Stuart MacBride - Dark Blood

He bent down, looming over Logan. ‘Understand this, you’re nothing more than a wee piece of shite to me. Mr Mowat’s no’ a well man. See if he dies? You and me are going to have another talk.’

Reuben tossed the rectangular package at Logan. A sharp edge clunked against his head, making hot stars flash across the dark sky.

‘Enjoy your fucking present.’

‘Logan? Why are you sitting here in the dark?’ Click, and the kitchen light blossomed slowly to life, the energy efficient bulb flickering to a dull-white glow. Sam stood with one hand on the switch, eyebrows knitted together. ‘Are you OK?’

Logan looked up from the table, clutching a bag of defrosting peas to the top of his head. One hand wrapped around his stomach. ‘Not really.’

She peeled the bag of peas away from his head and peered at the skin. ‘God, that’s some bump!’

‘Walked into a door.’

Samantha frowned. ‘Have you been drinking?’

‘Tea.’ He pointed at the mug on the table, sitting next to Wee Hamish Mowat’s present.

She pressed the bag back against his head. ‘You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. Like Muppet Central out there…’ The fridge broke into a droning burr as she stood, peering in at the contents. ‘We got any white wine left, or did you finish it?’

‘I’ve been on orange juice and bloody lemonade all night, give me a break, OK?’

She turned. ‘I just asked if there was any wine left.’

Pause.

‘Sorry. I’ve…Not been the best of days.’

‘Been a lot of those recently.’ She clunked the fridge shut. ‘You want some more tea?’

‘Any chance of a hot water bottle?’

She filled the kettle, set it to boil, then disappeared from the room, coming back a couple of minutes later wearing her pink fluffy bathrobe and matching socks. Samantha thunked a roadkill-shaped Winnie The Pooh on the kitchen worktop, and unVelcroed his head. Unscrewed the plug and poured Pooh down the sink. Then filled him up from the steaming kettle.

‘Here.’

Logan held it against his stomach with his free hand. Groaned.

She stared at him. ‘Have you got your period, or something?’

No answer.

There was a rattle of spoons and mugs. Then she sat down on the other side of the table and handed over a fresh tea. ‘Here.’

‘Thanks.’

Pause. ‘Didn’t know you played chess.’

The set was made of wood — beech and mahogany — all laid out on a matching board. One of the pieces had a little cardboard tag tied around its neck, spidery copperplate marking out the words, ‘DETECTIVE SERGEANT LOGAN MCRAE’.

She picked the piece off the board — a horse’s head, carved in pale wood. ‘So you’re Batman now?’

‘That would be the Dark Knight.’

‘OK, I’ll bite. What the hell is going on with you?’

‘I’m turning into a cliche.’ He tried for a laugh, but it came out sounding forced and painful.

Silence.

‘Logan? Look at me, Logan.’

He pulled his eyes up from the tabletop. She placed the white knight back on the board. ‘You know…It’s OK to feel a bit down every now and then, but…well, maybe you should think about getting some help?’

Logan went back to staring at the coffee rings. ‘I’ve been seeing someone for about three months.’

There was an awkward pause. ‘I…’ A sniff. Then her voice went hard, brittle, ‘I see. Is she pretty ?’

‘What? No, it’s Goulding. You know: the criminal psychologist? Once a week, getting my head shrunk.’

‘Oh…right. Yeah, of course.’ She was blushing. ‘What does he say?’

‘I need to lay off the booze. Cut down on the cigarettes. Not be such a miserable bastard. Stop antagonizing my colleagues and superiors. Give up sitting in the dark, brooding.’

‘Not going that well then.’ Samantha picked up her tea and walked around behind him. Wrapped her free arm around his chest, her breasts pressing into the back of his head.

Logan took a deep breath. ‘You know it’s not like the world’s a better place when I’m drunk. It’s still shite. It’s just…a little easier to cope with.’

‘Am I part of the problem?’ Voice barely above a whisper.

This time the laugh was slightly more genuine. Logan dumped the bag of peas on the table and gripped her arm. ‘You’re the only decent thing I’ve got going for me.’

‘Your hand’s bloody freezing.’ She bent and kissed him on the top of his head, where the chess set had bounced off his skull. ‘You silly bugger.’

Logan stood out on the rear podium car park, round the back of Force Headquarters, in the lee of a police van, smoking a sneaky cigarette and trying to stay out of the battering sleet. It swirled and whorled in unexpected directions, slapping against windscreens and exposed skin like tiny frozen hands.

But he stood there anyway, wearing a borrowed police cap, pulling carcinogens down into his scarred lungs on a freezing Sunday morning.

Ah, you couldn’t beat the first fag of the day.

A handful of other smokers were huddled together by the back doors — everyone who’d hurried out after the morning briefing to catch that desperately needed top-up of nicotine — all standing with their backs to the wind, trying to survive the long bleak winter.

Sod this.

He took one last sook on his cigarette, dropped it into a little mound of slush and watched it hiss out and die. Then hurried back inside.

Biohazard Bob caught him on the way back up to the CID room. ‘Any sign of that new DI from Fraserburgh yet?’

‘Nope and he’s got a PM to attend at half nine too. Going to give him another twenty minutes, then try the station.’ What was the point of Logan turning up at seven if there was still no sign of the bugger an hour later?

‘Well, you know what these Blue Toon folk are like. If it’s not fish or screwing their sister, they’ve no idea what day it is.’ Bob leant in close, and gave Logan a whiff of peppermint chewing gum. ‘You sure you don’t want my startling insight into your jewellery heist sledgehammer guy?’

Logan backed off a step. ‘Is this another lead up to you farting and running away?’

Bob grinned. ‘Good was it? Been holding that one in for ages, fermenting it just for you.’

Another step backwards. Checking there was a clear line of emergency exit. ‘Well?’

‘A sledgehammer’s not exactly your weapon of choice for a jewellery job, is it? No, for that you want a shotgun: shock and awe. And…’ He held up a finger — Logan had no intention of pulling it. ‘If you haven’t got a shotgun, you go for the biggest kitchen knife you can hide up your jumper. What you don’t do is go out to your shed and saw a sledgehammer in half.’

‘And that’s your startling insight? Our boy’s got a shed?’

‘No, you corrugated numpty. Using a sledgehammer like that’s pretty…unique. He’s obviously never done over a jewellers before, but maybe he’s worked his way up from other things?’ Bob shrugged. ‘Just an idea.’

‘Oh…’ It was obvious when you thought about it. ‘Thanks, Bob.’

‘You’re very welcome, young Master McRae.’ Pause. Grin. ‘And with that, I must leave you.’

The smell hit three seconds later.

Logan sat behind DI Steel’s desk, with his feet up on the handover notes, phone clamped to his ear, twisting his finger through the spirals in the chord. ‘Yeah, Detective Inspector Harvey…No, “Harvey”. Hotel — Alpha — Romeo — Victor…Yeah, Harvey, that’s him.’

There was a pause as the duty constable in the Fraserburgh control room transferred Logan’s call through to their small CID department, where Logan had to go through the whole phonetic spelling thing again. Then someone called DI Chapman came on the line. ‘You want to know where he is?’