The Blood Road

by Stuart MacBride

  Hardie shook his head. ‘As if I haven’t got enough to deal with already…’

  DS Scott tapped the pile of paper. ‘We’ve done another appeal for witnesses, but you know what it’s like: soon as they find out there’s a reward we’re swamped with crazies, loonies, time-wasters, chancers, and conmen.’

  Fraser shook a finger at the ceiling. ‘It’s unforgivable!’

  Logan knocked on the door frame.

  No one paid any attention.

  ‘Hold on, I’ll check.’ Robertson put a hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. ‘Boss, they can get you on the six o’clock news for another appeal. Interested?’

  Hardie sagged. ‘Urgh… OK, OK. Six o’clock.’

  Robertson went back to the phone. ‘Yup, six is fine. … OK.’

  ‘You’re busy.’ Logan hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘I can pop by later if you like?’

  Hardie looked up, face darkening. ‘Oh no you don’t!’ He reached for his in-tray, stopped, then scowled at Scott’s big stack of forms. ‘Oh for God’s sake!’ He snatched them up and dumped the paperwork into Scott’s hands. Then hauled out a sheet of paper and thrust it in Logan’s direction. ‘The Aberdeen Examiner faxed over Monday’s front page, wanting a comment.’

  Why did that sound like a threat?

  ‘OK…’ Logan stepped into Hardie’s office and took the sheet of paper. The headline blared, ‘HEARTLESS POLICE SLANDER ELLIE’S DAD’ above a photo of Russell Morton looking stern and disappointed. And for some bizarre reason an inset photo of Logan sat on the right with the subheading ‘POLICE HERO TURNS CRUEL COP’.

  Oh for…

  He poked the page with a finger. ‘How did they get hold of this?’

  Hardie folded his arms, chin up, teeth bared. ‘Go on then: read it.’

  ‘Because this isn’t—’

  ‘Out loud for all the boys and girls!’

  Great.

  Logan took a breath and did what he was told. ‘“In a shocking move, police officers visiting Ellie Morton’s worried parents branded her stepfather a ‘workshy scrounger’…” That’s not strictly true.’

  Hardie’s fist banged off the desk. ‘It shouldn’t even be vaguely true! What the bloody hell were you thinking?’

  ‘Me? Oh, no, I’m not…’ He clamped his mouth shut. Paused. Then, ‘How did the Aberdeen Examiner get hold of this?’

  ‘How could you be so stupid?’ Getting louder and louder. ‘I thought the key to being in Professional Standards was acting like a bloody professional!’

  ‘It wasn’t—’

  ‘YOU DON’T CALL VICTIMS’ PARENTS “WORKSHY SCROUNGERS”!’

  Logan turned.

  A couple of PCs stood outside in the corridor, gawping. And as soon as he made eye contact, they were off, bustling away towards the stairwell as if the host of hell was right behind them.

  Logan closed the office door then turned back to Hardie. Kept his voice nice and calm. ‘Number one: I didn’t. Number two: I get that you’re stressed, but that doesn’t make it OK to scream at people. Number three: this is nothing more than Russell Morton playing power games.’

  Hardie glowered back, lips shining with spittle. ‘I am trying to run a department here!’

  ‘Who wrote this…?’ Logan checked the byline. ‘Colin Bloody Miller.’ He pulled out his phone, stuck it on speakerphone and dialled. The tinny ringing noise sounded from his palm. ‘Morton promised to sell his story to the Scottish Daily Post. Probably got paid handsomely too. This is him showing them who’s boss.’

  Fraser jabbed a finger at Logan. ‘Do you have any idea how damaging this is to NE Division?’

  ‘Yes, Kim, I’m aware. That’s why—’

  Colin Miller’s Weegie accent belted out of the phone. ‘Well, well, well, if it’s no’ my old pal Laz. Who’s been a naughty—’

  ‘You sent a story over to DCI Hardie for comment.’

  ‘Oh aye, well, it’s only fair, right? I’m thinking of calling it, “Scroungergate”.’

  ‘Very original.’ Logan scowled at the screen. ‘How did you get hold of it?’

  ‘Poor guy’s lost his stepdaughter and you’re there callin’ him workshy?’

  ‘Thought Morton had an exclusive deal with the Scottish Daily Post?’

  Silence from the other end.

