Stuart MacBride - Dark Blood

‘Then why’d you run?’

No answer.

Logan stood. ‘Soon as you’ve been checked out by the hospital I’m doing you for reckless driving, resisting arrest, and attempted murder.’

Tea went everywhere, in a sticky beige spray. ‘I didn’t-’

‘You drove straight at PC Butler. I saw you do it.’

‘It was slippy!’

‘You tried to run me over.’

Middleton slumped forwards in his seat. Shoulders rising and falling beneath the grubby boilersuit. ‘OK, OK. So I went to see Walker a couple of times, gave the cheeky wee fuck a smack.’

‘How much did he give you?’

Middleton shrugged. ‘Twenty grand. Said that was all he could take without anyone noticing.’

‘And where’s the rest of it?’

The garage owner’s eyes darted to the safe in the corner, then away again. ‘Spent it.’

Sigh. ‘Fine, I’ll get a warrant.’

Middleton just stared at his shoes.

‘It’s for you.’ PC Butler unfastened the Airwave handset and passed it over, keeping her other hand on the steering wheel as they followed the ambulance through the snow towards A amp;E. At least the blue flashing lights meant they were making decent time.

Logan turned the radio down, putting Whitney Houston out of everyone’s misery. ‘McRae.’

Detective Inspector Beardy Beattie’s bunged up voice boomed through the little speaker. ‘When’s the meeting?’

Logan looked at Butler, but she just shrugged.

‘Meeting?’

‘I’ve been trying to get you on your mobile all day, honestly it’s -’

‘What meeting?’

‘You said you’d set something up with Trading Standards and HMRC. We’re supposed to be cracking down on those counterfeit goods.’

‘When did-’

‘Saturday morning! You said you’d do it. You stood there and told me you would.’

Logan watched the ambulance squeeze between a massive four-by-four and a bendy bus. ‘I’m kinda in the middle of something.’

‘I don’t believe this.’ The sound of someone scratching their beard crackled out of the handset. ‘No, you know what: I do. You don’t give a toss about doing what you’re told when it’s me, do you? If it’s Steel, or McPherson, oh then you’re all over it, but you think you can ignore me because we used to work together, don’t you?’

Logan clamped his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘How do I turn the volume down?’

Butler waved a finger at the Airwave handset. ‘Button on the left.’

He pressed it until Beattie’s rant wasn’t hammering out of the speaker loud enough for everyone to hear.

‘… long enough. I’ve been patient with you, because of…you know…but that’s it. I’m making a formal complaint to the head of CID.’

‘Gordon, have you seen the news today? The Examiner outed Knox, what am I supposed to do?’

There was a pause. Then, ‘It’s not “Gordon” any more. It’s “Sir”, “Guv”, “Guv’nor”, “Inspector”, or “Boss”. Meeting, today, Sergeant.’

And then the bearded tosser hung up.

Logan turned up the radio again — getting the tail end of a news report about the protests outside Richard Knox’s house.

‘… made a number of arrests, say the Newcastle-born rapist will be moved to a secure, undisclosed, location. Do you have an opinion about the demonstration? Maybe you were there? Then why not give us a call on 01224…’ Logan switched it off again.

Bloody Beattie. How was he supposed to get a meeting organized at that short notice? It was…He frowned — Butler was staring at him.

‘Eyes on the road, Constable.’

She fluttered her eyelashes a couple of times. ‘Trouble, Sarge?’

‘Do you think?’ He punched a mobile phone number into the Airwave handset. ‘Dildo? It’s Logan. I need another favour…’

Julie sits back in her seat and says, ‘Fuck.’

The TV’s on, but the sound’s turned off — the BBC News Channel playing them crowd scenes outside Knox’s house again.

Tony wanders over to the window of the room they’ve rented in the same hotel as that tit Danby. Place is nice enough, if you like tartan. He hauls up the net curtains, letting in the view: skeletal trees scratching at the grey sky, some sort of park sunken way below street level, a railway line, a dual carriageway, a bunch of granite buildings…Grey, grey, grey. Like no bugger ever invented colour.

Snowing again too.

‘Well?’ Neil’s lying on the double bed, feet dangling over the edge so Julie doesn’t shout at him for putting his shoes on the covers. ‘What’s the plan now, then?’

Tony sniffs. ‘Need to find out where they’re moving him to.’

Julie doesn’t even look up. ‘Sweetheart, where would we be without your lightning-sharp intelligence?’

‘Only saying.’

And it’s razor sharp, not lightning. But Tony’s lightning-sharp enough to keep his mouth shut.

Neil yawns. ‘We still going after Danby the night?’

‘I’d love to, Babe, but Danby’s useless without Knox.’ She frowns at the TV. ‘Supposed to pick them both up at the same time, can’t do that if we don’t know where Knox is.’

‘Maybe he’ll phone, like?’

Tony settles back on the windowsill. ‘Might not get the chance. They’ll be keeping him under the thumb till things calm down.’

‘Doesn’t stop us grabbing Danby, does it?’

Julie sighs. ‘If we grab Danby first they’ll know something’s up. Knox’ll be locked up tighter than a Scotsman’s wallet.’

A vacuum cleaner rumbles down the corridor outside, someone whistling along to a pop tune Tony almost recognizes as it goes by. On the TV the local plod bundle a quilt-covered figure into the back of a police van.

Julie pulls on a scuffed tan cowboy boot, the drug dealer’s blood all washed away. ‘OK, new plan: if we don’t hear from Knox, we just have to stick with Danby. Sooner or later he’s going to lead us right to him. Bish, bash, and indeed: bosh.’

Tony sticks up his hand. ‘Bags not first to trail Danby.’

Julie: ‘Second.’

Too slow off the mark, all Neil can do is lie there looking out at the snow. ‘Ah…fuck.’

Logan waved a thank you to the patrol car and struggled through the snow, up the slippery steps, across the front podium — brown with sand and salt — and in through the front doors of FHQ.

Big Gary was sitting behind the reception desk, his head propped up with one hand, a battered paperback lying on the desk in front of him.

‘Any messages?’

The big man reached beneath the desk and thumped a pile of Post-its on the counter. Never even took his eyes off the page.

‘Anything important?’

‘I’m reading.’

Logan flipped through the stack of yellow stickies. ‘Rennie, Rennie, Beattie, Rennie, Beattie…’ These went in the ‘when hell freezes over’ pile — there was no way Logan was talking to DI Beardy Beattie until Dildo called back. And he’d still not forgiven Rennie for grabbing Samantha’s bum.

Then there were a couple of burglary victims looking for an update; someone wanting to know why no one had found his missing Mercedes yet; a woman from the Independent wanting an interview about Knox, another complaint from Douglas Walker’s idiot lawyer, and right at the bottom, one from DI Steel.

A summons to her office.

He stuck the Post-its back on the desk. ‘Any idea what Steel’s after?’

Big Gary sighed, his jowls inflating and deflating like a pair of ruptured space hoppers. He marked his page with a Curly Wurly wrapper, then slammed the book shut. ‘Why can’t you buggers leave me alone for five minutes?’