The Blood Road

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘Chalmers was very cagey about who assaulted her, but she said she’d recently interviewed the stepfather. I want to talk to him.’

  Steel crossed her arms. ‘Russell Morton? Can’t drag him in: press would have a field day.’

  ‘Then we go to him.’

  Steel gripped the steering wheel, as if she was trying to murder it. ‘You’re a rotten, scum-filled, pus-faced—’

  ‘Privilege of rank.’ Logan stretched out in the passenger seat. ‘That’s what you used to tell me when I had to ferry you all over the place.’

  Outside the pool car’s windows, playing fields drifted by on the left. And on the right: Aberdeen University’s contribution to brutalist architecture, AKA: the Zoology Building. A narrow-windowed block of crenellated concrete stuck on top of what looked like a double-storey car park.

  Steel gave the steering wheel an extra murder. ‘That’s no’ the point!’

  ‘Yes it is. Tell me about Russell Morton.’

  ‘I won’t be a detective sergeant forever. I’ll get promoted to DCI again, and see when I do? Revenge!’

  Logan smiled at her. ‘And until then, you’re my sidekick.’

  The playing fields gave way to communist-style tenements, arranged in squares.

  ‘I’m no’ your sodding sidekick!’

  ‘And I shall call you “Binky” and if you’re a good little sidekick you shall have a sweetie.’

  The muscles bunched and pulsed in her jaw.

  Trees reached up on either side of the road now, naked branches dancing in the wind, a cluster of tiny wee houses jammed in behind them.

  She jerked the car into a left turn, opposite a development of pink-and-white flats. ‘You’re enjoying this far too much, you know that don’t you? Gloating turdmagnet.’

  ‘Now: Russell Morton.’

  She rolled her eyes, driving deeper into Tillydrone. More terraced housing – painted in slightly different shades, as if that would disguise how ugly they were. Terraces. Small blocks. More terraces. ‘Russell Morton is the kind of guy who’s never earned an honest bob in his life. Benefits, gambling, and a bit of B-and-E. Closest he’s come to a proper job was growing cannabis in a polytunnel up Mintlaw way.’

  ‘Violent?’

  ‘Officially? Couple of drunken assaults, other side dropped the charges both times.’

  A squat tower block loomed in the distance in shades of grey and brown. Windows glinting in the sunlight. Glowing like a burning brick.

  ‘And unofficially?’

  Steel shrugged. ‘Him and Ellie’s mum have been knocking lumps off each other for years. Serious lumps as well: I’m talking the odd week in hospital for both of them.’

  ‘What about Ellie?’

  ‘Battering her, you mean? If they are, no one’s noticed it.’

  The pool car turned into a parking area between two rows of tenement flats. Six flats to a communal door. Bland and a bit shabby. Someone had tried the different-coloured-paint trick here as well. It hadn’t worked.

  A handful of fancy four-by-fours sat outside one of the communal front doors, all occupied. Conspicuous amongst the hatchbacks and rusty white vans.

  ‘Aye, aye.’ She parked a few doors down. ‘Our mates from the press are still hanging about, then.’

  Logan undid his seatbelt. ‘And if we’re really lucky, we won’t have to talk to any of them…’

  The living room was crowded with furniture – more than it could really cope with – two floral sofas and a pair of matching armchairs almost filled the space between a pair of sideboards, a Welsh dresser, and a TV unit topped by a massive set. Every single flat surface covered in floral tributes, cards, and teddy bears.

  Not bad going for a two-bedroom flat. Even if there was barely enough space to squeeze sideways through the gaps.

  Russell Morton had the armchair with its back to the window, the light framing him as if the chair was a throne and he was King of Laura Ashley Land. Tall and thin. Long fingers. Shoulder-length brown hair and mid-cheek sideburns. A polo shirt and paint-spattered jeans.

  He curled his lip at them. ‘So how come you’ve not found our Ellie yet?’

  The sound of someone singing along to a boiling kettle rattled through the open door to the kitchen.

  Steel slouched on one of the couches, knees akimbo. She smiled at Logan. ‘I think you should answer that one. Seeing as I’m just the sidekick.’

  Logan eased himself into the space in front of the TV. ‘You spoke to one of our colleagues a few days ago: Detective Sergeant Chalmers.’

