Stuart MacBride - Dark Blood

Barrett jumped to his feet. ‘I insist you apologize for-’

‘We’re done here.’ Logan turned his back and marched to the interview room door. Hauled it open. Stopped on the threshold. ‘You might want to have a wee word with your client about cooperating, Mr Barrett. Then you can get back to selling houses, or whatever the hell it is you do when you’re not pretending to be a lawyer.’

There’s three huge seagulls squabbling over a puddle of vomit — darting forwards to snap up the chunky bits. Filthy fuckers. Not natural, is it?

Tony sniffs, chews, then spits out of the Range Rover’s window.

Neil’s in the back, plugged into his iPod, little white cables coming out of his ears like his head’s been wired wrong. Which it probably has.

‘You know what I think?’ says Tony, even though he knows Neil isn’t listening. ‘I think this is completely fucked up. Waste of time. And effort.’

He flicks the windscreen wiper and the blades squeak once across the glass, clearing away the speckles of drizzle. Typical Aber-fucking-deen: always bloody raining. Cold as a nun’s tit too. Was warmer back in Newcastle, aye and it was snowing there.

The passenger door opens, and Julie climbs in, blonde hair all frizzy from the rain. Five-foot-five of Home Counties English, in jeans, cowboy boots, and a black leather jacket. ‘Miss me?’ She dumps a white carrier bag on the arm rest between the heavy leather seats, then digs a brush out of that huge handbag of hers and has a go at taming the beast.

Tony checks the rearview mirror, watching one of them parking wardens grumping along the line of cars in the rain. ‘Any joy?’

Julie points at the bag. ‘Chicken Rogan Josh, balti lamb, king prawn korma for the big girl’s blouse in the back-’

Neil sticks his middle finger up at her. So he must be listening after all.

‘-three pilaf rice, and a couple of naan bread. One garlic, one cheese.’

Tony groans. ‘Not curry again. ’ No wonder his guts are giving him grief. ‘What about Danby?’

Julie’s face turns down at the edges: it takes a lot of the pretty away. ‘Bloody Sacro wouldn’t talk to me. Said anything to do with Richard Knox was strictly need-to-know.’

Neil leans forwards, sticking his big head between the seats. He’s done that thing with his hair again, makes him look like a greying Geordie Elvis, only with a much bigger nose. ‘Sort of fuckin’ name is “Sacro” anyway?’

‘Don’t get me started…’ She rummages in the plastic bag, tearing free a chunk of greasy naan. ‘Who’s hungry?’

‘Ta.’

She hands the wodge to Neil, while Tony gets the car moving before that traffic warden comes close enough to take a note of their number plate. ‘Why didn’t you flash one of those warrant cards of yours?’

‘Sweetheart, there’s no way I’m letting a bunch of sodding Sweaties know I’ve been asking questions. Got no intention of anyone finding out I’m up here. Can you imagine the shit-storm if Northumbria plod got wind of it?’

Neil nods. ‘Point.’

‘So I went in as Jocelyn Bygraves, social worker.’ She flashes one of the collection of fake IDs from her handbag. ‘Think there’d be a bit more honour amongst lefty tree-huggers, wouldn’t you?’

‘Nah, never trust a social worker.’ Neil reaches forward and helps himself to another chunk of bread, speaking with his mouth full. ‘So what we going to do about Danby, like?’

Julie frowns for a bit. ‘The fat bastard’s going to be around here somewhere, right? Hotel, B amp;B, something like that?’

‘No chance,’ Tony eases on the breaks, coasting up to the red lights, ‘you got any idea how many B amp;Bs there are in Aberdeen? Thousands. It’s all these buggers coming up to work in the oil, isn’t it?’

Neil nods again. ‘Point.’

Bloody right — point. ‘What’s Knox saying till it?’

Julie pops the lid off a plastic container, filling the car with the rich smell of Indian spices. ‘Says he doesn’t know where Danby’s staying.’

‘What, so we’ve got to go grubbin’ all round town, cos that OAP-rapin’ bastard can’t keep his end of the bargain?’ Neil licked the grease off his fingertips. ‘That’s bloody typical, that is.’

‘It is what it is, Babe. If you were Danby, would you tell someone like Knox where you were staying?’

‘Point.’

‘Anyway, Detective Superintendent Danby’s bound to turn up at the local cop shop sooner or later.’

Sitting in the back Neil laughs. ‘You wanna stake out police headquarters?’

She shrugs. ‘Why not? Bunch of Sweaties won’t notice, will they? Be too busy shagging sheep, or whatever it is they do up here.’

‘Just cos they’re jocks, don’t mean they’re idiots. They’re gonna spot a fuckin’ huge Range Rover parked outside the front door for a week.’

Julie swivels around in her seat. ‘You want to just give up? Turn round and go home empty handed? That sound like a better idea to you?’

Oh God, here we go.

‘I’m not saying that, it’s-’

‘You any idea what the boss would do to us?’

‘Yeah, but-’

‘But what, Darling?’

Neil shuts his mouth, sharpish. They all know what that tone means: that cheery, everything-in-the-garden’s-just-peachy tone Julie always uses before she goes off like a Rottweiler on acid.

Tony keeps his eyes on the road, dead ahead.

Never, ever get involved.

‘Well?’

Neil clears his throat. ‘Sounds like a plan, like.’

‘Good boy, knew you’d see sense.’ She tears another handful of naan from the bag and passes it back between the seats. ‘We stake out the cop shop, we follow Danby home, then we beat the living crap out of him till he talks. Piece of piss.’

‘Hmm.’ The cadaver dog-handler wrinkled her nose, staring out at the building site. ‘Gonnae be a lot more difficult with all that frost and ice.’ Police Constable Fiona Martin dragged her hair back from her face and secured it with a little elastic thingy, leaving a peek-a-boo fringe over her forehead. She turned and wiggled her fingers through the metal mesh separating the two front seats from the back of the little van. ‘Hey Sleepyfish, ready to rock?’

The huge yellow Labrador raised its head from the tartan dog bed and licked her fingers. Then had a yawn, and a stretch, followed by an almost inaudible, ‘Pfffffffffrrrrrp.’

‘What’s his name…?’ Logan stopped, wrinkled his nose. ‘Oh… Jesus !’ It was like a rotten herring wrapped in a rancid nappy. ‘God! Aw, you can taste it!’

He scrabbled at the door handle and clambered out into the cold morning, breathing deeply.

PC Martin stared at him from the driver’s seat. ‘Wardrobe. And it’s no’ his fault he’s got a delicate stomach.’

Logan backed off an extra couple of paces, frozen mud crunching beneath his feet. ‘What have you been feeding him?’

The constable climbed out, wandered around to the back of the filthy van — the Strathclyde Police Crest emblazoned down the side — and popped the double doors open. ‘Yeah, like your farts smell of lotus blossom and strawberries.’ She rattled a choke chain. ‘Come on, you.’

The Labrador’s front end bounded upright, booby-trapped bum still in the dog bed, tail thumping.

‘Who’s a clever boy? Who’s a clever boy? You are, aren’t you?’ PC Martin ruffled the dog’s ears, making the skin shift from one side to the other, as if it wasn’t properly attached to its head. ‘Yes you are!’ She slipped the chain over Wardrobe’s head and clipped on a thick red leather lead.