Stuart MacBride - Dark Blood

Logan stared at him. ‘Sorry for interrupting your reading time, Gary. My apologies, mate, I thought you were manning the sodding desk.’

The sergeant narrowed his eyes. ‘Meant to be on my break, but that useless tit Jordan’s still in the bog.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Where’s that PC I sent you off with?’

‘Butler? Left her up at A amp;E watching a used-car dealer.’

‘For how long?’

Shrug. ‘Till the doctors give us the all clear to bang him up.’

‘Oh for…’ Big Gary pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘How am I supposed to manage resources if you buggers in CID treat Uniform as your own personal property?’

‘You really are in a foul sodding mood today, aren’t you? Not my fault Jordan’s got the squits.’

The desk sergeant scowled, then made a big show of opening his book again. ‘And you better get back to that wee shite Barrett.’ Big Gary’s voice jumped an octave and went all nasal, ‘of McGilvery, Barrett, and McGilvery.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Says it’s a disgrace his poor wee client’s been kept in over the weekend waiting for his shot in front of the Sheriff.’

‘Then his client shouldn’t be circulating forged twenties, should he?’ Logan rearranged all the Post-its back into a single stack. ‘When’s he up?’

Big Gary checked the charge book. ‘Court One at two fifty.’

Logan checked his watch. ‘Just enough time to have another crack at him.’

Douglas Walker slumped over the interview room table, the fingers of one hand wrapping themselves through his unwashed, greasy hair. Twisting it into little curls, then letting them go again. The fibreglass cast on the other arm lay flat against the chipped Formica. He smelled of stale sweat, overlaid with something sour.

Logan glanced up at the camera bolted to the wall, watching the little red light winking. ‘Come on, Douglas: you’re up in front of Sheriff McNab in twenty minutes. Sure you don’t want me to put in a good word for you?’

‘Lawyer.’

It was the only thing he’d say: ‘Lawyer.’

State your name for the tape. ‘Lawyer.’

Do you know why you’re here? ‘Lawyer.’

Would you like a cup of tea? ‘Lawyer.’

‘Let me paint a little picture for you, Douglas. What’s going to happen is that your idiot lawyer, Captain Baldy the Estate Agent, is going to stand up at ten to three and waffle for a bit about criminal law — which he knows sod all about — and then Sheriff McNab — who’s an utter bastard — will ask how you plead.’

Douglas Walker just kept on playing with his hair.

‘Your lawyer will make you plead “not guilty”, even though we all know you are, and then McNab’ll set bail.’ Logan smiled. ‘And that’s where it gets interesting. If you can’t make bail, you end up in Craiginches for six or seven weeks, till the trial date. If you can, you’re out on the street for tea time; then the press harassment starts. They camp outside your house, take photos, talk to neighbours-’

Douglas’s head snapped up.

‘Think how proud your mum and dad are going to be when they get back from holiday!’

The young man fidgeted with the rim of his cast, tugging little bobbles out of the tube-bandage lining. ‘They…They can’t put my name in the papers. I’ll sue!’

‘For what?’

‘I don’t know. Defamation of character! Slander. Libel, whichever one it is. They can’t-’

‘Don’t be stupid, Douglas. All they’ll say is you’ve been charged with passing a large sum of counterfeit currency. Can’t be libel when it’s the truth.’

‘No…’ It came out low and quiet. ‘They can’t put my name in the papers. They can’t !’ He raked his fingers through his oily hair. Harder and harder. ‘They can’t…’

Logan sat back. ‘Dear God, a member of Generation-Y who doesn’t want his name in the papers. Don’t you crave your fifteen minutes of fame, Douglas? Your chance to shine for all the other brain-dead X Factor Celebrity Come Dancing on Ice MasterChef junkies?’

Douglas curled up, until his forehead thunked against the table. ‘They can’t…’ Voice small and trembling.

‘You know what?’ Logan scooted his chair forward. ‘You’re right to be scared, because your friend Kevin Middleton — the nice man who sold you that second-hand Honda Civic? We arrested him this afternoon. He says you’ve been supplying him with counterfeit money, not just the notes you tried to buy the car with. The Sheriff’s not going to like that, is he? An extra twenty grand of dodgy cash on the streets, because of you.’

He buried his head in his arms. ‘I’m fucked…’

‘Yes, you are. And I’m the only person who can un-fuck you. Now where did you get the money from?’

‘Yeah, if you could, thanks…’ DI Beattie shifted his phone from one side to the other, and looked up at Logan standing in the office doorway. ‘Can I call you back?’

He hung up and stared. ‘I’ve been phoning you all day.’

‘My mobile had a run-in with a sledgehammer. That meeting’s set up for half past four, today — two from Trading Standards and one of the Revenue’s top people.’

Beattie’s face broke into a big, hairy smile. ‘That’s brilliant news.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Look, about earlier…’ He paused, obviously waiting for Logan to jump in and say it wasn’t a problem. Don’t worry about it. Water under the bridge.

Well, sod him.

Logan let the silence stretch, enjoying it.

‘I wanted you to know I didn’t put in a formal complaint.’

And then he wasn’t enjoying himself quite so much. Feeling like a bit of a child for making Beattie struggle for it.

‘I hope this means we can work together now?’

‘Yes…Guv.’ Didn’t matter if he was trying to act like a grown-up or not, there was still no way Logan was calling the beardy idiot ‘Sir’ or ‘Boss’. That would be taking things too far.

‘OK.’ Nod. ‘Good…Half four.’ Beattie looked around his office. ‘I don’t think we’ll all fit, but-’

‘The Shop Cops have got a meeting room organized at St Nicholas House. All we’ve got to do is bring the biscuits.’

The smile became a grin. ‘Excellent. Biscuits, yes…’ He produced a fiver from his wallet and handed it over. ‘You see to the biscuits and I’ll get going on the PowerPoint presentation.’

Logan suppressed the urge to shudder. ‘Yes, Guv.’

‘And Logan…?’

‘Yes, Guv?’

‘Good work. Thanks.’

Logan actually took a step back. It’d been ages since a DI had bothered to say thank you for anything. Maybe Beattie wasn’t such a tit after all?

Steel was in her office, two doors down, with her feet up on her desk, frowning at a pile of paperwork. Probably trying to work out who to palm it off on.

Logan knocked on the open door — please let someone else have to deal with whatever crap she had on her desk.

‘Ah.’ She looked up. ‘Just the wee man I’ve been looking for.’

Bugger.

‘Shut the door, and lock it.’

Logan did, while the inspector cracked open her office window, then pulled out her cigarettes and jiggled the pack at him.

‘Trying to cut down.’

‘Suit yourself.’ She lit up, exhaling a happy cloud of smoke and sighing. ‘So, what did our friend the art student have to say for himself?’

‘Sod all. Doesn’t want his name in the papers, doesn’t want to cut a deal, doesn’t want to go to prison.’

Sniff. ‘Silly git.’ Her left hand drifted down below the desk. ‘Still, McNab’ll stick him out on bail and we can have another poke in a couple of days. If we can be arsed.’

‘Got some good news on Polmont though: all the stuff we got from his flat is knock-off — even the vodka’s fake. And guess who had identical counterfeit goods on him?’