Dark Blood

31

Logan waved a thank you to the patrol car and struggled through the snow, up the slippery steps, across the front podium — brown with sand and salt — and in through the front doors of FHQ.

Big Gary was sitting behind the reception desk, his head propped up with one hand, a battered paperback lying on the desk in front of him.

‘Any messages?’

The big man reached beneath the desk and thumped a pile of Post-its on the counter. Never even took his eyes off the page.

‘Anything important?’

‘I’m reading.’

Logan flipped through the stack of yellow stickies. ‘Rennie, Rennie, Beattie, Rennie, Beattie…’ These went in the ‘when hell freezes over’ pile — there was no way Logan was talking to DI Beardy Beattie until Dildo called back. And he’d still not forgiven Rennie for grabbing Samantha’s bum.

Then there were a couple of burglary victims looking for an update; someone wanting to know why no one had found his missing Mercedes yet; a woman from the Independentwanting an interview about Knox, another complaint from Douglas Walker’s idiot lawyer, and right at the bottom, one from DI Steel.

A summons to her office.

He stuck the Post-its back on the desk. ‘Any idea what Steel’s after?’

Big Gary sighed, his jowls inflating and deflating like a pair of ruptured space hoppers. He marked his page with a Curly Wurly wrapper, then slammed the book shut. ‘Why can’t you buggers leave me alone for five minutes?’

Logan stared at him. ‘Sorry for interrupting your reading time, Gary. My apologies, mate, I thought you were manning the sodding desk.’

The sergeant narrowed his eyes. ‘Meant to be on my break, but that useless tit Jordan’s still in the bog.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Where’s that PC I sent you off with?’

‘Butler? Left her up at A amp;E watching a used-car dealer.’

‘For how long?’

Shrug. ‘Till the doctors give us the all clear to bang him up.’

‘Oh for…’ Big Gary pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘How am I supposed to manage resources if you buggers in CID treat Uniform as your own personal property?’

‘You really are in a foul sodding mood today, aren’t you? Not my fault Jordan’s got the squits.’

The desk sergeant scowled, then made a big show of opening his book again. ‘And you better get back to that wee shite Barrett.’ Big Gary’s voice jumped an octave and went all nasal, ‘of McGilvery, Barrett, and McGilvery.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Says it’s a disgrace his poor wee client’s been kept in over the weekend waiting for his shot in front of the Sheriff.’

‘Then his client shouldn’t be circulating forged twenties, should he?’ Logan rearranged all the Post-its back into a single stack. ‘When’s he up?’

Big Gary checked the charge book. ‘Court One at two fifty.’

Logan checked his watch. ‘Just enough time to have another crack at him.’

Douglas Walker slumped over the interview room table, the fingers of one hand wrapping themselves through his unwashed, greasy hair. Twisting it into little curls, then letting them go again. The fibreglass cast on the other arm lay flat against the chipped Formica. He smelled of stale sweat, overlaid with something sour.

Logan glanced up at the camera bolted to the wall, watching the little red light winking. ‘Come on, Douglas: you’re up in front of Sheriff McNab in twenty minutes. Sure you don’t want me to put in a good word for you?’

‘Lawyer.’

It was the only thing he’d say: ‘Lawyer.’

State your name for the tape. ‘Lawyer.’

Do you know why you’re here? ‘Lawyer.’

Would you like a cup of tea? ‘Lawyer.’

‘Let me paint a little picture for you, Douglas. What’s going to happen is that your idiot lawyer, Captain Baldy the Estate Agent, is going to stand up at ten to three and waffle for a bit about criminal law — which he knows sod all about — and then Sheriff McNab — who’s an utter bastard — will ask how you plead.’

Douglas Walker just kept on playing with his hair.

‘Your lawyer will make you plead “not guilty”, even though we all know you are, and then McNab’ll set bail.’ Logan smiled. ‘And that’s where it gets interesting. If you can’t make bail, you end up in Craiginches for six or seven weeks, till the trial date. If you can, you’re out on the street for tea time; then the press harassment starts. They camp outside your house, take photos, talk to neighbours-’

Douglas’s head snapped up.

