Dark Blood (30 page)

‘It’s been deprioritized.’

‘Deprioritized?’ Pause. ‘I see. And what about all the other cases you’re currently not solving, have
they
been “deprioritized” too? Have you “deprioritized” the armed robbery at Henderson’s Jewellers? Because I think it might be kind of
fun
if you actually managed to solve that one, don’t you?’

And then he made Logan go through each of the cases on the board under his name.

Jewellery heist: no progress.

Counterfeit money: no progress.

Stolen cars: no progress.

Cemetery flasher: no progress.

OAP burglaries: no progress…

The list went on, and on, but the result was always the same: no progress.

‘I see.’ Finnie pursed his wide, rubbery lips. ‘And if you were me, Sergeant, what would
you
do?’

Logan’s chin came up. ‘I’d maybe wonder why one of my team was being given so many cases to work on. I’d ask how he was supposed to get anything done with a workload that big. Sir.’

Finnie nodded. ‘Hmm…And yet you’ve still found time
to help Northumbria Police with one of their unsolved crimes from twenty years ago?’

Bloody hell. Only Finnie could make solving the murder of an entire family sound like a bad thing.

‘Perhaps,
Sergeant,
you’d find it a little easier to deal with your own caseload if you weren’t so busy helping others with
theirs.
Do you think?’ The DCI poked the newspaper again. ‘You’re supposed to be a detective sergeant. Get out there and
detect something
!’ And then Finnie was gone, slamming the door behind him.

Logan collapsed into his seat. ‘Christ…’

Mark sniffed. ‘Don’t mind Finnie. His arse is knitting buttons because Knox is missing. Give it a couple of weeks and it’ll all blow over.’ The DS shook his head. ‘Why didn’t you tell him about all the dodgy goods you seized last night?’

‘Didn’t get the chance.’ Every time he’d tried, Finnie had moved on to the next stalled case.

‘Word to the wise –
never
take a case off the board till Finnie’s there to see you do it.’

Logan made a few calls – chasing up the investigations Finnie had moaned about – then sodded off to the canteen for a cup of coffee and a sticky bun.

Biohazard Bob had taken a table by the window, gazing out at the grey lump of the mortuary on the other side of the rear podium car park.

Logan settled in beside him. ‘Please tell me that’s not beans on toast…’

Bob shrugged and shovelled in another mouthful. ‘Why should I be the only bastard suffering?’

There was a pause. ‘OK, I’ll bite.’

‘You’re looking at the lucky recipient of
another
junkie drug dealer with the shite kicked out of him. They found the poor sod about one this morning – nearly died of hypothermia. Which brings us to my next moment of joy.’ He scooped up
more beans and chewed as if they were poisonous. ‘You remember Big Willie, the tramp used to hang about on George Street, occasionally getting his knob out for the tourists? Turned up behind the recycling bins at Sainsbury’s, stiff as a board. Got his post mortem in twenty minutes.’

‘Yeah?’ Logan took a sip of coffee. ‘Well,
I
just got my arse handed to me by Finnie for solving a twenty-year-old murder in Newcastle.’

Bob picked up his milky tea and held it out. ‘I hereby call to order, the inaugural meeting of the World’s a Bag of Shite Club.’

They clinked mugs and drank.

Bob cleared his throat. ‘I think…Deborah’s having an affair.’

Silence.

‘You sure?’

‘She’s out all the time, she’s never interested in sex…Won’t even get undressed if I’m in the room. He ran a hand across the bald patch at the back of his head. ‘Then there’s the secret phone calls. Cryptic messages on the machine.’

‘Well…maybe…’ Logan blew a breath at the ceiling. Searching. ‘Maybe you should talk to her?’

A short, bitter laugh. ‘What if she says “yes”? I can’t—’

‘God, you’re a happy looking pair of monkeys.’

Logan looked up to see Samantha standing over him, carrying a tray of wax-paper cups and tinfoil parcels. She slid the tray onto the table, then plonked herself down in the seat opposite.

Today’s outfit was black jeans, black boots, and a black hoodie top over a Ragamuffin T-shirt, her scarlet hair sticking out at improbable angles. Her smile looked forced, the cheerful voice a little strained. As if she was trying too hard. ‘So come on, what’s up? Did naughty Mrs Steel touch you two and make you feel dirty?’

