Stuart MacBride - Dark Blood

Logan’s chin came up. ‘I’d maybe wonder why one of my team was being given so many cases to work on. I’d ask how he was supposed to get anything done with a workload that big. Sir.’

Finnie nodded. ‘Hmm…And yet you’ve still found time to help Northumbria Police with one of their unsolved crimes from twenty years ago?’

Bloody hell. Only Finnie could make solving the murder of an entire family sound like a bad thing.

‘Perhaps, Sergeant, you’d find it a little easier to deal with your own caseload if you weren’t so busy helping others with theirs. Do you think?’ The DCI poked the newspaper again. ‘You’re supposed to be a detective sergeant. Get out there and detect something !’ And then Finnie was gone, slamming the door behind him.

Logan collapsed into his seat. ‘Christ…’

Mark sniffed. ‘Don’t mind Finnie. His arse is knitting buttons because Knox is missing. Give it a couple of weeks and it’ll all blow over.’ The DS shook his head. ‘Why didn’t you tell him about all the dodgy goods you seized last night?’

‘Didn’t get the chance.’ Every time he’d tried, Finnie had moved on to the next stalled case.

‘Word to the wise — never take a case off the board till Finnie’s there to see you do it.’

Logan made a few calls — chasing up the investigations Finnie had moaned about — then sodded off to the canteen for a cup of coffee and a sticky bun.

Biohazard Bob had taken a table by the window, gazing out at the grey lump of the mortuary on the other side of the rear podium car park.

Logan settled in beside him. ‘Please tell me that’s not beans on toast…’

Bob shrugged and shovelled in another mouthful. ‘Why should I be the only bastard suffering?’

There was a pause. ‘OK, I’ll bite.’

‘You’re looking at the lucky recipient of another junkie drug dealer with the shite kicked out of him. They found the poor sod about one this morning — nearly died of hypothermia. Which brings us to my next moment of joy.’ He scooped up more beans and chewed as if they were poisonous. ‘You remember Big Willie, the tramp used to hang about on George Street, occasionally getting his knob out for the tourists? Turned up behind the recycling bins at Sainsbury’s, stiff as a board. Got his post mortem in twenty minutes.’

‘Yeah?’ Logan took a sip of coffee. ‘Well, I just got my arse handed to me by Finnie for solving a twenty-year-old murder in Newcastle.’

Bob picked up his milky tea and held it out. ‘I hereby call to order, the inaugural meeting of the World’s a Bag of Shite Club.’

They clinked mugs and drank.

Bob cleared his throat. ‘I think…Deborah’s having an affair.’

Silence.

‘You sure?’

‘She’s out all the time, she’s never interested in sex…Won’t even get undressed if I’m in the room. He ran a hand across the bald patch at the back of his head. ‘Then there’s the secret phone calls. Cryptic messages on the machine.’

‘Well…maybe…’ Logan blew a breath at the ceiling. Searching. ‘Maybe you should talk to her?’

A short, bitter laugh. ‘What if she says “yes”? I can’t-’

‘God, you’re a happy looking pair of monkeys.’

Logan looked up to see Samantha standing over him, carrying a tray of wax-paper cups and tinfoil parcels. She slid the tray onto the table, then plonked herself down in the seat opposite.

Today’s outfit was black jeans, black boots, and a black hoodie top over a Ragamuffin T-shirt, her scarlet hair sticking out at improbable angles. Her smile looked forced, the cheerful voice a little strained. As if she was trying too hard. ‘So come on, what’s up? Did naughty Mrs Steel touch you two and make you feel dirty?’

Bob patted her hand. ‘Sammy, my dear, if you ever get tired of this pudding-faced loser, I’ll happily abandon the wife and kids for you. OK, so I’m not the prettiest, but I make up for it with an unfeasibly large dick and ear-breathing techniques.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind.’ She stole a scoof of Logan’s coffee. ‘Urgh, that’s cold. Listen, I got the results back on that second batch of forged notes you dropped off. Fingerprints aren’t up to much, but if you can get me a printing press I can match the ink.’

‘If I ever come up with a suspect I’ll let you know.’

Samantha sat back. ‘Boy, you do have a dose of the dark-and-moodies, don’t you?’

‘Been one of those days…’ Mistake.

When was the last time you came home and said something positive?

He cleared his throat. ‘Well, it’s…you know.’ He tried a smile. ‘This Knox thing’s just getting to me a bit.’

Bob held out his tea again. ‘Welcome to the World’s a Bag of Shite Club.’

‘No thanks, I’m what you’d call a happy-go-lucky kind of goth.’ She stood and picked up her tray again.

‘If it makes you feel any better, I hear on the grapevine that our home-grown counterfeit twenties are being spotted as far away as Carlisle. Who says local business can’t make a difference?’

Great, so now Cumbria Constabulary would be moaning to Aberdeen’s Chief Constable, who’d pass it on, till it dolloped onto Logan’s head in a great steaming pile. Hurrah.

‘God…Now you look even worse.’ A frown creased her forehead, making the piercing in her eyebrow sparkle. ‘Listen, Knox escaping: it wasn’t your fault.’

‘Doesn’t help Harry Weaver, though, does it? Poor bastard was tied to the bed, beaten and raped.’

‘No he wasn’t.’

‘I was there, I saw him. Covered in burns and bites and-’

‘No, I mean he wasn’t raped. They did the tests up at the hospital and it came back negative. No semen, no lubricant, no anal bruising. Looks like your boy Knox couldn’t get it up. Probably explains why he went to town on the burning and biting.’

Bob held up a finger. ‘Maybe it’s because Harry Weaver wasn’t old enough? Knox likes oldies, yes?’

Samantha reached out, grabbed Bob’s finger, and pulled. ‘Got to go.’ Then ran away, giggling.

Logan shrank back as the smell of rotten eggs wafted out from under the table. ‘Bob! You dirty-’

The canteen doors banged open. DI Beattie stormed in, paused for a second, then bellowed, ‘MCRAE! MY OFFICE! NOW!’

Finnie was already in there, sitting in one of the visitor’s chairs, thumbing away at his BlackBerry as Logan stepped into Beattie’s office, still carrying his mug of coffee.

The bearded DI stomped round behind the desk and sat, glowering. ‘Well?’

Logan stared back at him. ‘Well what?’

‘Sergeant McRae.’ Finnie slipped his little email/phone thing back in its leather case. ‘Tell me, did I imagine it, or did we not have a talk about being a team player?’

‘No, you got Steel to do it.’

The head of CID raised an eyebrow and pursed those thick rubbery lips. ‘I see…Tell me, Sergeant, do you have some sort of alternative definition of the term “Team Player?” In the wonderful world of Logan McRae, does it mean something entirely different? Hmm?’

Logan folded his arms. ‘What’s he told you?’

‘Don’t you dare!’ Beattie thumped a fist on the desktop. ‘The counterfeit goods were my case, and you damn well knew it. I spent a lot of time and effort putting that meeting together yesterday, and what do I find when I come in this morning? You arrested someone last night — you had a suspect the whole time and didn’t even bother telling me!’

‘Is that it? You didn’t arrange a bloody thing yesterday, I had to set it all up.’

‘That’s not-’