The Blood Road

by Stuart MacBride

  Twenty feet on, a track disappeared off into the woods on the right. Rutted and bumpy, with a thick line of grass down the middle. Tufty turned onto it, the car lurching and bumping along in slow motion. Shapes loomed in the darkness, swallowed by the rain. ‘Argh, this is horrible…’

  A huge lump of whin scraped its way down one side of the car.

  Logan tapped the dashboard. ‘OK. You can stop here.’

  ‘Oh, thank the Great Green Arkleseizure.’ He pulled on the handbrake and killed the engine.

  Now the only sound was the rain, pattering against the car roof.

  Tufty undid his seatbelt. ‘And now we…?’

  ‘One of us has to go out there and see what she’s up to.’

  ‘Urgh.’ He slumped in his seat. ‘Oh noes… Poor Tufty…’

  ‘Don’t be such a drama queen.’

  ‘It’s always the lowly police constable, isn’t it? Squelching about in the rain. Dying of pneumonia. Getting all chafed.’

  Oh for goodness’ sake.

  ‘Fine! You stay with the car.’ Logan took out his phone and set it on vibrate. Then did the same with his Airwave. ‘If she drives off, you follow her. Discreetly.’ He grabbed his peaked cap and pulled it on. Then climbed out into the rain. ‘And don’t lose her this time!’

  Something squished beneath his feet as he picked his way around the bonnet of the car, breath misting out around his head. He’d got as far as the driver’s side when Tufty cracked the door open and put on a big theatrical whisper:

  ‘Guv! You forgot your waterproof!’

  ‘Yes, because creeping through the woods, in the middle of the night, is so much easier in a fluorescent-yellow jacket!’

  Idiot.

  Logan turned and stepped off the track, and onto a slippery patch of fallen leaves. Yeah, this was going to be a barrel of laughs.

  He pushed through a clump of dying nettles, ducking under the branches of a huge Scots pine and into the woods proper.

  Lichen-crusted beech snatched at his black fleece, their fingers brittle and rattling.

  They gave way to Forestry Commission pines, standing guard like sentries in the dark. Their trunks pale against the suffocating gloom.

  He scrambled up a small ridge of needle-matted ground, then down the other side. Stepping over the drainage channel at the bottom. It was a lot darker in here, but at least the canopy kept most of the rain off. And he had to be virtually invisible in his black Police Scotland fleece, trousers, and boots.

  Logan crept on, crouched over to avoid the lower branches, feet scuffing through the rolling sea of fallen needles. Every step smelled of old houses, stale bread, and pine disinfectant.

  The sound of a car engine idled up ahead. Getting louder.

  He stopped.

  There – through the trees. Danielle Smith’s white Renault Clio. Parked down a rutted track of its own. Only she’d reversed up hers, the car sitting nose out. For a quick getaway?

  Logan sneaked closer.

  She was squatting down by the boot of her car, fiddling with something.

  Urgh. She wasn’t having a—

  No. She stood, holding the rear number plate in one hand, screwdriver in the other.

  OK, so she was definitely up to something. Innocent people didn’t anonymise their motor vehicles.

  He could probably get a bit nearer if he—

  Logan froze as his phone buzzed in his pocket.

  He dug it out – the screen was like a searchlight in the gloom. He slapped it against his chest, smothering the glow, and ducked behind a tree trunk. The word ‘TUFTY’ filled the screen.

  Logan answered it, keeping his voice so low it was barely there. ‘This better be important!’

  Tufty crackled on the other end. ‘Guv? There’s a … comin— Guv?… –ello?’

  ‘I can’t hear you.’

  ‘…car com— … see it? I—’

  He hung up and thumbed out a text instead:

  Reception is terrible. Have located Smith. She’s parked up a small track, taking off her number plates.

  SEND.

  Headlights glowed in the middle distance, coming this way.

  Logan turned down the brightness on his phone and crept around to the front of the tree again. Slipped in behind a clump of jagged broom, keeping low and out of sight, then peered through its branches.

  A rusty old Jaguar rolled to a halt at the junction where the track met the road and sat there, windscreen wipers click-thumping. Then eased onto the track. Stopping a couple of feet in.

