Dark Blood (39 page)

Evans took a swig of pale-yellow whisky. ‘My brother never got over what Knox did to him. Chained to a wall, tortured, raped…And then when he goes to the police, what happens? Two big bastards come round and threaten to cripple his grandkids if he doesn’t change his story: say he lied about it.’

‘Knox was here and you let him
go?’

‘Was never the same after that. Took Simon four years to die; just gave up in the end.’ The old man drained his glass. ‘Knox killed him, sure as if he’d stuck a knife in his guts. So when that policeman Danby called and said he wanted to—’

‘Evans! Keep your big gob shut!’ Bruce Lowe clambered to his feet and turned to Logan. ‘I just asked them back here for a drink, offer a bit of support. He’s drunk. You can’t—’

‘Don’t talk to my dad like that!’ Matt hauled himself out of his armchair. ‘Least he had the guts to go through with it, you couldn’t even shoot the little—’

‘I had nothing to do with—’

‘SHUT UP!’ The woman slammed her glass down on the coffee table. ‘Just…shut up.’

The knocking at the window got louder.

She sank back into the sofa. ‘We didn’t let Knox go, we sold him.’

Logan could feel his mouth hanging open. ‘You
sold
him? Who the hell wants to buy—’

‘Some bossy cow turned up with two thugs. She said she could sell Knox to some gangsters who’re after him. Split the money with us. Supposed to be compensation for what he did.’ Ellen gave a short laugh, then picked up her glass again, greasy beads of alcohol shimmering on the sides. ‘They even had this…fat naked guy in a dressing gown with them, tied up with a bag over his head. Suppose they were going to sell him too.’ She took a swig. Bared her teeth. ‘Must be good money in perverts.’

She had no idea.

There was a clunk from the front of the house, a muffled voice saying, ‘Oh…
boy
that’s cold…’ PC Butler letting herself in. ‘Hello?’

Logan called back: ‘In here.’

The constable bumbled in, nose and cheeks bright pink. ‘What happened? I was knocking and everything.’

‘Get your notebook out.’ He pointed at Jimmy Evans. ‘You abducted Richard Knox and made it look like he raped you.’

‘We needed enough evidence—’

‘Evans!’ Bruce Lowe was on his feet again. ‘I swear to God, if you don’t—’

‘—make sure he’d go back inside for life this time. He—’

‘Don’t listen to him! We didn’t do anything, it was Knox!’

Logan grabbed Lowe by the scruff of the neck and hauled him back into his seat. ‘YOU SIT DOWN AND YOU KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT, UNDERSTAND?’

The man shrank back into the armchair.

Logan loomed over him. ‘What about Harry Weaver? Was he in on it too? Or did you put the poor bastard in hospital for fun?’

Lowe looked away. ‘It…Knox had…He was like that
when we got there. Tied up on the bed, naked, blood everywhere. The woman too. We never touched them.’

Silence.

Logan turned to the rest of the room, ‘Where did they go? This woman who’s going to sell Richard Knox for you?’

The old man topped up his glass again. ‘She said there was some Edinburgh gangster who’d act as go-between…’

Logan stuck out his hand. ‘Car keys.’

They looked at him. ‘What do—’

‘Give me your car keys.
All
of them.’

A minute later he had two sets for the Mercedes, and one for the big black people carrier. The woman dropped her Clio key fob into his hand and Logan stuffed the lot into his pocket.

‘You will stay here and you will wait for a patrol car to collect you. Do you understand?’

‘Babe, pull over and I’ll drive.’

‘I’m
doing
it, all right? Can’t see a bloody thing out there, like.’

Julie sighs. ‘We’ll be all night at this rate.’

Richard Knox peers through the metal grille of the dog guard, over the back seats, and out at the road. Thick curtains of white, billowing down from the darkness.

He ducks back down.

The big car thumps over something and Danby groans. Turns out the tartan bag’s just a pillowcase, held in place by a thick cable-tie round his throat.

Knox’s hands are stiff from the cold, the left one barely working at all. Every time he moves the fingers it’s like being stabbed, but he manages to ease the pillowcase out from under the cable-tie, and up over the big man’s head.

