Dark Blood (29 page)

Our Father who art in heaven.

Just six words, like, but they’re true. Richard Knox places a hand against the doorway, stands there quietly, looking into the bathroom. Three o’clock in the morning, and all the lights in the flat are off. Except for this one.

Richard’s da’s in heaven – had himself a bit of an accident, didn’t he? With a length of metal pipe over the back of the head. On his knees in a vacant warehouse, blood pouring from his shattered mouth, making gurgling noises. Sobbing. Trying to kid on he was really sorry, you know? Like he didn’t mean to run out on Richard and his mam. That it wasn’t his fault.

Mandy from Sacro’s on her knees too. Gripping onto the toilet bowl. Heaving and retching. Bile spattering from her open mouth. Not caring she’s getting sick on her hair.

‘Are you all right?’

She waves a hand, without looking up. ‘I’m fine…I just…I…Oh shite—’ She heaves again, spine humping as the sound echoes back from the toilet bowl.

It’s a crappy modern flat, in a crappy modern development, walls and carpets the same colour as prison porridge.

Mandy groans, then gives the toilet another mouthful.

Richard’s eyes drift down to the rolling pin in his hand. It’s no lead pipe, but it’ll work just as well. Only Christian to put someone out of their misery, like…

There’s a fine mist of red on his face. Tiny red dots.

His arm aches. Wrist throbbing.

Richard pushes open the door to the third bedroom. Harry’s there, lying curled up under the covers, face all pale and glistening. The room stinks of sour sweat.

Richard flicks on the light.

Harry gives a little moan in protest and sticks a hand over his eyes. Poor lamb. All helpless and defenceless. Richard could do whatever he wanted, and no one could stop him.

Been a long time.

There’s clothes spread all over the floor: jeans, jumper, shirt, towels…Hasn’t even been here twenty-four hours, like, and already the place is a tip.

‘Please…you need to call…call a doctor…’ Voice all slurred and blurry.

Richard licks his lips, they taste of copper pennies.

Course Harry’s a bit young, isn’t he? Bit podgy. Not quite Richard’s type. Still…

Been a long,
long
time.

He steps inside. ‘Hey Harry, not feeling so well?’

Harry forces a smile. ‘Something didn’t…didn’t agree with…with me.’

Richard smiles back. ‘It’s called Flunitrazepam, you know? Rohypnol? Takes everyone different, like. Your mate Mandy’s in the bathroom spewing her ring. Sometimes happens if you take it with alcohol – think she’s a secret drinker?’

He closes the door. Not that Mandy’s going to interrupt them, just…well, modesty and that.

‘Rohyp…?’

‘AKA: the date rape drug.’

Richard steps towards the bed, unfastening his belt. Then
the secret mobile phone he’s not supposed to have bleeps. Got a new text message. All it says is: ‘D
OWNSTAIRS
.’

He checks his watch. Twenty minutes early.

Richard shuffles to the front window and peers out at the street, four stories below. There’s a big black car sitting in the car park at the back of the flats, its hot exhaust pluming out into the cold night air.

‘Sorry Harry. Love to stay and get better acquainted, like, but me lift’s here.’

Twenty minutes…

Maybe they’ll wait?

‘Fuck.’ This was no way to start a Tuesday morning. Half past eight and the day was already ruined. Logan puffed back up the eight flights of stairs to the fourth floor, then stood at the top, wheezing and dizzy.
Got
to cut back on the fags.

He straightened up and shambled through the door into the corridor.

Knox’s new flat was part of a huge, ugly development – a long winding terrace that looked more like municipal buildings from the 1970s than modern housing. A developer’s dream: build them cheap, pile them high, and charge a fortune.

There were six flats on the fourth floor, all leading off the main corridor. Alpha Three Nine were second on the scene, so they’d been given the task of going door-to-door, stopping people from getting to work. That and blocking off the elevator with ‘P
OLICE
’ tape.

DI Steel was slouched against the wall outside Knox’s new flat, having a scratch.

Logan waved the plastic packages he’d dug out of the pool car’s boot at her. ‘Smurf time.’

