Blood & Guts

by Ed James

  The office door flew open and a skinny man in his forties stomped out, shaking his head, holding a phone at arm’s reach. ‘What do you mean? Eh?’

  Vicky and Karen got into formation, blocking his path.

  He stopped dead and squinted at them, mouth open with a sour twist to his nose. ‘Bungle, I’d better go.’ He stabbed a bony finger off the screen and pocketed it, but gave them a pout. ‘Cops, aye?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  He sniffed. ‘Got a sense for it, you know?’ He held out a hand and put on a car salesman smile. ‘Alan Kettles.’

  ‘Kettles?’

  ‘It’s an old Norse name, I’ll have you know.’ He was now smiling like he was chatting her up at the bar and had found his in. ‘And you are?’

  ‘DS Vicky Dodds.’ She held out her warrant card. ‘This is DC Karen Woods.’

  ‘Right, and how can I help you ladies?’ He was all charm now, hands rubbing together.

  ‘Looking to speak to Dougie McLean.’

  ‘Right.’ Just like that, the pout was back. ‘Come on in, then.’ He strolled off back into the office.

  Vicky led them inside and it was like they’d slipped through a portal to another time.

  The office was done up like a posh Scottish hotel, all tasteful tartans and bare stone walls. Chunky wooden furniture.

  Alan Kettles took a seat behind a massive oak desk covered in computers and phones. ‘So, what’s he done?’

  ‘Just need to speak to him, sir.’

  ‘Well, good luck with that.’ Kettles sighed. ‘You’d think it’d be Hogmanay, but no. Christmas Eve is our busiest night of the year. And that cheeky sod McLean isn’t working.’

  ‘He’s not clocked on?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Is that usual?’

  ‘Happens. We’re not a fancy firm like Uber or that Travis one. Old school, keeping it real. I pride myself on operating my business like my old man did. Car radios, not some daft app thing. What the hell even is an app, eh?’ His pout was back. ‘Trouble is, it’s a bit too easy to turn off those radios.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that a lot of my lads run wild and pick up fares off-meter at a flat rate. “Ten quid to the Hilltown, madam, thank you. Oh, my card machine’s broken, have you got cash? Well, I know a cash machine we can stop at on the way.” And on my diesel and in my bloody car. Cheeky sods inflate their mileage when working legitimately, and then make up the difference when they call in “sick” and go off the bloody meter.’

  ‘Sounds bad.’

  ‘Och, it’s the cost of doing business, isn’t it? I make good coin from this. It’s just the dishonesty, you know? They think I don’t know. And it’s not like I didn’t do it when my old boy owned this place. But Dougie is the worst at it. Thinks he’s getting one over on me all the time. Thinks I don’t know. And lies to my face when I ask him. Cheeky sod.’

  ‘So if we wanted a list of Mr McLean’s fares for tonight…?’

  ‘Aye, good luck. McLean’s been offline, so I can’t do it. And the silly bastard told me he lost his phone last night, didn’t he?’

  Vicky narrowed her eyes. ‘He lost his phone?’

  ‘So he said. He was in here about half-one this morning, searching for it. Think he reasoned that one of his fares had stolen it. So I couldn’t get hold of him today, could I?’

  ‘Even on his other phone?’

  ‘You know about that, then?’ Kettles smacked his lips. ‘I’ve given you a lot of information. How about you tell me what he’s done?’

  ‘Oh crap. Was that Considine?’ Karen walked over to the door, leaving Vicky and Kettles alone.

  Vicky couldn’t see what had spooked her, so she leaned forward to rest her hands on the table. ‘Mr McLean is a person of interest in a murder case.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Kettles clicked his tongue a few times. ‘Let me guess, a lassie?’

  ‘Good guess.’

  ‘Always one for the lassies, isn’t he? Knew it’d catch up with him. How’d she die?’

  ‘Not at liberty to divulge that.’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘You don’t seem concerned that one of your drivers is involved.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got some good, honest lads working for me. But sometimes you take a punt and you think you’re doing the right thing, but then you end up with egg all over your face and your balls.’

  ‘Was Dougie McLean one of those punts?’

