Stuart MacBride - Dark Blood

‘Shit. I’m sorry, Bob.’

‘She’s been seeing a specialist: breast cancer.’ He slumped back in his seat and stared at the ceiling tiles. ‘Found a lump six months ago. She was scared to tell me in case I left her…Can you believe that?’

It went quiet again. And then Bob’s phone rang. He sighed, rubbed his face, then picked up. ‘Bob’s House of Bouncy Boobies, Bob speaking…’

It was like watching someone pretending to be Biohazard Bob Marshall. The crude humour, the language, the mannerisms were all there, but there was no life to the performance.

Logan picked up his own phone and set up Steel’s fingertip search. Then told the media office to get posters with Knox’s face up in all the petrol stations from Aberdeen to London. It was a long shot, but if he had a car, he’d have to stop and fill it up somewhere.

Then Logan downloaded everything he could from the Police National Computer relating to Danby’s case numbers, and sent the lot off to the printer in the corner. He bundled everything into a manila folder, and grabbed his coat.

Logan stood there for a moment, then put his hand on Bob’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

Still on the phone, Bob just nodded.

Logan closed the door behind him.

He headed down to the front desk. Big Gary was on, sucking his teeth and reading his book again, hunched over it like a fat gargoyle.

Logan knocked on the worktop. ‘Any chance of a pool car?’

‘No. Those idiots in night-time CID have written off four of them since Monday. And there’s a waiting list for the rest.’

‘Oh, come on, Gary, I only need it for-’

‘Did you get my message?’

‘What message?’

Big Gary marked his place in the book with a ‘DRINK-DRIVE-DIE!’ leaflet and slammed it shut. ‘Every bloody time.’ He hauled out a sticky note and slapped it on the desktop. ‘You’re not getting on the waiting list till you’ve seen to your prisoners.’

‘I don’t have any prisoners: Gardner should have been up before the Sheriff by now.’ Logan snatched the note off the desk. ‘For God’s sake Gary, I specifically asked for an early slot for him so he can get his granddaughter back from Social Services!’

‘Mr Gardner was on at nine fifteen, and you’re welcome. I’m talking about the couple you had a lookout request for.’

Blank look.

Gary sighed, straining the buttons on his white shirt. ‘Leadbetter: Wendy and Ian. The brother and sister who torched Knox’s granny’s place?’

‘Oh, that Wendy and Ian Leadbetter. Can’t someone else-’

‘No.’

‘But Steel needs me out in Cove.’

‘Better hope you get a confession quick then, hadn’t you?’

Logan stomped down to the custody area. The place was quiet for a change, just the faint burble of an Airwave handset announcing the comings and goings of Aberdeen’s boys in black and fluorescent yellow. A Police Custody and Security Officer was eating a yoghurt in the office that opened out onto the concrete corridor of the cell block.

She froze as he knocked, the spoon halfway between the yoghurt pot and her mouth, then stood.

Logan waved her back into her seat. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’

She shrugged and spooned in another mouthful. ‘You making a deposit or a withdrawal?’

‘Wendy and Ian Leadbetter?’

The PCSO rolled her eyes. ‘Only been here half an hour, and they’re already a pain in the arse.’

Logan flipped through the short stack of unfiled custody forms on the desk, spotting a couple of familiar names amongst them. ‘You hear about the bloke Biohazard Bob brought in last week?’

Her face darkened. ‘The one tortured his own daughter? Oh yeah, I remember him fine. Never met anyone more in need of falling down the stairs a couple of times.’ She dumped her spoon on the desk, then upended the yoghurt pot over her mouth, tapping the bottom and slurping.

Logan waited for her to resurface. ‘Any chance of a squint at the custody log?’

‘Paper or electronic?’

‘Whichever’s easier.’

‘Knock yourself out.’ She hauled a thick ring binder from a shelf and thumped it down next to him. ‘You want me to get the Leadbetters into an interview room?’

‘I’ve got Butler waiting in number four, we’ll start with the sister.’

‘Right, back in a tick.’

Logan opened the custody log, working back in time, skimming through the drunks and drug addicts, the burglaries and random violence. His own name appeared at twenty past seven, Tuesday evening — checking Alan Gardner in for armed robbery.

Then there was the usual mix of daily Aberdeen life: a mugging; a couple cases of shoplifting; two women done for kicking the living hell out of a Rumanian bloke selling the Big Issue outside Boots…

Biohazard’s ‘Father of the Year’ had been signed into custody on Monday afternoon, so with any luck the bastard got Sheriff McNab, and was right now being forced to pleasure some fat fucker in Craiginches.

Serve him right.

Logan went further back. His own name popped up again at quarter to two on Monday afternoon, handing Douglas Walker back into custody after a fifteen-minute interview. Fair enough.

He skipped through the next few pages: domestic violence, drunk driving, assault, another assault, more shoplifting, unlawful removal…And there he was again, checking Douglas Walker out of custody at quarter to ten on the Monday morning.

Logan frowned. Eight pages later and he was checking Walker out at half eight on Sunday evening. Then again at six twenty-two. And four. Ten in the morning. Saturday was just as bad: 17:43, 16:22, 14:12, 12:50. Always against his name.

He stared at the bottom of the last form. It looked like his signature, but there was no way he’d actually signed it.

‘Right, the sister’s in four with Butler.’ The PCSO marched back into the room. ‘Did you know that cheeky sod DS MacDonald tried to grab my-’

‘This is bollocks!’ Logan held the custody log up. Then slammed it back on the desk. ‘I was nowhere near Douglas Walker on Saturday, or Sunday!’

She pursed her lips. ‘OK…’

‘Who’s been screwing with the log?’

She backed off a step. ‘Why would anyone screw with the custody log?’

‘Look at it!’ He thrust the heavy ring binder at her. ‘I interviewed Douglas Walker twice. This thing has me doing it eleven bloody times!’

The PCSO picked her way carefully around the edge of the room, making for her desk. Keeping as much distance between them as possible. ‘Maybe you should-’

‘Check the computer.’

She smiled, but it didn’t go anywhere near her eyes. ‘Yes. I can do that. Right now. Checking the computer…’

Logan thumped the custody log back on the desk. ‘That’s not my signature!’

For the next two minutes the only sound was the rattle-clack of fingers on keyboard, then the PCSO cleared her throat. ‘Ah…You know, your prisoner’s been sitting in the interview room for a while now, and maybe-’

‘What does it say?’

Silence.

‘DI Beattie’s down as the attending officer.’

The PCSO had fallen behind after the first two flights of stairs, but Logan wasn’t waiting for her to catch up.

He stormed down the corridor to DI Beattie’s office and barged through the door. It bounced off a filing cabinet with a loud clang and started to swing shut. Logan marched in.

Beattie was sitting behind his desk, eyes wide, phone clamped to his ear. ‘What…?’

Logan slammed the custody log down on the desktop, hard enough to send a mug of tea spiralling to the new carpet. ‘What the hell did you do?’

Beattie shrank back. ‘I’m on the phone!’