  Then, ‘Did he now? That’s no’ what he told me…’

  ‘Oh, I’ll bet he didn’t. He’s playing you off against them, Colin. You’re leverage.’

  ‘Ah well. Still a good story.’

  Hardie’s glower hadn’t shifted any.

  Logan paced the carpet tiles between the filing cabinets and the whiteboards. ‘Russell Morton said I called him a “workshy scrounger” and you believed him?’

  ‘You saying you didn’t, but?’

  ‘Damn right I am. All I did was question him about the meeting he’d had with DS Chalmers and where he got the money he’s been flashing about.’

  ‘Yeah, but heat of the moment—’

  ‘And I’ve got a witness: DS Steel was there the whole time. So unless the Aberdeen Examiner can produce evidence I said it – which you can’t, because I didn’t – you’d better get your lawyers warmed up, because you’re going to need them.’

  ‘All right, all right, keep your pants on, man. I’m no’ wantin’ to measure dicks here.’ A sly tone crept into Miller’s voice. ‘Suppose I do you a favour and kill the story, gonnae have a big hole on the front page to fill…?’

  ‘Hold on.’ Logan pressed the ‘MUTE’ button and jerked his chin at Hardie. ‘See?’

  Hardie picked at his desk diary, not meeting Logan’s eyes. ‘Yes, well…’ He cleared his throat. ‘As you say, this is a very stressful time for everybody.’

  ‘Do you want to give him something to print? Something that helps us?’

  ‘Hmmm…’ Hardie pursed his lips. Put his head on one side. Then held out his hand. ‘Give me the phone.’

  Logan was on his way up the stairs again when Rennie came clattering down, a blue folder tucked under one arm.

  He screeched to a halt. ‘Guv, that’s Norman Clifton all lawyered up and ready to go in Interview Two.’

  Pfff…

  Logan checked his watch – seven fifty-two. Only nine and a half hours since he’d come on shift, so why did it feel like a week? This was what he got for coming into work on a Sunday.

  He let out a long, weary breath, then turned and headed down the stairs again.

  Today was never going to end.

  Norman Clifton didn’t look much like a criminal mastermind. He sat, all hunched up, on the other side of the interview room table in a white SOC suit, arms wrapped around himself, eyes all red and puffy. Sniffing and wiping away tears, before going back to hugging himself.

  Sitting next to him was a plump middle-aged woman in a brown cardigan and mumsy haircut. And as soon as they made scowling an Olympic sport, she was going to win gold for Scotland.

  Rennie was perched and ready to go in chair number three with all his interview notes spread out on the table in front of him. Pen in hand.

  Logan leaned back in chair number four. Watching Clifton in silence.

  Watching him sniff and wipe and fidget and tremble.

  Clifton’s solicitor pulled at her cardigan sleeve and checked a little gold watch. ‘Are you actually going to say something at some point, or can I get my knitting out?’

  Logan smiled at her. ‘Making anything nice?’

  ‘An extremely itchy jumper for a nephew I hate.’ She straightened her cardigan. ‘Now, you’ve heard my client’s statement: he understands that his actions may seem inappropriate, but this is his first offence and he’s committed to getting psychological help. It’s time for you to release him.’

  ‘“May seem inappropriate”?’ Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘“Seem”?’ He leaned forwards. ‘Norman, you were masturbating, naked, in your dead neighbour’s garage, so really—’

  ‘And he’s apologised for that.’
<
br />   ‘—I think “seem” is kind of redundant, don’t you?’

  Norman sniffed. ‘I didn’t mean to…’

  His solicitor put a hand on his arm, voice warm and reassuring. ‘It’s all right, Norman, I’ll deal with this.’ The warmth leached away as she turned to Logan. ‘I’ve known Norman his whole life. He’s a good boy who’s maybe got a bit … confused about his feelings.’

  Rennie held up his pen. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to tell us before we go any further, Norman?’

  That got him a worried look.

  Rennie tried again. ‘Anything we need to know?’

  Mrs Scowly Cardigan gathered up her papers. ‘All right, I think we’re quite done here.’

  ‘Because, do you remember when you were arrested and processed? They took a DNA sample, didn’t they?’

  She dumped a massive handbag on the interview room table and stuffed her papers inside. ‘If you’re trying to put my client at the scene of the crime, you can save your breath. He’s already admitted being there.’