She stuck her hand out. ‘Give.’

They struggled into the white paper oversuits, Logan
hopping about like an idiot. Bloody shoes never went down the legs properly, did they? He fought his arms into the sleeves, hauled the hood into place, and zipped the thing up, from groin to chin, then slipped the blue plastic booties on. The elasticated facemask went on over his nose and mouth, he pulled on a pair of purple nitrile gloves, and finished off by sticking a second pair over the top of those.

DI Steel hauled her own zip up and stood there: booted and suited, masked and gloved, just like he was. She sniffed. ‘It’s what all the best-dressed people are wearing this season.’

Logan knocked on the door.

PC Irvine from the Offender Management Unit opened it, wearing the same protective clothing. She made them sign in before she’d let them over the threshold.

Steel picked her way into the hall and Logan followed, avoiding a dark smudge on the oatmeal-coloured carpet in case it was evidence. ‘Any word on the ambulance?’

‘Should’ve been here five minutes ago.’ Irvine pointed a shaky hand at the bathroom. ‘She’s in there.’

Logan peered through the open door. Mandy from Sacro lay on the bathroom floor, her curly brown hair matted to her head with something dark and sticky. A pool of red on the linoleum beneath her. Spatters up the cream tiles, a misting of pink on the underside of the hand basin. ‘Bloody hell…’

Someone had arranged her in the recovery position. And if Logan stared hard, he could just make out her chest rising and falling.

Irvine nodded. ‘Paul and me got here about quarter past eight to run through the matrix again. No answer when we knocked, so we gave it a couple of minutes, tried phoning. Nothing. Paul used the spare key.’

Steel cleared her throat. ‘Where’s the other one?’

‘Second bedroom from the end.’ She glanced down the hall. ‘Can’t believe we bought prawns for him.’

The room was small, a double bed crammed in against the wall, an upturned bedside cabinet, a wicker chair lying cracked and bashed next to it. The eye-nipping, throat-catching, bitter reek of vomit and urine.

‘Oh, Jesus…’

Harry, the other Sacro volunteer, was tied facedown on the bed, a stack of pillows under his groin propping his backside up in the air. Naked. Blood caking the sheets around his ruined face, his back covered in scarlet welts, bite marks, cigarette burns.

Steel blinked. Voice muffled by the mask. ‘Is he…?’

‘He’s alive.’

The inspector turned and smacked PC Irvine on the chest. ‘Then why the bloody hell haven’t you untied him! Fuck is
wrong
with you?’

‘But we don’t have a camera, and the crime scene—’

‘FUCK THE CRIME SCENE!’ Steel stormed into the room, grabbed the T-shirt tying Harry’s right ankle to the bedpost and hauled.

‘Inspector, I really don’t think this is a good—’

‘He’s been raped, you bloody idiot!’ Steel yanked on the T-shirt again. ‘Laz, into the kitchen: get me a pair of scissors, knife, something.’

‘But—’

‘NOW!’

Logan ran through the house, plastic booties slipping on the vinyl floor. He rummaged through the drawers, grabbed a pair of kitchen scissors and a box of freezer bags. Then hurried back to the bedroom.

Steel was kneeling on the floor next to the bed. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Er…’ Constable Irvine glanced at Logan and back again. ‘Harry. Harry Weaver. He used to be a—’

‘Harry? Can you hear me, Harry?’

Logan stopped at the foot of the bed. ‘Anyone got a camera on their mobile?’

‘Yeah, but it’s not—’

‘Harry? It’s going to be OK.’

‘Better than no photos at all, right?’

Irvine unzipped the front of her oversuit and reached inside, coming out with some sort of fancy touch-screen thing, then zipped herself up again. ‘Right…’

She stepped up and held the phone out, pressed something and it went
Click,
a little burst of flash. Another click, another flash.

‘Does it do video?’

She nodded. ‘You can upload to Facebook and—’

‘Just video the bloody scene.’

‘Harry? Come on, Harry, you’re safe now.’

‘Oh…Right.’