  ‘Like trying for a hole-in-one on a par five.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  Kettles ran a hand over his jaw, dotted with stubble. ‘You think he’s killed this lassie and run off?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  Kettles scowled. ‘He better not have. It’s my bloody motor.’

  ‘What make is it?’

  ‘Skoda Octavia. But you know that, right?’

  Vicky nodded. ‘We have one at the scene of the crime.’

  ‘Oh for crying out loud…’ Kettles pouted again. ‘You’re going to impound it, aren’t you?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Vicky got out her phone and showed him the screen grab from the CCTV footage. ‘The plates have been masked.’

  Kettles nodded.

  ‘You know about this?’

  ‘See what I was saying about them going wild? That’s the main trick. They cover the plates with this spray. It’s a German thing, I think, but it cleans off with soapy water. Means they think your lot can’t follow them driving to Inverness on a cheeky flying cash-in-hand trip off my meter.’

  ‘And Dougie has done this?’

  ‘Several times, and that’s just that I know of.’

  ‘Do you have any trips to Adelaide Place?’

  ‘Nice street. That where the lassie lived?’

  ‘Might be.’

  The door tinkled open and Karen led Considine through, looking eager as a new puppy.

  Vicky focused on Kettles. ‘So, are you able to go through Mr McLean’s fares for, say, the last month?’

  Kettles rolled his bottom lip over his teeth. ‘I mean, aye, I can. But if he’s been seeing this lassie for a while, maybe he’s doing those trips off the books?’

  The messages Jenny found went back a few months.

  ‘Even so.’ Vicky nodded at Considine. ‘Can you work with my colleague here?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Vicky nodded at Kettles, then walked over to Considine. ‘Get a list of his fares. Look for any repeat trips, especially near Adelaide Place, then pass to the door-to-door team, get them to see if anyone knows anything.’

  Considine grinned. ‘Sure.’

  She leaned in closer to whisper, ‘And make sure he’s not in touch with McLean, okay?’

  ‘Sarge. What about you?’

  ‘I’m heading back to base.’

  9

  Bell Street station was full of Christmas Eve mayhem. Two burly uniforms struggled to separate a pair of fighting drunks, middle-aged men who should’ve known better. Red-faced, spitting and screaming at each other.

  Vicky turned the corner, glad it wasn’t her problem any more. No, she needed to catch a murderer. She looked at Karen, walking lockstep with her but checking her phone. ‘Everything okay at home?’

  ‘Aye, Colin’s putting the kids to bed.’

  Vicky started climbing the stairs. ‘Going to be a long night, isn’t it?’

  ‘We won’t be able to speak to anyone tomorrow, will we?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Breakfast-time buck’s fizz might loosen a few tongues.’

  Karen smiled at that.

  Vicky stopped on the first floor. ‘I’m going to see how the Grinch is doing.’

  ‘Jenny?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Why the Grinch?’

  ‘Because she hates Christmas?’

  Karen raised her eyebrows. ‘You know that’s because her boyfriend kill
ed himself on Christmas Day, right?’

  ‘Shit.’ Vicky shut her eyes. ‘How did I not know?’

  ‘Because she didn’t tell anyone?’ Karen pinched her lips together. ‘He jumped off the Forth Road Bridge five years ago. My Colin was First Attending Officer. We were still living in Fife. Jenny was Lothian and Borders.’

  ‘Christ.’ Vicky shut her eyes. She tried to picture it, but stopped herself. She should be tempering her words with Jenny, that’s for sure. ‘Can you scour the CCTV for the car?’

  ‘What?’ Karen scowled at her. ‘Vicks, the plates were covered. ANPR isn’t going to pick them up.’

  ‘Aye, I know. You’ll—’

  ‘—have to manually review the CCTV.’ Karen winced. ‘Great.’

  ‘Focus on the area around Adelaide Street. See if we can pin McLean’s car to dropping off Carly. Maybe picking her up. See if you can identify it at all today. Maybe he’s been careless.’

  ‘Right.’ Karen set off up the stairs. ‘Giving up Christmas Eve for this…’

  Vicky stood there, listening to Karen’s heavy footsteps trudging up, feeling the vibrations through her feet and from the handrail. She took a deep breath and tried the door into the forensics lab door. Shut, but not locked.

