The Blood Road

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Wait: “should have been”?’

  Hardie put the kettle down. ‘Jackson’s son was hit by a car this morning. He’s only five.’

  Oh no… ‘Is he…?’

  ‘Touch and go. And I can’t get anyone to fill in for Jackson till Monday morning at the earliest. Maybe Tuesday.’ Hardie gave Logan a pained smile, then raised his eyebrows. ‘So…?’

  Logan pulled in his chin. ‘Why are you looking at me like… No.’

  ‘There’s no one else.’

  ‘I’m Professional Standards, we don’t do murder investigations. That’s not what we do!’

  ‘It’s only for one day. One. Two tops. Set things up, get them running.’

  ‘We investigate dodgy police officers. Nothing else.’

  Hardie shrugged. ‘You were investigating Chalmers anyway.’

  ‘It’s not the same thing!’

  ‘And I’ve spoken to Superintendent Doig: he’s happy for you to take the reins. Chalmers was a police officer, Logan. We can’t stick her murder in a drawer and forget about it.’

  Argh… He was right. Chalmers deserved more than that.

  ‘Fine. What about my lead on the Kenneth MacAuley case?’

  ‘I can repeat everything I’ve just said, if you like?’

  ‘Gah…’ Logan scrubbed his face with his hands. ‘But I get minions! And real ones this time, not like the fake ones I was promised for looking into DI Bell’s not-suicide.’

  ‘Done.’ Hardie stuck his hand out for shaking. ‘You can have … how about DS Steel and PC Quirrel? They worked with Chalmers on the Ellie Morton case, so they should be some help. I’ll get George to call the pair of them in.’

  Terrific. Wonderful. Absolutely great.

  Logan grimaced. ‘Oh yeah, Steel’s going to love that.’

  The phone rang and rang and rang. Logan shifted it to his other ear and went back to marking Lorna Chalmers’ last known movements on the whiteboard. And still the phone—

  A thin, wobbly voice replaced the ringing. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Dr Frampton? Hi, it’s Logan. Any joy with the soil analysis on those shoes yet?’

  ‘Shoes…? Urgh… Give me a chance – I was up drinking cocktails till one this morning. Head feels like it’s packed full of fragmented schist with calcareous inclusions.’

  ‘I’m sorry to be a nag, but it’s a murder investigation now and the victim was a police officer. So…?’

  The sound of rushing water burst out for a couple of seconds, followed by a couple of plinks and a hissing fizz.

  ‘Dr Frampton? You still there?’

  ‘Can’t a woman enjoy her Alka-Seltzer in peace?’

  ‘Only we’re—’

  ‘I know, I know. Pfff… Give me half an hour and I’ll drag myself to the lab.’

  ‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’

  A thunk. Then, ‘I really do feel like schist…’

  Logan left her to her hangover.

  Rennie dunted the office door open and lurched inside, only his legs visible – the rest of him hidden by the stack of file boxes. ‘Little help!’

  Logan put Lorna Chalmers’ service history down, hurried over and plucked the top two boxes off the pile, revealing a shiny-pink face with sticky-up blond hair.

  ‘Argh… These weigh a ton!’ Rennie staggered to the nearest desk and dumped the rest of the boxes, bent double and grabbed his knees. Puffed and panted for a bit. ‘And … and Downie says … says that Crowbar … has seen … his solicitor. Urgh…’ He straightened up and rubbed the small of his back. ‘Think I pulled something.’

  Logan lowered the other two boxes onto the desk. ‘They ready?’

  Rennie nodded at the pile. ‘Every case Chalmers worked on in the last two and a half years. Records are still trying to dig out the six months before that.’

  ‘Rennie, focus. Are they ready?’

  ‘Waiting for you in Interview Two, but Downie says you’re not to get it all messy this time.’

  ‘And Crowbar doesn’t know what we’re after?’

  ‘Thinks we want more dirt on Fred Marshall.’ Rennie grinned. ‘Thought we’d leave the victim’s watch as a nice surprise.’

  Crowbar slouched on the other side of the interview room table, arms folded, a sneer twisting his handlebar moustache. A tiny old man sat next to him in a shiny grey suit and grubby glasses. One hand trembling as he fiddled with a biro. Rennie had his pen out too, poised over his notepad, ready to strike.

  Logan sat forward. ‘Well?’

  Crowbar shrugged. ‘Nah. Like I was saying to Winston here, it’s a total witch-hunt, yeah?’

