Stuart MacBride - Dark Blood

Logan climbed out and slammed the car door shut, cutting off the rest.

PC Butler stood on the other side of the dented Fiat, massaging her temples. ‘Why are we not allowed to gag prisoners any more?’

‘Just get them processed and we’ll head out to Cove. Let someone else listen to her bitch and moan for a while.’

Butler glared at the sky for a moment, sighed, pulled on her peaked cap, then wrenched open the car door and folded the driver’s seat forward. ‘I said everyone out!’

Logan left them to it.

Logan had the Wee Hoose to himself while he waited for PC Butler to get Danny Saunders and his poisonous fiancee photographed, fingerprinted, DNA-sampled, and checked into separate cells.

He spread Danby’s cases out across the desk. The PNC printouts weren’t exactly heavy on detail, more summaries and status reports. A couple of unsolved murders: one drug addict found with a bullet hole in the back of his head; one prostitute kicked to death behind the bins at a nightclub. One Post Office job where the gang had got away with a pathetically small amount of cash after putting a pensioner in intensive care — solved. One blackmail: a bank manager with a thing for Filipino ladyboys — solved. A couple of demanding money with menaces…

Something started ringing. It took Logan a minute to realize it was his new phone. ‘McRae.’

‘LoganDaveGoulding, Just heard back from your CSI boys about the old man who was attacked last night.’ Might have known the psychologist wouldn’t mind using the wanky Americanism.

‘What about him?’ Logan kept on reading.

The last report in Danby’s file was a drug seizure: a shipment of heroin and cocaine, smuggled in through the international ferry terminal in North Shields. Estimated street value of one-point-six million.

‘Knox didn’t rape him. He bit him, he tortured him, he beat him, but there’s no sign of penetration.’

According to the summary three men were due up in court in four weeks’ time, all of them connected to Michael ‘Mental Mikey’ Maitland’s operation.

God rest his soul.

‘So it’s exactly the same as the Sacro handler…Harry Weaver. I thought it might be because Weaver wasn’t old enough, didn’t fit the victim profile, but I’m beginning to wonder if Knox might be impotent.’

Logan skimmed a list of charges. ‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it?’

‘Causing pain is how Knox achieves arousal, it’s what gets him off. If he can’t get an erection, he’s just going to try harder. The next victim’s probably going to end up dead. And it won’t be quick either.’

Logan stopped reading. Not so good after all.

‘Any ideas where he’s heading?’

There was a pause.

‘Well…Aberdeen’s been highly traumatic for him, completely out of his comfort zone. He’ll want familiar ground, somewhere he feels safe.’

All roads lead to Newcastle. Which was pretty much what they’d been thinking anyway. Logan thanked the psychologist and hung up.

Logan drummed his fingers on the desk, staring at the blank computer screen.

God: the idea that Knox could get even worse…

‘You should eat more roughage.’

Logan turned to find Doreen settling in behind her desk.

‘What?’

‘You’ve got the same expression on your face my six-year-old gets when he’s constipated.’

‘Actually, I was thinking about Richard Knox.’

‘Join the club. DCI Finnie’s got everyone on either Knox or Danby. It’s an absolute nightmare trying to get anything else done.’ She rearranged her cardigan. ‘Do you know if our little fairy princess got to see her grandad again?’

Logan shrugged. ‘I’ve been a bit-’

‘Oh for goodness sake. I’ll do it.’ Doreen pulled the phone towards her and started dialling. ‘Hello? Yes, I want to speak to someone about a little girl taken into temporary care last night…’

PC Butler stuck her head around the door. ‘You ready, Sarge?’

Logan gathered all the files together and stuck them back in the folder. ‘We got a pool car?’

Butler’s expression soured. ‘Guess.’

The Fiat groaned from second to third, then whined from third to fourth, and refused to do fifth at all. ‘You know.’ Butler hauled the gearstick back again. ‘I’ve got some friends who could arrange a little electrical fire, if you like? Claim on the insurance?’

‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ Not that he’d get much for it — the thing only cost him two hundred pounds. Logan ran his finger across the dashboard, leaving a clean grey line in the dust. ‘Suppose you were a gangster-’

‘Cool.’ Butler grinned. ‘Do I get to kneecap that sleazy git DS MacDonald?’

‘Just shut up and listen, OK? Suppose you were a gangster and some police officer had just cost you over a mill and a half in drugs. He’s got three of your men banged up waiting for trial, and if they turn Queen’s evidence it’s going to be bad news for your other business interests. What do you do?’

She didn’t even pause. ‘Kill them. Get a couple of mentalists inside to shank the bastards. Sends out a message — no one squeals.’

Logan looked at her. ‘What if they’re loyal.’

‘Not worth the risk. Got to cut out the cancer before it spreads.’ She slowed down for a corner, the tyres rumbling over a lumpy mixture of slush and ice. ‘Then you go after the pig.’

Logan turned back to the window. ‘That’s what I was thinking.’

‘He awake yet, Babe?’

‘Dunno. Think he’s faking it?’

‘One way to check.’

Pain lances through Detective Superintendent Graeme Danby’s nipples. His eyes snap open and he roars. Or tries to. There’s something over his mouth. Something over his head, making everything dim and muffled. He rocks back and forth, fire burning across his chest.

‘Gotta love the titty-twister, like.’

Fucking hell that hurts.

Then the woman’s voice is back again. ‘Hello, Sweetheart, remember me?’

Graeme tries to shrink back, but he’s sitting on something:

can’t move his arms or legs…A chair? And it’s freezing in here.

He’d been…He’d been wearing the white fluffy dressing gown he’d found in the hotel room wardrobe — the one with the matching slippers in a little plastic bag. But now he feels a biting draught on his bare stomach and thighs.

Isn’t even wearing any underwear.

He’s tied to a chair, stark bollock naked, with a bag over his head.

With her.

Graeme tries to sit up straight, to bring his chin up. Not to tremble.

‘You’ve been a naughty boy, haven’t you, Danby?’ A man’s voice, Newcastle accent.

And then a fist slams into Graeme’s stomach, wrenching him forwards. Or as far as he can go with his wrists tied to the seat. He tries to breathe through the aching stabs, air whistling in and out through his burning nose. Everything smells of burning copper.

‘You see, Babe, we know what you’ve been up to. You and your pet rapist.’

Oh God, don’t be sick. Be sick and you’ll choke. Choke and die. Naked, tied to a chair with a FUCKING BAG OVER YOUR HEAD!

Slowly, he hauls himself back up, eyes scrunched tight shut. Swallowing it down.

‘Neil? Do the honours will you, Darling, I hate questioning someone when I can’t see their eyes.’

Fumbling. The whoosh of fabric against his face. Then a cool draft of air.

Graeme opens his eyes, blinks. Looks down at his pale, naked body — the big dent in his right leg where the bone poked through years ago.

‘That’s better, isn’t it?’

Julie. She hasn’t changed much since last time: still wearing the same cowgirl jeans-and-boots combo. That polished razorblade smile.