  Rennie raised his eyebrows. ‘You wouldn’t believe how quick the computers can process those DNA samples these days. Used to take ages and ages, now we can get a result in an hour.’

  She clicked her handbag shut. ‘Is there a point to this?’

  Logan picked a sheet of paper from Rennie’s folder and placed it on the table. ‘We got a match from your DNA, Norman.’

  The hipstery wee sod flinched. Stared at his solicitor, bottom lip trembling.

  She put her kind voice on again. ‘It’s all right, Norman, you haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘Actually…’ Rennie sucked in a theatrical breath. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell us?’

  ‘My client has already told—’

  Logan tapped the tabletop. ‘You licked her face, didn’t you, Norman?’

  ‘I…’ His eyes widened. ‘It…’

  ‘We found your saliva on Laura Chalmers’ cheek.’

  ‘Wow.’ Rennie tried a sympathetic voice. ‘Was that before, or after you killed her, Norman?’

  Mrs Scowly Cardigan stared at Norman, open-mouthed. ‘What did you…’ Then blinked and shook her head. Fussed with the buttons on her cardigan. ‘I think I need to consult with my client again. In private.’

  The vending machines droned away to each other: one wholesome – full of crisps and chocolate and bags of sweeties – while the other was pure EVIL. They sat like Cain and Abel, next to the empty chiller cabinet. Nearly all of the canteen chairs were stacked on the tables, legs in the air, giving the place a cold and hostile look. Ready to repel invaders.

  That hadn’t stopped Logan and Rennie, though. They sat at the table nearest the scrubbed-down counter, nursing evil-tasting coffee in an evil plastic cup from the evil vending machine.

  Rennie pulled out his phone and poked at the screen. ‘Nearly twenty past. Taking their time, aren’t they?’

  ‘Be fair, she’s just found out her client was up to a bit more than an inappropriate wank.’

  ‘True.’ A nod and a frown. ‘Do you think he did it? I think he did it. You can’t trust people with those flesh-tunnel ear things. It’s not right.’

  ‘What happened with the missing person reports?’

  ‘Even the word’s perverted, isn’t it? “Flesh tunnel”. Who goes into a shop and asks for a “flesh tunnel”?’

  ‘Stop saying “flesh tunnel”.’ Logan reached across the table and thumped him. ‘Now focus: missing persons?’

  ‘Which ones?’

  ‘For the love of … I told you to go through every missing person report for the month DI Bell faked his own death!’

  ‘Oh, that. Did that ages ago.’

  The evil vending machine buzzed.

  Someone walked past the canteen door, whistling the theme tune to Danger Mouse.

  Logan reached across the table and thumped Rennie again. ‘And?’

  ‘Oh, right. Won’t be a tick.’ He scrambled out of his chair and hurried from the room.

  ‘I’m surrounded by idiots.’ Logan took another sip of hot brown yuck. ‘Urgh…’ Then called up the contact list on his phone, found ‘HORRIBLE STEEL’, and set it ringing.

  Her voice crackled in his ear, all echoey and distorted, as if she’d answered from inside a filing cabinet. ‘What?’

  ‘“Workshy scrounger”. Remember that?’

  A papery rustling noise. ‘I’m kinda busy.’

  ‘I had to defuse an unexploded DCI Hardie, because you couldn’t keep your mouth from running away with itself in front of Russell Morton!’

  More rustling. ‘Says here there’s a guy in Dundee who’s grown a six-foot marrow. It’s in the Sunday Post, so it must be true.’

  ‘So much for “if she prints a word of it he’ll have her”.’

  ‘Who wants to eat a six-foot marrow? Be like chewing a roll of linoleum stuffed with mouldy peas.’

  Typical. She couldn’t even be arsed paying attention to a bollocking.

  ‘You really don’t give a toss, do you? We’re trying to find missing kids and track down cop killers and you simply don’t care!’

  ‘Course I care. Waste of good courgettes, letting them grow that big.’

  ‘Hardie thought it was my fault!’

  ‘Well, you were the senior officer, so he’s got a point. If you can’t control the people working for you…’

  ‘You dirty, rotten, two-faced, backstabbing—’

  ‘Temper, temper.’ A hollow knocking sound echoed out in the background. Steel raised her voice. ‘Occupied.’

  Oh no!

  Logan recoiled from the phone. Holding it away from his ear. ‘Please tell me you’re not on the toilet!’

