Dark Blood (23 page)

Logan watched him pack. ‘So, you’re on the run from the mob then?’

The little man stopped in the middle of packing a string vest. ‘Who told you that?’

‘All those years Mental Mikey took care of you, and now he’s dead. Every crook in Tyneside must be after a slice of his nest egg.’

Knox shrugged, then fetched an antique grey suit from the wardrobe, laying it carefully into the suitcase. ‘God takes us all in the end, like.’

‘You know, if I was sitting on some gangster’s millions—’

‘That’s what they’re saying about us, is it? I’ve got Michael
Maitland’s cash?’ Half a dozen sombre ties followed the suit into the case.

‘Don’t you?’

‘Nearly forgot…’ He disappeared through the bedroom door. There was the sound of someone rifling through a medicine cabinet, then Knox was back with a dusty bottle of Old Spice. He wrapped it in a pair of Y-fronts and placed it carefully next to the suit. Then shut the lid.

Steel popped her head around the door, mobile clamped to her ear. She stuck it against her chest. ‘Ricky the Rapist ready to go?’

Logan nodded and she raised the phone to her ear again.

‘Yeah…Yeah, he’s ready.’ Then she was gone, clumping down the stairs.

Knox looked around the shabby room. Sighed. ‘I was happy here, long time ago.’

‘You want a blanket?’

‘What?’

‘Over your head when we take you out the front. Do you want a blanket?’

‘Oh…’ He ran a hand across the faded, cat-scratched bedspread, the one his grandparents used to hump under every Friday night. Knox pulled it off the bed and draped it around his shoulders, then collected his bible in its tatty plastic bag. ‘Ready.’

Dear God, there’s hundreds of them. A wall of angry jock bastards, all waving placards and chanting: ‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’ Like he’s some sort of animal, like…

Richard ducks back behind a policeman. Takes a deep breath. Pulls the bedspread over his head. Now everything smells of dust and mildew, with the faintest memory of Granny Murray’s night cream.

Someone says, ‘You ready?’

‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’

Richard nods. Clutches the carrier bag tighter to his chest.

‘There’s more officers just outside the door, OK? We’re going to be all around you.’

‘I’m ready…’ His voice sounds high and scared, even to him.

Never been hated by this many people all in one place. Yeah, there was a crowd outside the court when he got sent down, like, but they was all outside. He was in a police van. Tinted windows. Safe. Not like now…

‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’

‘OK, let’s get going.’ That sounds like the bloke, Sergeant McThingy, the one who wants to know about Michael Maitland’s rainy-day money. Probably wants a cut – typical bloody copper.

A hand in the small of Richard’s back pushes him forward.

‘Don’t touch us!’

He stumbles out the door, bedspread over his head, watching the world change beneath his feet. Top step. Garden path, the snow trampled to grey mush.

‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’

And then they see him. They have to, because the chanting becomes screaming. Insults, threats. The police hurry him forward, closing in on all sides.
Touching him.

Don’t freak out. Please don’t freak out. Stay calm.

‘FUCKING WANKER!’

‘YOU SHOULD HANG!’

‘PERVERT BASTARD!’

The police get closer as the garden path comes to an end beneath Richard’s feet. Squeezing through the gate.

The jostling gets worse, shouts louder.

‘KNOX, YOU’RE DEAD! YOU HEAR ME? DEAD!’

‘WE DON’T WANT YOUR KIND HERE!’

Richard keeps his eyes on his shoes. ‘Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name…’

A shove and he nearly falls.

‘RAPING SCUM!’

‘GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM!’

Lurching forwards, tears streaming down his face in the darkness. Oh God…

Something bangs against the top of his head. A policeman swears.

‘You! I saw that!’

‘HOPE YOU FUCKING DIE!’

‘KNOX! KNOX! KNOX! OUT! OUT! OUT!’

More shoving, pushing – Richard stumbles and falls against the policeman in front of him, ends up on his knees in the slush.

Why can’t they leave him alone? He just wants to—

Rough hands on his elbows, hauling him back to his feet, hurrying him onwards.

‘BASTARD!’

‘KNOX! KNOX! KNOX! OUT! OUT! OUT!’

And then a metal clunk and he’s dragged into the back of a police van. Richard steps on the trailing edge of the bedspread and ends up on his hands and knees, pain lancing through his palms. Then daylight floods over him as the quilt snags on the metal floor.

‘KNOX! KNOX! KNOX! OUT! OUT! OUT!’

Richard turns and looks out across a sea of hate, crashing against the police cordon. People jabbing their placards at him, men and women, faces pink and screwed up, teeth bared.

Someone spits, a thick glob of yellowy-white that flies through the falling snow and spatters against Richard’s chest.

‘THEY SHOULD STRING YOU UP!’

And then the van door thumps shut and everything is darkness again.

Someone says, ‘Thank fuck
that’s
over…’

And then the van starts to rock. People slamming their hands against the sides.

‘BASTARD!’

‘KNOX! KNOX! KNOX! OUT! OUT! OUT!’

