Stuart MacBride - Dark Blood

‘Aye, try no’ to fuck anything up, or anyone off, while I’m away. I can’t be arsed breaking in a new DS.’

Logan deleted the last sentence and rewrote it again, before firing the whole thing off to the printer in the corner of the sergeants’ cubbyhole. One formal letter of apology.

Someone said, ‘Knock, knock?’ and he looked up to see PC Butler standing in the doorway, holding a sheet of paper. ‘Thought you’d be gone by now.’

Logan groaned. ‘Not another bloody armed robbery…’

Biohazard Bob grinned. ‘Sergeant McRae’s feeling a bit down this evening, Vicki. Professional Standards gave him a rough seeing to. Without the benefit of foreplay or lubricant.’

‘Up yours Bob.’

‘No, up yours. That was the problem, remember?’

Butler held up the sheet. ‘It’s that e-fit you asked for.’

Logan took a look. Then groaned again. ‘This is crap.’

‘Yup.’

The computer identikit face was dominated by a big comedy beard and a pair of dark glasses. ‘So all we need to do is arrest every member of ZZ Top and we’ll be laughing.’ He stuffed the e-fit in his in-tray and slumped back in his seat. ‘Brilliant.’

‘He wore gloves, a disguise, kept the door from locking when they tripped the silent alarm, and never even glanced at the CCTV camera once.’

Logan covered his face with his hands, mumbling through the fingers, ‘But he grabs the crappest, shiniest baubles and doesn’t even think to go for the cash register.’

Bob performed a little drum roll on his desk. ‘You want to know what I think?’

‘Not really.’

‘Suit yourself.’

Logan let his hands drop and watched Bob gather up a handful of Unlawful Removal forms, stand, and make for the door. He stopped right on the threshold, turned back, scrunched up his eyes, raised a finger and said, ‘Just one more thing…’ in his best Columbo voice.

‘What?’

But Bob just grinned, stepped outside and closed the door.

PC Butler turned back to Logan. ‘So what do you want me to do about our armed robber?’

‘Go round anyone we’ve done for resetting in the last five years, better do the pawn shops too. Whoever he is, he’ll be trying to flog his takings…’ Logan drifted to a halt as he saw the expression on Butler’s face sour. ‘Are you-Oh Jesus ! Bob, you filthy bastard!’

‘What’s that, Sweetheart? No, you’ll have to speak up.’ Julie sticks a finger in her ear, face turned away from the steering wheel. ‘Yeah, that’s better…How’s Tiggy and Milly?’ She laughs. ‘Did she?’

Tony sits in the passenger seat, trying not to eavesdrop as she asks after her tabby cat and Tibetan terrier. The Range Rover’s illegally parked on a double yellow, but when Julie’s driving stuff like that kinda gets forgotten about. Along with the speed limit and the number of obscene gestures you should make at other motorists.

He stares out of the window, watching the main entrance to the hotel. It’s a fancy looking place, all carved granite and sticky-out bits.

Still no sign of Neil.

Tony searches through his pockets for a packet of chewy antacids, pops one in and grimaces his way through it. Bloody balti lamb.

Finally…

He nudges Julie and points across the road. Neil’s marching down the hotel steps and out onto the pavement. The big man looks left, then right, then left again — like a good little boy — then hurries across to the car and clambers in the back seat.

‘Bloody freezing out there, like.’ He shuffles forward. ‘Turn the blowers up.’

‘Yeah…No. I gotta go, OK? Bye, Darling.’ And Julie hangs up. Doesn’t turn around. ‘What’s the score on the doors?’

Neil grins. ‘You were right: we can stake out a Jock cop shop and no bugger’ll notice.’

She nods. ‘Told you.’

‘He’s staying in room Three Twenty-Two.’

‘You sure?’

‘Followed him down the corridor, like. Watched him go into his room — it’s a king-sized double, if it helps?’

Julie turns in her seat and smiles at him. ‘You did good, Babe.’

‘Checked out the back too. There’s a loading dock we can jimmy open and a couple of CCTV cameras. But the cables run along the wall, so you can cut them without the daft sods seeing nowt.’

Tony pops another antacid. ‘You want to take him tonight?’

She pauses, head on one side, chewing the inside of her cheek. ‘Think we’d better call the boss first, don’t you?’

Neil nods. ‘Then grab something to eat?’

Tony burps and winces. ‘Not bloody curry again.’

Then Neil asks the Who Wants To Be A Millionaire ?500,000 question: ‘What about Knox?’

‘What about him?’

‘Well…shouldn’t we be doing something? Getting ready, like?’

‘All in good time, Babe.’ She draws a smiley face on the inside of her window with a fingertip. ‘All in good time.’

Logan sat bolt upright on the couch, blinking, head reeling. The lights were all on, the TV grumbling away to itself in the corner. ‘Urgh…’

Steve Polmont’s journals were scattered across the lounge carpet, one open on the coffee table, the tatty pages marked with the occasional bright yellow Post-it note, where Logan had found something at least partially legible.

Blink. He checked the time on the DVD player. Quarter to midnight.

Yawn.

‘Sam? You home?’ Logan scrubbed his face with his hands. The message on the answering machine said she was pulling yet another green shift — saving up for a new tattoo.

And then the doorbell went again.

‘Bloody hell, Sam…’ He peeled himself upright, then lurched to the front door, shivering and feeling like crap. Hadn’t even been drinking, just came home, microwaved some vegetarian lasagne, and sat down with Polmont’s journals and a rerun of Taggart. ‘There’s bin a murrrrrrdurrrrrrrrrrr…’

Cold leached through Logan’s socks as he padded down the stairs to the communal front door. The bell went again, an irritating dringing buzz. ‘All right, all right.’ He undid the latch. ‘Why can you never remember your damn-’

Reuben.

Fuck.

The big man’s face was a mass of bruises, radiating out from a nose covered in gauze and white bandage. His eyes were swollen, shrouded in blue and purple. The left one didn’t have any white left, it was a sea of scarlet, with the iris floating in the middle. An angry olive in a bloody Mary. Butterfly stitches on his forehead.

Logan tried to slam the door shut, but Reuben had his foot jammed in the opening. It didn’t budge.

Run. Turn around right now and run like hell up the stairs. Maybe he’d get into the flat before Reuben caught him and beat him to death.

Logan took a step backwards.

The big man held up a package. It was about the size of a laptop, only thicker, wrapped in cheery yellow paper tied up with a blue ribbon, the ends all curly and worked into a bow.

‘Compliments of Mr Mowat.’ Voice all bunged up.

Logan cleared his throat. ‘Look, Reuben, I-’

‘I have to apologize for my lack of respect yesterday. I was out of order.’ Reuben stood stock still, delivering his message in a nasal monotone.

‘It was a…Look, I’m sorry, OK? I just snapped. I didn’t mean to-’

‘Can I tell Mr Mowat you accept my apology?’

‘Yes, of course. I shouldn’t have-’

Something slammed into Logan’s stomach. Pain tore through him, radiating out like a wave of fire. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a rasping wheeze as his knees gave way and he fell to the hallway floor.

Jesus, God that hurt…

Reuben flexed a huge hand, open, then closed again. ‘You’re fucking lucky Mr Mowat likes you, McRae, or you and me’d be taking a wee trip out somewhere quiet, with a welding torch.’