Dark Blood

21

Logan stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets. ‘He’s going to catch his death.’

Danby shifted his weight, and grimaced. ‘What a shame that would be.’

They were standing in the lee of a small mausoleum, about thirty yards from where Knox was kneeling, head bent in prayer, in front of a weathered headstone, carrier bag clutched to his chest. A gust of wind brought in another flurry of sleet, shivering the skeletal trees dotted between the graves.

The Sacro team had positioned themselves a respectful distance from Knox and his devotions — trying to control a writhing umbrella that looked determined to make a break for freedom.

Logan watched Danby rubbing his leg again. ‘You OK?’

‘When it’s really cold the metalwork in my leg contracts. Nips a bit.’

Grove Cemetery perched on a steep slope overlooking the River Dee, a huge Tesco supermarket, the Grampian Country Chickens factory, and a sewage treatment plant. Today Logan could barely see the lights twinkling on the other side of the river — the view swallowed up by the low clouds and driving sleet.

A train grumbled past on the line at the top of the graveyard, windows full of miserable faces on their way north.

Logan craned his neck looking through the trees at the bottom of the hill, towards the wee park where Samantha still kept her Portakabin-style static caravan. Not that she spent much time there any more.

Danby turned his head and spat, the wind whipping it away before it could spatter someone’s headstone. ‘Soon as we’re back at the station, call Frankland Prison: I want the name of everyone Knox shared a cell with. We’re looking for someone done for housebreaking and rape. Then crosscheck for unsolved murders where a house was burnt to destroy the evidence — two or more victims. The bastard might’ve got away with it up till now, but that’s about to change, know what I’m saying?’

Logan nodded. ‘Was already on my to-do list.’

‘Good.’

Knox still hadn’t moved.

Danby hunched his shoulders, pulling his upturned collar closer to his ears. ‘Should’ve brought a bloody hat.’ The top of his bald head was getting pinker and pinker in the driving sleet. ‘Or stayed in the car.’

The DSI turned and glowered downhill at the car park, where the scabby maroon council Transit van sat between the CID pool car and a massive black Range Rover. The surveillance team would be sitting with the engine running, heaters on full, sharing a tartan thermos of hot coffee.

Bastards.

Logan cleared his throat. ‘Why’s Knox so obsessed with DI Billy Adams?’

Danby kept his eyes on the ex-council van. ‘DI?’

‘I did some digging.’

Sniff. The superintendent sent another gobbet of spit flying. ‘Did you now.’

The only sound was the wind, slamming into the exposed cemetery, the creak of the bare trees, the distant rumble of traffic on Auchmill Road.

Ah well, it’d been worth a go.

Danby sighed. ‘Billy was a friend, known him since we were both in uniform. Never really wanted promotion, said he liked it at the sharp end. Spent three months infiltrating Michael “Mental Mikey” Maitland’s operation.’ The big man gave a small, unhappy laugh. ‘Far as Mikey’s crew were concerned, Billy was a cop on the take: ready to do favours for a reasonable price. But he was really following the money.’

‘So why’s Knox being such a-’

‘Organized crime. Clue’s in the name, know what I’m saying? They don’t make millions out of drug running and hide it under the mattress anymore: they’ve got lawyers, accountants, trust funds, offshore holding companies.’

Logan frowned. ‘But what’s that-’

‘If you’ll bloody shut up for a minute, you’ll find out.’

Silence.

‘We only started looking into Knox for the Brucklay rape and abduction because Billy tipped us off. There were rumours Mikey’s principal accountant had “unusual tastes”.’

Logan opened his mouth. Shut it again. Then turned to stare at the weaselly little man kneeling in front of the gravestone. ‘Knox worked for the mob?’

‘Graduated with a BA in accounting and finance from Northumbria University. He was their main money man. That’s why he got away with raping old men for so long; a visit from Mental Mikey’s boys tends to encourage amnesia in victims and witnesses.’

‘But…no self-respecting criminal’s going to put up with that, they’d carve “nonce” in his forehead and string him up by the goolies.’

Danby laughed, a deep rumbly sound that boomed out over the graveyard. Knox didn’t even look up.

‘Sergeant, think about it. That weedy strip of piss over there is the only person Mikey knows won’t roll over on him if something goes wrong. Knox’ll always keep his trap shut about his employer’s operation, because if he breathes a word, Mikey can tie him to at least half a dozen rapes. And prison’s a dangerous place when your ex-employer’s a vicious bastard with connections.’

Over by the grave, the man in question reached out a hand and caressed his granny’s headstone.

Logan finally got it. ‘And let me guess: there’s no way the CPS is going to turn a blind eye to Knox abducting and violently raping someone’s grandad, not even to get info on a mob operation. So he can’t cut a deal.’

‘Exactly. Long as Knox doesn’t go mad, keeps the rapes down to a couple a year, it’s manageable, know what I’m saying? Look at premier league football, never did them any harm, did it?’ Danby rubbed at his calf. ‘When we arrested Knox for the William Brucklay rape, Mikey got him the best lawyer; made sure Knox’s mum went to a good care home. And Knox kept his mouth shut. Seven years he was inside, never said a single word about Mental Mikey’s empire.’

