Dark Blood (21 page)

‘Like I said: it’s been a bad day.’ He forced a smile. ‘Now tell me again about getting all soapy.’

‘C’mon, Sparks, just a wee one, eh?’ She flutters her eyelashes, big thick black things like mouldy caterpillars. ‘Please?’

Sparks turns his back, gives her the hard shoulder…or is that only on motorways? Fucked if he knows. Shouldn’t be parking on the hard shoulder: no, no, no. Dangerous. Saw this bloke on that CCTV camera show getting his piece of shit Mondeo squashed by an eighteen-wheeler. Fuck kind of car is called ‘Mondeo’ anyway? What: some marketing cunt couldn’t come up with a better name than—

‘Sparks? Come on, it’s fuckin’ freezin’ out here.’

Big Eleanor’s right for a change – it
is
fucking freezing. Big bastard flakes of snow, coming down like…dandruff or something.

She sidles up, gives him a smile with that bullet-hole mouth of hers. ‘Give us a cuddle…’

She snakes her arms around him, big chunky things, like a fucking anaconda. ‘Ooh, you’re all warm.’ She lays a padded cheek against his neck, a cold pillow of flesh, nuzzling in deeper.

Sparks is always warm, got one of them internal thermostat things, like central heating, always up full crank. Roasty toasty, fever fun.

‘Come on, Sparks, just a wee wrapper, yeah? Do you a favour for it?’ Big Eleanor’s hand drifts down his back and into his trousers. She wraps her cold fingers round one bony arse cheek and squeezes. Runs a wet tongue up his throat, scritching through the stubble.

Sparks wriggles free. ‘Fucksake, leave us alone, you horny fat cow.’

She steps back, bottom lip out, wobbling in the piss-yellow light like an epileptic slug. Big Eleanor sniffs. ‘Don’t be like that, Sparks, I’m only wantin’ a wee—’

‘No.’

She sticks her hand down the front of his trousers, rummaging about till she’s got hold of his cock. Squeezes. Steps in close again. ‘Just one wrap, couple of rocks, just to keep the cold—’

‘WILL YOU FUCK OFF?’ He shoves and she stumbles back, goes sprawling. Lies there with her wee black skirt up round her thighs, spotty, shaved minge on show.

Sparks wipes a string of spit off his chin. ‘Doing business here.’

Big Eleanor gets to her feet, pulls her skirt back into place, stamps her strappy high-heel down on the pavement and gives him the finger. ‘WANKER!’ She storms off, slipping and sliding on the snowy pavement.

Silly cow.

Like he’s going to do her a freebie? Fat chance.

And he’s no’ a wanker. No’ got time for wanking, got a beautiful girlfriend to keep him company.

He licks his lips.

She’s whispering from his jacket pocket. Telling him she wants it. Love him
long
time.

He shifts in his little spotlight. Looks up and down the street. Clears his throat.

Never touch the merchandise: never. No’ like Shaky Jake, silly cunt. Lot of good it does you when you’re on your
back in intensive care with fucking gravel for ankle bones. Mr Mowat’s people don’t like sales staff with sticky fingers.

Sparks checks his watch: eight fifty-three and fourteen seconds. Fifteen seconds. Sixteen seconds. Looks up, makes sure he’s standing right under the streetlight, gotta be keen to be seen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Time is money, yeah, but money’s no’ time, is it: otherwise all them rich cunts would buy more of it and never have to die.

Fucking profound that is.

Sparks twitches, jitters, keeping time to the beat no one else can hear. OK, so he likes a wee smoke every now and then, the odd pipe, a wee syringe or two, but who doesn’t? No’ his fault, is it? Nah, Mum was an alky, wasn’t she? And Dad was a junkie. That’s genetics. Gee-net-tick. Tock. Ticktock. Tick-tock.

Stand still you daft bastard and
concentrate.

Force the twitches to stop. Stand dead-still under the streetlight.

A car goes past. A seagull screeches.

More silence.

Fucking cold when you’re standing still.

The car does a three-pointer at the end of the road, then heads back towards him. Big black fucker. Headlights for eyes. Staring. Making all them snowflakes shine.