‘Think how proud your mum and dad are going to be when they get back from holiday!’

The young man fidgeted with the rim of his cast, tugging little bobbles out of the tube-bandage lining. ‘They…They can’t put my name in the papers. I’ll sue!’

‘For what?’

‘I don’t know. Defamation of character! Slander. Libel, whichever one it is. They can’t-’

‘Don’t be stupid, Douglas. All they’ll say is you’ve been charged with passing a large sum of counterfeit currency. Can’t be libel when it’s the truth.’

‘No…’ It came out low and quiet. ‘They can’t put my name in the papers. They can’t!’ He raked his fingers through his oily hair. Harder and harder. ‘They can’t…’

Logan sat back. ‘Dear God, a member of Generation-Y who doesn’t want his name in the papers. Don’t you crave your fifteen minutes of fame, Douglas? Your chance to shine for all the other brain-dead X Factor Celebrity Come Dancing on Ice MasterChef junkies?’

Douglas curled up, until his forehead thunked against the table. ‘They can’t…’ Voice small and trembling.

‘You know what?’ Logan scooted his chair forward. ‘You’re right to be scared, because your friend Kevin Middleton — the nice man who sold you that second-hand Honda Civic? We arrested him this afternoon. He says you’ve been supplying him with counterfeit money, not just the notes you tried to buy the car with. The Sheriff’s not going to like that, is he? An extra twenty grand of dodgy cash on the streets, because of you.’

He buried his head in his arms. ‘I’m fucked…’

‘Yes, you are. And I’m the only person who can un-fuck you. Now where did you get the money from?’

‘Yeah, if you could, thanks…’ DI Beattie shifted his phone from one side to the other, and looked up at Logan standing in the office doorway. ‘Can I call you back?’

He hung up and stared. ‘I’ve been phoning you all day.’

‘My mobile had a run-in with a sledgehammer. That meeting’s set up for half past four, today — two from Trading Standards and one of the Revenue’s top people.’

Beattie’s face broke into a big, hairy smile. ‘That’s brilliant news.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Look, about earlier…’ He paused, obviously waiting for Logan to jump in and say it wasn’t a problem. Don’t worry about it. Water under the bridge.

Well, sod him.

Logan let the silence stretch, enjoying it.

‘I wanted you to know I didn’t put in a formal complaint.’

And then he wasn’t enjoying himself quite so much. Feeling like a bit of a child for making Beattie struggle for it.

‘I hope this means we can work together now?’

‘Yes…Guv.’ Didn’t matter if he was trying to act like a grown-up or not, there was still no way Logan was calling the beardy idiot ‘Sir’ or ‘Boss’. That would be taking things too far.

‘OK.’ Nod. ‘Good…Half four.’ Beattie looked around his office. ‘I don’t think we’ll all fit, but-’

‘The Shop Cops have got a meeting room organized at St Nicholas House. All we’ve got to do is bring the biscuits.’

The smile became a grin. ‘Excellent. Biscuits, yes…’ He produced a fiver from his wallet and handed it over. ‘You see to the biscuits and I’ll get going on the PowerPoint presentation.’

Logan suppressed the urge to shudder. ‘Yes, Guv.’

‘And Logan…?’

‘Yes, Guv?’

‘Good work. Thanks.’

Logan actually took a step back. It’d been ages since a DI had bothered to say thank you for anything. Maybe Beattie wasn’t such a tit after all?

Steel was in her office, two doors down, with her feet up on her desk, frowning at a pile of paperwork. Probably trying to work out who to palm it off on.

Logan knocked on the open door — please let someone else have to deal with whatever crap she had on her desk.

‘Ah.’ She looked up. ‘Just the wee man I’ve been looking for.’

Bugger.

‘Shut the door, and lock it.’

Logan did, while the inspector cracked open her office window, then pulled out her cigarettes and jiggled the pack at him.

‘Trying to cut down.’

‘Suit yourself.’ She lit up, exhaling a happy cloud of smoke and sighing. ‘So, what did our friend the art student have to say for himself?’

‘Sod all. Doesn’t want his name in the papers, doesn’t want to cut a deal, doesn’t want to go to prison.’