  Danielle Smith stood.

  At least, it was probably Danielle Smith. Her face was hidden behind a smooth dull-blue mask with a big white number six on it. A baseball cap hiding her hair. She popped open the Clio’s boot and chucked the number plate inside. Thunked it shut again. Checked something in her pocket. Stood there. Still and silent.

  The Jag’s driver wound down his window. Overweight with a mop of greying hair and an open-necked shirt. Sweaty and jowly, like a proper child molester. He waved at her, voice booming out, ‘HELLO?’

  She didn’t reply. Instead she stood there, with her head on one side, as if trying to decide which of his bones to break first.

  Logan started up the camera app on his phone and clicked off a few shots. The results were all grainy in the low light, but they were good enough to make out the Jag’s number plate. He took a few more, trying to get the driver’s face.

  Sweaty McChildMolester checked his watch. ‘CAN WE GET ON WITH THIS PLEASE? I DON’T WANT TO BE LATE!’

  She ran at him, from zero to a full-on sprint, covering the ground to his car in seconds, arms out, growling.

  Sweaty ducked inside again, but she was too quick – before he could wind up his window her hand snapped forward, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled his head out into the rain. The other hand dipped into her jacket and when it reappeared… Great. A semiautomatic pistol. Because this whole thing wasn’t screwed-up enough.

  She ground the barrel into Sweaty’s forehead.

  He scrunched his eyes shut. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God…’

  Logan tensed. OK, so running out there and getting between Sweaty and a bullet was a stupid thing to do, but he couldn’t sit here and watch her murder the guy.

  Danielle growled it out: ‘You didn’t say the magic word.’

  ‘Wormwood! Wormwood! The magic word is Wormwood…’

  Come on, Logan. Charge in there and save the day.

  Maybe she won’t even shoot you?

  Or at least, not fatally.

  Maybe.

  Here we go.

  Deep breath.

  In three. Two…

  She yanked the Jag’s door open and dragged Sweaty out onto the road. Stuck the gun in her pocket.

  Oh thank God for that.

  Sweaty tumbled onto his back, squealing and whimpering, both hands covering his face as she searched him.

  ‘Where’s your phone? WHERE’S YOUR PHONE?’

  She yanked it from one of his inside pockets, then shoved him over onto his front so she could check the rest of him.

  Then stood.

  Nodded.

  And gave the car a quick search as well. Fast and efficient.

  Logan tried a few more photos.

  She stood over Sweaty, holding his mobile phone between two gloved fingers like a soiled nappy. ‘You can pick this up at the end of the night.’

  He whimpered and curled into a ball.

  ‘In the car. NOW!’

  Sweaty scrambled into the Jag and sat there, trembling and muddy.

  ‘Better.’ Danielle thumped the door shut and stepped away from the car. Then reached into her pocket and produced an envelope. Pulled a card from it and held the thing out just a tiny bit too far from the open window.

  Sweaty ran a shaky hand over his dirty face. Licked his lips. Then nodded and reached for the card. Stretching for it. Podgy fingertips searching the air … almost … almost…

  She let
him take it. ‘Pleasure doing business with you.’

  He snatched his arm in again and wound the window up. Eyes darting left and right as he reversed off the track, the scrunch of grit giving way to the squeal of tyres as he stuck his foot down and the old Jaguar roared off into the night.

  Danielle waved after him, the grin obvious in her voice: ‘YOU’RE WELCOME!’

  Logan cupped his hands in front of his mouth and blew a warm breath into them. Fog escaped through the gaps between his fingers as he huddled there, sitting on the forest floor, hidden from the track by a lump of broom. He clamped his knees together and leaned against a tree trunk. Wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. At least the pine needles gave a bit of insulation to his bum, everything else was half frozen.

  Danielle had returned to her car, sitting in the passenger seat, still wearing her Number Six mask. Nodding away to a song belting out of the stereo: something loud with pounding drums and a bloke banging on about ‘loving this feeling’.

  All right for some.

  Logan’s phone buzzed and he dug it out.

  TUFTY:

  You OK?