Sparks’s knee twitches.

The big car stops by the kerb right in front of him and the window slides down. Woman looks out: blonde, no’ bad looking. If Sparks wasn’t spoken for, he’d probably do her, you know? But his girlfriend’s a jealous bitch…

Blondie says, ‘Looking for someone.’ Sounds posh, doesn’t she: like something off the telly. English. Nothing wrong with that, long as she’s got the cash.

‘Yeah? Who?’ Sparks tells his knee to stand the fuck still, but it’s off on its own, taking no prisoners.

‘Charlie about?’

‘Might be. Who’s asking?’

She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a couple of notes. Holds them up and peers at them. ‘Charles Darwin and…Sir Edward Elgar.’

Sparks curls his top lip. ‘Fuck’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Thirty quid.’

Nod. Yeah, that’s more like it. He does a quick calculation in his head, totting up the number of wrappers and the change from thirty. Always shite at arithmetic at school, you know? Much better now, yeah, like Carol Fucking Vorderman with the old arithmetic, fractions, and shite like that. Teachers want to make kids better at maths? Learn them how to do a decent drug deal: Wee Jonnie has a sixth of an ounce, and Sarah wants an eighth – how stoned will she be, and how much change does she get from twenty and a handjob?

Blondie’s looking at him like he’s supposed to know the answer to some fucking question he wasn’t even listing to.

Sparks spits a chunky lump of yellow into the snow at his feet. ‘Thirty gets you two.’

Not really: thirty gets you three, it’ll be two for Blondie and one for Sparks. Market economy. Thatcher and Blair’s fuck-you Britain.

The door cracks open and Blondie steps out into the snow. Holds up Elgar and Darwin. ‘How do I know it’s any good?’

He sniffs, spits again. ‘Calling us a lying cunt?’

Blondie looks back over her shoulder.
‘Am
I calling him a lying cunt?’

Car’s back door opens and fucking Elvis steps out. ‘Looks like a lying cunt to me.’ Elvis with a Geordie accent. Wye-aye man, am all shook oop, like. Big bastard though.

Sparks takes a step back, but Blondie’s already there. Right behind him. Bump.

He gives a wee squeal, flinching like a spaz. Calm the
fuck
down and take charge. Sparks clears his throat, turns round and gives her the evil. Asserts his authority. ‘Thirty gets you two.’

Blondie nods, reaches into her pocket and comes out with a pair of leather gloves. Doesn’t want to touch the merchandise, doesn’t want to get her English bitch hands dirty.

While she’s doing it, Sparks sneaks a good hard stare at her tits. Not bad.

Elvis taps him on the shoulder, but Sparks ignores him, keeps his eyes on the perky prize. Licks his lips. Thinks about his girlfriend snaking her way through his bloodstream, bringing the good times with her.

Something hard bumps into his back, just above the waist of his trousers. And then the pain, stabbing out from his right kidney. Waves of jagged ice, throbbing fire. ‘Fuck…’ Knees give way. But a thick arm whips round his throat,
squeezing.

Sparks’s dirty fingernails scrabble at the leather sleeve.

Blondie draws back her fist and slams it into his belly.

Breath splutters out of Sparks’s mouth. Then she does it again.

His stomach muscles scream. It’s like being sick a thousand times, all in one go.

Sparks tries to say something. Threat. Plead. Prayer. Doesn’t matter,
something.
His feet skitter on the slippery pavement, then Elvis’s arm loosens off and Sparks drags in a broken-glass breath.

‘Ayafucker…’

Blondie pats him on the cheek. ‘Who’d you get your stuff from, Sweaty?’

Sparks’s eyes flash left and right. No one. Not a fucking soul. Where’s the bloody plod when you actually needed the cunts?

‘I don’t…’ His voice comes out all hoarse and squeaky. ‘I’m no’ sweaty, I’ve got a thermostat thing and—’

This time her fist snaps his head back, fire and pepper exploding in his nose. Knives digging into his face.

‘Fucksake…Bleeding all over me jacket!’

