Stuart MacBride - Dark Blood

Half a dozen messages from Beattie — which he ignored — and right after them the one from Dr Frampton. He opened it, then clicked on the.jpg attachment, shifting in his seat as the picture file downloaded.

It was a high-resolution map that looked as if it was made from stitched together screenshots. The areas where the soil matched the print in the flat highlighted in red. One cluster of red blobs sat north of Balmedie, near Donald Trump’s golf resort; one was about halfway to Peterhead; but the biggest concentration lay along the coast just south of Cove.

Logan frowned at the screen.

Most were just fields, but two of the blobs had houses in them.

Logan zoomed in on the Cove section. ‘See this?’

Constable Itchy squinted. ‘No, that’s wrong.’ He stuck his finger on the laptop’s screen and drew a little greasy circle inside the red bit. ‘That’s the search area: Steel only wanted a hundred meters. Are we meant to search the rest of it? Only it’s bloody freezing out there, and it’ll be dark soon.’

Why was there mud from around the victim’s home on the carpet of Knox’s Sacro flat?

Maybe whoever helped him escape stopped off on the way up to check on potential targets…?

Logan looked up at the house. ‘I need to speak to the victim, Evans.’

The POLSA shook his head. ‘Like I said — the family’s cleared out. Son took the old man back to Sunderland, said they didn’t want him being on his own, you know, with Knox on the loose.’

Couldn’t blame them. ‘Give him a phone: I need to know if Evans saw anything suspicious — cars, people — over the last couple of days.’

Mind you, they’d have to be pretty open-minded mobsters to find their accountant an old man to torture and rape…

‘Sarge?’

Logan blinked. ‘Right…You two go grab a cup of tea. I’ve got some calls to make.’

Richard Knox shivers, standing at yet another bedroom window, wrapped only in his granny’s patchwork quilt. The one that smells of old woman and cat.

The back garden’s pretty, like one of them Christmas cards with robins on it, all plants and snow and ice and that. Fresh flakes floating down like cigarette ash.

His hand hurts even more now. Can barely move the first three fingers, they’re so swollen.

He pulls the quilt tighter around his shoulders, then creeps over to the door and puts his ear against it.

They’re arguing again.

Arguing about him.

‘… out in the middle of nowhere. Let the bastard freeze to death.’

‘That wasn’t the plan!’

‘I’m just saying we don’t have to -’

‘You can’t just…’

Richard goes back to the window. Gives the sash a one-handed tug, even though he knows it’s locked. What’s he going to do: jump down into the garden, clamber over the back fence and run away into the snow with his cock hanging out and a quilt round his shoulders? Like a pervert playing Batman?

The big bloke with the grey hair’s right: he’d freeze to death.

So instead Richard settles back on the edge of the bed and clutches his granny’s old bible to his naked chest.

He sniffs, wipes his nose with the palm of his good hand, then smears the silvery slime on the bare mattress. At least it’s stopped bleeding.

Not exactly what he’d had in mind, is it? Naked in some strange bedroom, waiting for them to decide how they’re going to make him suffer.

03:10, Yesterday morning

There’s a knock at the door.

Richard stands there in the bedroom of his bland little Sacro flat, eyes closed, swearing. Then hauls his trousers up again.

Mood’s ruined now.

He gathers his things — the quilt Granny Murray made, the suitcase with Grandad Joe’s clothes in it, the plastic bag.

Lying on the bed, Harry just cries.

Richard hauls everything he owns to the front door and opens it.

There’s a man standing in the corridor outside: pale leather jacket, black ski-mask over his head, sawn-off shotgun in his hands. Very sinister. Richard hands him the suitcase. ‘You’re early.’

Someone else steps up, done up in IRA chic like his mate. ‘Where are they?’

‘You can put the guns away. I’ve taken care of me minders. Now-’

A fist slams into Richard’s stomach. His knees give way and he thumps to the carpet, arms wrapped around his aching innards. Breath coming in ragged gulps.

No — this wasn’t the deal. This isn’t right!

The first man shoves past, and his mate steps up and kicks Richard in the chest, hard enough to flip him over onto his back. It’s like being shot, but all he can do is gasp, can’t even struggle as they drag him back into the flat.

Clunk, the door closes.

Man Number Two stops dead, staring into the bathroom. Then he peels off his ski-mask, exposing a face like skimmed milk. His jaw falls open, eyes wide. Then he turns to Richard. ‘You dirty…’

Another kick, this one hard enough to make Richard fold up like a fortune cookie, clutching his aching balls, moaning, tears streaming down his face.

The other one says, ‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’

‘Bathroom. Look in the bathroom.’

‘Fucking hell…’

Another kick.

‘There’s someone else in here!’

Silence.

‘Fuck…’

And then they’re back, dragging him through into the bedroom.

‘Look what you’ve done! You sick piece of shit…’ A punch in the kidneys, making him squeal. Then another one.

‘Fucking hell, Evans. Is he…?’

They cluster around Harry — still tied to the bed, naked, face down, with his pasty backside propped in the air.

Richard closes his eyes. Grits his teeth. Then forces himself over onto his stomach. Waves of fire ripple out from the small of his back, groin aching, chest burning.

Get out of here. NOW. Arm over arm, crawling along the oatmeal-coloured carpet.

‘HEY! Get back here you little sod.’

Rough hands grab him, haul him back towards the bed and Harry’s naked body. ‘This what gets you off, is it?’

A backhand slap snaps Richard’s head sideways and he starts to cry.

They’re going to kill him.

They’re going to beat him to death in some crappy council housing flat for sex offenders.

The one in the pale leather jacket backs up a step. ‘You know what? This works. Fuck it, this works really well.’

‘Got to call an ambulance, police-’

‘Grab him.’

‘Lowe, look at the guy on the bed. We have to-’

‘Fine, I’ll do it myself.’

Those rough hands again, dragging Richard across the carpet, shoving his face against Harry’s naked thigh.

Richard struggles, but the guy digs his knuckles into the back of his neck.

‘Bite him. Go on, bite him like you did my dad, you fucking freak !’

‘I don’t…don’t…Please…’

He hauls Richard’s head back, then rams it forward into the hairy, clammy skin.

‘You do as your told, or so help me God I’ll break every fucking bone in your fucking body.’

‘I don’t…’ Pain, rips through his hand, bones grating against each other as the big man stamps on Richard’s knuckles, crushing them against the carpet.

‘Fucking bite him!’

Richard opens his mouth wide and sinks his teeth into Harry’s cold flesh.

Logan closed the front door behind him. The beautiful blue sky was gone, replaced by a layer of featureless grey that hurled little shards of ice at him, stinging his ears and nose, cheeks and fingers. He shuffled into the lee of a police van, trying to get his lighter to work.

Fourth time lucky: it caught and Logan dragged in a lungful of smoke, then spluttered it right back out again. Only his second cigarette today, not bad for twenty past three.