Logan pointed at the T-shirt with his scissors. ‘Close up.’

Irvine did what she was told, then Logan carefully cut through the shirt where it looped around Harry’s ankle. ‘Other leg.’

‘Harry? Come on, speak to me, Harry!’

‘Wrists…’

Finally the naked man was free.

There was a muffled groan.

‘Harry? Can you hear me? You’re safe now.’

His eyes were swollen shut, the skin around them purple and deformed, his nose crooked, the lower half of his face smeared with dark-red clots.

‘He’s got something in his mouth…’ PC Irvine stuck her phone in his face, till Steel batted her away, leaving scarlet smears on her white oversuit.

The inspector cupped one hand around Harry’s forehead, supporting it while she pulled a matted lump of black from his mouth. Logan popped open one of the freezer bags.

‘What are you playing at?’

‘Didn’t have any evidence ones with me.’

She dropped the gag in, then jerked back from the bed, as
Harry retched – blood and bile spattering out across the stained sheets.

‘Fuck.’

Someone knocked on the front door. ‘Hello? Anyone in?’

Logan stepped out into the hall. A pair of sweaty paramedics were puffing and panting in the corridor outside. One wiped a hand across his forehead and scowled. ‘You the funny bastard taped off the lifts?’

‘Erm…’

‘Any idea how much one of these bloody stretcher bed things weighs?’

‘Well…could’ve been worse, I suppose.’ DS Mark MacDonald swivelled his chair back and froth a couple of times. ‘I mean, they’re both still alive, right?’

The Wee Hoose was quiet, just Mark and Logan in the little walled-off area, with the door shut, muting the sounds from the busy CID office. Phones going, people bustling about trying to look busy, the occasional bout of shouting. The predictable aftermath of something going seriously wrong.

Mark nodded at the room outside. ‘Media briefing at eleven. You going?’

‘Not if I can help it.’ Logan took the whiteboard eraser and scrubbed off the counterfeit goods investigation. One less thing to worry about.

‘Don’t blame you. Finished that big fraud case yesterday, so Finnie’s got me down for “Information Support”.’ Mark took another sip at his coffee. ‘I bloody
hate
media briefings, like feeding time at the zoo…And all the animals are bastards.’

Logan went back to his desk and checked his email again. Success: the big IB lab on Nelson Street had rushed through the DNA from the bite marks on Harry Weaver’s back and thighs. Their report was full of the usual disclaimers and bet-hedging,
but right at the bottom was the bit Logan wanted: the DNA was a ninety-nine-point-nine-eight percent match for Richard Knox. Not only that, the bite pattern was identical to the teeth marks they had on file from William Brucklay, Knox’s Newcastle victim.

Not exactly unexpected news, but everything that tied Knox to the attack helped.

The rest of the forensic evidence was still being examined – fibres in the bedroom, the soil from a partial footprint in the hallway, something that looked like tears on the back of the victim’s thighs.

Logan turned back to Mark. ‘You talked to Bob recently?’

‘Biohazard?’ The DS shuddered. ‘Not since he had that curried mackerel. Jesus, we should get danger money.’

‘You think he’s OK?’

Frown. ‘What’s he done?’

Logan shrugged. ‘It’s probably nothing…’ He swivelled back to his computer. A pile of statements took up most of his desk – the firearms team accounting for what had happened last night and why they’d felt it necessary to shoot Norman Yates three times in the chest. Logan had checked – they all matched, but not in a way that screamed ‘cover up!’ Yates had shot a police officer – it was his own stupid fault.

The statements went into an internal mail envelope, along with his own report, and marked for the attention of DI Steel. With the statements out of the way, there was a rare clear patch on Logan’s desk. The Post-it note about phoning Dildo first thing sat right in the middle of it, staring up at him. Must have fallen off his monitor. Damn.

Logan picked up the phone and dialled Dildo’s extension at Trading Standards, flicking through the rest of his emails as it rang.

The worst was from Professional Standards: Douglas Walker’s estate-agent lawyer had made another official complaint. Apparently his client had been ‘subjected to undue
harassment and unwarrantedly heavy-handed interrogation techniques’. Would Logan care to comment?