And then Sparks is on the ground. Coughing, spluttering,
blood making Ribena-stains in the white snow. Jesus, that hurts…

Something sharp cracks into his ribs. A boot. Then another one. They’re going to kill him. The fuckers are going to kick him to death on some shitty street down the docks. Every breath is like glass, slashing across his lungs.

‘Sweaty,’ says Blondie, panting. ‘Sweaty Sock: Jock. Honestly, how ignorant are you?’

And then her boot cracks into his ribs again.

Tony watches Julie kick the living shit out of the stick-thin junkie. Doesn’t know when to leave well alone, that one.

He’s not moving any more. Not on his own, only when Julie slams her foot into his ribs. A twitch. Reflex.

She bends double, hands on knees, back rising and falling, breath whoomphing out in big steamy clouds. She points at the body on the pavement. ‘Check his…check his pockets…’ Puff, pant, puff, pant.

Neil frisks the guy. ‘Eight wrappers, couple ounces of blow, and about…’ He rifles his fingers through a small bundle of notes. ‘Hundred, hundred and twenty quid?’

Julie sticks her hand out. ‘Give me a wrapper.’

She stands up straight, unfolds the little tinfoil package, peers at the contents, then marches over and thrusts it through the open car window. ‘Tony?’

Sigh.

He takes the wrapper. Looks like it could be anything: flour, icing sugar, rat poison. Tony licks the end of his pinkie, sticks it in the powder, then sticks it in his gob and rubs the stuff along his gums.

‘Fucksake…’

It fizzes up, bitter and frothy. Tony spits out the driver’s window, leaving a seagull-stain that bubbles and drips down the black paintwork. Howchs, spits again. He’s got that familiar teeth-numbing buzz, but it’s barely there.

Another gob spatters into the snowy tarmac. ‘Fucking bicarbonate…’

Julie sticks the boot in a couple more times.

‘You water down this shit yourself, or did it come prefucked?’

The junkie doesn’t –
can’t
– say anything, so Julie tries to break a few more ribs with those cowboy boots of hers.

Thump.

Thump.

‘Last chance, Sweaty.’

But Tony’s stopped listening. He’s got that old familiar feeling. Might start with froth and spitting, but it ends up like a warm hand cupped round your balls. Probably won’t last long, it’s been cut so much, so Tony checks Julie and Neil are still busy with Junkie-Boy, before scarfing the last of the wrapper.

He licks the tinfoil clean. Doesn’t mind that it froths up on his tongue. Just gets it into the bloodstream all the quicker, doesn’t it?

Tony settles back in his seat, grips the steering wheel. Belches. Lets it all wash over him, as Julie and Neil get to work on the guy’s arms and legs.

Well, every job has its perks.

DI Steel slouched through the door to her office, carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a bacon buttie in the other, tomato sauce making a jaunty little goatee on her chin. She froze, staring at the weedy, pointy-nosed bloke digging away at her window lock with a Swiss Army Knife.

‘What the sodding hell do you think you’re doing?’

Angus Black looked up and shrugged. ‘Breaking and exiting.’ The side of his face was a swollen, angry bruise where he’d bounced off the toilet cistern in Dodgy Pete’s.

Logan leant back against the filing cabinet. ‘Call it an early Valentine’s present.’

Angus gave one last grunt, and the window sprang open, letting in a rush of cold air. Snow drifted down in the space between the buildings, big fat flakes that clung to the brickwork and piled up on the window ledge. Five to seven on a dark and freezing Monday morning, and for once Logan actually felt human. No hangover. No feeling queasy. His head didn’t even hurt. Well, as long as nothing touched either of the lumps. Maybe laying off the booze wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Angus creaked the window open and closed a couple of times. ‘Told you. Now, we had a deal…?’

Logan produced a packet of Benson and Hedges.

‘Ace.’ Angus helped himself to one, then frisked through his pockets. ‘Got a light?’

‘Oh no you bloody don’t!’ Steel dumped her coffee on the desk and snatched the packet off Logan. ‘If anyone’s having the first fag in this office, it’s me.’