Bob patted her hand. ‘Sammy, my dear, if you
ever
get tired
of this pudding-faced loser, I’ll happily abandon the wife and kids for you. OK, so I’m not the prettiest, but I make up for it with an unfeasibly large dick and ear-breathing techniques.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind.’ She stole a scoof of Logan’s coffee. ‘Urgh, that’s cold. Listen, I got the results back on that second batch of forged notes you dropped off. Fingerprints aren’t up to much, but if you can get me a printing press I can match the ink.’

‘If I ever come up with a suspect I’ll let you know.’

Samantha sat back. ‘Boy, you do have a dose of the dark-and-moodies, don’t you?’

‘Been one of those days…’ Mistake.

When was the last time you came home and said something positive?

He cleared his throat. ‘Well, it’s…you know.’ He tried a smile. ‘This Knox thing’s just getting to me a bit.’

Bob held out his tea again. ‘Welcome to the World’s a Bag of Shite Club.’

‘No thanks, I’m what you’d call a happy-go-lucky kind of goth.’ She stood and picked up her tray again.

‘If it makes you feel any better, I hear on the grapevine that our home-grown counterfeit twenties are being spotted as far away as Carlisle. Who says local business can’t make a difference?’

Great, so now Cumbria Constabulary would be moaning to Aberdeen’s Chief Constable, who’d pass it on, till it dolloped onto Logan’s head in a great steaming pile. Hurrah.

‘God…Now you look even worse.’ A frown creased her forehead, making the piercing in her eyebrow sparkle. ‘Listen, Knox escaping: it wasn’t your fault.’

‘Doesn’t help Harry Weaver, though, does it? Poor bastard was tied to the bed, beaten and raped.’

‘No he wasn’t.’

‘I was there, I
saw
him. Covered in burns and bites and—’

‘No, I mean he wasn’t raped. They did the tests up at the
hospital and it came back negative. No semen, no lubricant, no anal bruising. Looks like your boy Knox couldn’t get it up. Probably explains why he went to town on the burning and biting.’

Bob held up a finger. ‘Maybe it’s because Harry Weaver wasn’t old enough? Knox likes oldies, yes?’

Samantha reached out, grabbed Bob’s finger, and pulled. ‘Got to go.’ Then ran away, giggling.

Logan shrank back as the smell of rotten eggs wafted out from under the table. ‘Bob! You dirty—’

The canteen doors banged open. DI Beattie stormed in, paused for a second, then bellowed, ‘MCRAE! MY OFFICE! NOW!’

Finnie was already in there, sitting in one of the visitor’s chairs, thumbing away at his BlackBerry as Logan stepped into Beattie’s office, still carrying his mug of coffee.

The bearded DI stomped round behind the desk and sat, glowering. ‘Well?’

Logan stared back at him. ‘Well what?’

‘Sergeant McRae.’ Finnie slipped his little email/phone thing back in its leather case. ‘Tell me, did I
imagine
it, or did we not have a talk about being a team player?’

‘No, you got Steel to do it.’

The head of CID raised an eyebrow and pursed those thick rubbery lips. ‘I see…Tell me, Sergeant, do you have some sort of alternative definition of the term “Team Player?” In the
wonderful
world of Logan McRae, does it mean something entirely different? Hmm?’

Logan folded his arms. ‘What’s he told you?’

‘Don’t you dare!’ Beattie thumped a fist on the desktop. ‘The counterfeit goods were
my
case, and you damn well knew it. I spent a lot of time and effort putting that meeting together yesterday, and what do I find when I come in this morning? You arrested someone last night – you had a suspect the whole time and didn’t even bother telling me!’

‘Is that
it?
You didn’t arrange a bloody thing yesterday, I had to set it all up.’

‘That’s not—’

‘All you did was turn up with that awful PowerPoint presentation and make an idiot of yourself!’

Beattie went pink, trembled, then turned to Finnie. ‘You see what I have to put up with?’

‘Oh, grow up.’

The DI jumped to his feet. ‘Don’t you tell me to grow up!
I
am your superior officer, and it’s about time you bloody learned that!’

Finnie steepled his fingers and tapped them against his chin.
‘Well,
Sergeant?’

‘No. You know what? I’m sick and tired of being a chewtoy in this sodding department. You want to know why I didn’t tell you about Gallagher and Yates? Ask Steel, she was down as SIO last night – go bust
her
hump for a change!’

