Dark Blood

36

Colin jabbed his stumpy ring finger at the screen. ‘Hello darlin’…’

The woman in the photo had shoulder-length brown curly hair, fierce green eyes, and a ski-jump nose, her face contorted in a snarl. Steam curled from her open lips in the snowy afternoon. She was clutching a placard in her thick blue gloves: ‘RAPING SCUM OUT!!!’ with a photocopy of Knox’s face underneath. Logan scribbled down the filename displayed at the bottom of the screen. ‘Right, now we’re looking for her friend.’

Colin blew into his naked hand. ‘Friend?’

‘You try lighting a petrol bomb wearing padded gloves. How do you get the lighter to spark?’

‘Aye, well, maybe she-’

‘What, took the gloves off, set the wick, lit it, then put her gloves back on to chuck the thing?’

The reporter stared at him. ‘You’d be surprised what you get used to when you have to wear gloves all the time.’

Sigh. ‘Yes: it was all my fault and I’m sorry. Happy?’

‘I’m just-’

‘Every damn time…’ Logan reached over and poked the laptop’s ‘next’ button a couple of times, flicking through the photographs. ‘Anyway, she chucked two petrol bombs, there wasn’t time to get her gloves off and on between them.’ He flicked through to the end of the sequence, then back again.

Someone was standing next to Miss Black-and-White-Bobble-Hat in every single photograph. A young-ish man with the same curly brown hair; the same green eyes; the same snub nose; the same expression on his face.

Lynch mob, a game all the family can play.

Colin leaned forward, staring at the faces. Then gave a low whistle.

‘What?’

He pointed at the screen.

‘And?’

‘Do you lot no’ do any research?’ He tapped the young man right between the eyes. ‘That’s Ian Leadbetter. See his grandad? Supposed to be one of Knox’s earlier victims. What the hell was it…’ Colin screwed up one side of his face. ‘Seventy-six-year-old, Parkinson’s, went missin’ from a park. Cops found him six hours later on a patch of waste ground, bashed and bruised. Wouldn’t talk about it. Wouldn’t take a rape kit.’

Another poke. ‘The kids’ parents were all for keepin’ it quiet, but wee Ian here’s been shootin’ his mouth off to anyone who’ll listen. Wants Knox strung up for what he did to his grandad.’

‘Any proof?’

‘Says the old man saw Knox’s picture in the paper when he was released a couple years ago and wouldn’t come out of his room for a week. Got blootered a month later and told Ian all about it.’

‘He could still make a formal complaint.’

Colin shrugged. ‘Bit difficult when you’re sittin’ in a wee brass urn on the mantelpiece. Pneumonia, three months ago.’

Good point.

‘Can you email me a copy of the photos?’

‘Do you one better…’ Colin dug about in his jacket with his stumpy-fingered hand, and produced a little blue USB stick with ‘THEABERDEEN EXAMINER, SERVING THE NORTH EAST SINCE 1856’ printed on the side.

Snoring rattled the windows of the CID pool car. Steel was slumped back in the passenger seat, a dead cigarette butt dangling from her open mouth, stuck to her lower lip — a slug-trail of ash tumbling away down the front of her padded jacket.

Logan tried the door handle.

Locked.

The street was almost deserted: the media hadn’t hung around after the fire engines had gone. A burning house was news. A burnt-out shell was old news. One by one they’d drifted off till all that was left was Sandy the photographer’s antique Volkswagen, and DI Steel’s pool car.

Logan tried the door again, just in case it had magically unlocked itself in the last ninety seconds.

It hadn’t.

He knocked on the passenger window. Steel jerked upright in her seat, blinking, the cigarette butt still stuck to her bottom lip.

Logan knocked again.

The inspector wiped a hand across her mouth, sending the butt tumbling into her lap, then frowned at him.

‘Come on, it’s bloody freezing out here!’

She leaned over and opened the driver’s door. Logan scrambled in behind the wheel and turned the engine over, then cranked up the heat — treadling the accelerator, trying to get it to warm up faster.

‘Was having this really…weird dream about Gloria Hunniford, and she was wearing this huge black cloak, and carrying a scythe…’

Logan held up the little USB drive Colin had given him. ‘Got the arsonist and her accomplice on film.’