She lipped one out of the pack, pulled a Zippo from her pocket and sparked it up. The sweet tang of raw petrol was drowned out by the curling smoke. The inspector sighed, eased herself gently into her office chair, and stuck her feet on the desk. ‘Ahhhhhhhhh, Bisto.’ She slumped there, with the cigarette sticking out the corner of her mouth. ‘Laz, make sure the door’s locked, yeah?’

Angus shuffled his feet. ‘Come on, I’m
gasping
here. He promised…’

Steel took a long drag, aimed smoke at the ceiling tiles, then tossed the pack over. ‘Knock yourself out.’

‘Ta…’ He fired one up, making post-coital noises. ‘Long night in a cell when you’ve got no smokes.’

‘Shouldn’t be a nasty wee drug-dealing turd-burglar then, should you?’

Logan locked the door. ‘Tell the inspector what you told me.’

Angus blew a lazy stream of smoke out into the snow. ‘What’s it worth?’

Steel frowned at Logan. ‘What’s what worth?’

‘Mr Black here wants paid to tell us where he got his drugs from.’

‘Get bent, we’re no’—’

‘I’m saying sod all otherwise. These bastards’ll kill me if they find out – you gotta make it worth the risk.’

Logan pulled out his notebook and flipped back a couple of pages. ‘Dog shit.’

Angus shook his head. ‘No it isn’t, you haven’t seen them, they’re fucking
huge.
’

‘No, you idiot – “dog shit”. You said you didn’t want to end your days as a big pile of dog shit.’

‘Oh…right. Yeah, their boss’s got this massive Rottweiler. Thing’d have your hand off like
that.’
He snapped his fingers, sending a tumble of ash to the carpet. ‘So it’s cash up front, or no deal.’

Steel waved a hand at Logan. ‘How much we pick him up with?’

‘About a grand’s worth of heroin.’

‘Wasn’t mine – I was just holding it for a friend.’

‘Aye, right.’ Steel took a bite of her buttie. ‘McNab’s on the bench today, Angus, how many times has he done you for dealing? Word is he’s looking to set an example. Only way you’re going to see the sun again in the next seven years is if you dob in your suppliers.’

‘Old ones are the best ones, eh Inspector? What’s next: going to terrify us with poofter cellmate stories?’ Angus grinned. ‘Done my time before, can do it again. At least I’ll still be alive when I get out.’

The phone on Steel’s desk started ringing. She peered at the little LCD display. ‘No one important.’ She hit the disconnect button. ‘Start talking, Angus.’

‘Not till I see some cash.’

Steel took her wallet out and slapped two tenners down on her desktop. ‘Twenty quid, take it or leave it.’

‘Twenty quid?
You’re taking the piss, right?’

Logan shifted against the filing cabinet. The smell of Steel’s bacon buttie was making him feel hungry and nauseous, all at the same time. It was getting cold in here too, all the heat disappearing out of the open window, along with the cigarette smoke.

He let them haggle for a bit, then pulled a clear evidence pouch from his pocket and gave it a shoogle. ‘Three hundred pounds.’

‘What?’ Angus curled his lip. ‘Three thousand,
maybe.
’

‘That’s how much you had on you when I picked you up: three hundred pounds in counterfeit notes.’

He stood there with his mouth hanging open. It wasn’t a good look. ‘Counterfeit…? I sold my bloody car to buy that stuff! Four and a bit
grand
that crap cost me.’

‘So where’s the rest of it?’

Pause. ‘Rest of what?’

‘You had a thousand pounds’ worth of heroin in the rucksack, where’s the other three?’

The phone started ringing again. Steel raised an eyebrow. ‘Little Miss Popular today.’ She hit disconnect again, settled back in her seat and stuck the smouldering cigarette between her teeth. ‘Laz, get a search warrant. We’re going to do Angus a favour and tidy his house before he gets out.’

‘Erm…Maybe we could come to some sort of understanding? You like iPods, right?’

Logan clapped a hand down on Angus’s shoulder. ‘Not your day, is it?’