Danby’s face is pale…well, except for the bruises, the black eye, and the swollen lip.

Richard strokes the superintendent’s face, feeling the stubble scratch beneath his fingertips.

Poor old soul…

Then the big man coughs, his whole body rattling, face
going bright pink. A deep ragged breath and he slumps back. A thin stream of spit dribbles out the side of his mouth.

Richard takes a corner of Granny Murray’s quilt and wipes it away. ‘You sold us out. Said I could go away on me own, live me life somewhere.’

Danby closes his eyes, breath coming in deep wheezes. ‘You…raped him…’

Richard hangs his head.

‘You raped him, and he blew his head off with a shotgun.’

‘You said if I shared the cash with you, you’d help us escape. ‘Stead of which you set us up!’

Danby laughs, but it turns into another coughing fit. Big man like that, you’d think he’d have more insulation against the cold, wouldn’t you? And he’s got a dressing gown on, all Richard’s got is a tatty old quilt.

‘You…’ Wheeze, shiver. ‘You did the same to me, know what I’m saying?’

Got to admit he had a point there.

‘Don’t suppose it helps, but I’m sorry.’ Richard lies down again, wrapping himself around the superintendent, holding him tight. ‘They’re gonna kill us, aren’t they?’

The big man’s head sinks back against the plastic boot liner. ‘If we’re lucky…’

Logan slammed the front door shut and hurried over to the police Land Rover. He clambered into the passenger seat. Where the hell was Butler?

She appeared from behind the Mercedes and hunched through the blizzard to the Renault Clio. There was something red in her hand. And as Logan watched, the Mercedes seemed to sink a couple of inches. A minute later the Clio joined it, then the people carrier.

Butler climbed up into the Land Rover, a grin stretching her rosy cheeks as she folded a long blade back into a huge
Swiss Army Knife. ‘Just in case anyone’s got a spare set of keys they’re not telling us about.’

Logan pulled out his mobile phone while the constable cranked over the huge diesel engine.

‘Yes, I want you to get a patrol car out to…’ He frowned, turned to Butler. ‘Where the hell are we?’ Then repeated the address to Control as she drove them out into the blizzard. ‘Three IC-One males, one female, I want them picked up and charged with perverting the course of justice.’

There was a pause.
‘Are you are aware it’s blawin’ a hoolie oot there?’

The headlights turned the world into a snow globe, with the Land Rover at the centre, shaken by the howling winds.

‘Yeah, I kinda noticed.’

‘Can you no’ bring them in yoursel?’

‘Don’t have time. Tell Finnie I know where Richard Knox and DSI Danby are. I need an armed response unit to the McLennan Homes development south of Balmedie.’

‘Jesus, yer no shy the day, are you? Hang on…’

Logan stuck the phone against his chest. ‘Does this thing not go any faster?’

Butler didn’t even look round, kept her face straight ahead, eyes narrowed, staring out into the driving snow. ‘It’s Scott of the Antarctic out there.’

The little country road twisted and turned, drystane dykes on either side disappearing under drifts of white.

‘Do your best, OK?’ Back to the phone. ‘So am I getting my ARU or not?’

But the voice on the other end wasn’t the wee Teuchter from Control any more, it was the head of CID.
‘Sergeant McRae, tell me, was it my
imagination,
or did I instruct you to be in my office at five? Yet here we are at half four and you’re asking for a firearms team?’

Logan filled him in on his visit to Bruce Lowe’s steading.

‘Hmm…Where are you?’

Logan peered through the windscreen. A signpost flared in the gloom, reflecting back the Land Rover’s headlights. ‘Just coming into Newburgh now. So: firearms team?’

‘I’ll get an ARU out to Camberwick Green as soon as I can. In the meantime, you are
not
authorized to take any action until they get there. If you get yourself killed just to avoid our meeting I will be
highly
pissed off, is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Newburgh wasn’t a big place. The A90 – the main road north to Ellon and Peterhead – ran through the middle of the little town, and as soon as they turned onto it Butler put her foot down.

