Stuart MacBride - Dark Blood

‘Aye, just finishing up now — got a couple kilos of heroin in the back of the cottage, and twa bin-bags of ecstasy.’

‘What about the IB?’

‘Done a wee whilie ago. Now they’re awa’ building a snowman.’

All right for some. Logan thanked her and hung up, then called the hospital for an update on Norman Yates. Still critical, but stabilizing. Which wasn’t bad for someone who’d been shot three times.

Logan cobbled together a quick incident report on the fire at Knox’s house, and how they’d identified Ian and Wendy Leadbetter, then sent it off to the printer. While it was chuntering away to itself he called up his emails and checked to see if anything interesting had come in.

Couple of memos. A new directive about Stop And Search procedures. Something from DC Rennie inviting him to a stag night in Amsterdam at the end of the month. One from a DI in Northumbria Police, saying they’d been to see Knox’s cellmate, Oscar Renwick, in Frankland Prison about the four house-fire murders Logan had identified. Renwick had been up for probation in three weeks, but with this on the go, it looked as if he’d be waiting at least another sixteen years before he set foot in the real world again. And the DI would be writing to Aberdeen’s Chief Constable to tell him how it wouldn’t have been possible without Logan’s help.

Logan grinned: result.

Then there were a couple from someone offering to ‘EMBIGGEN YOURE TROUSER BEAST AND THE WOMENS WILL QUEUING UP!’

And right at the bottom, an email from Beattie, CC’d to Dildo and the woman from HMRC, saying how pleased he was they’d made so much progress at the meeting that afternoon. So the rats in the basement hadn’t eaten him alive.

Shame…

Logan closed his eyes. ‘Bugger.’ He’d forgotten to call Dildo about Gallagher and Yates. Too late now. He scribbled himself a note and stuck it on his monitor, then powered the computer down and grabbed the sheets of paper from the printer. He stopped with one hand on the door handle. ‘You sure you’re OK, Bob?’

‘What are you, my mum now?’ Bob turned around for the first time, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. A forced smile. ‘Go on, sod off home. Give that redhead IB tech of yours a good seeing to from me.’

Logan didn’t anwer that.

He pushed into the flat and flicked on the hall light. Silence. The whole place was in darkness. ‘Sod…’ He peered into the bedroom, closed his eyes, sighed, then shut the door, gently. Samantha was still there. She hadn’t abandoned him for her static caravan.

At least that was something.

He dumped his coat on the hook and wandered into the kitchen. Stared at the contents of the fridge for a while, before helping himself to a tin of Irn-Bru. Opening it on the way through to the lounge.

Maybe watch a little telly to help him unwind.

The curtains were drawn, the only light coming from the LEDs on the TV and PlayStation, and the blinking one on the answering machine.

Logan closed his eyes and groaned.

Probably Steel. Or even worse — his mother. He took a scoof of vaguely fruity fizzy juice and hit the button.

‘MESSAGE ONE: Hello, Logan, it’s Hamish. I -’

‘Fuck!’ A mouthful of sticky Irn-Bru sprayed out over the sideboard.

Logan scrabbled for the voulume control, turning it down in case Samantha woke up and heard Aberdeen’s biggest crime lord leaving a message ON HIS BLOODY ANSWERING MACHINE.

He squatted down and hit play again.

‘MESSAGE ONE: Hello, Logan, it’s Hamish. I notice you’ve not done anything with your money yet.’

Oh fuck. What the hell was Wee Hamish Mowat thinking?

‘It’s important for the local economy that we all do our bit, don’t you think? Don’t leave it too long, eh? Oh, and do let me know if you need any more.’

Beeeeeeep.

‘END OF MESSAGES.’

He flipped open the cover and hauled the little cassette out. What if someone found out? What if Samantha picked up his messages? How the FUCK was he supposed to explain it?

He dug his fingernails into the cassette, tugging out the tape and unreeling the whole thing until there was a spaghetti mess of shiny brown-black ribbon curled across the sticky sideboard. Then dropped the plastic case and stomped on it.

Still not enough. The IB could just wind it back onto another cassette.

Logan scooped the lot up and carried it through to the kitchen, dumped it into the empty sink, then went rummaging through the cupboards for the methylated spirit and drenched the lot.

Better be on the safe side…

He tore a dozen pages out of that morning’s Press and Journal and mixed them through the slippery mess, before throwing the window open and dragging out his lighter.

Whooomp: the stainless steel sink filled with purple-blue flame, the newspaper crackling as the tape melted and shrank. Until there was nothing left but curls of ash, a lump of brittle plastic slag, and a gnawing coldness in the depths of Logan’s stomach.

Our Father who art in heaven.

Just six words, like, but they’re true. Richard Knox places a hand against the doorway, stands there quietly, looking into the bathroom. Three o’clock in the morning, and all the lights in the flat are off. Except for this one.

Richard’s da’s in heaven — had himself a bit of an accident, didn’t he? With a length of metal pipe over the back of the head. On his knees in a vacant warehouse, blood pouring from his shattered mouth, making gurgling noises. Sobbing. Trying to kid on he was really sorry, you know? Like he didn’t mean to run out on Richard and his mam. That it wasn’t his fault.

Mandy from Sacro’s on her knees too. Gripping onto the toilet bowl. Heaving and retching. Bile spattering from her open mouth. Not caring she’s getting sick on her hair.

‘Are you all right?’

She waves a hand, without looking up. ‘I’m fine…I just…I…Oh shite-’ She heaves again, spine humping as the sound echoes back from the toilet bowl.

It’s a crappy modern flat, in a crappy modern development, walls and carpets the same colour as prison porridge.

Mandy groans, then gives the toilet another mouthful.

Richard’s eyes drift down to the rolling pin in his hand. It’s no lead pipe, but it’ll work just as well. Only Christian to put someone out of their misery, like…

There’s a fine mist of red on his face. Tiny red dots.

His arm aches. Wrist throbbing.

Richard pushes open the door to the third bedroom. Harry’s there, lying curled up under the covers, face all pale and glistening. The room stinks of sour sweat.

Richard flicks on the light.

Harry gives a little moan in protest and sticks a hand over his eyes. Poor lamb. All helpless and defenceless. Richard could do whatever he wanted, and no one could stop him.

Been a long time.

There’s clothes spread all over the floor: jeans, jumper, shirt, towels…Hasn’t even been here twenty-four hours, like, and already the place is a tip.

‘Please…you need to call…call a doctor…’ Voice all slurred and blurry.

Richard licks his lips, they taste of copper pennies.

Course Harry’s a bit young, isn’t he? Bit podgy. Not quite Richard’s type. Still…

Been a long, long time.

He steps inside. ‘Hey Harry, not feeling so well?’

Harry forces a smile. ‘Something didn’t…didn’t agree with…with me.’

Richard smiles back. ‘It’s called Flunitrazepam, you know? Rohypnol? Takes everyone different, like. Your mate Mandy’s in the bathroom spewing her ring. Sometimes happens if you take it with alcohol — think she’s a secret drinker?’