‘And she had this massive red strap-on, and she wanted-’

‘You still got that Airwave handset on you?’

Steel blinked again. Then shuddered. ‘How long does it take to get hypothermia?’

‘Mobile phone’ll do.’

Steel passed over her little Nokia, and Logan punched in the number for Control, then waited for someone to pick up at the other end.

‘Yeah, I need you to run a PNC check on one Ian Leadbetter, Newcastle, late teens/early twenties. While you’re there, see if he’s got a sister, or a female cousin.’

‘Hud oan a mintie…’

He pinned the phone between his shoulder and his ear, flipped his notepad open, and pulled the lid off his biro with his teeth. ‘Uh-huh…’ Scribbling down the details as Control gave him everything the Police National Computer had on Ian and Wendy Leadbetter.

‘Right, I need you to get a lookout request on both of them.’

‘Fit for?’

‘Arson — Richard Knox’s house.’

‘Oh aye? You sure we shouldnae gie them a medal instead?’

‘Just get them picked up.’ He snapped the phone shut and handed it back.

‘Got any fags?’

‘All out.’ He clicked on the headlights and pulled away from the kerb, the Vauxhall’s wheels crunching through the snow.

‘In that case, you can drop us off at home on your way back to the station.’

Logan groaned. ‘It’s nearly eleven! I’m not going back to the-’

‘You’ve got to sign the pool car back in, you idiot. And while you’re at it, check on the search teams. I want to know what else is lurking in Gallagher and Yates’ Grotto O’Fun.’

‘But-’

‘And tell Big Gary I said to put us both down till midnight on the overtime. Got a kid on the way, after all.’

Night-time CID were all gathered around the middle set of desks in the office, drinking tins of Irn-Bru and sharing two coffee-table-sized pizzas, the smell of garlic, tomato and spicy sausage hanging in the air — Detective Inspector Bell handing out the food and telling stories of the good old days.

Logan turned down a slice, and slumped over to the DSs’ cubbyhole. Someone had stuck up a sheet of A4 on the wall, with ‘THE WEE HOOSE’ printed on it. The door was locked.

‘Oh for fuck’s…’ He closed his eyes, screwed up his face. Then placed a hand against the wood.

Know what: who cared? Steel would just have to wait for her update. It wasn’t as if she could do anything about it till the morning anyway. And at least this way he’d be home before midnight — hopefully to find Samantha still at the flat.

Logan turned on his heel, and the door clunked open behind him.

Crap.

He turned back and pushed through into the little room.

Doreen’s desk was as immaculate as ever, Mark’s was covered with dusty cardboard boxes from the archives, but Biohazard Bob’s was a disaster area. He was sitting with his back to the door, ruffling a sheath of paper into some kind of order.

Logan paused. ‘You weren’t in here playing with yourself, were you, Bob?’

The DS cleared his throat. Didn’t look around. ‘Just getting caught up on some paperwork.’

‘With the door locked?’

Shrug. He ran a hand across his face. ‘What you doing here? Thought your shift ended six hours ago.’

‘You and me both.’ Logan collapsed into his office chair, jabbed a finger at the computer’s power button. ‘Ding-Dong’s got pizza out there if you fancy it?’

Another shrug. ‘Not hungry.’

Silence. Just the whirr and bleep of the machine coming online.

‘You OK, Bob?’

Pause.

‘Yeah. Fine. Never better.’

‘OK…’ Logan logged into the crime management system and called up the Police Search Advisor’s contact details, then dug out the Airwave handset from under a pile of junk in his top drawer and punched in her warrant number.

‘Aye, just finishing up now — got a couple kilos of heroin in the back of the cottage, and twa bin-bags of ecstasy.’

‘What about the IB?’

‘Done a wee whilie ago. Now they’re awa’ building a snowman.’

All right for some. Logan thanked her and hung up, then called the hospital for an update on Norman Yates. Still critical, but stabilizing. Which wasn’t bad for someone who’d been shot three times.

