Dark Blood

6

‘Aw, Jesus, not again!’ Detective Sergeant Mark MacDonald wrinkled his nose, then slapped a hand over his face, hiding his wee goatee beard. ‘Ack…’ He grabbed a folder from his desk and fanned it back and forth, sending paperwork fluttering across Logan’s desk.

‘What are you…’ Logan frowned, and then the smell hit him. ‘Bloody hell, Bob!’

DS Bob Marshall just grinned. If God existed, He hadn’t been paying a lot of attention when He’d put Bob together. Big ears stuck out at right-angles from a square head with a bald patch at the back and a single, thick eyebrow at the front. Arms like hairy string. A monkey in a machine-washable suit.

‘Christ!’ Mark blinked, then hauled the door open. ‘What’ve you been eating?’

Bob patted the sides of his stomach. ‘Can’t beat cauliflower cheese and chips.’

‘Oh no it’s everywhere…’ Logan stood, backing away into the corner of the little walled-off section of the CID office, built to house the detective sergeants. Six desks — four for dayshift, two for night — all but one covered in drifts of paperwork and ring binders, monitor, keyboard, and overflowing in-tray. The walls were just about visible between the procedural flowcharts, a corkboard covered with mugshots and memos, a whiteboard with each DS’s name written above a list of active cases, another one with a schematic of some drug dealer’s house scrawled in blue marker pen. And a yellow-and-black biohazard triangle mounted above Bob’s desk.

Mark wafted the door open and closed, and open and closed…‘Never mind fucking Iraq, bloody United Nations should invade your arse. That’s a weapon of mass destruction, right there!’

‘I can’t help it if I’m talented.’

Gradually the smell faded, and people got back to work.

Logan finished a report on two indecent exposures in Trinity Cemetery — you’d have to be a brave man to wave your willy about in January in Aberdeen — then called up his internet browser and went looking for Billy Adams. 12,900,000 results in Google.

He refined the search criteria, narrowing it down to Newcastle. 358 results. Apparently there was a featherweight boxer called Billy Adams in the fifties, a guitarist with Dexys Midnight Runners in the eighties, a bunch of businessmen, some football fans…Then Logan included Knox’s name in the search.

An article from the Newcastle Evening Chronicle was top of the list: ‘MISSING OFFICER’S BODY FOUND.’

There were more links to the Newcastle Journal, News Post Leader, Sunday Sun, Morpeth Herald, and Whitley Bay News Guardian. Even a few of the national broadsheets had got in on the act. Logan clicked on the Chronicle link.

Under the headline was a photo of a blue SOC tent, the kind you put up to preserve a crime scene. It was surrounded by patchy bushes with some trees and the leg of a pylon in the background, an IB technician in protective gear walking towards the camera, carrying a black plastic box. Further down the article there was another photo: a smiling man with short blond hair, squint nose, blue eyes. According to the caption, it was ‘DETECTIVE INSPECTOR BILLY ADAMS (42)’

Apparently they’d found his body in the family Ford Mondeo on a patch of wasteland to the north of Newcastle. The story didn’t have a lot of detail on the cause of death — not surprisingly — concentrating instead on how police search teams had been looking for Adams since he’d gone missing from his home the Wednesday before. There was a quote from his wife. One from the detective inspector who’d headed up the search. Another from the young man who’d found the car. And a small potted history of DI Adams’s career. Drug seizures, three murder enquiries, one high-profile kidnapping that ended in disaster…

Logan dug the phone out from under a pile of partially completed crime reports and called Northumbria Police Headquarters.

‘Well?’ Detective Inspector Beardy Beattie’s office was crowded with box files — piled up on the carpet, the shelves, the windowsill, even the visitor’s chair. So Logan had to stand. The only place not covered in boxes was Beattie’s desk. That was covered in biscuit crumbs and paperwork.

Logan handed over the indecent exposure report. ‘He’s done it twice that we know of, probably more. Young mothers with pushchairs every time.’

Beattie sat forward, eyebrows raised. ‘Maybe he’s not flashing the mothers at all, you think of that? Maybe he’s flashing the kids!’ The DI smiled, obviously pleased with his deductive reasoning. Like a podgy Sherlock Holmes, who’d been dropped on his head as a child.

‘Don’t be daft George. He’s picking victims he knows aren’t going to chase after him. You going to abandon your baby in a graveyard to go running after some pervert who’s just shown you his dick?’

