Стюарт Макбрайд - The Blood Road

Logan let the silence stretch.

The station phone went quiet for a couple of seconds, then launched into its monotonous cry for attention again.

Savage shook her head. ‘Couldn’t get any usable DNA off the remains — you know what it’s like when you cook everything.’ She shuddered. ‘Had to do it from his possessions: rings, watch, wallet. But we had his car at the scene, the suicide notes, what was left of his dad’s shotgun; even managed to lift some of Ding-Dong’s prints off the caravan...’ Savage’s eyes narrowed. ‘You still haven’t explained: why the sudden interest?’

Logan fished out the teabag and sloshed in a glug of milk. Added two sugars and stirred. ‘Did you ever think he was involved in something? Maybe got in over his head?’

‘Ding-Dong? No. He was a good cop. Most honest guy I’ve ever worked with.’

‘Hmmm...’ He handed her the mug of hot sweet tea. ‘I might have some bad news for you.’

Logan stepped into the Major Investigation Team office and closed the door behind him.

Chief Superintendent Big Tony Campbell prowled the line of electronic whiteboards at the front of the room like a horror-film monster: big and bald, bushy black eyebrows scowling over small dark eyes. He barely fit into his police-issue black T-shirt, his bare arms forested with salt-and-pepper fur.

Hardie didn’t look much happier, perched on the edge of someone’s desk in one of the cubicles that lined the other three walls, enclosing the meeting table in the middle. ‘Honestly, if you’ve got any suggestions I’m all ears.’

Big Tony jabbed a hand at the windows. ‘Well he must’ve been staying somewhere!’

‘I’ve got teams out canvassing every hotel and B-and-B in the area. Media Liaison are putting together “Have you seen this man?” posters. There’s another team at Aberdeen Airport going through the CCTV and every passenger manifest for the last two weeks. What else can I do?’

Logan knocked on a cubicle wall. ‘Not interrupting anything, am I?’

A harrumph from Big Tony, then, ‘Inspector McRae, please tell me you’ve got something.’

‘We’re pursuing several lines of inquiry at the moment.’

‘Wonderful. So you’ve got sod-all too.’

‘Early days, sir. Early days.’

Big Tony lumbered over to the window, peering down at the gathered TV people and protestors below. ‘Look at them, grubbing about, sneering at us, doing their snide pieces to camera about how NE Division couldn’t find a fart in a sleeping bag.’

Logan stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘I want to get someone exhumed.’

‘Ellie Morton’s mother’s giving a press conference at twelve. No points for guessing what her main theme will be. She’s...’ Big Tony frowned. ‘Wait, what? You want to exhume someone? Who?’

‘Don’t know yet.’

Hardie sniffed. ‘How can you not know who you’re going to exhume?’

‘We buried DI Bell two years ago, remember? Only he wasn’t really dead: he faked the whole thing. So who did we bury?’

Big Tony’s eyes widened as it sank in. ‘Oh for... CHRIST’S SAKE!’ He booted the nearest wastepaper basket, sending it flying, crumpled-up sheets of paper and sweetie wrappers exploding out like cheap confetti.

Hardie covered his head with his hands and groaned. ‘Not again .’

‘Why did no one think of this till now? What the fffffff...’ Big Tony screwed up his face, marched over to the dented bin and booted it away again. It clattered off a filing cabinet. ‘Aaaaargh!’

‘Now...’ Hardie peeked out between his fingers. ‘To be fair, there’s been a lot going on and—’

‘So let’s get this straight: not only do we have the PR disaster of DI Bell faking his own death then turning up stabbed in a crashed car, now we’ve got to investigate him for murder as well? We buried him with full police honours!’

Logan nodded. ‘So I can dig up whoever-it-is?’

‘The media are going to love this...’ Big Tony sagged. ‘Our beloved bosses at Tulliallan are already pulling on their hobnail boots to give my arse a kicking. When this hits... Argh!’ He gave the wastepaper basket one last whack and stormed from the room, flinging his arms about like a man on fire. ‘Dig him up. Dig them all up! Every single last bloody one of them!’

The door slammed shut.

Hardie stared at it for a moment. ‘I would really like to make it clear that none of this is my fault.’

‘I know how you feel.’ Logan settled back against the meeting table. ‘Speaking of which: have you heard of someone called Fred Marshall?’

A frown. ‘Possibly. Probably... I think so. Wasn’t he one of those rent-a-thug-have-baseball-bat-will-travel types? Why?’

‘Just wondering.’

The office they’d given him wasn’t exactly huge: lined with half a dozen manky old desks, a couple of scuffed whiteboards, and a collection of swivel chairs that looked as if they’d fallen off the back of a lorry. And then been driven over. Twice. Everything looked shabby and used, especially the carpet.

Logan sat back in one of the creaky chairs, phone to his ear, case file open on the scarred desktop in front of him. Frowning at the pathologist’s report on what was left of whoever it was they’d buried in DI Duncan Bell’s grave. ‘According to this, cause of death was indeterminable, but likely to be due to the extensive shotgun wound to the cranium.’

On the other end of the phone, Rennie gave a little sarcastic laugh. ‘“Likely”? Thought it took half of Ding-Dong’s head off!’

‘Turns out DI Bell had stashed about fifteen litres of petrol about the caravan, set fire to the place, then tried to gargle his dad’s shotgun.’ Logan turned the page. A crime-scene photo popped and crackled with reds and blacks and pinks. Like a Texas Chainsaw Massacre -themed barbecue. ‘Urgh... What was left of the remains isn’t pretty.’ He turned the page, hiding the image. ‘Do me a favour: run a PNC check on a Fred Marshall, IC-One male, thug for hire.’

‘Hold on, have to excavate my keyboard.’ The sound of rustling paperwork. ‘Fred Marshall. Fred Marshall... Why does that sound familiar?’

‘Prime suspect in the Aiden MacAuley case.’

‘Ah, that Fred Marshall. Here we go. Clickity, clickity... Fred Marshall.’ A low whistle came down the earpiece. ‘Well he does seem like every girl’s dream date. Five counts of threats and extortion, four aggravated assaults, three possessions with intent, two thefts from a lockfast place, one arson, and a partridge in a pear tree.’

‘And where’s Prince Charming now?’

The clatter of computer keys went on and on and on and on...

‘Rennie? You still there?’

‘Going digging.’

‘You better not be searching for porn on the office computers. This isn’t the Houses of Parliament.’

‘ Moi ? Never. Well, maybe that once... Right — I’ve got nothing for Fred Albert Marshall for... call it twenty-six months.’

Sounded unlikely.

‘Nothing at all?’

‘Not so much as a parking ticket. Hang on, I’ll check Twitter and Facebook...’ More clattering. ‘Nothing. Nada. His last status update was going from “in a relationship” to “it’s complicated” and his last post... here we go: a picture of a monkey peeing into its own mouth with the caption “Police Scotland’s finest”. Two years and two months ago.’

Logan nodded. Frowned at the wall for a bit. Two and a bit years. So Fred Marshall was definitely a contender for ‘Most Likely To Have Been Buried In A Police Officer’s Grave’.