  The place stank of rancid fish paste sandwiches and off tomatoes. Jenny was working away in the darkest corner of the room, but at a different workbench from earlier. She looked up and gave a tight nod, though she was chewing slowly. ‘Evening, Vicks.’ Her mouth was a mush of white, pink and red. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Just wondering how you’re getting on.’

  Jenny leaned back to stretch, showing her pale stomach. ‘Christ.’ She shivered, still yawning. But not chewing, and not reaching for another sandwich. ‘Well, I’ve been speaking to my Met contacts just for you.’

  ‘For the messages on Poggr?’

  ‘Damn right. They’ve got what they call a “firehose”. Gives them access to the whole system, including messages.’ Jenny raised a finger. ‘But we need to tie our request to an active investigation.’

  ‘It’s a murder.’

  ‘I mean to our investigation.’

  ‘And have you?’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone.’

  Vicky smiled at her. ‘What have you got?’

  Jenny tied up her hair, then jangled the rings in her left ear, usually hidden by the walls of hair. Four of them, presumably one per year since… ‘Well, I’ve been through Dougie McLean’s message history. I’m sure you could get some cops to do this, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Very good. What has he been saying to Carly?’

  ‘Usual. Meet up stuff. Stopped a week ago. Looks like they shifted to WhatsApp, but she’s deleted all those messages, hasn’t she? And I can’t access them without his phone.’

  ‘But?’

  Jenny held up the bagged phone. ‘Check this out.’

  A woman’s face filled the screen.

  Hilary Jameson, 26. Younger looking, though, school age maybe.

  Four miles away.

  Active 26m ago.

  My interests are stamp collecting and train spotting. Not looking for sex. Yeah, right. ;-)

  Jenny grabbed the phone back and clicked the big green heart below Rebecca Grieve, 31. Definitely didn’t look even half that age.

  ‘Is she one of the flipped numbers age thingy girls?’

  ‘That’s how I got access to the messages. I mean, look under her eyes, Vicks. She’s barely sixteen, if that.’

  Vicky frowned. ‘Who are these?’

  ‘When anyone you’ve liked hearts your profile back, you get to message them.’

  ‘So Dougie has been hearting a lot of people?’

  ‘A hundred girls a day, by the looks of things.’ Jenny gave Vicky a wad of papers, just like a load of text messages, and flicked through to halfway. ‘Here’s another one.’

  Beth, 28.

  I love pizza and craft beer. And big dongles.

  She had a babyish quality to her.

  Jenny tapped the pile of paper. ‘These are their messages. Notice how quickly they get really, really dirty?’

  Vicky read the first two:

  I’m wet for you, big boy.

  My P in your V. When?

  ‘Unbelievable.’ Vicky felt sick to the stomach. ‘And this is people they’ve not even met?’

  ‘Different from our day, Vicks. Don’t need to buy a glass of white wine now.’ Jenny turned to the next page and held it up. ‘And this is the first message after they did meet.’

  Vicky squinted at it:

  Had fun, but let’s agree no more yeh?

  She gave Jenny a shrug. ‘What, she’s letting him down gently?’

  ‘Problem is, Mr McLean didn’t like that.’ Jenny held up another sheet, the text so small there was no danger Vicky could read any of it. ‘Reading between the lines, because she didn’t have sex with him, he asked for the money for the meal back. And it went downhill from there.’ She flicked through some pages. ‘By the sixth message, he’s threatening to kill her.’

  Vicky sighed. ‘Did she report it?’

  ‘Don’t know. What with it being Christmas Eve, the people at Poggr are playing silly buggers with my friends in the Met. They’re trying to track her down and see if she’s okay.’

  Vicky stared at the sheets. Two hundred pages. And they were small type, too. That was a lot of girls. Would take ages going through them, to track the likely victims down.

  Jesus. They all looked alike, young, but old enough to know enough. Kirsty in Aberdeen, Deanna in Perth, Alison in Edinburgh, Vicki in Dundee.

  And then, right at the bottom, Carly Johnston, definitely not old enough to know better.