‘Oh.’ Beattie picked at a coffee stain on his new desk. ‘What about the counterfeit goods?’

‘Did you speak to Trading Standards, like I told you?’

‘I…erm…was hoping we could go over there together. You know, show a united front?’

‘Just call them, OK? We shouldn’t even be dealing with it: hookie goods is a job for the Shop Cops.’

‘Yes, but the sheer volume of-’

‘Still their job.’

‘Finnie wants us to do that Interagency Cooperation thing: us, Trading Standards and Customs.’ Beattie shuffled through some of the mess on his desk. ‘It shouldn’t take long, just a couple of hours and-’

‘You’ll have to take it up with Steel. I’ve got stuff to do for her all day.’

Beattie’s bottom lip protruded, his eyebrows pinching up in the middle. The ‘lost puppy’ look. ‘But Finnie wants to see progress.’

‘Then go get Biohazard Bob or Mark to help. Or Doreen. Eh? How about giving her some sodding work for a change instead of lumping it all on me?’

‘Fine.’ The inspector went back to his files, face turning pink. ‘I’ll call Trading Standards myself.’

Logan left him to it.

‘Bloody thing…’ DI Steel jabbed at the latch of her office window with a fork, digging the tines into the mechanism.

Logan closed the door and slumped in the visitor’s seat. ‘Tell me again why they promoted Beardy Beattie?’

‘It’s no’ safe making the windows so you can’t open the bastards more than an inch. What if there’s a fire?’

‘Useless tosser couldn’t investigate a septic tank for jobbies.’

She jabbed the fork into the catch again. ‘Give us a hand, eh?’

‘Thought you were supposed to be cutting down on the fags?’

‘This is an infringement of my human rights…Open you bastard!’

They struggled with the mechanism for a minute, before Steel managed to stab herself in the thumb with her fork. ‘Fffffffffffffffffff…’ She screwed her face up, then hurled the stainless steel thing in the bin. ‘FUCK!’ Steel slumped into her office chair and stuck her bleeding thumb in her mouth.

‘Why can’t you go outside for a cigarette, like a normal person?’

Steel just scowled at him.

‘Whatever.’ Logan pulled out his notebook. ‘Billy Adams. AKA: Detective Inspector Billy Adams, Northumbria Police. Did a lot of anti-gang stuff, and some undercover work on a big Newcastle mobster called Maitland. Killed himself about six weeks after Knox got sent down. And I mean seriously killed himself.’

She pulled her thumb out of her mouth. ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

‘According to the sergeant I spoke to, DI Adams swallowed enough antidepressants to cheer up a whole bouncy castle full of goths, a bottle of gin, and the barrel of a shotgun.’

‘No sodding about for our Billy, then.’

‘Blew a big hole in the roof of the family Mondeo, in the grounds of some disused factory. Been there four days in the sun before they found the body. The magpies had been at him.’

Steel went back to sucking her thumb, mumbling around the digit, ‘So why’s Danby being all touchy about it?’

‘No idea.’ Logan shifted forward in his seat. ‘I went for a dig in Knox’s file too, in case there was a connection there. He’s got big chunks marked “restricted”. No details.’

‘That’ll be those other rapes Danby was waffling about. Would’ve been before the Soham murders, back when we all thought we had to be so sodding sensitive about unsubstantiated accusations going on some dirty bastard’s permanent record. Bloody Data Protection Act bollocks.’

Logan shrugged. She was probably right.

Silence.

Then she stood. ‘Get your coat, we’re off to see a man about some dodgy twenties.’

‘Nah, business is shite, truth be told.’ The man in the oil-smudged blue boilersuit spoke over his shoulder while a scabby kettle grumbled to a boil. ‘Bloody recession barely made a dent in Aberdeen, but suddenly no one wants to buy a car. You know? Hypocritical bastards.’

The office faced out onto what looked like an old cattle yard, the grey concrete floor host to a multicoloured array of second-hand cars crammed in bumper-to-bumper with ‘DEAL OF THE WEEK!!!’ signs taped to the windscreens. A couple of calendars hung on the white breezeblock walls, all featuring spanners and bits of mechanical equipment. DI Steel finished flipping through one and pulled a face, before perching herself on the edge of the battered desk. ‘Whatever happened to nudie women?’

‘Milk, two sugars, right?’ He ladled coffee granules into three mugs, lined up along the windowsill.

‘Aye.’