‘You try to do a bit of business, and what happens? Everyone screws—’

A thump at the office door. Then the handle jiggled up and down a bit. Someone outside called, ‘Steel? Inspector? Are you in there?’ DCI Finnie.

Steel sprang upright in her seat. ‘Arse!’ She flicked her cigarette through the open window, grabbed a file off her desk and started fanning like mad. Angus obviously wasn’t as daft as he looked. He followed her lead, hurling his fag out into the snow, then, while she was busy clearing the air, grabbed the remains of her buttie and crammed it into his mouth.

‘Inspector?’

She ripped open a pack of extra strong mints and crunched one down, then waved at Logan. ‘Door, door, door!’

Logan unsnibbed the lock, just in time to catch Finnie turning away. ‘Sir?’

The head of CID stared past Logan into the room. ‘I hope you weren’t indulging in some sort of orgy, Inspector.’

‘Ha-ha, very funny, sir.’ She made a show of rearranging a stack of paper on her desk. ‘Just having a quiet word with Mr Black here. He fancies the glamorous life of a paid informant.’

Finnie sniffed. ‘I would have thought you had other, more
pressing
matters to attend to today.’

Steel shifted in her seat. Looked from Finnie to Logan and back again. ‘Oh aye?’

‘“Oh aye” indeed.’ He pulled a folded newspaper from under his arm and slapped it against Logan’s chest. ‘Do the honours, Sergeant.’

Logan unruffled the front page. It was a copy of that morning’s
Aberdeen Examiner
with a photo of Richard Knox on page one – not the old stock photo every other paper was using, but a new one, of Knox kneeling in front of his granny’s grave. ‘Oh no…’ The headline screamed: ‘S
EX
-B
EAST
L
IVES
I
N
A
BERDEEN
S
TREET
S
HOCK
.’

‘Exactly.’ Finnie pulled on a thin smile. ‘Perhaps you’d like to read it out for the inspector.’

‘Ah…er…“When the residents of a quiet Aberdeen street went to sleep on Wednesday night, little did they realize that they’d be getting a new neighbour the next morning. But now the
Aberdeen Examiner
can exclusively reveal that notorious sex beast Richard Knox is living at Thirty-Five Cairnview Terrace, in Cornhill”…’

Steel closed her eyes and swore.

Finnie nodded. ‘Now the first thing I’d be asking myself,
Inspector,
is where the media got their information from – considering the whole operation’s been on a need-to-know basis. Supposedly under
your
supervision.’

‘Arsing cock-biscuits…’

‘And the second question I’d be asking is, what’s going on at Thirty-Five Cairnview Terrace right now? What do
you think: ticker-tape parade? Bake sale? Auditions for the
X Factor?’

Steel scrabbled out of her chair. ‘Laz, get Angus back in the cells, then find us a car: blues and twos. And a couple of Uniform!’ She grabbed her coat and threw it on. ‘Why did no bugger tell me about this?’

‘I’ve been trying to call you for the last five minutes.’

She didn’t even blush. ‘Must be something up with the

phones.’ She paused, then stared at Logan. ‘Well don’t just

stand there, get moving!’

Logan sat in the back with DI Steel, holding his breath and the grab handle above the door every time PC Butler threw the patrol car into another corner. The council gritters must have been out in force overnight, but every now and then the whole car lurched sideways as it flashed across a ridge of dirty slush. Blue lights strobing, freezing snowflakes in mid-fall. The electronic hee-haw of the siren clearing a path through the early-morning traffic.

Steel poked at the newspaper, jabbing her finger into Richard Knox’s face. ‘How the hell did they find out where he’s staying?’ She thrust the newspaper into Logan’s lap. ‘Call him.’

Logan looked down at the photo. ‘What, Knox?’

‘No: that greasy wee journalist mate of yours, Colin Buggering Miller. I want to know who told him where Knox was, and I want whoever it was buggered with a traffic cone!’

PC Guthrie turned around in the passenger seat. ‘I suppose as it’s pointy, they’d have time to get used to—’

‘Are you looking for a slap?’

Guthrie faced front again.