  He poked out a reply with shivering thumbs:

  No I’m not. Bloody freezing out here!!!

  SEND.

  Another buzz.

  Want to play I-spy?

  Did he…?

  How about we play ”hide my boot in your arse”? You

  But before he could tell Tufty what he was, the phone buzzed again.

  TUFTY:

  Car heading your way!

  Logan peered through the bushes as a dark green Audi pulled off the road and onto the track. It wasn’t easy, holding the phone steady, but Logan took a handful of photos. Zoomed in on the car’s nose…

  Sod: the Audi didn’t have any number plates.

  The driver got out and stood there with her hands empty and visible. Calm, in a high-necked jumper, jeans, and trendy trainers. Dark hair tied up in a bun. All perfectly normal, except for the green snake mask that covered her whole face. And not a cheap plastic one either, it looked custom-made and expensive.

  Logan took some grainy pixelated photos of it. Probably completely useless, but you never knew.

  Danielle climbed out of her Clio and stalked across to Snake. Slow and menacing.

  Snake didn’t move. Her accent was crisp and well spoken – one of those privately educated voices. ‘Hello, my name’s Nightshade. I’m looking for my friend, have you seen him?’

  ‘Arms.’ Danielle gestured with her gloves.

  ‘But of course.’ Snake adopted the search position, arms out, legs shoulder-width apart. ‘My phone’s in my jacket pocket – left side.’ She stood, still and quiet as Danielle searched her, didn’t complain when her phone was confiscated, didn’t so much as fidget as her car was searched.

  Danielle handed her a card.

  Snake nodded. ‘Thank you kindly.’ Then got in her car and drove away as if this was all perfectly normal and happened every day.

  The world was full of weirdos.

  Logan jammed his elbows in a little tighter, trying to hold his hands still enough to text. All ten angry-pink fingers burned and itched. Ears like someone was sandpapering them. The only plus was that his toes didn’t ache any more.

  He clamped his jaws together to stop his teeth rattling.

  Can’t feel my feet. No idea how many people she’s going to stop and search. Could be here for hours!

  SEND.

  On the other side of the broom, Danielle was rummaging about inside a mud-spattered Toyota Hilux. No number plate on the vehicle.

  Its driver stood off to the side, arms crossed, quiet and patient. About six / six-two, wearing red corduroy trousers, Cabotswood boots, a checked shirt, a green Barbour jacket, and a tiger mask. None of which photographed particularly well on Logan’s phone.

  Should’ve got one with a better camera.

  Might as well submit a drawing in crayon to the procurator fiscal.

  His treasonous phone buzzed again.

  TUFTY:

  Maybe we should arrest her, before you do a hypothermia?

  Logan’s thumbs kept hitting the wrong keys. Every shivering word had to be corrected as the Hilux’s big diesel engine rumbled into life then faded away into the distance.

  Don’t be an idiot: she’s got a gun! We’re just going to have to keep tabs and see where she

  Sod.

  He went perfectly still, not shivering, not even breathing as the barrel of Danielle’s gun pressed against his cheek.

  She tutted. ‘Well, well, well…’

  OK. He had one chance at this. If he—

  She pressed the gun in harder. ‘I really wouldn’t do that if I was you.’

  Yeah, maybe not.

  ‘Danielle. You were a police officer, you don’t have to—’

  ‘Oh, but I do, Inspector McRae. I do.’ She backed away out of reach, face hidden by her Number Six mask, the semiautomatic pointing right at the middle of his chest. ‘Now toss the phone over here. Gently.’

  ‘They’re paedophiles, Danielle, they—’

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll swap you the phone for a bullet. How’s that sound?’

  He tossed the phone onto the ground at her feet.

  ‘Good boy.’ She eased down, keeping the gun on him the whole way, and picked up his mobile. Swiped a thumb across the screen. Stared. Then obviously realised the screen wouldn’t react to leather-gloved fingers, because she stuck her left hand in up under her mask and pulled the glove off. Tried again. Nodded. ‘How nice, it’s still unlocked. Let’s make that permanent, shall we?’ She fiddled with the settings then nodded. ‘On your feet: you and I are going walkies.’