  More knocking. ‘Are you smoking in there? Because you’re not allowed to smoke in there!’

  ‘Occu-sodding-pied!’

  ‘Oh God, you’re on the toilet, aren’t you?’

  How could anyone be that manky?

  The canteen door thumped open and Rennie staggered in, all red in the face and breathing hard. Holding a folder above his head like a revolutionary flag. ‘Got it!’

  ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’m in the middle of making wee Russell Mortons here and you’re putting me off my stroke.’ And with that, she hung up.

  ‘Gahhhh…’ Logan put his phone down and wiped his hands on a napkin. Probably have to scrub his ears with bleach now. ‘The woman’s a horror show.’

  Rennie collapsed into his seat and sagged there – one arm dangling, the other hand clutching his ribs. ‘Arrgh… Stitch.’

  A shudder rippled its way across Logan’s shoulders. ‘On the toilet.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Rennie opened the new folder, ‘just to be safe, I did an extra month before Bell didn’t kill himself as well. Eliminated anyone too tall, too short, too womany, the wrong number of limbs, or who’s been found since – and that leaves us with…’ He produced three printouts and laid them on the table in front of Logan – mugshots with personal details underneath. ‘Number one: Joseph Horman. Librarian from Buckie. Been suffering from depression for three years, then one day he walked out of the family home and never came back.’ Rennie tapped the next mugshot. ‘Number two: Barry Linwood. Self-employed accountant from Mintlaw. Wife reported him missing after a four-day bender. And number three: Evan Forshaw. He was a Church of Scotland minister who vanished off the face of Peterhead in the middle of the night. Turned out he’d been embezzling cash from a fund-raising thing. Sick kids in Syria, I think.’

  ‘Yeah…’ Logan examined each one in turn. Horman’s flat forehead, Linwood’s jowly face, Forshaw’s sticky-out ears. ‘None of them look much like DI Bell.’

  ‘Which is why I present, for your viewing pleasure, Bachelor Number Four.’ Rennie delved into the folder again and pulled out one more printout, laying it on top of the others with a flourish. ‘No one reported him missing, but Rod Lawson here disappeared at some point during the week Bell’s meant to have died.’


  ‘At some point?’

  A shrug. ‘Was supposed to see his parole officer on the Wednesday. Never turned up. No one’s heard from him since.’

  Just like Fred Marshall.

  Logan picked up Rod Lawson’s mugshot.

  A sullen, hairy man scowled out of the picture, a police measurement chart clearly visible on the wall behind him, his name in magnetic letters on the small board he was holding. Bags under his eyes, a smattering of cold sores around his mouth. Blotchy skin.

  ‘Let me guess: drugs?’

  ‘To a band playing. DI Bell did him a couple of times for possession with intent. Same height as Bell, same basic build, same hairiness. About ten years younger, and the nose, ears, and eyes are all wrong, but if you’re blowing his head off and setting fire to the remains…?’

  ‘Close enough.’ Logan puffed out his cheeks. ‘Of course, if we could find his teeth we might actually have some DNA to do a match with.’

  ‘Yeah… Well, maybe?’

  ‘Get a warrant sorted – I want his medical records. And don’t let them fob you off this time!’ Logan grabbed his phone and called Control. ‘I need you to put me through to Sergeant Rose Savage.’

  The sound of muffled fingers on a keyboard rattled out for a bit, then: ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant Savage isn’t on duty today. Do you want to leave a—’

  ‘Then put me through to her mobile.’

  Rennie stuck bachelors one-through-three in the folder again. ‘They’re not going to give me a warrant without corroboration or probable cause. How am I supposed to—’

  Logan held up a finger, silencing him as Sergeant Savage answered.

  Her voice dripped with suspicion. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘When you worked with DI Bell, do you remember him mentioning Rod Lawson at all?’

  No reply.

  ‘Hello? You still there?’

  ‘Sorry, you broke up a bit. Did Ding-Dong mention…?’

  ‘Rod Lawson.’

  ‘Rod…? No, that doesn’t ring a…’ Another small silence. ‘Oh, wait, you mean Hairy Roddy Lawson? The Sandilands Sasquatch? Oh, I know him fine. Did him for possession and shoplifting more times than I can count. Haven’t seen him for ages, though. Why, has something happened to him?’