not my fault you don’t like music.’

  The car lumped and bumped its way across a potholed stretch of road and into a small industrial estate opposite the playground on Quarry Road. What looked like a builder’s yard and a couple of warehouse-style buildings.

  ‘That isn’t music.’ Logan clicked off the radio. ‘It’s a venereal disease with a tune.’

  The pool car lurched to a halt in front of a cluster of Portakabins, in the corner furthest from the entrance, backed against the boundary wall and fence.

  Rennie pulled on the handbrake. ‘How do you want to play this?’

  ‘I don’t care as long as it doesn’t involve you singing.’

  ‘Good cop, bad cop? Maybe a bit of Columbo?’ Rennie put on the voice. ‘“Ehhh… Just one more thing…”’ Then back to normal. ‘No?’

  ‘I should’ve left you at the station.’ Logan tapped the page he’d been over four times now. ‘It says here that DI Bell was a regular visitor to Sally MacAuley’s house.’

  ‘Told you they were at it.’ Rennie pointed at the Portakabins. ‘Shall I see if anyone’s in?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead he climbed out of the car and strode over to the nearest one. A big sign was mounted on the side: ‘ABERRAD INVESTIGATION SERVICES LTD. ~ FAST, EFFICIENT, & DISCREET’ in bright-red letters, beneath a stylised ram’s head logo.

  The Portakabin’s front door must’ve had a glazed bit at one point, but now the glass was boarded over with chipboard. Rennie opened the door and ducked inside.

  Logan flicked through to the photos again. Stopped at the one of DI Bell organising his team. ‘What the hell were you involved in?’

  No answer from the dead man in the photograph.

  Rennie made a surprise reappearance, backwards – staggering to a halt on the tarmac as two figures bustled out of the AberRAD offices.

  Number One: black biker jacket, black jeans, black trainers, and a bright-pink top. Long hair streaming out behind her as she surged forward, chin out, perfectly made-up face contorted into a snarl.

  Number Two: a small burly bloke in blue jeans, with a brown leather jacket on over a garish Hawaiian shirt. Not a lot of hair left on his head. Both hands curled into fists.

  The pair of them advanced on Rennie, who, for some reason, had adopted a fighting stance.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Logan closed his book and climbed out into the drizzle.

  The woman shoved Rennie, sending him staggering away. ‘You want some, do you? You want some?’

  ‘I’m warning you, I’m a—’

  ‘Aye, he wants some.’ Her friend rolled his shoulders. ‘Look at him, Danners, he wants some: big time.’

  Wonderful.

  Logan reached into the pool car and grabbed one of the collapsible batons.

  Number One, ‘Danners’ shoved Rennie again. ‘I’m going to tear you apart and feed what’s left to my dog, little boy.’

  Number Two grinned. ‘Ooh, you’re screwed now, sunshine!’

  Logan slammed the car door. ‘All right, that’s enough.’

  Number Two turned, arms out. Teeth bared. ‘Get back in the car, Lugs, unless you want a spanking as well.’

  Danners gave Rennie another shove. ‘You’re mine, sunshine!’

  ‘You’re not listening.’ Logan clacked his extendable baton out to its full length. ‘I said, that’s enough!’

  A grin spread across Number Two’s face. ‘Oh it – is – on!’ Bouncing on the balls of his feet, cricking his head from one side to the other.

  Then the Portakabin door thumped open again.

  ‘Hoy!’ Raymond Hacker stood on the top step, a mobile phone clamped to his chest. ‘Will you idiots keep it down? I’m on the phone with a client.’ He looked much the same as he did in Sally MacAuley’s book. The swept-back hair was maybe a bit greyer
at the sides, and the lines in his face a little deeper. But it was definitely him.

  Number Two pointed at Rennie. ‘This arsehole barged in like he owned the place.’ He swung his arm around and jabbed the finger at Logan. ‘And this arsehole’s begging for a kicking.’

  Logan looked down at his own clothes. ‘You can see I’m wearing a police uniform, right? You do know what “the police” is?’

  Danners stepped in close to Rennie, looming over him, even though they were much the same height. ‘This tiny strip of piss isn’t wearing one.’

  ‘I’m a police officer too!’

  She curled her top lip. ‘You have to be joking. No way they’d give something like you a warrant card.’

  Rennie stuck his chest out. ‘I’m Senior Investigating Officer on a very important case!’

  ‘Oh aye?’ Number Two raised an eyebrow. ‘What kind of half-arsed case could you possibly… Ooh, I know: is it shoplifting?’

  Danners poked Rennie. ‘Overdue library books?’