Logan shook his head. ‘Just milk for me.’

‘OK…’ He poured in the hot water, steam turning the window opaque, blocking out the forecourt. The garage was hidden away down a country road, somewhere between Westhill and the Loch of Skene, surrounded by trees and fields full of grumbling cattle.

‘Mr Middleton.’ Logan watched him sniffing a carton of semi-skimmed milk. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t recognize the man who gave you the cash?’

Middleton sploshed milk into their coffees. ‘Dunno. Never saw him before.’

Steel accepted her mug, wrapping her hands around it and breathing in the hot steam. ‘If I was a suspicious wee sod — which I am — I’d be tempted to say your mystery man with a handful of dodgy twenties never existed. It was just you, trying to launder the stuff.’

Kevin Middleton stiffened. ‘You think I’d be daft enough to pay counterfeit cash into my own bank account? How thick would I have to be?’

Steel shrugged. ‘Maybe you thought they’d be good enough to pass the bank’s tests?’

Middleton laughed, then settled into the swivel chair behind his desk. ‘You’re kidding, right? If I wanted to clean some money, I’d go down the bookies. Or the casino. Or to one of them dog nights in Dundee. Somehow I get the feeling a bank would know what to look for.’

‘Right, right.’ Steel looked at him, her head tilted to one side. ‘You’ve obviously given this a lot of thought.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Come on, you don’t think it’s a wee bit odd: some tadger comes in here with over four thousand pounds in crisp new twenties wanting to buy one of your manky motors?’

‘A lot of people doing business in readies now. No bugger trusts them thieving dicks in the banks any more. Safer keeping it under the mattress.’

‘And if it’s cash, you can accidentally forget to mention it to the tax man, right?’

Middleton’s face darkened. ‘I’m the victim here, OK? Four and a half grand I’m down! Not to mention one Honda Civic.’

Logan took a sip of instant coffee: bitter, burnt tasting, little beads of fat glimmering on the surface. ‘If you sold the car, you’ve got the buyer’s details, yes? On the registration documents?’

Middleton coughed, swivelled back and forth in his chair, stared at a parts catalogue. ‘Look, maybe this is all going a bit too far. I mean the bloke probably didn’t know the cash was-’

Steel cut him off. ‘Don’t talk shite. Give us the guy’s details, or I’m dragging you down the station and doing you for passing counterfeit money and trying to poison a police officer with crap cheapo coffee.’

Middleton glowered in silence for a bit, then stood and muttered his way to a beige filing cabinet in the corner of the office. He went rummaging through one of the drawers, and came out with a registration document. He held it out and Steel snatched it off him, gave it a cursory glance, then chucked it to Logan. ‘Read.’

Logan opened it up and scanned the new keeper section, carefully printed in blue biro. ‘You know you’re meant to send this off to the DVLA, right?’

‘How come you bastards aren’t out there arresting paedophiles and bloody muggers, eh?’

‘Blah, blah, blah.’ Steel took another sip and grimaced. ‘We got an address?’

‘Car’s registered to a Douglas Walker in Peterculter.’

‘There you go, wasn’t so difficult now, was it?’ Steel clunked her mug down on the desk and stood, rubbing the seat of her trousers. ‘Come on Sergeant, let’s get out of here before Mr Middleton threatens to make more coffee.’

Logan followed her out onto the forecourt, buttoning up his jacket against the cold. Brambles scratched along the drystane dyke that bordered the lot, their dark-brown skeletons speckled with frost where the weak sun hadn’t managed to reach yet. He dug his hands deep into his pockets, then froze, staring at one of the vehicles: a red Honda Civic.

He checked the registration documents again. ‘Inspector?’

Steel kept on walking, pulling out her phone.

Behind him, Logan could hear Kevin Middleton locking the garage up. Then the man was hurrying past, weaving his way between the used cars towards a Range Rover parked at the kerb.

Logan shouted across to him. ‘Where, exactly, do you think you’re going?’

‘Erm, dentist appointment?’

Steel leant back against the CID pool car, poking away at her phone’s keypad. ‘Hurry up; sodding perishing out here. My nipples get any pointier they’ll put someone’s eye out.’

Logan nodded towards the Honda. ‘This is the car he says he sold for four and a half grand.’

‘Er…no it isn’t. Just cos it’s the same make-’

‘And the same colour, and the same number plate.’ Logan held up the registration documents. ‘Want to explain that?’