There was silence.

Beattie: ‘I
demand
that Sergeant McRae—’

Finnie: ‘That’s hardly—’

Logan: ‘Blow it out your—’

‘Hoy!’ Steel stood in the doorway, mobile phone clamped to her chest. ‘Keep it down, some of us are trying to work here.’ She nodded at Finnie. ‘Morning, Guv, nice tie: didn’t know the circus was in town. You’ll no’ mind if I borrow McRae here, will you? Need him for the Knox media briefing.’

‘But…With…’ Spittle fell into Beattie’s beard. ‘This is
exactly
what I’m talking—’

‘I’ll leave you to it.’ She grabbed Logan by the sleeve and hauled him out of the office, closing the door behind them.

‘…always have to be such a pain in the arse?’ Logan feathered the brakes, turning the CID pool car into the entrance to Cairnview Terrace. The road was like glass – all that water
the Fire Brigade pumped into the place had frozen overnight, covering the tarmac in a thick layer of ice.

‘Give it a rest, eh? Doing my head in.’ Sitting in the passenger seat, Steel stared out of the window. ‘Are detective sergeants this bad down in Newcastle?’

‘Always.’ Danby’s deep, bass rumble filled the car from the back. ‘What about the CCTV cameras?’

‘Don’t ask. Bloody things were meant to be installed before Knox moved in. “Technical difficulties” my fruit-flavoured arsehole. Idiots in the surveillance van weren’t much better – thing was parked the wrong way round. Knox probably walked right past them, and they never even blinked. Should’ve heard the bollocking they got; thought one of them was going to cry.’

The song on the radio ended, and the DJ announced that the news was coming right up, after these messages.

Danby drummed his fingers on the back of Logan’s seat. ‘Search teams?’

‘Somewhere between sod and bugger all. Got lookout requests on the go with every force in the UK, emailed posters to every port, airport and bus terminal…’ Steel shrugged. ‘I’m no’ holding my breath, though. If our wee raping tossbag’s sitting on X-million quid’s worth of gangster’s money he’ll be away on a fake passport to the Costa del Pervert by now.’

Logan sniffed. ‘That or he’s holed up somewhere torturing someone’s grandfather…’

‘God, you’re a wee ray of sunshine today, aren’t you?’

Logan just grunted, trying to keep the car from mounting the pavement as it slithered to a halt outside the burnt shell of Knox’s house.

‘Ooh, here we go.’ Steel reached out and turned up the radio.

‘…
angry scenes. Grampian Police issued this statement.’

DCI Finnie’s voice crackled out.
‘Richard Knox is considered
extremely
dangerous. If anyone sees him, they should call
nine-nine-nine
immediately,
do not, under
any
circumstances approach him, or try to apprehend him yourself.’

There was an explosion of questions, all shouted at once:

‘Chief Inspector! Why did Grampian Police allow him to escape?’

‘What are you doing to recapture Knox?’

‘Are the public at risk?’

‘Is it true he raped one of the team supervising him?’

A cut, then Finnie was back, ‘…
want to assure you that we’re doing everything we can to bring Richard Knox back into custody as quickly as possible.’

Then the radio moved on to a piece about all the traffic accidents caused by the snow.

‘Bloody media.’ Steel stabbed the off button. ‘How come they use everything Finnie said? Where the hell was
my
bit?’

At least she’d had a bit – all Logan had done was stand at the back, like a spare fart.

The car rocked as Danby popped the back door and clambered out, then picked his way carefully towards what was left of Knox’s house.

Logan killed the engine. ‘You’ve got to speak to Finnie about Beattie.’

‘Screw the pair of them.’ She dug out a packet of cigarettes and offered Logan one.

‘It’s all right for
you,
I’m the one getting hauled up for doing what you sodding told me!’

‘OK, OK, I’ll talk to him. Honestly: moan, bitch, whinge.’ She opened her door, put one foot on the road, gave a little squeak, and ended up flat on her back. ‘Buggering turd-burglars…’

Logan clambered out, inched around to the other side of the car, and hauled her to her feet. ‘Serves you right.’

‘Don’t push it.’ Her cigarette was bent like a dog’s leg. She spat it out onto the ice. ‘Should be off tanning my white bits on some sun-drenched beach, not looking after ungrateful bastard detective sergeants.’