  ‘Someone’s stealing the CID biscuits?’

  Rennie stuck his nose in the air. ‘It’s the suicide of a police officer, thank you very much!’

  ‘Ah…’ Danners looked away. Cleared her throat. ‘Sorry. Didn’t know.’

  Number Two shrugged. ‘Yeah. Sorry.’

  ‘Pair of halfwits.’ Raymond Hacker shook his head. ‘Now, if we’re all quite finished playing British Bulldogs: Andy, get the kettle on. Danners, see if we’ve got any biscuits left in the tin.’ Then Hacker stepped down from the Portakabin and held his business card out to Logan. ‘Raymond Hacker, Inspector…?’

  ‘McRae.’

  ‘Sorry about that.’ Hacker settled behind his desk. ‘We had a couple of Soprano wannabes in last week, trying to tap us for protection money. Well, you saw what they did to the front door. Danielle and Andy are a bit … disapproving about that kind of thing.’

  It wasn’t a huge office, but it took up about a quarter of the Portakabin, separated from the rest of it by a dividing wall and a glazed panel door. On the other side of the glass, Number Two, AKA: Andy, was busying himself with a kettle in a tiny kitchen area at the far end while Danners rummaged through a barricade of filing cabinets.

  No filing cabinets for Hacker’s office. Instead he had a couple of large pot plants, framed testimonials, and a photo of him shaking hands with the First Minister. A big digital camera, mounted on a tripod, overlooked the desk and visitors’ chairs. A fish tank burbling away to itself, full of little fish in cheery colours.

  ‘So, what can we do to help our brothers in blue?’ Hacker gestured towards the chairs. ‘Well, brothers in black now, I suppose.’

  Logan sat. ‘Are you still working for Mrs MacAuley?’

  ‘Sally?’ He seemed a bit surprised at the question. ‘Yes. We’re still looking for Aiden on her behalf.’ He turned his chair and waved at the framed testimonials. ‘Course our bread-and-butter’s divorces. Cheating husbands, wayward wives – you know the drill. But we always keep an ear out for Aiden.’

  ‘Any luck?’

  A shrug. ‘Rumours from time to time. Sightings everywhere from John o’ Groats to Istanbul. But nothing solid.’ Hacker sat back and squinted at him. ‘Can I ask what this is about?’

  ‘Did you have much to do with DI Duncan Bell?’

  ‘Ding-Dong? God, now there’s a blast from the past. Ding-Dong was my DI for about two years, before I left the force.’

  Rennie took the other chair, notebook at the ready. ‘You were Job?’

  ‘Divisional Intelligence Office. But I never liked following other people’s orders. That’s why I left – to set up this place. Be my own boss.’

  ‘Don’t remember you…’

  ‘DIO isn’t meant to fraternise with other teams. Can’t risk compromising sources.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rennie nodded. ‘Yeah, suppose.’

  Logan leaned forward. ‘Did DI Bell ever talk to you about the MacAuley case?’

  ‘I resigned from the force long before Aiden was abducted, but yeah. When Sally hired us I tried to get Ding-Dong to spill his beans loads of times. Only managed it once – think it was a couple of weeks before he topped himself. If I remember it right, he was sweating like a paedo in a nursery, acting all shifty.’

  The fish tank gurgled.

  Outside, in the office, a phone rang and Danners answered, the conversation too muted by the closed door to be audible.

  Rennie shifted in his seat.

  And Hacker just sat there. Completely unfazed by the silence.

  Ah well, worth a try. ‘And what did DI Bell say?’

  ‘Word for word? Don’t remember.’ Hacker pulled a face, rocking his hands back and forth. ‘Something about time and consequences and never getting any justice for poor wee Aiden. He was pretty cut up about it.’

  There was a knock on the door and Andy appeared with a tea tray – three mugs, a plate of biscuits, and a one-pint plastic container of milk. ‘Don’t have any full-fat, so you’ll have to make do with semi-skimmed.’

  He put the tray on the desk and Rennie and Hacker helped themselves.

  Logan left his where it was.

  Andy thumped a hand down on Rennie’s shoulder and squeezed. ‘Sorry about earlier. Thought you guys were here to smash up the place, like. No hards, right?’

  An uncomfortable smile. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Andy?’ Hacker plucked a chocolate Hobnob from the plate. ‘Get on to Benny, will you? Make sure he’s got our equipment ready for that surveillance on the Buchan job before we close.’ A crunch of biscuit. Chewing as he turned back to Logan. ‘You’d be surprised how much infidelity goes on at the weekends. People get two days off and they’re at it like guinea pigs.’