Logan stuck his hand in his pocket, looking for his phone, and finding a handful of circuit board shrapnel instead. ‘Bloody hell…’ He had to borrow Steel’s mobile to dial Colin’s number.

The Glaswegian’s voice was barely audible over the siren. Logan stuck his finger in his ear and tried again. ‘I said, who told you where Knox was staying?’

‘…
freezin’, man. Stop…tea or somethin’
…’

‘Colin?’

‘…
before…in
…’

‘Hello?’ Logan slapped a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Switch off that bloody siren!’

PC Guthrie did. Now there was just the roar of the engine.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello? You still there?’

‘Who told you?’

‘About Knox? Privileged sources, journalistic integrity, etc. So you going to stop past a bakers or what?’

‘Don’t pull that privileged source crap with me: do you have any idea the kind of shit-storm you’ve started?’

‘Story was in the public interest, Laz. People got a right to know if a rapist moves in next door.’

‘There’ll be bloody riots!’

‘Shoulda thought about that before you dumped him on the poor people of Cornhill, shouldn’t you?’

‘I didn’t dump…’ Logan ran a hand across his forehead, gritted his teeth. ‘Where are you?’

‘Outside Knox’s house, freezin’ my nads off, where do you think? And when you go past the bakers get a couple of teas and a wee steak pie or two.’
There was some muffled conversation.
‘Yeah, and Sandy wants a macaroni pie, or sausage roll.’

‘I’m not going to a bloody bakers!’

‘Might tell you where I got the info…?’

Logan told Butler to stop at the next bakery she saw.

‘Took your time.’ Colin Miller swivelled round in his seat as Logan clambered into the back of the ancient beige Volkswagen and slammed the door. The engine was running, so at least it was warm inside.

The bald man in the driver’s seat turned and frowned. ‘Watch the car, yeah?’

Colin smiled. He was immaculately turned out in brand new designer jeans and a leather jacket that probably cost more than Logan’s Fiat. A muscle-bound action figure with a faint whiff of cologne. ‘Laz, this is Sandy. Don’t let the crappy manners fool you, he’s a photographic wunderkind. Aren’t you Sandy?’

‘Sodding thing’s falling apart as it is. You any idea how much it cost to get it through its MOT?’

‘Then buy a decent bloody car for a change.’ Colin held out his black leather-gloved hands. Some of the finger joints didn’t bend, making them look like deformed claws. ‘So…tea?’

Logan dug into the white plastic bag and produced two wax-paper cups with plastic lids. ‘Milk, no sugar.’ Handed them over, then dug out a pair of paper bags, partially transparent with grease.

‘Good man, yersel!’ Colin peeked into the paper bags, then passed one to the driver. ‘Your lucky day, Sandy: macaroni pie
and
a sausage roll. Say thank you to the nice police officer.’

Sandy grunted and took a bite of his sausage roll. Flakes of pastry tumbled down the front of his baggy green jumper.

Colin gave him one of the teas. ‘Go make yourself scarce for a couple minutes.’

Sandy stopped chewing, looked out at the street with his mouth hanging open. ‘It’s snowing.’

Cairnview Terrace was a winter wonderland. Big fat flakes drifted down from a gunmetal sky, flaring as they passed through the streetlights’ glow, blanketing everything. Predawn light painted the street in shades of blue, making it look even colder.

The photographer’s Volkswagen was parked directly in front of Knox’s house, the patrol car two doors down, behind a blue Volvo estate with ‘BBC S
COTLAND
’ down the side, across
the road from a Transit Van bearing the SKY NEWS logo, exhaust fumes clouding out into the cold morning.

No signs of a lynch mob waving pitchforks and burning torches. Maybe they were having a long lie?

Colin reached over from the passenger’s side and fumbled with the driver’s door handle. Popped it open. ‘Take your tea for a walk; enjoy the taste of your pie in the great outdoors; bum a fag from the Sky lot.’

Sandy grumbled for a bit. Stuffed his sausage roll in his mouth, grabbed his greasy paper bag and his tea, them clambered out into the early morning and slammed the door even harder than Logan had. But at least he’d left the engine running.