  The lip curled some more. ‘She that frizzy-haired bint? Bit rough around the edges, but still kinda doable if you’ve had a couple of pints?’

  Steel nodded. ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Yeah, I spoke to her.’ Russell Morton shook his head. ‘Bitch wanted to know where I was when Ellie got snatched, didn’t she?’ Pause. ‘Cos I was with me mates.’

  Of course he was.

  ‘You were flashing cash about that night, weren’t you Russell? Bought pizza for everyone and gave the delivery man a big tip.’

  A shrug. ‘I’m a nice guy.’

  ‘Oh aye.’ Steel nodded. ‘A veritable prince among men.’

  ‘I got a bit of cash in my pocket, why not splash it about? Spread the happy, yeah?’

  Logan checked his notebook. OK, so there was nothing actually written there, but Morton didn’t know that. As far as he was concerned Logan knew things. ‘Where were you this Friday, Russell?’

  ‘Pfff… About. You know, helping search for Ellie and that. Cos she’s missing.’

  ‘What about Friday night?’

  He spread his hands, indicating his floral-print domain. ‘Back here, with Katie. Poor cow’s broken up about Ellie, isn’t she? Cos you lot can’t get your finger out long enough to find her.’

  ‘Where did you get the money from, Russell?’

  ‘But you’re doing sod-all aren’t you? Too busy harassing me.’

  The singing someone emerged from the kitchen with a mug in each hand. Angela Parks, from yesterday’s media scrum outside Mrs Bell’s house – the thin androgynous one. She had the same suit on, her shirt looking worn and unwashed. She shuffled her way through the upholstered obstacle course and offered one of the mugs to Russell Morton. ‘Milk and three.’

  He took it without a word of thanks. As if it was his due. Sipped at it, staring at Logan. ‘You want to know where I got the cash?’

  ‘Cash?’ Angela Parks turned. ‘What cash?’

  ‘Got it on a scratcher, didn’t I? Three grand. Sweet as hell, like.’

  She stuck her free hand towards Logan for shaking. ‘Angela Parks, Scottish Daily Post. Why are you asking him about cash?’

  Morton jerked his chin up. ‘None of anyone’s business, though, is it?’ He jabbed a finger at Angela. ‘And you don’t print a word about it, right? Katie doesn’t know and it’s staying that way or you can kiss your exclusive ta-ta.’

  Steel clamped her legs together. ‘You won three grand on a scratch card and didn’t tell your wife?’

  ‘Course I didn’t. She didn’t win the cash, did she?’ Another sip of tea. ‘Anyway, better not to. Money changes people, yeah? And Katie’s got enough on her plate as it is.’

  ‘Unbelievable…’

  Logan pulled out his notebook. ‘Where did you buy the scratch card? I’ll need the address.’

  ‘See, you lot swan in like something off Downton Abbey and you think we’re gonna be all bowing and “Yes, m’Lord”, don’t ya? Your frizzy-haired bitch was the same.’

  ‘Supermarket, newsagent’s, garage?’

  ‘But we got the power, don’t we? Us. The little people. The working class ain’t taking your crap no more.’

  Steel laughed, slapping her thigh as if it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. Laying it on thick. ‘Working class? You have to do some actual work to be working class, Russ.’

  He bared his teeth and stood, ch
est out. ‘You calling us a scrounger?’

  ‘A scrounger?’ Angela Parks looked as if she was about to wet herself with glee. ‘Oh, I am so going to quote you on that.’

  ‘Not my fault there’s no jobs, is it?’ Morton’s voice got louder. Sharper. ‘Austerity. Banking crisis. Downturn in the oil price and that.’

  ‘Mr Morton is coping bravely with the disappearance of his little girl and you’re here calling him a scrounger? That’s going right across the front page tomorrow!’ She painted the headline with her hand. ‘Callous Cops Brand Ellie’s Dad A “Scrounger”!’

  And at that, Morton turned on her. ‘You think this is funny?’ He put his mug down, curled a pair of fists. Stepped towards her. ‘Ain’t no one’s business but mine if I got a job or not, you skinny munter cow. You try to make me look like a fanny in print and I’ll have you. We shiny?’

  She shrank away from him. ‘It… We… I was only trying to defend you.’