Sniff. ‘Silly git.’ Her left hand drifted down below the desk. ‘Still, McNab’ll stick him out on bail and we can have another poke in a couple of days. If we can be arsed.’

‘Got some good news on Polmont though: all the stuff we got from his flat is knock-off — even the vodka’s fake. And guess who had identical counterfeit goods on him?’

‘Basil Brush?’

‘Angus Black.’ Logan placed Angus’s statement in the middle of Steel’s desk. ‘Apparently he got the drugs and the gadgets from a pair of Edinburgh heavies called Gallagher and Yates.’

‘Who typed this?’ She held the statement out at arms’ length. ‘Can barely read a bloody thing.’

‘I ran a PNC check — they’re Malcolm McLennan’s boys.’

‘What about…’ She pulled a face at him. ‘Malcolm McLennan?’

‘It’s his name isn’t it? Both have done time for drugs and extortion, and according to Angus Black their boss is a big bald guy with a huge dog.’

Steel tapped the report against her cheek. ‘The elusive Mr Connelly?’

‘Plus…’ Logan pulled one of Polmont’s battered journals out of the pile on Steel’s desk and flicked through it to a page he’d marked with a yellow stickie. One of the sparky’s more legible entries. ‘“New shipment coming in for G and Y. Maybe leave it alone this time — think they suspect.” G and Y appear about every two weeks.’

‘Do they now?’ She grinned and scratched. ‘Smells like corroboration to me.’

‘And best of all, Angus gave us an address.’

‘Warrant?’

‘Couple of hours. McNab’s on the bench till four, and Harper’s in Lerwick for that fish farm murder.’

Steel blew a stream of smoke out into the snow. ‘Get Uniform organized; soon as the warrant clears we’ll go pay Malk the Knife’s wee toerags a visit.’

‘Can’t.’ Logan pulled his jacket shut and buttoned it. With the window open it was getting nippy in here. ‘Got a meeting with Beattie, HMRC, and the Shop Cops at half four — supposed to be working out what to do about all the fake goods knocking about…I’d cancel it, but Beattie’s got his heart set on showing off his PowerPoint skills and I’m trying to be nice to him. Like you said.’

Steel settled back in her chair, one hand foostering about under the desk. ‘You’ve done well, young grasshopper.’

Two pats on the back in one day — throw in a bottle of wine and some energetic sex and this would be the best day he’d had in about…two years?

Might as well push his luck. Logan put his head on one side and stared at Steel.

She stopped scratching. ‘What?’

‘Why’s Danby so interested in Polmont?’

Steel puckered up her face. ‘No’ going to let that one go, are you?’

‘Nope.’

Silence.

‘OK. Seeing as you’ve been such a good boy: Polmont’s what we call a serial chiz. Before Aberdeen he was ratting on Malk the Knife in Edinburgh. Before Edinburgh-’

‘He worked for Mental Mikey.’

Steel made guns with her fingers and shot Logan in the head. ‘Bull’s-eye.’

Which explained a lot. ‘That’s why Danby’s got one of Polmont’s journals.’

‘Covers the time he was in Newcastle.’ Steel finished her fag and pinged the butt out into the snow. ‘Anything else while I’m feeling generous?’

‘Where are they sticking Knox this time?’

‘Strictly need to know.’

‘What, and I don’t-’

‘Right now, Danby’s arse is eating his panties: thinks the fewer people know where Knox is the better. And don’t look at me like that, this is for your own good. Trust me, if I could get out of knowing where the raping wee shite was staying, I would. Sooner or later Knox is going to go back to his bad old ways — the less involved you are, the better.’

Logan settled into his office chair.

The little detective sergeants’ cupboard was littered with boxes of files, all radiating out from Doreen’s desk. She was on the phone, haranguing the lab about how long it was going to take them to analyse all the samples she’d brought in, and how much of the CID budget it was going to cost.

Biohazard Bob helped himself to one of Logan’s prawn cocktail crisps, crunching and talking at the same time. ‘You’d think she’d been asked to solve the Great Train Robbery, wouldn’t you?’ He nudged one of the file boxes with a scuffed shoe. ‘I mean, look at all this crap.’ Sniff. ‘And how come she gets all the classy cases? She gets “contract killing with expensive set of golf clubs”, I get “junkie booted half to death”. Where’s the bloody justice in that?’