It’s not over. It’ll
never
be over.

‘A complete disaster!’ DSI Danby stabbed his thumb on the remote, freezing the picture on the boardroom TV as someone slammed their placard down on Richard Knox’s bedspread-covered head: ‘D
ETH
T
O
A
LL
R
APIST
!’

The emergency MAPPA meeting wasn’t really going that well. They’d gathered in the boardroom at FHQ – Steel, Logan, DI Ingram from the Offender Management Unit, some hairy woman from the council, a Sacro supervisor, and DCI Finnie. Everyone trying to make sure they didn’t get blamed for anything.

Danby thumped the TV remote down on the boardroom table, and turned to glower out of the window at the snow
slanting horizontally across Broad Street. ‘You couldn’t even keep his location secret for four days!’

Steel leaned over and whispered in Logan’s ear, ‘You want to tell him, or should I?’

Logan pretended he hadn’t heard.

DI Ingram ran a hand across his little military moustache. ‘I don’t think that’s entirely fair…The Offender Management Unit has done its best—’

‘Its best?’ Finnie frowned. ‘Well, that’s all right then, isn’t it? I must have
imagined
there was a riot outside Knox’s house this morning because his
address was in the bloody papers
!’

Danby poked the polished tabletop with a finger. ‘I want a full enquiry. I want to know which one of your lot went running to the media, first chance they got!’

Steel settled back in her seat, left hand scritching away beneath the desk. ‘Actually, Sergeant McRae has some information on that, don’t you Laz?’

‘Er…yes. We know who leaked Knox’s location to the press.’

‘Who? I want them up on charges, you know what I’m saying? I want them bloody crucified!’

‘The leak didn’t come from Aberdeen, it came from Newcastle. Knox’s old English teacher sold his school records to the papers. His granny’s address was in there.’

Danby backed off a step. ‘Ah…I see.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Right, well…contingency plan then.’

And that was it, no apology, no nothing.

DI Ingram went over the plan again, the alternative address they had in waiting, just in case things went horribly wrong.

He was droning on about cost models when the boardroom door creaked open and a rumpled corduroy man slumped in, dumped a little leather rucksack on the table and collapsed into one of the vacant chairs. He took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. ‘Sorry I’m late. Any chance of a coffee?’

‘Ah, how nice of Social Work to
grace
us with their presence.’ Finnie checked his watch. ‘We started
twenty minutes
ago!’

The newcomer polished his glasses on the edge of a hanky. ‘Good for you. I started twenty-four
hours
ago. One of my clients got the crap kicked out of him down the docks last night, and I’ve been trying to get things sorted out ever since.’

Danby’s face twitched. ‘I’d have thought Richard Knox would get your undivided attention, know what I’m saying?’

‘Yeah, that’s a great idea, I’ll just tell my thirty other clients they don’t matter any more. That how they do things in Newcastle, is it?’ He dug into his corduroy jacket and came out with a piece of paper. ‘Desk sergeant gave me a message for a Sergeant McRoy?’

‘McRae.’ Logan held out his hand. It was barely legible – which meant Sergeant Eric Mitchell was manning the desk – ‘T
HERE’S
A T
IM
M
AIR
H
ERE
T
O
S
EE
Y
OU
+ O
VERTIME
: WTF?!?’ and then a doodle of a skull and crossbones.

Steel leant over and squinted at the note, then put her lips against Logan’s ear. ‘I hope Social Work Boy’s no’ propositioning you for hairy bum sex in the toilets.’

‘Someone’s here about Polmont’s stash of electrical equipment.’

‘Well, don’t just sit there – bugger off and…’ Everyone was staring at her. Steel smiled. ‘I was just consulting with my colleague about the viability of Knox staying on in Grampian. Everyone knows he’s here, they’ll be on the lookout for him. He’s a target. Move him somewhere else and he might live to see his next birthday.’

DI Ingram cleared his throat. ‘Actually, there’s a lot of merit in the inspector’s suggestion—’

‘Course there is.’ She thumped Logan on the back. ‘Now, Sergeant, why don’t you run along and see if you can’t get a nice constable to whip us all up a wee cup of tea?’

Dildo, AKA: Tim Mair, was leaning on the reception desk downstairs, helping himself to Sergeant Mitchell’s bag of Revels. The bag’s owner had the kind of moustache that would have made walruses jealous, and it twitched as Logan tried to join in.

‘Hoy! Who said you could have one?’ Mitchell snatched the bag away. ‘Been trying to get you all sodding morning. Turn your bloody phone on!’

Dildo grinned, pulling his black goatee out of shape. ‘You tell him, Eric.’

Logan dug into his jacket pocket and let a handful of plastic shrapnel tumble onto the reception desk. ‘If you can figure out how, be my guest.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘Oh, and Steel wants someone to make a load of teas for the MAPPA meeting.’

Sergeant Mitchell’s moustache bristled. ‘Well don’t look at me!’

‘Just get some PC to do it.’ Logan turned to leave. ‘Oh, and make sure whoever it is spits in DSI Danby’s mug.’