  ‘Actually,’ the little man raised a shaky finger, ‘it’s Albert. Not Winston.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Crowbar lounged back in his seat. ‘They fishing, Winston. They got nothing.’

  Rennie put down his pen and picked up an evidence bag. ‘We’ve got this?’ He dipped inside and came out with the fancy watch. ‘Recognise it, Craig?’

  ‘I…’ Blinking at it. The tip of his tongue snaked across his top lip. ‘It’s a watch.’

  ‘You told Sergeant Downie it was a “knock-off”, remember that?’

  ‘Never seen it before in my life.’

  ‘Really?’ Logan pulled out his copy of Cold Blood and Dark Granite and laid it on the table. Opened it at the Post-it note acting as a bookmark, revealing the photo of Kenneth MacAuley burning sausages and chicken on the barbecue. ‘Because I have.’

  Crowbar jerked his chin up. ‘Yeah, so?’

  ‘Your statement to DS Savage claims Fred Marshall told you he’d murdered Kenneth MacAuley and abducted Aiden. And yet, here you are wearing Kenneth MacAuley’s watch.’

  The only sound was the wind, growling against the window.

  Crowbar licked his lip again.

  His solicitor tutted. ‘Ah. Now, I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason for that. Isn’t there, Craig?’

  ‘Yeah, there’s … gotta be lots of watches, you know, exactly like it. Isn’t there? Heaps of them.’

  Logan took the watch from Rennie, turning it over to show the back. ‘Only this one is engraved, “To K from S, with loads of love”.’

  ‘Winston, you going to say something here, or what?’

  Albert didn’t.

  ‘Fred Marshall didn’t kill Kenneth MacAuley, did he, Craig?’

  ‘I wanna…’ Crowbar cleared his throat. ‘No comment.’

  ‘All that talk about how Kenneth’s brains looked when they were pounded out with a rock. All those little details you told us. It wasn’t Fred, it was you. You killed him.’

  ‘No comment!’

  ‘It wasn’t Fred who was offered two thousand pounds for Aiden MacAuley, it was you. Wasn’t it?’

  He grabbed his solicitor’s arm. ‘Come on, Mr Wolfe, say something!’

  A slow smile spread across Albert’s lips. ‘I’ve been practising law in Aberdeen since before you were born, Craig, and I always find “no comment” the best option.’

  ‘Here’s how this is going to work. You’re going up before the Sheriff on Monday for the two outstanding warrants, breaching your parole conditions, resisting arrest, and assaulting a police officer, so—’

  ‘You promised! You said if I told you about Fred, you’d drop the charges.’

  ‘Yes, but you lied to me, Craig. You sat there and lied to my face. Fred didn’t kill Kenneth MacAuley, you did. And then you fitted him up so you could move in on his wife.’

  ‘It wasn’t… I…’ Big pleading eyes.

  Albert took off his glasses and polished them on a hanky. Taking his time. ‘I think it might be wise to pause at this point so I can confer with my client for a wee bittie. If that’s all right with you?’

  There was a shock.

  ‘Course, in the good old days, you could’ve beaten a confession out of him.’ Rennie rocked on the balls of his feet, staring at the closed interview room door.

  Logan leaned against the corridor wall. ‘I’m going to pretend you did
n’t say that.’

  Crowbar was having some sort of argument with his solicitor in Interview Two, their voices too muffled to make anything out. The tone was clear enough, though.

  Rennie raised his eyebrows. ‘You sure we can’t lug-in at the door?’

  ‘You do remember we’re Professional Standards, don’t you? Professional Standards? The people who make sure everyone follows the rules?’

  ‘Was only asking.’

  ‘And if you think you’re getting to join us full time, you’re going to have to start acting the part.’

  Rennie pulled on a lopsided smile and a Yoda voice. ‘Come over to the Dark Side, you must. Penguin biscuits, we have.’

  Inside, the argument murmured to an end. There was a thump, then the interview room door swung open and Albert poked his head out. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Shall we have another shottie?’

  Crowbar Craig shifted in his seat. Looked at his solicitor. ‘I…?’

  An indulgent fatherly smile. ‘It’s all right, Craig, do it like we practised.’