  Louder. Closer. ‘Well you’re doing a piss-poor job of it, aren’t you?’ And then, as if someone had thrown a switch, he was back to normal – smiling at Logan. Nothing to see here, Officer. ‘I can’t remember where I bought the scratcher. Got wankered with my mates, right? Found it in my pocket the next day – head like a broken hoover, mouth like a septic tank. Then it comes up three grand.’ The smile turned into a grin. ‘Best hangover ever.’

  Logan tried to keep the disgust out of his voice. ‘Where did you cash it?’

  The smile brittled. ‘Nah. Think I’m done being nice to you tossers.’ Morton jerked his head towards the door. ‘Don’t let it hit your arse on the way out.’

  Angela Parks followed them down the shabby hallway with its collection of shabby coats and shabby shoes gathered by the shabby door. Keeping her voice down. ‘Course, he’s going to change his mind about me printing the story, you know that, right?’

  Steel glowered at her.

  She shrugged. ‘Not my fault you called him a scrounger, is it?’

  A sniff. A look of disgust. ‘Here, Laz, Can you smell something rank? Cos I can smell something rank.’

  ‘Don’t be like that. I could make it all … go away if you like? Pretend I never heard you insulting the stepdad of a missing child?’ Parks inched closer, eyes shining. Eager. ‘What do you know about something called the “Livestock Mart”? Where they sell kids to paedos? It’s a real thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Nope.’ Logan held up a hand. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about. Never heard of it.’

  ‘Ellie Morton and Rebecca Oliver: abducted here, Stephen MacGuire in East Kilbride, Lucy Hawkins in St Andrews. Three kids in eight days, all of them under five.’ Parks grabbed at his sleeve. ‘They’ve been abducted to order, haven’t they?’

  ‘I think we can show ourselves out.’ He removed her hand.

  ‘I won’t stop digging, whether you help me or not! This is your chance to avoid a PR disaster.’

  He opened the door and Steel followed him into the rain.

  Parks stayed in the hall, glaring at them. ‘I mean it: I’ll splash “Scroungergate” right across the front page!’

  And that’s when Steel paused, turned in a graceful pirouette, stuck up two fingers and blew her a long wet raspberry. ‘And you can quote me on that!’

  28

  Steel puckered her lips, whistling something cheery as she drove them away from Ellie Morton’s house.

  Sitting in the passenger seat, Logan stared at her. Doing his best. Really, really doing his best to stay calm. ‘What the goat-shagging hell was that supposed to be?’

  She stopped whistling and turned onto the main road. ‘That song off Timmy and the Timeonauts. The one about the stinky dinosaur who—’

  ‘Not the bloody whistling: goading Russell Morton!’ OK: now he wasn’t doing quite so well at the staying-calm thing. Starting to get a bit shouty, to be honest. Which was perfectly justifiable in the circumstances.

  ‘He’s a scroungy—’

  ‘His step-daughter’s missing!’

  A shrug. ‘Yeah, but he’s the one probably—’

  ‘And you did it in front of a journalist!’ Getting even louder. ‘Because God forbid you go to all that trouble acting like an arsehole without an actual audience!’

  She took one hand off the steering wheel and gave him the same Vs she’d given Angela Parks. Long and slow. ‘For your information, sunshine, Russell Morton is an abusive, sexist, misogynistic wankspasm.’

  ‘I don’t care if he’s Jack the Ripper – you want to rattle him to see what falls out? That’s fine. But you don’t do it in front of a reporter!’

  ‘Aye, well, doesn’t matter, does it?’ Steel took them out onto Tillydrone Avenue again. ‘You heard him: if she prints a word of it, he’ll “have her”. And where does that lanky strip of puke get off calling her a “skinny munter cow”? He looks like the bastard lovechild of Frankenstein’s monster and a bicycle-seat sniffing smackhead.’

  Unbelievable.

  ‘You think that makes it OK?’

  ‘Course it does.’

  The woman was completely unbelievable.

  ‘What would’ve happened if I’d done something that stupid when I was working for you? You’d have blown your rag.’

  ‘Blah, blah, blah.’

  Why did he bother? Why? What was the point?

  He thumped back in his seat. ‘I should’ve stuck with Rennie. You’re a crap sidekick.’

  ‘Oh aye. And if you ever shout at me like that again I’m going to rip your nadgers off and feed them to your cat.’

  North Anderson Drive slid by, taking its tower blocks, roundabouts, and soggy housing estates with it.

