Stuart MacBride - Dark Blood

Mark nodded at the room outside. ‘Media briefing at eleven. You going?’

‘Not if I can help it.’ Logan took the whiteboard eraser and scrubbed off the counterfeit goods investigation. One less thing to worry about.

‘Don’t blame you. Finished that big fraud case yesterday, so Finnie’s got me down for “Information Support”.’ Mark took another sip at his coffee. ‘I bloody hate media briefings, like feeding time at the zoo…And all the animals are bastards.’

Logan went back to his desk and checked his email again. Success: the big IB lab on Nelson Street had rushed through the DNA from the bite marks on Harry Weaver’s back and thighs. Their report was full of the usual disclaimers and bet-hedging, but right at the bottom was the bit Logan wanted: the DNA was a ninety-nine-point-nine-eight percent match for Richard Knox. Not only that, the bite pattern was identical to the teeth marks they had on file from William Brucklay, Knox’s Newcastle victim.

Not exactly unexpected news, but everything that tied Knox to the attack helped.

The rest of the forensic evidence was still being examined — fibres in the bedroom, the soil from a partial footprint in the hallway, something that looked like tears on the back of the victim’s thighs.

Logan turned back to Mark. ‘You talked to Bob recently?’

‘Biohazard?’ The DS shuddered. ‘Not since he had that curried mackerel. Jesus, we should get danger money.’

‘You think he’s OK?’

Frown. ‘What’s he done?’

Logan shrugged. ‘It’s probably nothing…’ He swivelled back to his computer. A pile of statements took up most of his desk — the firearms team accounting for what had happened last night and why they’d felt it necessary to shoot Norman Yates three times in the chest. Logan had checked — they all matched, but not in a way that screamed ‘cover up!’ Yates had shot a police officer — it was his own stupid fault.

The statements went into an internal mail envelope, along with his own report, and marked for the attention of DI Steel. With the statements out of the way, there was a rare clear patch on Logan’s desk. The Post-it note about phoning Dildo first thing sat right in the middle of it, staring up at him. Must have fallen off his monitor. Damn.

Logan picked up the phone and dialled Dildo’s extension at Trading Standards, flicking through the rest of his emails as it rang.

The worst was from Professional Standards: Douglas Walker’s estate-agent lawyer had made another official complaint. Apparently his client had been ‘subjected to undue harassment and unwarrantedly heavy-handed interrogation techniques’. Would Logan care to comment?

Yes. Two words: ‘get’ and ‘fucked’.

It wasn’t even as if they’d made a special case of the art student. Just interviewed him once on Friday, stuck him in the cells for the weekend, then had a final crack at him before he went up before the Sheriff on Monday. How the hell was that, ‘undue harassment’?

‘Tim Mair, how can I -’

‘Dildo, it’s Logan. We-’

‘Did you get my email?’

‘Er…’ He skimmed through the next few — and there it was, from Dildo’s official email address, sent about an hour ago and completely ignored. ‘Yeah, got it right here…’

‘What do you think?’

It was some sort of proposal for two-man teams to stake out various dodgy pubs in Aberdeen, looking for people selling counterfeit goods. ‘Yes, very good. Very…thorough.’

‘Cool. We can start with -’

‘Actually, Tim, I’ve been meaning to call you.’

Silence. ‘Did you just call me “Tim”?’ Dildo swore. ‘Come on, what have you done?’

‘No, it’s-’

‘You’ve bloody done something, haven’t you? What is it? What the hell have you lumbered me with this time?’

‘Nothing like that: we arrested a couple of guys late last night…’ He filled Dildo in on the details, leaving out the fact that they’d known about Gallagher and Yates all day. ‘So, you see, we don’t need to do the undercover thing. It’s all taken care of.’

There was a groan. ‘You mean I attended that sodding awful meeting with Beardy the Boy Cretin for nothing?’

‘Well…sort of, but-’

‘You knew all the time, didn’t you? I had to pull in bloody huge favours to get Susanna there, and all the time, you knew!’

‘It wasn’t…Look, the stuff’s in a barn out by Balmedie.’

He gave Dildo the address to go pick it all up, then the Trading Standards officer hung up, but not until after some choice swearwords.

Bugger. That was going to take more than a tin of biscuits to sort out.

He was writing up his notes from Knox’s flat when the door thumped open and DCI Finnie stalked into the room, bringing with him the sound of phones ringing and general pandemonium.

‘Ah, McRae.’ The head of CID pulled a newspaper from a manila folder and thumped it down on Logan’s desk. The banner headline, ‘RAPIST “VICTIM’S” FAMILY STRIKE BACK’ stretched across the front page, above a photo of Wendy Leadbetter hurling the second petrol bomb into Knox’s house. ‘Would you care to tell my why the Aberdeen Examiner knows who the arsonists are before we do?’

‘Actually, sir, we’ve had a lookout request on Ian and Wendy Leadbetter since late last night. In fact, it was Mr Miller who helped me identify them. I filed a report and-’

‘Oh really? Well, why didn’t you say so? That’s just spiffing. Can’t see why anyone would have a problem with that. And tell me, Sergeant McRae, you didn’t think to put some sort of embargo on the details?’

‘I…’ No, he hadn’t. Logan cleared his throat. ‘Well, perhaps this will help us pick them up? If people see them in the…paper.’

Mark made a big show of going back to his burglary forms.

‘And while we’re on the subject of “the paper”.’ Finnie flipped through the pages, until he came to a full page spread: ‘COUNTERFEIT CASH THREATENS LOCAL ECONOMY’.

Logan looked up at the DCI. ‘Well, it’s not-’

‘Tell me, Sergeant McRae, how clever are Grampian Police going to look when it gets out that the only suspect we had was released on bail yesterday, and we still don’t have a clue where this stuff is coming from? Hmm? Think the local media are going to run a two-page spread on how great we are? Or will they tell everyone we’re a bunch of incompetent amateurs?’

‘But it’s-’

‘Oh, and I see from the crime board,’ he pointed at the whiteboard with all the DSs’ names on it, and their list of open cases, ‘that the counterfeit cash job is one of yours.’

‘I’ve been-’

‘Where are we with the investigation?’

Logan glanced round at Mark, but he had his head down over his keyboard. No help there.

‘It’s been deprioritized.’

‘Deprioritized?’ Pause. ‘I see. And what about all the other cases you’re currently not solving, have they been “deprioritized” too? Have you “deprioritized” the armed robbery at Henderson’s Jewellers? Because I think it might be kind of fun if you actually managed to solve that one, don’t you?’

And then he made Logan go through each of the cases on the board under his name.

Jewellery heist: no progress.

Counterfeit money: no progress.

Stolen cars: no progress.

Cemetery flasher: no progress.

OAP burglaries: no progress…

The list went on, and on, but the result was always the same: no progress.

‘I see.’ Finnie pursed his wide, rubbery lips. ‘And if you were me, Sergeant, what would you do?’