Danby shivered as another gust of sleet battered across the graveyard. ‘Think I’ll wait in the car.’

Logan glanced over at Knox — still praying. ‘That’s why you’re up here, isn’t it? You think he’ll talk to you.’

‘That nasty piece of shite knows everything there is to know about Mental Mikey’s operation. Crack him and you could tear the whole thing apart, know what I’m saying?’

The DSI turned his back and limped towards the exit.

Logan shouted after him, ‘So…why does he keep winding you up about Billy Adams, then?’

Danby didn’t even turn around.

‘Because he’s a sex offender. Manipulating people is what they do.’

Logan picked his way between the graves, lurching as the wind strafed the cemetery with slivers of ice, joining the team from Sacro.

Mandy had her whole body hunched up, stamping her feet, huddling under the bucking umbrella her partner was holding. ‘We’re not going to have to do this every Sunday, are we? I can’t feel my toes any more.’

Harry wiped a sleeve across the underside of his nose. ‘Could be worse. At least we’re out of that mould-ridden filthy-Fuck!’

The umbrella whipped inside out: a satellite dish on a stick. Harry tried to force it back into shape while the wind hammered them.

Mandy grabbed Logan’s sleeve and nodded at a life-sized statue of an angel, perched atop a big square plinth on the other side of the path.

‘Erm…I…’

‘It’s OK, Sergeant, I’m not going to molest you.’ She led him over into the relative shelter of the angel’s wings. ‘Wanted to have a word with you about our boy over there.’ Mandy nodded in the direction of the praying Knox.

‘Still creeping you out?’

She shuffled round, using Logan as an additional windbreak. ‘I think he’s in touch with someone, passing messages. Got no proof though, and I can’t exactly spin his pad, can I?’

Logan must have looked as confused as he felt, because she sighed and said, ‘Spin his pad: search his cell?’

‘Mobile phone?’

She chewed at the inside of her cheek. ‘Probably. I’m guessing he’d want to keep it close, so…maybe that plastic bag he takes everywhere like a sodding security blanket?’

‘Trouble is, we can’t really do anything about it, even if he has. There’s nothing about owning a mobile phone in his prevention order.’

‘No, but his SOPO says he can’t make contact with other people on the Sex Offenders’ Register. And if he’s got a mobile, we can’t tell if he is or not.’

They watched Knox pray for a moment.

Mandy nodded. ‘Be a shame if he violated his order and had to be banged up again for a couple of years, wouldn’t it?’

‘Terrible shame.’

‘Could be planning anything…’

The smile slipped from Logan’s face. Given Danby’s story about Mental Mikey Maitland that wasn’t exactly good news. ‘Excuse me a minute.’ He marched over to where Knox was kneeling.

The silly sod had to be frozen — sleet crusted across his shoulders and back, hair dripping wet, one hand clutching that carrier bag to his chest, the other on the lichen-speckled gravestone. ‘HERE LIE THE MORTAL REMAINS OF JOSEPH ALBERT MURRAY, BELOVED HUSBAND AND DEVOTED GRANDFATHER. ALSO EUPHEMIA ABERCROMBIE-MURRAY, DUTIFUL WIFE.’

‘Richard, I’m going to need to see what’s in the bag.’

Knox looked up, nose dripping, lips a pale shade of purple, eyes rimmed with red. ‘It’s private.’

‘I have to make sure you’re not violating your prevention order.’

He closed his eyes, worrying the plastic bag round and round. ‘Don’t want it to get wet.’

Logan stuck out his hand. ‘Now, Richard.’

Knox bit his lip. Clutched the bag tighter. ‘Promise you’ll be careful?’

‘Just give me the bloody bag.’

The little man did what he was told.

Logan pulled the handles apart and peered into the grubby, creased plastic. It was a book — a tatty bible, the blue fabric jacket scuffed and fraying.

‘Was Granny Murray’s: left it me in her will. Thought she was taking the piss at the time.’ Knox smiled, a lopsided thing made of sharp, squint teeth. ‘Had a lot of opportunity to read it in me cell though, know what I mean?’

Logan reached into the bag and opened the book, flicking through the pages. Some were held in with ancient amber Sellotape, others were smudged, passages highlighted in fading yellow, underlined in biro, tiny notes scribbled in the margins.

He closed the bible again. Stupid idea — why would Knox carry an illicit phone about with him? But it was too late to back down now. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to empty your pockets.’

‘At me granny’s graveside?’ The little man hung his head, then stood and held his arms out. ‘Go on then.’

Logan kept it quick: a once through Knox’s pockets then a pat down of arms, legs and torso. He passed the carrier bag back. ‘Sorry. Thought you had a phone…’

Knox shrugged, clutching his plastic-wrapped bible to his chest again. ‘Just doing your job, like.’