  Andy slipped from the room, closing the door behind him.

  ‘What else did DI Bell say?’

  Hacker polished off his Hobnob. ‘If you’re after something in particular, might as well save us both the time and get to the point.’

  ‘Did he talk about suspects?’

  A grin. ‘And there it is! You want to know about Freddie Marshall.’ He held up a chocolatey finger. ‘Yes, Ding-Dong told me about Freddie. My opinion? Don’t get me wrong, Freddie Marshall was an Olympic gold-medal-winning scumbag, but a killer?’

  ‘Everyone keeps telling me what a great guy Marshall was. Family, friends, social worker…’

  ‘A great guy? OK: pop quiz.’ Hacker wheeled his seat forward. ‘For ten points: who broke an old man’s arm in three places because he wouldn’t hand over his wife’s purse?’

  Sarcasm. Great.

  ‘Is this really—’

  Hacker made a harsh buzzing noise. ‘Nope, it was Freddie Marshall. Ten points: who battered a fifteen-year-old boy so badly the kid’s now confined to a wheelchair?’

  ‘I get the—’

  Another buzz. ‘No. Freddie Marshall again. A bonus five if you can tell me who stabbed Limpy Steve Craigton three times in the guts over a twenty-quid wrap of heroin.’

  Logan’s hand drifted down to cover his own collection of scar tissue.

  ‘I’m going to have to hurry you.’

  Logan stared at him.

  Hacker threw his arms in the air. ‘No, the answer was Freddie Marshall! But thanks for playing.’

  ‘Have you finished?’

  Hacker picked up another biscuit, gesturing with it for emphasis. ‘I asked around. I probed. I questioned. And you know what? The only thing pointing at Freddie was Crowbar Craig Simpson. No forensics, no witnesses. Nothing but Crowbar’s word for it.’ A bite sent crumbs tumbling down the front of his shirt. ‘Did you know he’s shacked up with Freddie’s missus now? A more cynical man might draw a line connecting those two things. Still, all’s fair, eh?’

  ‘So Fred Marshall had nothing to do with Aiden’s disappearance or Kenneth MacAuley’s murder?’

  ‘Why don’t you find him and ask him?’

  ‘You’ve worked for Sally MacAuley all these years, why haven’t you?’<
br />
  ‘Don’t think we haven’t tried.’ Hacker pulled a face. ‘Oh, the wee sod’s still out there somewhere – probably Manchester or Birmingham, keeping his head down, eking out a living as a low-level drug dealer or enforcer – but he must’ve changed his appearance and got himself a new alias, because no one out there recognises his picture or his name. Or maybe he’s slunk off to the continent?’ Hacker pointed with what was left of his biscuit. ‘You haven’t touched your tea.’

  Logan stayed where he was. ‘If Fred Marshall didn’t have anything to do with the MacAuleys, why did he vanish?’

  ‘Well, if you were him, with his background, and your best mate’s telling everyone you abducted a wee boy and killed that wee boy’s dad, would you hang about waiting for the cops to fit you up?’

  Ellie leaned her head back against the crate and rubbed the metal buckle thing across the bits of wood: scrape, thump, scrape, thump, scrape, thump… Then did the same going the other way: scrape, thump, scrape, thump, scrape, thump… Not that it did anything to undo the buckle, or loosen it, or get the big red rubber ball out of her mouth, but it made a noise. And that was something.

  The trick was not to bite into the ball – that just made her jaw all achey – but to relax like Granny on the couch after Christmas dinner, with her mouth hanging open, teeth out, making noises like an angry piggy.

  Scrape, thump, scrape, thump, scrape, thump…

  The spotty boy was crying again, all muffled and sniffing, cos he had a big red rubber ball in his mouth too. Hunched up in his crate, cos he wasn’t little like they were – he was a big boy with shiny-dotty-spots on his arms and chest. Ellie had seen them, because he only had jammie bottoms on. Cos he’d been naughty.

  A warm gold-and-pink light dribbled through the dirty window, but the shadows were getting deeper and bluer. Stretching out behind all the stuff on the shelves and racks. Growing bigger and hungrier.

  Someone, in one of the other crates, made an eeeeeping noise and Ellie scooted forward, pressing her eye to the gap. Over by the workbench, a teeny weenie hand wriggled between two of the wood bits, the fingers all reachy and dirty. Too far away.

  The boy in the crate next to the hand turned away – Ellie could see the reflections in his eyes go out. He never ever cried. Never made a single sound. Just watched from the darkness of his wooden box. Like he wasn’t really there.