Yes. Two words: ‘get’ and ‘fucked’.

It wasn’t even as if they’d made a special case of the art student. Just interviewed him once on Friday, stuck him in the cells for the weekend, then had a final crack at him before he went up before the Sheriff on Monday. How the hell was that, ‘undue harassment’?

‘Tim Mair, how can I
—’

‘Dildo, it’s Logan. We—’

‘Did you get my email?’

‘Er…’ He skimmed through the next few – and there it was, from Dildo’s official email address, sent about an hour ago and completely ignored. ‘Yeah, got it right here…’

‘What do you think?’

It was some sort of proposal for two-man teams to stake out various dodgy pubs in Aberdeen, looking for people selling counterfeit goods. ‘Yes, very good. Very…thorough.’

‘Cool. We can start with
—’

‘Actually, Tim, I’ve been meaning to call you.’

Silence.
‘Did you just call me “Tim”?’
Dildo swore.
‘Come on, what have you done?’

‘No, it’s—’

‘You’ve bloody done something, haven’t you? What is it? What the hell have you lumbered me with this time?’

‘Nothing like that: we arrested a couple of guys late last night…’ He filled Dildo in on the details, leaving out the fact that they’d known about Gallagher and Yates all day. ‘So, you see, we don’t need to do the undercover thing. It’s all taken care of.’

There was a groan.
‘You mean I attended that sodding awful meeting with Beardy the Boy Cretin for nothing?’

‘Well…sort of, but—’

‘You knew all the time, didn’t you? I had to pull in bloody
huge
favours to get Susanna there, and all the time, you knew!’

‘It wasn’t…Look, the stuff’s in a barn out by Balmedie.’

He gave Dildo the address to go pick it all up, then the Trading Standards officer hung up, but not until after some choice swearwords.

Bugger. That was going to take more than a tin of biscuits to sort out.

He was writing up his notes from Knox’s flat when the door thumped open and DCI Finnie stalked into the room, bringing with him the sound of phones ringing and general pandemonium.

‘Ah, McRae.’ The head of CID pulled a newspaper from a manila folder and thumped it down on Logan’s desk. The banner headline, ‘R
APIST
“V
ICTIM’S
” F
AMILY
S
TRIKE
B
ACK
’ stretched across the front page, above a photo of Wendy Leadbetter hurling the second petrol bomb into Knox’s house. ‘Would you care to tell my
why
the
Aberdeen Examiner
knows who the arsonists are before we do?’

‘Actually, sir, we’ve had a lookout request on Ian and Wendy Leadbetter since late last night. In fact, it was Mr Miller who helped me identify them. I filed a report and—’

‘Oh really? Well, why didn’t you say so? That’s just spiffing. Can’t see why
anyone
would have a problem with
that.
And tell me, Sergeant McRae, you didn’t think to put some sort of embargo on the details?’

‘I…’ No, he hadn’t. Logan cleared his throat. ‘Well, perhaps this will help us pick them up? If people see them in the…paper.’

Mark made a big show of going back to his burglary forms.

‘And while we’re on the subject of “the paper”.’ Finnie flipped through the pages, until he came to a full page spread: ‘C
OUNTERFEIT
C
ASH
T
HREATENS
L
OCAL
E
CONOMY
’.

Logan looked up at the DCI. ‘Well, it’s not—’

‘Tell me, Sergeant McRae, how
clever
are Grampian Police going to look when it gets out that the only suspect we had
was released on bail yesterday, and we
still
don’t have a clue where this stuff is coming from? Hmm? Think the local media are going to run a two-page spread on how great we are? Or will they tell everyone we’re a bunch of incompetent amateurs?’

‘But it’s—’

‘Oh, and I see from the crime board,’ he pointed at the whiteboard with all the DSs’ names on it, and their list of open cases, ‘that the counterfeit cash job is one of
yours.’

‘I’ve been—’

‘Where are we with the investigation?’

Logan glanced round at Mark, but he had his head down over his keyboard. No help there.