‘Yeah, because you’re such a classy guy.’ Logan creaked the plastic lid off his extra large mochaccino. ‘Any more word on Knox?’

Just because Steel was foretelling doom didn’t mean he didn’t still want to know.

‘That Liverpool psychologist was with him for a couple of hours. Apparently he’s worried our visiting rapist’s on a — ’ Bob put on a big dramatic voice, ‘- “COUNTDOWN TO DISASTER!”. I swear to God, he even said it like that. “COUNTDOWN TO DISASTER!”’

Doreen swivelled round in her chair and shushed them, then went back to her phone call. ‘How can it take all week to analyse half a dozen blood spatters?’

Bob grinned. ‘She’s cute when she’s pissed off, isn’t she?’

‘Goulding leave a report?’

‘Nah, went back to his lair to write it up. Says we should keep an extra close eye on young Master Knox. Apparently all this stress is going to send him right back to his auld-mannie-raping ways. Should’ve hacked his bollocks off in Newcastle when they had the chance-’

‘Here we go…’

‘Look, I’m just saying OK? Everyone who ends up on the Sex Offenders’ Register should be castrated. You remember that bloke from Banchory we did for kiddie-fiddling? What did he do, soon as he got out?’

‘Not listening, Bob.’ Logan powered up his computer.

‘Or that rapist who liked pregnant women. Remember him?’

‘Anyone say what they’re doing about security at Knox’s new place?’

‘Or what about the bloke who…’ Frown. ‘Oh, you know: in Duthie Park. What was it, “The Winter Gardens Wanker”?’

‘Security, Bob. What are they doing?’

‘Hmm? Oh, no idea. Ask Steel, that’s her poison chalice full of turds.’ The phone went and he snatched up the receiver. ‘Big Bob’s House of Sexual Deviancy, Big Bob speaking…’

Idiot.

Logan called up his email and waited for it to chug through the backlog on the server. Buried in the usual office-related dross was a message from an admin officer at HM Prison Frankland, with a spreadsheet attached of everyone who’d ever shared a cell with Richard Knox. The officer had even included a breakdown of what each of them had been convicted of. It wasn’t exactly edifying reading.

Near the bottom of the list was one Oscar Renwick: he’d got seven years for breaking into a family home and ‘forcing the husband to perform fellatio on him by means of threatening the wife with a serrated hunting knife’. Exactly the MO Knox had told them about on the drive out to see his granny’s grave.

Logan opened up the list of murders he’d downloaded — where the victims had been burned to try and hide the evidence. First get rid of any that happened after Oscar Renwick was arrested. And Renwick was only twenty-four when he was sent down, which meant his raping career couldn’t be more than, what, eleven, twelve years? So anything before that could go too. Which left about three dozen. Eliminate any where the victims weren’t stabbed or slashed and Logan was down to eight.

Do a quick analysis on the victims — make sure there was an adult male and female killed. That left just six crime scenes: Brighton, Swansea, Darlington, Ballymena, Corby, and Fort William.

Logan settled back in his seat and smiled at the blinking cursor. Less than thirty-six hours in and he was already on the brink of solving a twenty-year-old murder from 230 miles away.

All he’d have to do was call up the case files for the six cases, check to see where Knox’s cellmate was on those days, and wait for the commendations to come rolling in.

Result.

He was putting in a request to South Wales Police when the door thumped open and DC Rennie lumbered into the room, carrying a plastic crate full of files. ‘Golf club murder?’

Logan pointed at Doreen’s collection. ‘Anywhere over there.’

‘Ta.’ He dumped the crate on the carpet, then stood, rubbing his hands on his trousers. ‘Thought you were supposed to be at some meeting Beattie’s been banging on about?’

Logan frowned, then checked his watch. 16:35.

Shite. Completely lost track of time.

He jumped to his feet, stabbed the button to switch off his monitor, then grabbed the big square tin from the shelf by the ‘UNSOLVED’ whiteboard. ‘Stealing the biscuits!’ And charged out of the door.