Stuart MacBride - Dark Blood

‘Basil Brush?’

‘Angus Black.’ Logan placed Angus’s statement in the middle of Steel’s desk. ‘Apparently he got the drugs and the gadgets from a pair of Edinburgh heavies called Gallagher and Yates.’

‘Who typed this?’ She held the statement out at arms’ length. ‘Can barely read a bloody thing.’

‘I ran a PNC check — they’re Malcolm McLennan’s boys.’

‘What about…’ She pulled a face at him. ‘Malcolm McLennan?’

‘It’s his name isn’t it? Both have done time for drugs and extortion, and according to Angus Black their boss is a big bald guy with a huge dog.’

Steel tapped the report against her cheek. ‘The elusive Mr Connelly?’

‘Plus…’ Logan pulled one of Polmont’s battered journals out of the pile on Steel’s desk and flicked through it to a page he’d marked with a yellow stickie. One of the sparky’s more legible entries. ‘“New shipment coming in for G and Y. Maybe leave it alone this time — think they suspect.” G and Y appear about every two weeks.’

‘Do they now?’ She grinned and scratched. ‘Smells like corroboration to me.’

‘And best of all, Angus gave us an address.’

‘Warrant?’

‘Couple of hours. McNab’s on the bench till four, and Harper’s in Lerwick for that fish farm murder.’

Steel blew a stream of smoke out into the snow. ‘Get Uniform organized; soon as the warrant clears we’ll go pay Malk the Knife’s wee toerags a visit.’

‘Can’t.’ Logan pulled his jacket shut and buttoned it. With the window open it was getting nippy in here. ‘Got a meeting with Beattie, HMRC, and the Shop Cops at half four — supposed to be working out what to do about all the fake goods knocking about…I’d cancel it, but Beattie’s got his heart set on showing off his PowerPoint skills and I’m trying to be nice to him. Like you said.’

Steel settled back in her chair, one hand foostering about under the desk. ‘You’ve done well, young grasshopper.’

Two pats on the back in one day — throw in a bottle of wine and some energetic sex and this would be the best day he’d had in about…two years?

Might as well push his luck. Logan put his head on one side and stared at Steel.

She stopped scratching. ‘What?’

‘Why’s Danby so interested in Polmont?’

Steel puckered up her face. ‘No’ going to let that one go, are you?’

‘Nope.’

Silence.

‘OK. Seeing as you’ve been such a good boy: Polmont’s what we call a serial chiz. Before Aberdeen he was ratting on Malk the Knife in Edinburgh. Before Edinburgh-’

‘He worked for Mental Mikey.’

Steel made guns with her fingers and shot Logan in the head. ‘Bull’s-eye.’

Which explained a lot. ‘That’s why Danby’s got one of Polmont’s journals.’

‘Covers the time he was in Newcastle.’ Steel finished her fag and pinged the butt out into the snow. ‘Anything else while I’m feeling generous?’

‘Where are they sticking Knox this time?’

‘Strictly need to know.’

‘What, and I don’t-’

‘Right now, Danby’s arse is eating his panties: thinks the fewer people know where Knox is the better. And don’t look at me like that, this is for your own good. Trust me, if I could get out of knowing where the raping wee shite was staying, I would. Sooner or later Knox is going to go back to his bad old ways — the less involved you are, the better.’

Logan settled into his office chair.

The little detective sergeants’ cupboard was littered with boxes of files, all radiating out from Doreen’s desk. She was on the phone, haranguing the lab about how long it was going to take them to analyse all the samples she’d brought in, and how much of the CID budget it was going to cost.

Biohazard Bob helped himself to one of Logan’s prawn cocktail crisps, crunching and talking at the same time. ‘You’d think she’d been asked to solve the Great Train Robbery, wouldn’t you?’ He nudged one of the file boxes with a scuffed shoe. ‘I mean, look at all this crap.’ Sniff. ‘And how come she gets all the classy cases? She gets “contract killing with expensive set of golf clubs”, I get “junkie booted half to death”. Where’s the bloody justice in that?’

‘Yeah, because you’re such a classy guy.’ Logan creaked the plastic lid off his extra large mochaccino. ‘Any more word on Knox?’

Just because Steel was foretelling doom didn’t mean he didn’t still want to know.

‘That Liverpool psychologist was with him for a couple of hours. Apparently he’s worried our visiting rapist’s on a — ’ Bob put on a big dramatic voice, ‘- “COUNTDOWN TO DISASTER!”. I swear to God, he even said it like that. “COUNTDOWN TO DISASTER!”’

Doreen swivelled round in her chair and shushed them, then went back to her phone call. ‘How can it take all week to analyse half a dozen blood spatters?’

Bob grinned. ‘She’s cute when she’s pissed off, isn’t she?’

‘Goulding leave a report?’

‘Nah, went back to his lair to write it up. Says we should keep an extra close eye on young Master Knox. Apparently all this stress is going to send him right back to his auld-mannie-raping ways. Should’ve hacked his bollocks off in Newcastle when they had the chance-’

‘Here we go…’

‘Look, I’m just saying OK? Everyone who ends up on the Sex Offenders’ Register should be castrated. You remember that bloke from Banchory we did for kiddie-fiddling? What did he do, soon as he got out?’

‘Not listening, Bob.’ Logan powered up his computer.

‘Or that rapist who liked pregnant women. Remember him?’

‘Anyone say what they’re doing about security at Knox’s new place?’

‘Or what about the bloke who…’ Frown. ‘Oh, you know: in Duthie Park. What was it, “The Winter Gardens Wanker”?’

‘Security, Bob. What are they doing?’

‘Hmm? Oh, no idea. Ask Steel, that’s her poison chalice full of turds.’ The phone went and he snatched up the receiver. ‘Big Bob’s House of Sexual Deviancy, Big Bob speaking…’

Idiot.

Logan called up his email and waited for it to chug through the backlog on the server. Buried in the usual office-related dross was a message from an admin officer at HM Prison Frankland, with a spreadsheet attached of everyone who’d ever shared a cell with Richard Knox. The officer had even included a breakdown of what each of them had been convicted of. It wasn’t exactly edifying reading.

Near the bottom of the list was one Oscar Renwick: he’d got seven years for breaking into a family home and ‘forcing the husband to perform fellatio on him by means of threatening the wife with a serrated hunting knife’. Exactly the MO Knox had told them about on the drive out to see his granny’s grave.

Logan opened up the list of murders he’d downloaded — where the victims had been burned to try and hide the evidence. First get rid of any that happened after Oscar Renwick was arrested. And Renwick was only twenty-four when he was sent down, which meant his raping career couldn’t be more than, what, eleven, twelve years? So anything before that could go too. Which left about three dozen. Eliminate any where the victims weren’t stabbed or slashed and Logan was down to eight.

Do a quick analysis on the victims — make sure there was an adult male and female killed. That left just six crime scenes: Brighton, Swansea, Darlington, Ballymena, Corby, and Fort William.

Logan settled back in his seat and smiled at the blinking cursor. Less than thirty-six hours in and he was already on the brink of solving a twenty-year-old murder from 230 miles away.

All he’d have to do was call up the case files for the six cases, check to see where Knox’s cellmate was on those days, and wait for the commendations to come rolling in.