‘Right, well…Let us know when you’re ready to head home.’

The cold feels good, you know? Like being a kid again, on his holidays, sitting on the living room floor, listening to Granny Murray telling stories about the old days. Grandad Joe asleep in the other chair, a copy of the Press and Journal draped across his chest, snoring quietly to himself. Mouth a gaping cavern of pink.

They took all his teeth away when he was doing his national service in Cyprus, like. Went out with a full head of hair and all his own teeth, came back a slaphead with a set of falsies. He takes them out after dinner and leaves them on the table by the ashtray. Smokes rollies that smell of herbs and spices.

His mam’s gone out for the evening, same as she does nearly every night since Richard’s da ran out on them. Trading wife and kid for some girl works down the chipper in North Shields. Can’t trust Geordie harlots — that’s what Granny Murray says — God turn His face against their sinful hearts. Then she spits in the fire, that little spatter of yellowy-white hissing against the glowing electric bars. Never up high enough to warm the room, like: just enough to let Grandad Joe sleep with that cavernous mouth of his hanging open.

Pink and glistening.

Richard sneaks a glance at his keepers — the man and woman from Sacro, huddled together under a broken brolly, the nosey sergeant shivering beside a big carved angel.

It’s a much fancier memorial than the simple granite slab Granny Murray picked out for her and Grandad Joe; she never was one for flash. The only decoration’s a bunch of porcelain roses, sealed away in a glass dome. Only the glass has cracked and the whole thing’s full of dirty water, the faded pink blossoms tainted with grey mould and trapped dirt.

Appropriate really.

He reaches around the back of the fake floral tribute, fingers drifting carefully through the matted yellow grass — don’t want to find some junkie’s needle the hard way, know what I mean? And then he finds it. A little rectangular box, about half the size of a toothpaste tube, hidden away in a little plastic bag.

Doesn’t take much to palm it while he tidies the grave. Richard pulls a few weeds, then fakes a sneeze, slipping the box into his pocket while he drags out a handkerchief.

Blows.

He levers himself upright, and crosses himself — testicles, spectacles, wallet, and watch — then bends and kisses the headstone. It tastes of pepper and gritty ice. But it smells of freedom.

Logan sat at his desk in the sergeants’ cubbyhole, hands wrapped around a hot mug of coffee. Probably got pneumonia after this morning’s little outing. Standing about like a pillock in the sleet, while Knox prayed at his granny’s grave.

Logan wiped his nose with a pilfered packet of handy-wipes.

It hadn’t taken long to find a contact number for HM Prison Frankland in Durham, but getting a list of everyone who’d ever shared a cell with Richard Creepy Bastard Knox had been more of a problem. Logan had finally managed to persuade someone to go digging through seven years’ worth of prison records. They’d promised to call him back, soon as they had time to look into it.

So Logan went searching through the PNC for any unsolved murders where the house had been burned. Without a specific timeframe to narrow the search the results would be virtually useless, but it would give him somewhere to start when Frankland Prison got back to him.

He dragged another tissue out of the pack and made snottery noises into it.

‘Urgh, could you please stop sniffing for five minutes?’

Logan twirled his seat around, until he was looking at the room’s only other occupant. Detective Sergeant Doreen Taylor wrinkled her nose and stared back at him. ‘Honestly, Logan, you’re like a small child.’

Well, if he was like a small child, she was like someone’s plump auntie: blue jeans, grey cardigan, shoulder-length bob.

‘Didn’t see you stuck out in the sodding sleet all morning, did I?’

‘Don’t be petulant. Here…’ She dug into her handbag and came out with a packet of Lockets. ‘And for goodness sake, try-’

The door bashed open and Biohazard Bob skittered to a halt on the carpet tiles. He poked a finger in Logan’s direction. ‘You! Run! Run now!’

‘What are you-’

Bob grabbed Logan by the shoulders and hauled him out of the chair, snatched the jacket off the rack by the door and thrust it into his hands. ‘Trust me. Get your arse in gear and find somewhere else to be. Now!’

Logan shuffled sideways. ‘Have you been at the cauliflower cheese again?’

‘Go!’

Frown. Logan pulled on his jacket. ‘OK, OK. But this better not be a wind up or…’

He drifted to a halt as someone bellowed, ‘Where the sodding hell is he?’

DI Steel.

Logan stared at Bob. ‘But she’s supposed to be-’

Bob shoved him towards the door. ‘Will you take a bloody telling?’

He staggered out into the CID room, took one look at the door leading back to the main part of FHQ — where all the DIs had their offices, and where the shouting was coming from — and legged it in the opposite direction instead, barrelling through into the bare concrete stairwell.

From here he could see through the window into the CHIS handlers’ room, segregated from everyone else by a keypad door and double glazing. They were all getting out of their seats, moving towards the tiny side window that looked out on the main CID area. Staring at something.

Logan took the stairs two at a time, no idea what he’d done wrong.

Whatever it was, he wanted to be as far away from DI Steel as possible before he found out.