Normally, at this time on a Wednesday, there would be a steady stream of traffic coming the other way, trying to beat the rush-hour out of Aberdeen, but today it was quiet. Just the occasional eighteen-wheeler crawling its way north.

Butler’s Airwave handset bleeped into life as they reached the outkirts of Balmedie – Control calling to say that the firearms team had just left FHQ.

Then it was Logan’s phone’s turn. He checked the display: DI Steel.

‘How is she?’

‘They’ll no’ tell me what’s going on
…’ A sniff. Silence.
‘Should arrest the whole bloody lot of them.’

He tried to force a smile into his voice. ‘I’m sure it’ll be—’

‘So, have you sodded up all my cases yet?’

‘Of course not. It’s fine.’

The Land Rover slowed, bouncing to a halt at a break in the central divide, opposite a sign saying ‘M
C
L
ENNAN
H
OMES
– S
ITE
T
RAFFIC
O
NLY
’. Then they rumbled across the other carriageway and up to the site gate.

‘Anything else going on?’

Logan looked out at the high chainlink fence and the signs
caught in the Land Rover’s headlights: ‘S
ITE
P
ATROLLED
B
Y
G
UARD
D
OGS
’, ‘N
O
E
NTRY
T
O
U
NAUTHORIZED
P
ERSONNEL
’, ‘W
ARNING
: R
AZOR
W
IRE
’, ‘D
ANGER
O
F
D
EATH
’.

He swallowed. ‘Yeah, no, everything’s fine. Tell Susan we’re all asking for her, OK?’

They said an awkward goodbye, then Logan slid the phone back in his pocket.

The gate was open, not all the way, just wide enough for a large car to squeeze through. Butler drove the Land Rover in. On the other side, the road was virtually invisible, a set of rutted tyre tracks disappearing into the gloom.

Logan turned and peered into the back of the vehicle. ‘We got any weapons?’

‘Sarge? I thought we were meant to wait for the cavalry?’

If this was America they’d have shotguns and tear gas and riot gear and ammo. Instead of which they had a big first aid kit, some road flares, and enough rope to build a bouncy bridge over the River Dee. Fat lot of good that was going to do.

The car lurched to a halt, throwing him backwards against his seatbelt. ‘Hoy! Careful.’

Butler tapped him on the shoulder. ‘We’ve got company.’

She was right. A set of headlights glowed in the darkness, getting closer.

‘Sod…’ Logan glanced left, then right. ‘Block the road.’

The constable wrestled with the steering wheel, three-point-turning the Land Rover until it was parked side-on, then Logan reached into the back, grabbed a couple of the road flares, and clambered out into the snow.

It was like being punched with a fistful of ice. He staggered, letting the car door slam shut in the wind.

Fuck it was
cold…

He lurched over the rutted surface, about six feet from the Land Rover’s bonnet, pulled the plastic cap off of the first flare and struck the igniter across the end. It sputtered, then
sent out a gout of lurid scarlet flame. Logan jammed the other end into the snow, then hurried around to the other side and stuck the second one behind the car.

With the blue-and-white lights flashing in the middle, there was no way you could miss the police Land Rover.

He hobbled back to the driver’s side. Butler wound down the window and said something Logan couldn’t hear over the howling wind.

‘What?’

‘I said, we’re supposed to wait!’

Logan pointed through the whipping snow to the approaching headlights. ‘You want to let them just drive right past you?’

Butler thumped back against the headrest, sighed, then undid her seatbelt and climbed out into the snow. She hauled on her gloves and hunched her shoulders up round her ears. ‘Must be bloody mad…’

The headlights got bigger and bigger and then a huge black rectangle growled out of the snow. It stopped ten feet from their makeshift roadblock and sat there, with the engine idling.

Logan wiped the snow from his face and stumbled through the gusting wind to the huge car, PC Butler swearing along behind.

It was one of those massive Range Rover Sports jobs. The kind that looked as if they’d been designed out of Lego. Three people: two in the front, one in the back.