  Deep breath. ‘The watch in question was a gift from Fred Marshall.’ He sounded about as natural as a pornstar’s breasts. ‘Fred said it was a knock-off Rolex he’d found at a flea market in Amsterdam. I had…’ Crowbar’s face puckered as the words dried up, as if he’d just sat on an unlubricated lemon. ‘I had…’

  Albert nudged him. ‘No idea.’

  ‘Yeah, I had no idea that Freddy was lying about the watch’s … providence.’

  ‘He means “provenance”, but you get the idea. The watch was a gift. He didn’t kill anyone.’ Albert polished his glasses again. ‘Now, unless you can prove otherwise, I think we’re done here. Don’t you?’

  Logan poked the tabletop. ‘Someone paid you two thousand pounds to kill a man and abduct a child, Craig, and I want to know who!’

  ‘My client isn’t prepared to answer any further questions unless you have evidence of wrongdoing, Inspector.’ A smile and a shrug. ‘Without it, this is all supposition.’

  Of course it was. But that didn’t mean Crowbar Craig Simpson couldn’t do the decent thing, save them all a heap of work, and admit he’d done it.

  Logan stared at him.

  And stared.

  And stared.

  Crowbar sat there, like an Easter Island head with ridiculous facial hair.

  Fine.

  At least they’d tried.

  But this wasn’t the end of it. Somewhere, out there, was evidence linking Crowbar Craig Simpson to Kenneth MacAuley’s murder. And when that evidence surfaced, the vicious little sod was going to spend the rest of his life in a small grey cell.

  Logan thumped Rennie on the arm. ‘Call it.’

  ‘Interview terminated at eleven fifty-two.’ Rennie clicked off the recording equipment.

  And as soon as he did, Crowbar scooted forward in his seat. ‘They’ll kill me! I tell you anything and they’ll – kill – me.’

  Albert shook his head. ‘I advised against this, Craig.’

  Now this was more like it. Logan put on his sympathetic voice. Tried not to smile. ‘Who’ll kill you, Craig?’

  ‘You gotta get us protection, right? Me and Irene and Jaime and Tyrion?’

  ‘Protect you from who?’

  ‘Cos I’m saying nothing till I get a new identity somewhere … somewhere warm, like, I dunno, Sydney or something.’

  Aye, right.

  Logan sat back again. ‘We’re not allowed to export our criminals to Australia any more, Craig. They’re a lot more picky these days.’

  ‘Well … Spain then, or Italy. Somewhere they’ll never find us.’

  ‘Who? Where who will never find you?’

  Had to hand it to him – if this was an act, he was teetering into Tom Hanks territory.

  Crowbar shook his head. ‘Nah. Not till the four of us is protected. Till then I’m saying sod-all.’

  27

  Logan knocked on Hardie’s door and slipped inside.

  He was behind his desk again, forehead resting on a stack of reports, hands wrapped over the top. As if he was trying to physically shove his whole head through the thing and out the other side.

  DI Fraser looked up from her iPad and grimaced at Logan. ‘Please tell me you’ve got some good news?’

  ‘I think we might be able to prove that Crowbar Craig Simpson killed Kenneth MacAuley and abducted Aiden MacAuley.’

  Hardie raised his head, face breaking out into a smile. ‘That’s great!’

  ‘Only trouble is, he’s claiming it was on the orders of a third party, and he won’t talk unless we guarantee safety and new identities for him, Fred Marshall’s wife, their kid, and an exceptionally ugly miniature sausage dog called “Tyrion”.’

  Hardie banged his head back down. ‘Arrrgh… How the hell am I supposed to swing that?’

  Fraser shrugged. ‘Well, I suppose it’s worth a try?’

  ‘Arrrrrgh…’

  ‘Yeah.’ Logan sucked a breath in through his teeth. ‘Assuming Simpson isn’t lying about the whole thing to get away with murder.’

  Hardie raised his forehead four inches off the desk … then thumped it into the reports again. ‘Arrrrrrgh!’ Thump. ‘Arrrrrrgh!’ Thump. ‘Arrrrrrgh!’ Thump.

  Fraser puffed out her cheeks. Put her iPad down, raised her eyebrows at Logan, then nodded at the door.

  Fair enough.

  The pair of them stepped out into the corridor, Fraser easing the door shut behind her. Keeping her voice down. ‘Look, leave it with me, OK? I’ll see what I can do with DCI NRC.’

  ‘NRC?’