  It took a lot of effort to get his aching legs and stiff back into position, but Logan struggled upright.

  She jerked her gun towards the track and her car.

  He limped around the clump of broom, arms up as far as they’d go – given the branches overhead. Ducked under the last of them and onto the track. Dirt and gravel crunched beneath his boots, the rain pattering against his peaked cap, stealing what little heat remained in his skin.

  Logan stopped. ‘You know I’m not here on my own, don’t you, Danielle? They’ll come looking for—’

  Bright white light blared out, robbing detail from the world, followed by a rushing, crashing noise. Then burning daggers slashed across the back of his head as the light faded and everything went…

  Down like a bag of tatties.

  Danielle stood over him for a moment. Never coldcocked someone with a gun before. Certainly seemed to work, though. As long as it hadn’t damaged the gun, of course.

  She pulled on her other glove, then hunkered down next to him and went through his pockets: keys; some change; a hanky; a wallet containing a photo of a big fluffy cat, a photo of a pretty woman with bright-red hair and tattoos, twenty quid in cash, a debit card, a bunch of receipts, and some business cards; a hanky; a police-issue notebook – he could whistle for that; and an Airwave handset. He could whistle for that too. Everything else got stuffed into one of his fleece’s pockets.

  Probably better get a shift on now, in case he woke up. She popped open the Clio’s boot and levered the bass board out of the way – thing weighed a ton. Then pulled out her abduction kit: a packet of thick black cable ties, a roll of bin bags, and one of duct tape. A lot of people would be surprised how often something like that came in handy.

  Now: first things first.

  She shoved McRae over, so he was lying face down, pulled his wrists behind his back and zipped a cable tie around them. Then did the same with his ankles. Rolled him onto his side, balled up his hanky and stuffed it into his mouth. Stuck a big strip of duct tape across his face to keep it in there. It took a couple of minutes, lining the boot with the bin bags, but it was worth it. Who wanted DNA and bloodstains all over their nice new car?

  Danielle dug two hands in under McRae’s armpits and dragged him around to the Clio’s boot. H
eavier than he looked. She wrestled him inside, made sure all his limbs were secured, then sealed him in with the hefty pine bass board. Lovingly handcrafted for maximum solidity.

  ‘Sweet dreams.’ She scooped his peaked cap up off the ground and chucked it in with him, clunked the tailgate shut, and climbed in behind the wheel. Dumped the Airwave on the passenger seat, removed her gloves, took out his phone and checked the recent text messages.

  Hmm… About a dozen outbound texts and the same number of replies from that idiot sidekick of his, all about hiding in the bushes like a pervert watching her. No point deleting them – they’d be on the sidekick’s phone anyway, and more people got caught trying to cover something up than actually doing what they’d done – but that didn’t mean she couldn’t make this work for her. She killed the Clio’s engine, made sure all the lights were off. Well, except for the smartphone’s screen.

  Let’s see…

  She deleted the ‘Don’t be an idiot: she’s got a gun!’ text and thumbed out a reply of her own:

  She’s driven off – heading east!

  SEND.

  And five, four, three, two…

  The phone buzzed in her hand.

  TUFTY:

  Get to the road & I’ll pick you up!

  Oh no you don’t.

  No time you idiot! Follow her! I’ll catch up later!

  SEND.

  Shouldn’t be long now.

  Danielle fastened her seatbelt.

  Come on ‘TUFTY’ – which was a stupid nickname, by the way – soon as you like…

  Ha! A manky old Vauxhall raced past the end of the track, heading east.

  ‘One elephant. Two elephant. Three elephant.’ She turned the engine on and crept back onto the road – look left, look right. Not a single police officer to be seen, so she turned west, clicked her headlights on, set Jimmy Page’s solo belting out of the stereo again.

  After a mile, she picked the Airwave handset off the passenger seat. The Airwave with its built-in GPS and panic buttons and here-comes-the-cavalry. No thanks.

  Danielle pulled into the next passing place. The ground dropped away on the left: trees and bushes clinging to the side of the hill. Good enough. She buzzed down her window, stuck her arm out, and lobbed the Airwave over the roof of the car. It sailed off into the darkness and vanished.