Logan cobbled together a quick incident report on the fire at Knox’s house, and how they’d identified Ian and Wendy Leadbetter, then sent it off to the printer. While it was chuntering away to itself he called up his emails and checked to see if anything interesting had come in.

Couple of memos. A new directive about Stop And Search procedures. Something from DC Rennie inviting him to a stag night in Amsterdam at the end of the month. One from a DI in Northumbria Police, saying they’d been to see Knox’s cellmate, Oscar Renwick, in Frankland Prison about the four house-fire murders Logan had identified. Renwick had been up for probation in three weeks, but with this on the go, it looked as if he’d be waiting at least another sixteen years before he set foot in the real world again. And the DI would be writing to Aberdeen’s Chief Constable to tell him how it wouldn’t have been possible without Logan’s help.

Logan grinned: result.

Then there were a couple from someone offering to ‘EMBIGGEN YOURE TROUSER BEAST AND THE WOMENS WILL QUEUING UP!’

And right at the bottom, an email from Beattie, CC’d to Dildo and the woman from HMRC, saying how pleased he was they’d made so much progress at the meeting that afternoon. So the rats in the basement hadn’t eaten him alive.

Shame…

Logan closed his eyes. ‘Bugger.’ He’d forgotten to call Dildo about Gallagher and Yates. Too late now. He scribbled himself a note and stuck it on his monitor, then powered the computer down and grabbed the sheets of paper from the printer. He stopped with one hand on the door handle. ‘You sure you’re OK, Bob?’

‘What are you, my mum now?’ Bob turned around for the first time, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. A forced smile. ‘Go on, sod off home. Give that redhead IB tech of yours a good seeing to from me.’

Logan didn’t anwer that.

He pushed into the flat and flicked on the hall light. Silence. The whole place was in darkness. ‘Sod…’ He peered into the bedroom, closed his eyes, sighed, then shut the door, gently. Samantha was still there. She hadn’t abandoned him for her static caravan.

At least that was something.

He dumped his coat on the hook and wandered into the kitchen. Stared at the contents of the fridge for a while, before helping himself to a tin of Irn-Bru. Opening it on the way through to the lounge.

Maybe watch a little telly to help him unwind.

The curtains were drawn, the only light coming from the LEDs on the TV and PlayStation, and the blinking one on the answering machine.

Logan closed his eyes and groaned.

Probably Steel. Or even worse — his mother. He took a scoof of vaguely fruity fizzy juice and hit the button.

‘MESSAGE ONE: Hello, Logan, it’s Hamish. I-’

‘Fuck!’ A mouthful of sticky Irn-Bru sprayed out over the sideboard.

Logan scrabbled for the voulume control, turning it down in case Samantha woke up and heard Aberdeen’s biggest crime lord leaving a message ON HIS BLOODY ANSWERING MACHINE.

He squatted down and hit play again.

‘MESSAGE ONE: Hello, Logan, it’s Hamish. I notice you’ve not done anything with your money yet.’

Oh fuck. What the hell was Wee Hamish Mowat thinking?

‘It’s important for the local economy that we all do our bit, don’t you think? Don’t leave it too long, eh? Oh, and do let me know if you need any more.’

Beeeeeeep.

‘END OF MESSAGES.’

He flipped open the cover and hauled the little cassette out. What if someone found out? What if Samantha picked up his messages? How the FUCK was he supposed to explain it?

He dug his fingernails into the cassette, tugging out the tape and unreeling the whole thing until there was a spaghetti mess of shiny brown-black ribbon curled across the sticky sideboard. Then dropped the plastic case and stomped on it.

Still not enough. The IB could just wind it back onto another cassette.

Logan scooped the lot up and carried it through to the kitchen, dumped it into the empty sink, then went rummaging through the cupboards for the methylated spirit and drenched the lot.

Better be on the safe side…

He tore a dozen pages out of that morning’s Press and Journal and mixed them through the slippery mess, before throwing the window open and dragging out his lighter.

Whooomp: the stainless steel sink filled with purple-blue flame, the newspaper crackling as the tape melted and shrank. Until there was nothing left but curls of ash, a lump of brittle plastic slag, and a gnawing coldness in the depths of Logan’s stomach.