‘Right.’ Dildo wiped the steam from his John Lennon glasses. ‘Let’s see these dodgy goods you found.’

Logan pointed through the glass front wall, at the swirling snow. ‘They’re at the Water Lane store.’

‘Oh for Christ sake…could you not have brought them up?’

‘No room. We can take your car if you like?’

‘Left it at the office.’

‘OK.’ Logan swept the bits of phone back into his pocket. ‘We’ll go in mine.’

‘Piece of shite…’ Dildo hauled at the passenger door release. ‘Have you got the child locks on or something?’ The black plastic bag duct-taped over the missing window bucked and shuddered in the wind, the engine running on for a whole
three seconds after Logan pulled the keys out of the ignition before it finally gave up and died.

‘Don’t be such a girl – got you here, didn’t it?’

‘Only just, would’ve been quicker bloody walking.’ It had taken them over twenty minutes to drive the quarter mile from the station, crawling through the snow and snarled up traffic.

‘Yeah, if you want to die of frostbite.’ Logan climbed out into the narrow lane. White flakes swirled around the car, battering against the rusty paintwork as Water Lane funnelled the wind into a teeth-chattering gale. He hurried round and hauled open Dildo’s door from the outside. ‘Well, don’t just sit there!’

They bustled through the keypad-locked door, into the little corridor on the other side. Stomping their feet to get rid of the snow. They signed in with a red-nosed, sniffly constable, and headed through to the evidence store.

If anything, it was even colder than it had been yesterday, their breath trailing behind them as Logan led the way through the minotaur’s maze of metal shelving. ‘Over here.’

Dildo took his glasses off, wiped them dry on a cloth, and put them back on again. ‘Where?’

Logan waved a hand, indicating the eight shelves packed with the stuff they’d taken out of Polmont’s flat.

‘Oh buggering hell! All of it?’

‘Yup.’

Dildo hauled a box out and thumped it down on the scuffed floorboards. ‘Got to be twenty below in here, and this’ll take sodding
ages.’

‘You get cracking and I’ll go see what I can do.’

By the time Logan returned, trundling a battered oil-filled radiator in front of him, the man from Trading Standards was surrounded by iPhones. He held one up to the light and sniffed. ‘Definitely fake.’

Logan peered at it. ‘Looks OK to me.’ He uncoiled an extension lead and plugged the radiator in. ‘Should help a bit.’

‘Watch.’ Dildo pressed something and the screen came to life, revealing a display that looked nothing like it did on the TV adverts. ‘They make them by the bucket-load in China, ship them over hidden in containers. You know how much this costs to make? Peanuts…Well, prawn crackers anyway.’ He pointed at the radiator. ‘That thing working yet?’

‘Give it a minute.’

Logan picked up one of the iPhone boxes. It had all the documentation and everything. ‘So they’re crap then?’

‘Depends on your definition of crap. You can make phone calls, and you can run a couple of applications, play MP3s, but that’s about it.’

He stuffed it back in the box. ‘Hair straighteners are fake too.
And
the portable DVD players.’ Dildo grabbed a cardboard box marked up with the Grant’s Vodka logo, clinked it down on the floor, and hauled the flaps open. Then took out a clear glass bottle and handed it over. ‘What do you see?’

Logan shrugged. The bottle was cold, deep-chilled in the fridge-like warehouse. ‘Vodka?’

‘Try again.’

Logan turned it over.
‘Cheap
vodka?’

‘God, it’s like teaching a monkey to yodel…’ Dildo prodded the red-and-silver label.
‘Now
do you see anything?’

‘You, being a dick?’

‘Read the sodding label!’

Logan did. According to the bottle it was Grant’s Vodka, seventy centilitres, thirty-seven-and-a-half-percent. Produced and bottled in Great Britain, Glen Catrine Distilers, Catrine, Ayrshire, Scotland. ‘So?’

‘How do you normally spell “Distillers”?’

‘D-I-S-T-I-L-L…Oh.’ Logan stared at the label again.

Dildo grinned. ‘Do you think a genuine distillery might
actually
be able to spell the word “Distillers”?’

‘It’s counterfeit.’

Dildo took the bottle back. ‘There’s two or three bottling plants for this stuff somewhere down the south of England. Trading Standards have been after them for years – shut one down and two months later another one springs up.’ He stuck the bottle back in the box.

‘Who the hell makes fake Grant’s Vodka? It sells for, what: eight quid a bottle? If you’re going to counterfeit something, counterfeit the expensive stuff.’

‘Mate, I’ve seen faked Tetley tea bags, Surf washing powder, Heinz baked beans.’ Dildo held his hands against the radiator’s peeling paint. ‘Boots were selling fake Colgate in 2008.
Toothpaste.
Someone managed to slip it into the wholesalers and they didn’t notice for nearly a fortnight. I mean, nobody got hurt, it was still toothpaste, but it sure as hell wasn’t Colgate. Trust me: if you can sell it for a profit, someone, somewhere, is counterfeiting it.’