‘You want me to let go again?’

‘Do it and I’ll kill you…’

They crab walked to the kerb, then shuffled their way across the slippery pavement and in through the front gate. Knox’s house was barely recognizable. The roof had gone, the walls were blackened and stained, windows missing, chunks of charred timber sticking up from the rubble, everything topped with a layer of snow.

Danby was standing in the hallway, hands in his pockets, breath steaming out around his big pink head.

Steel lit another cigarette, hissing the smoke out between her teeth. ‘Still don’t see what this is supposed to accomplish.’

‘Walking the ground.’ Danby held out a hand, as if blessing the fire scene. ‘No point going back to the flat he disappeared from: wasn’t even there twenty-four hours. This is where his roots are, know what I’m saying?’

Logan stepped across the threshold into what used to be the lounge. Blackened chunks and lumps, a scattering of slates from the roof. Humped shapes that could have been the remains of the sofa, or bits of collapsed ceiling – it was impossible to tell. The place stank of melted plastic and bitter charcoal. ‘Don’t think his roots exist any more. They’ve all burned.’

There was a deep sigh. ‘That’s what I’m worried about. The only place he’s got left now is his mother’s old house in Newcastle. Don’t think we really want him back. At least when we knew where the filthy little bastard was we could keep an eye on him, but now…’

Logan nudged a twisted metal shape with the toe of his shoe. Took a moment to realize it was the three-bar electric fire Knox prayed to every day.

‘Pffffff…Sod this: it’s too cold to be buggering about outside.’ Steel jammed her hands in her armpits. ‘You two can commune with the spirit of Pocahontas all you like – I’m going back to the car.’

Logan looked up and watched Danby haul a section of metal pipe from the rubble and start poking.

On his own in a strange city, surrounded by ruins.

The car door clunked shut, leaving them alone.

‘Why are you
really
here?’

Danby didn’t turn around. ‘Told you – Knox has info on Mental Mikey’s operation.’

‘You hate him, and he hates you. Why would he tell you anything?’

‘He’ll be heading south.’ The metal pole poked into a mound of something that disintegrated. ‘We need to start pulling in the local perverts, see if he contacted any of them for help, know what I’m saying? I’ll get my team to do the same in Newcastle.’

Logan just stared at him.

Silence.

Another sigh. ‘Billy Adams was my friend, and that…and Knox killed him.’

‘Thought Knox was in prison when Adams killed himself.’

‘Nah, he didn’t stick the gun in Billy’s mouth, or pull the trigger, but he might as well have done. See I got Knox on the forensic evidence from William Brucklay, but how do you think I knew to look at him in the first place?’

Logan frowned. ‘You said Adams heard rumours Mental Mikey’s accountant was into—’

‘I knew because he raped Billy. Must’ve found out he wasn’t really on the take – or Billy slipped up somewhere – but Knox had him in that basement for three days. I saw him after he escaped, bruised to hell, back all covered with bite marks and cigarette burns.’ Danby let the metal pole clatter to the ground. ‘Wouldn’t talk about it, wouldn’t press charges, wouldn’t even let me tell anyone. And three months after we put Knox away for what he did to William Brucklay, Billy drove off into the middle of nowhere with a shotgun…’

The DSI kicked a lump of charcoaled wood down the hall.
‘That’s
why I’m here. So that bastard Knox can’t get away with it again.’

The old man screams, high pitched and angry. ‘Aya, fucking poof bastard!’

Richard Knox bites him again – on the buttocks, hard enough to break the skin, tears rolling down his face. Then he does it again.

Doesn’t have any choice, does he? Like with that prat Harry from Sacro: doesn’t
want
to do it, but has to.

Cos this is the path God has chosen for him.

‘AAAAAAAGH…!’

The room’s cold, a crappy little bedroom in a crappy little house out in the countryside, surrounded by sheep and snow. It’s got puffy patterned wallpaper – painted a rancid-butter yellow – and a double bed with one of them tartan blankets on top, scratchy beneath Richard’s naked skin.

Maybe it’s the old man’s house. Maybe he was just visiting. Doesn’t really matter, does it?

‘AAAAAAAGH…
Fuck
that
hurts
!’

It’s a test. Has to be: another test from God.

Richard stifles a sob, face pressed against the old man’s thigh, and bites down hard.