‘It…Er…’ Middleton sagged back against a Ford Fiesta, staring up at the low grey sky, breath steaming out as he swore. ‘I got it back. OK?’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Come on, it was four and a half grand!’

‘Which you’re no doubt claiming back on your insurance.’ Logan ran his eyes over the collection of cars on the forecourt. ‘Have you had a visit from Trading Standards recently, Mr Middleton? Checking the odometers aren’t clocked? All the vehicles are roadworthy? No cut-and-shunt jobs?’

‘What was I supposed to do? I’m a small businessman, I can’t afford to have people ripping me off! You know how it-’

‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Steel stomped her feet. ‘Shut up the pair of you. I’m cold and I’m bored and if it’s all the same to you, I’d kinda like to get home before the next sodding ice age sets in.’ She turned her back on them. ‘Logan, get your arse in gear. We’re leaving.’

‘But-’

‘Now.’ She clambered into the passenger seat and slammed the car door.

Brilliant. Nothing like being supported by your senior officer. Logan pointed a finger at Middleton. ‘This isn’t over.’

‘Thanks a lot.’ Logan changed gear and put his foot down, overtaking a minibus on the dual carriageway. ‘That was really nice. Empowering.’ The traffic was getting heavier the closer they got to the Kingswells roundabout. Rush-hour congealing the arteries leading in and out of Aberdeen like a deep-fried Mars Bar.

Steel cracked open the pool car window and blew a stream of smoke out into the cold afternoon, mobile phone clamped to her ear. ‘What did you want to do? Arrest him? Impound all his stock? Spend the rest of the night filling in sodding paperwork?’

‘He’s dodgy.’

‘Shock horror, a dodgy second-hand car dealer. Who would’ve thunk it? That has to be a first.’

‘He’s-’

‘Come on Steve, pick up the bloody phone!’ She squinted her face up, cigarette gripped between her front teeth. ‘Finnie’s getting a DI down from Fraserburgh to cover my cases while I’m away. Try and no’ whinge too much when you’re working for him, eh? Make it look like I run a tight ship.’

‘Brilliant. Bring someone else in.’ Logan gripped the steering wheel tighter.

‘Steve, it’s your mum. Where the hell are you? Call me back.’ She snapped her phone shut. ‘Voicemail.’

‘I could’ve run the caseload. I know it all inside out. I’m already doing all the bloody work. Instead of which I’m going to have to hold some Teuchter numpty’s-’

‘Wah, wah, wah. You’re such a bloody moan. Just be thankful I didn’t let them hand everything over to Beattie.’

Small mercies.

Steel stuck the phone back in her jacket. ‘Can’t decide if I’m more pissed off or worried about Steve.’

‘Steve who?’

‘Polmont, my chiz.’

Which explained the, ‘it’s your mum’ bit — keeping it all secretive, in case anyone else heard the message.

Logan frowned. ‘How come you even know his name? Personal info’s meant to stay on the other side of the “sterile corridor”, or whatever rubbish they’re calling it now. Who else knows who he is?’

‘No one.’ She flicked ash out of the window. ‘Just me, Frog-Face Finnie, and now you.’

‘Thought all informant stuff was meant to be handled by the Spook Squad? Why-’

‘Look it just is, OK? And shut up.’ She took an angry sook on her cigarette. ‘This is top, top Secret Squirrel. Understand?’

Logan sighed. ‘I think I can-’

‘I’m no’ joking. This gets out, I swear to God I’ll wear your wee heterosexual arsehole as a foot warmer. He’s a sparky at Malk the Knife’s building site.’

‘He’s the one we were waiting for on Monday? Told you: no one’s going to be daft enough to squeal. What is he, suicidal?’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of…Poor wee bugger could be lying dead in a ditch for all I know.’

‘So go round his house, pay him a visit.’

She sniffed. ‘Don’t have an address.’

‘Then get a GMS trace on his mobile. If it doesn’t move overnight, that’s his house.’ Logan stuck his foot on the clutch, popped the pool car out of gear, and drifted to a halt at the back of a long line of traffic. ‘What about the counterfeit cash? Want to get a warrant organized for the guy who bought the car?’

‘Tonight?’ Steel stared at him. ‘Are you mental? Be after five by the time we get back to the ranch. Get some backshift troglodyte to pick the bugger up. I’m going home.’

‘But-’

‘Don’t make me “La-la-la-la-la” you again.’