  Steel overtook a rusty Land Rover with a yellow ‘BEARDED SEXGOD ON BOARD’ sign stuck to the rear window. ‘See, if you ask me—’

  ‘Which I didn’t.’ Logan poked at his phone again. No new text messages.

  ‘We’re wasting our time searching for Ellie Morton.’

  ‘She’s a little girl!’

  ‘She’s a dead little girl.’ A right at the roundabout, onto King’s Gate – with its squat granite bungalows and cycle lanes. ‘Russell Morton comes home drunk and stoned, tries it on with her – cos he’s that sort of guy, you can tell just by looking at him – she screams, he kills her.’

  ‘And where’s Ellie’s mum when all this is happening?’

  ‘Probably passed out on the couch, surrounded by empty lager cans and copies of Dysfunctional Family Monthly.’

  Trees lined the road, opening up into parkland, the grass so waterlogged after the last few days it had grown its own lochan.

  ‘He was with his mates, remember?’ That was the trouble with Steel – never paid any attention to anything. Or anyone.

  ‘Aye, if you believe Ellie went missing when they say she did.’

  Ah… Logan nodded. Good point. ‘So when Chalmers checked his alibi…?’

  ‘Exactly.’ She smiled across the car at him. ‘See? We’ll make an inspector of you yet.’

  ‘Cheeky sod.’

  Righty-diddle-doodie, let’s do this.

  Tufty grabbed the folder from the back seat of his pool car and a-rummaging he did go. ‘For whosoever pulls the sword from the stone…’ Found it. He held the key aloft, his other hand curled into a claw beneath it, teeth bared, belting the word out: ‘EXCALIBUR!’

  And so began the glorious reign of Tufty Drizzleborn; first of his name; Lord of Flat 24, Martin House, Hazlehead; Protector of the Great Biscuit Tin, Breaker of Teapots; Father of Rubber Ducks.

  Who was about to get wet.

  He climbed out into the rain and hurried up the driveway to the front door – sheltering under the teeny porch while he unlocked DS Chalmers’ house and let himself in.

  Not a bad place. A lot bigger than his, that was for certain. And they had stairs! How cool was that? Your very own stairs that went all the way up and all the way down again.

  Now, where best to start searching? Up those lovely stairs, or down h
ere?

  How about a compromise: kitchen.

  Kitchen it was.

  Tufty wandered down the hall, pausing to frisk his way through the pockets of the six assorted jackets hanging there: lint, some change, a roll of dog-poo bags – which was a bit weird as Chalmers didn’t own a dog – a couple of takeaway menus, and a packet of peppermint Rennies. No phone.

  Onwards ever…

  Tufty stopped. Frowned.

  There was a weird noise coming from behind a white-painted panel door on the left. A sort of grunty, panting noise. Maybe Chalmers did have a dog after all? And if she was dead, and her scumbagular ex-husband was off playing naughty games with an account manager called Stephanie, who was feeding and walking the poor wee thing?

  ‘Tufty to the rescue!’

  He yanked open the door.

  A small garage lay on the other side, lined with shelves full of boxes and tins and bottles and sports stuff and things. Exposed joists, for the room above, ran from side to side, but one near the middle had a chunk of white electrical flex wrapped around it. The end snipped clean where they must have cut down Lorna Chalmers’ body.

  And right underneath that was a naked man. Well, not entirely naked, he did have a set of super-huge over-ear headphones on – connected to the laptop sitting on the concrete floor in front of him. Next to a squirty container of hand cream. Which he was massaging into his erection with quite a lot of vigour.

  Smiling and grunting. One tattooed arm pumping up and down.

  Yeah… No way Tufty was feeding him and taking him walkies.

  There was some sort of candid camera footage on the laptop’s screen: Lorna Chalmers, in her back garden and a bikini, on a sun lounger. Working on her tan.

  Dirty wee monkey.

  There was a packet of non-stick scrubby pads for doing the dishes on the shelf next to the door. Tufty grabbed it and lobbed it at the onanistic halfwit. It bounced off the back of his head.

  Woot!

  ‘Ten points!’

  The guy turned, a scowl on his face, then his eyes locked onto Tufty’s. They widened. A look of horror spread like custard. Then he screamed. Covering his willy with one hand, the other slamming the laptop shut, heels scrabbling at the hand-cream-spattered concrete.