  ‘How many of these hook-ups did he have?’

  ‘Fifty? Sixty? Trying to figure it out is going to take a long time and a lot of your idiots. If you can spare any skulls, it’d help.’ Jenny raised a finger. ‘Just not Considine.’

  ‘Damn.’ Vicky tried a smile, but God, it felt hollow. She rifled through the pages again. ‘So, between last February and this week, he’s seen fifty-odd girls on that app?’

  ‘That’s right. I mean, the lad’s got stamina.’

  ‘Hasn’t he just.’

  ‘Have a look at this, though.’ Jenny went to the last page. A set of messages with another user. Catriona, 19. ‘She was supposed to be meeting up with him last night. No account activity since, though. Not even a follow-up message from either of them.’

  Vicky felt that nasty twinge deep in her stomach. What if Carly tonight wasn’t his first murder? ‘Have you got an address for her?’

  10

  Vicky got out of her car and did a three-sixty. A modern primary school behind her, the playground empty for a week now. The address seemed to be the third house on their left, but the house numbering went weird around here. A row of brick boxes blessed with gardens, surrounded by a towering council block in that patch of town that wasn’t Dundee, but wasn’t Broughty Ferry either.

  Considine got out of his car and held up his phone. ‘Still no answer. Shall we?’

  ‘I don’t know. You spoke to her mother?’

  ‘Lives in Fintry. Said they’re estranged. Her word.’

  ‘Great.’ Vicky sighed. ‘Any taxi drop-offs from McLean here?’

  ‘If there were, Alan Kettles hasn’t got them logged.’

  ‘Try the house number again.’

  ‘Okay.’ Considine put the phone on speaker and the faintest ringing came from somewhere nearby.

  Vicky counted to twenty. ‘Okay. Let’s go.’ She started off across the tarmac, then up the path. The house looked empty. Curtains drawn, lights off. She waved for Considine to lead.

  Considine knocked on the door and waited a beat. ‘This is the police! We’re looking for Catriona Gordon!’

  So much for subtle.

  Considine kept his eyes on Vicky, narrowing as the seconds passed by. Then another thump. ‘Ms Kidd? It’s the police.’

 
Vicky played it all through. This wasn’t looking good. If McLean met her last night, Catriona Gordon was probably dead. Probably in there. ‘Okay, kick it down.’

  Considine was good for one thing, though. He lumbered back a few steps and took his sights. Then lurched forward with a size twelve.

  The door crunched open, bouncing off the inside walls.

  Considine barged into the hall and stomped across the floorboards.

  Vicky followed him in, clutching her baton tight.

  The place was dark and smelled of burnt toast and beans.

  Vicky followed the scents into a small kitchen. Glossy units and worktops wedged into a tiny space. A navy pot of congealed baked beans sat on the hob. An open tub of supermarket margarine lay on the counter, half turned to liquid.

  On the right side of the room was a lime-green melamine table. A plate with two pieces of toast covered in beans, one slice half-eaten.

  Considine swung back into the hall and locked eyes with Vicky. ‘Nobody here, Sarge.’

  The beans on the plate looked cold. Vicky put her hand near the pot. Freezing. The whole place had a low temperature, the kind you could feel in your bones.

  A noise came from somewhere. Upstairs, maybe.

  ‘Stephen, have you been up there?’

  Considine shook his head. Typical – he’d never make a competent officer.

  ‘Come on, then.’ Vicky snapped out her baton and set off up the stairs. Keeping it slow, keeping it quiet.

  Two doors, one half-open. Vicky nodded at Considine to enter the open one, looked like a bathroom.

  He was in there a few seconds then came out, shaking his head.

  ‘Okay.’ Her whisper lashed around the room. Sounded way too loud. She put a gloved hand to the other handle and opened it slowly.

  A small bedroom, mostly filled with a superking-sized bed, low-slung on an expensive-looking base. The blinds were open, yellow light bleeding in from the street. And ice cold, like the window was open.

  No sign of anybody.

  Vicky stepped over to the blinds.

  Below the window. A pink leg.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Vicky rested the baton on the bed and crouched down, hands out, breathing as slow as she could.