  ‘Not Really Coping.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s Sunday. All I wanted was a lie in, a nice spag bol for lunch, bucketful of gin and slimline, and Armageddon on the telly. Instead of which I’m stuck here trying to stop our beloved leader from having an aneurysm.’ Fraser ran a hand through her hair – the nails she’d bitten down were all filed to perfect crescents again, painted the same green as her dress. ‘He’s like an unexploded zit. One good squeeze and his head will go pop! Gunk and yuck everywhere.’

  ‘Kim?’

  ‘Yes, Logan?’

  ‘Never take up poetry.’

  She smiled. ‘We’ll do our best to organise some sort of protection for Simpson and his hangers-on, but don’t get your hopes up. It’s incredibly difficult to get new identities authorised. If it’s not major drugs, organised crime, or terrorism-related, they’re not usually interested.’

  ‘Assuming—’

  ‘Assuming Crowbar’s not just a lying scumbag.’ Fraser sighed. ‘Which we both know he is.’

  Wullie sounded as if he were calling from Mongolia on a tin can at the end of a bit of string, rather than sitting in Bucksburn station. ‘Aye, that’s it set up for you now: one HOLMES instance. I’ll email you the login details.’

  ‘That’s great, thanks, Wullie.’ Logan hung up and ticked the word ‘HOLMES’ off on the whiteboard.

  The office door thumped open and Rennie lurched in, carrying another pair of large boxes. ‘They found the missing six months of case files. And look who I found!’

  Steel appeared in the doorway, face like someone had suggested a threeway with Donald Trump and Kim Jong-un. She hurled her coat at an empty desk. ‘Let’s get one thing crystal clear, OK? I was on a day off. We were going to buy a new sofa. After which I was planning on watching last night’s Strictly, getting fruity on prosecco, and rolling around naked with my wife on it.’

  Urgh…

  Logan shuddered. ‘There’s an image.’

  Rennie added his boxes to the pile. ‘So that’s us now got every case DS Chalmers worked on in the last three years.’

  ‘Two:’ Steel held up both fingers, ‘I am no’ your sodding sidekick. Understand?’

  ‘You want me to start going through the files, Guv?’

  Logan opened the nearest box, pulled out about half a dozen folders and dumped them into Rennie’s arms. ‘Pass them round: most recent files first. Maybe someone i
n here decided to get revenge and kill her.’

  ‘Three:’ two fingers on one hand, one on the other, ‘I’m not driving you about like a bloody chauffeur.’

  The office door bumped open again and in swanned Tufty – dressed in jeans and an original-series Star Trek T-shirt. ‘Morning fellow travellers on the highway to justice!’

  Steel gave him the benefit of her three fingers. ‘Oh, shut your twit-hole.’

  Logan clapped his hands. ‘Right, listen up, people. We are nowhere near enough bodies for a Major Investigation Team, but for the next two days we’re all we’ve got.’

  Tufty settled into an office chair and pulled out his notebook and pen. Keen.

  Steel sniffed. ‘We’d better be getting overtime for this.’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Lorna Chalmers was found hanged in her garage, yesterday morning.’ Logan picked up a sheaf of paper. ‘She’d been seriously assaulted at least twice on Friday. Preliminary forensic report says she was stuffed full of alcohol and probably antidepressants too. Marks on her arms and legs look like they were caused by someone restraining her while she died.’

  Tufty put his hand up. ‘What about the husband?’

  ‘Brian Chalmers has no previous, but he was planning on leaving his wife the day after her birthday. Claims he didn’t see her suicide-note text till the next morning, then went downstairs and found her. I want him brought in and questioned.’

  A grin. ‘I’ll grill him like sausages!’

  ‘No you won’t. Rennie will.’

  Rennie nodded. ‘I went on a course.’

  ‘Tufty: you’re going over to Chalmers’ house and looking for her mobile phone.’

  ‘No sausages?’

  ‘No sausages. She texted her alleged “suicide” note at ten thirty on Friday night, so where’s her phone?’

  Rennie perched on the edge of his desk. ‘Maybe she sent the message from somewhere else first, then went home and killed herself?’

  Steel threw a whiteboard marker at him. ‘Well it’s no’ like she could’ve sent it afterwards, is it?’

  Honestly, it was like being in charge of a kindergarten, full of delinquent drunken monkeys.

  Logan pointed at Tufty. ‘Go through her bins, search the garage, kitchen, bathrooms, car. It has to be somewhere.’ Then pointed at Steel. ‘You worked with her on the Ellie Morton case.’