Logan knocked on the driver’s window. It buzzed down and the driver smiled at him. She had blonde hair cut in a bob and jazz on the stereo.

‘Can I help you, Officer?’ English, probably from somewhere posh.

The man in the passenger seat scratched his eyebrow, keeping his eyes on the road. The one in the back seat yawned, then ran a hand through his greying quiff. All very nonchalant.

‘Can I see some ID?’

The woman’s smile got bigger. ‘I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours, Babe.’

Logan gritted his teeth, unzipped his jacket and pulled out his warrant card. Trying to stop his pink fingers from shaking.

‘Nice one.’ She reached down between the seats, rummaged, then produced a black leather card holder. Handed it out of the window.

Logan flipped it open.

It was a warrant card, just like his, only where his said, ‘G
RAMPIAN
P
OLICE
’ hers said ‘SOCA’.

He checked it twice before handing it back. ‘Care to tell me what the Serious Organized Crime Agency is doing on a building site north of Aberdeen, Sergeant…Bultitude was it?’

‘Nope.’

Logan stared at her.

In the back seat, Elvis shifted from one buttock to another. ‘Close the window, eh, Julie; getting a draft, like.’

The woman went to buzz the window back up again, but Logan slapped his hand on the sill. ‘We’re not finished here.’

‘Yes we are, Babe.’

He stared at her. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? Two men and a woman – you’re the ones who took Richard Knox from Bruce Lowe’s place. Where is he? And where’s DSI Danby?’

The man in the passenger seat sighed. ‘Not again…’

The woman’s smile became sharper. ‘That’s need to know, Sergeant.’

‘Don’t screw me about: where are they?’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Neil?’

‘Fuckin’ have it.’ The back door popped open and Elvis climbed out into the snow. Typical Geordie, he didn’t even have his coat on, just a black shirt picking up a dandruff coating of snow. He flexed his arms.

Jesus he was big: six-foot-two, six-foot-three, arms like a body builder’s.

Logan’s other hand dug deeper into his pocket, fingertips wrapping around the little canister of pepper-spray. Out of the corner of his eye he saw PC Butler take a step forwards, the harsh CLACK of her extendible baton clearly audible over the wind and the Range Rover’s engine.

‘Is there a problem, Sarge?’

The big man just looked at the pair of them, then smiled. Cricked his neck from side to side.

A gust of wind buffeted Logan. ‘There’s a firearms team on its way. You won’t even make it back to town.’

Sergeant Bultitude clapped her hands. ‘A firearms team? How,
exciting!
Will they have guns?’ She dipped back out of sight, then came back with a semiautomatic pistol clutched in her hand. ‘Like this one?’

She brought it around until it was pointing at Logan’s face.

He felt his bowels clench. Held his hands out, palms open. ‘Let’s not—’

‘This is how it’s going to go down, Babe. You get back in your little plodmobile and drive away. Nice and peaceful. Otherwise…’ She made a little circular motion with the gun barrel.

Logan stared up at her. Swallowed. Tried not to tremble. ‘Where’s Knox?’

Bultitude pursed her lips. ‘Brave. I like that.’ She nodded, back towards the building site.

‘You actually did it? You
sold
him to Malcolm McLennan’s mob? You’re supposed to be police officers!’

A shrug. ‘Your Malk the Knife’s the tip of a Europe-wide smuggling iceberg: drugs, goods, people, weapons. Worth
millions
every year. Richard Knox is a nasty little rapist, but he’s worth a lot to certain people down south. We sell him to Mr The Knife at a knock-down price, and we get an in with everyone.’

‘You can’t just—’

‘You
know
what he did: what he got away with. Dozens
of old men, tortured and raped. And you want to let him walk?’ She snorted. ‘Sweetheart, at least this way they get a bit of justice.’

Logan stared at her. ‘What about Danby: you sell him too?’

The woman from SOCA sighed. ‘I’m afraid Detective Superintendent Danby’s been a naughty boy. We got a call from Knox a couple of weeks ago – Danby offered to smuggle him out of the country for a cut of Mental Mikey’s rainy-day money. That’s not nice, is it?’