Стюарт Макбрайд - The Blood Road

Sergeant Mitchell grinned and offered him a printout. ‘You want us to go first and Big-Red-Door-Key it?’

‘No, let’s go for the Pop-Up Surprise. I want to be there when it happens.’

‘You’re the boss, Boss.’

Logan slipped the warrant into his pocket then hobbled through the doors and up the stairs into the reception area.

Jerry Whyte’s assistant stepped out from behind his desk with a broad smile, shark’s-fin haircut perfectly lacquered. ‘Inspector McRae, how lovely to see you! I read all about your adventures in the paper last week.’ He put a hand against his Breton-topped chest. ‘What an ordeal! I’m so glad...’

Logan limped straight past him to the doors.

‘No, hold on, I have to buzz you in or—’

‘“Or” what?’ Steel poked a finger in his chest, blocking his way. ‘That a threat, sunshine?’

Logan shoved the doors open and lumbered inside.

Jerry Whyte was on her leather couch, phone to her ear, bare feet up on the coffee table. Haggis the terrier draped across her lap — snoring as she stroked his yellowy fur. ‘No, you tell the ambassador it’s nothing but a tiny setback. My people...’ She looked up. Pulled on an annoyed smile. ‘Sorry, Claus, I have to go... No, something’s come up. Nothing to worry your pretty little head about.’ A throaty laugh. ‘Yes... OK, bye.’

She put the phone down as Mr Sharksfin finally managed to work his way past Steel.

‘I’m sorry, Jerry, they barged in!’

A shrug. ‘It’s OK, Harvey. Why don’t you get us some coffee? Flat whites all round? Great.’

He slipped from the room, leaving the three of them alone.

Haggis woke up, stretched. Gazed around the room with rheum-crusted eyes.

She ruffled the fur between his ears. ‘Now, Inspector, what can I do for you this lovely October morning?’

‘We’re here to—’

‘Before we begin,’ she lowered Haggis to the carpet and stood, ‘first I want to say a huge thank you for bringing Ellie Morton home safe and sound. And not just her, but all those other children too!’ Whyte launched into a one-woman round of applause. ‘Absolutely astonishing. I saw it on the news. Stirring stuff. Well done!’

Haggis shuffled his way over and had a good sniff at Logan’s trousers.

She held up a hand. ‘And I know: I promised you guys a case of Glenlivet. Don’t worry, I’m a woman of my word. And we’ve got to think about the reward money . Yes, it was meant to be for “information leading to”, but I think it’s only fair to let you guys nominate a charity for that. OK? OK. Great.’ She raised her voice at the open office door. ‘Harvey? Get my chequebook!’

Whyte settled into the couch again, arms draped along the back. Winked at Logan. ‘Don’t mention it. Happy to help.’

Steel looked at him, raised an eyebrow. ‘Go on then.’

‘Actually, Miss Whyte, we’ve got a present for you .’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out Sergeant Mitchell’s sheet of paper. ‘Jerry Whyte, I have a warrant here to search these premises and seize all electronic items for forensic analysis.’ He made a rising gesture. ‘Up we get.’

She stood, frowning. ‘But this is some sort of mistake, right?’

‘Jerry Whyte: I am arresting you under Section One of the Criminal Justice, Scotland, Act 2016 for organising events where children are bought and sold for the purposes of sexual exploitation.’

Her face hardened. ‘Harvey? HARVEY, GET MY LAWYER HERE! GET HIM HERE NOW!’

Deep breath: ‘The reason for your arrest is that I suspect you have committed an offence and I believe that keeping you in custody is necessary and proportionate for the purposes of bringing you before a court or otherwise dealing with you in accordance with the law. Do you understand?’

‘HARVEY!’

‘You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say will be noted and may be used in evidence. Do you understand?’

Haggis stopped sniffing Logan’s trousers and started barking at him instead.

Steel stuck two fingers in her mouth and belted out a deafening whistle. ‘In your own time, boys!’

The ‘boys’ — Sergeant Mitchell and his team — trooped into the room, each one the size of a Rwandan silverback, dressed in combat trousers and big bovver boots.

Haggis squared up to them, barking and growling.

‘I do require you to give me your name, date of birth, place of birth, nationality, and address.’ Logan pulled out his handcuffs. ‘You have the right to have a solicitor informed of your arrest and to have access to a solicitor.’

‘This is not happening.’ Jerry Whyte backed up, till she was stopped by her desk.

‘These rights will be explained to you further on arrival at a police station.’

‘HARVEY!’

Logan shifted in his chair. Didn’t matter how much he wriggled, nothing made it ache any less. He wiped his greasy fingers on another napkin. No point getting it all over DI Bell’s laptop.

He moved the mouse till the pointer hovered over the video of Sally MacAuley torturing Fred Marshall. Clicked it open again.

The shed. Marshall tied to a chair. Gag in his mouth.

Sally, sounding drunk: ‘What’s your name? Say your name.’

Marshall mumbling something behind his gag.

She slapped him, ripped out the gag. ‘State your name for the record.’ As if she was taking a deposition. As if this would have ever been admissible in court.

‘I’m gonna kill you, bitch! I’m gonna carve you up like—’

Logan switched the video off before the screaming started. Slumped a bit further, rubbed his face with his hands.

Still no sign of anyone.

Should’ve headed home after arresting Jerry Whyte. It wasn’t as if Whyte was going to confess, was it? Nope: it’d be an expensive lawyer, followed by about two hours of ‘no comment’ and, if they were extremely lucky, remanded without bail.

Yes, but there was no point going home till Steel and Rennie returned with Rooster, AKA: Lionel Beaconsfield. The greasy, child-molesting lump would absolutely brick himself when they dragged him in. That would be worth a watch.

Till then. Pfff...

He had a look in DI Bell’s documents folder. All of which seemed to be in Spanish. So someone else would have to go through that.

How about the pictures?

The directory was full of folders, the folders full of happy family snaps. Bell and his new wife and their wee boy, grinning away in the Mediterranean sunshine. At a market. At the beach. In the mountains. Eating ice cream. A first birthday party. A romantic candlelit dinner for two...

And now he was dead. Because he tried to save Sally MacAuley from herself.

Logan swivelled his seat. ‘Tufty, has anyone delivered the death message to...’

Ah. Right. He was the only one here. ‘Talking to yourself again, Logan. Told you: it’s not a good sign.’

He frowned at the laptop.

‘I wonder...’

It only took a couple of seconds to track down the Skype logo and click on it. The sign-in box popped up, the username ‘CARLOSPRIETO1903’ already loaded up as the account name. Logan clicked on ‘NEXT’ for the password screen.

What was it Tufty had come up with: ‘The Dons’ in Spanish?

Logan tried, ‘ los dones ’ but that threw an error.

How about with capitals? ‘LOS DONES’ — still no.

‘OK, all one word...’

Aha! The computer made its weird backwards-sigh noise and up came Skype, with all of Bell’s contacts listed on the left.

He clicked on the ‘RECENT’ tab.

Top of the list was ‘TERESA CASCAJO LUCIANA’. The avatar next the her name was the same happy woman from the family snaps. But second from the top was ‘ROSE SAVAGE’.