Stuart MacBride - Dark Blood

Julie smiles at them. ‘Here’s the deal: we’re going to sell Knox’s scrawny, trembling backside to some really nasty Edinburgh gangsters. That way he gets what’s coming to him, and you lovely people get some compensation for what he did to your families. We split it fifty-fifty. Sound fair?’

No one says anything. Well, she’s got that gun, hasn’t she?

Richard sniffs. A tear falls to the tiles at his feet.

Ellen bends down, scoops up the quilt Granny Murray made and flings it at him. ‘Here, you can take your shit with you.’

Richard grabs it, bottom lip trembling, breathing in the smell of the old lady and her house. If they’re going to sell him to Cunningham or Smithy he’d be better off out in the garden with a bullet in his brain. At least that way it’d be quick.

He wraps himself in the quilt. And then Ellen snatches something off the working surface — a tatty Asda carrier bag. ‘All of it.’

Richard catches the bible before it hits him, clutches the crackly plastic to his chest, closes his eyes and thanks God.

Evans steps forward and dumps the old suitcase on the kitchen floor. ‘I didn’t want it to end like this, but you deserve whatever’s coming to you, Knox. I hope you rot in hell.’

Then Neil and Tony march Richard down the corridor, and back out into the snow. They plip open the locks on the big Range Rover, haul the boot open, and shove him inside. They’re back two minutes later with Danby, the bathrobe flapping open in the eddying snow.

After the warmth of the shower, Richard’s hands and feet throb with the cold. Probably got frostbite, or hypothermia, or something like that.

Tony throws the battered leather suitcase in on top of them. ‘Don’t go getting sexy with your roommate, OK?’ And then he slams the boot shut.

Danby still has that tartan thing over his head. His skin’s cold, pale, and pebbled, like a supermarket chicken; his hands cable-tied behind his back. They haven’t bothered to do that to Richard. Don’t think he’ll put up a fight. Don’t care if he sees their faces either. Because they know he won’t live long enough to tell anyone.

And he knows they’re right.

Richard sniffs, wiping a tear away with his sore hand.

The doors clunk open, then closed again. A big petrol roar as the engine fires up, and something cheery burbles from the radio, then fades out so a DJ can say, ‘Wasn’t that great? We’ll be having the news with Lorna Knight in eight minutes, but first here’s a reminder from the Met Office, we’ve got a severe weather warning for the whole North East, so only travel if your journey is completely necessary, OK? In the meantime, curl up somewhere comfy-cosy and grab yourself another mug of hot chocolate. And speaking of Hot Chocolate, here they are with “You Sexy Thing”!’

Richard lies down on the plastic boot liner and wiggles in close behind Danby, pressing chest to back, legs to legs, then wraps an arm around his chest, holding him close. Sharing what little body warmth he has as the car lurches away into the snow.

Logan scrambled down from the Land Rover. Its blue-and-whites barely dented the blizzard, headlights reaching no more than a dozen feet in front of the bumpers.

The house was isolated, a long rectangle of freshly pointed granite with a slate roof. Old-fashioned six-pane windows — that probably cost a fortune to reproduce in double-glazed wood-effect UPVC — glowing pale gold.

He staggered over to the door, clasping his collar around his throat with one hand and tried the doorbell. Then hammered on the door as well. Too cold for dicking about.

PC Butler slithered to a halt beside him. She was dressed in the full Grampian Police outdoor-ninja ensemble: black trousers, black boots, black fleece poking out from under a black waterproof, fluorescent-yellow high-vis waistcoat with ‘POLICE’ across the back, and a black peaked cap jammed on her head. She’d even managed to scrounge up a pair of gloves from somewhere.

‘You want me to try round the back, Sarge?’

Logan nodded, then hammered on the door again as Butler disappeared from view.

It took nearly two minutes for someone to open the door, by which time Logan couldn’t feel his feet.

A woman stood in the doorway: short, heavy-set, bleary eyed. It was her — the woman Wendy Leadbetter had picked out from the picture, the one with the ‘DIE — KNOX — SCUM!’ placard. She blinked at him a couple of times. ‘Can I help you?’ Geordie accent.

Logan hauled his warrant card out of his pocket. ‘Police.’

She looked at it, then looked at him. Then sighed. ‘Best come in.’

They were in the lounge. Three men sitting around a roaring gas fire, two in matching armchairs, one on the couch, an open bottle of Lagavulin on the coffee table between them. The peaty whisky smelled like disinfectant in the silent room.

One was the pale man from the crowd photographs — Bruce Lowe, the home owner. One was tall with grey hair and a red handprint on his cheek. And the third was Jimmy Evans.

Logan stared at him. ‘Thought you were on your way down to Sunderland.’

The old man shrugged and took a sip of whisky. ‘Surprise.’

‘So, let me guess,’ Logan turned to the third man, ‘that makes you the son?’

‘Matt Evans.’ He drained his glass, then reached forwards and topped it up again. The bottle trembled in his hand. ‘Knox raped my uncle.’

‘Where is he?’

The woman slumped into the sofa, next to the old man, helped herself to a whisky. ‘Gone.’

Jimmy Evans ran a hand across his bruised forehead. ‘We were going to hand him over to the police-’

‘Evans!’ Lowe scowled at him. ‘He doesn’t know any-’

The woman waved her hand. ‘Oh shut up, Bruce. It’s over, OK?’

A shape lumbered into view through the window: Butler, her black jacket and hat already caked with snow. She rapped on the glass. Logan ignored her. ‘What’s over?’

Evans took a swig of pale-yellow whisky. ‘My brother never got over what Knox did to him. Chained to a wall, tortured, raped…And then when he goes to the police, what happens? Two big bastards come round and threaten to cripple his grandkids if he doesn’t change his story: say he lied about it.’

‘Knox was here and you let him go?’

‘Was never the same after that. Took Simon four years to die; just gave up in the end.’ The old man drained his glass. ‘Knox killed him, sure as if he’d stuck a knife in his guts. So when that policeman Danby called and said he wanted to-’

‘Evans! Keep your big gob shut!’ Bruce Lowe clambered to his feet and turned to Logan. ‘I just asked them back here for a drink, offer a bit of support. He’s drunk. You can’t-’

‘Don’t talk to my dad like that!’ Matt hauled himself out of his armchair. ‘Least he had the guts to go through with it, you couldn’t even shoot the little-’

‘I had nothing to do with-’

‘SHUT UP!’ The woman slammed her glass down on the coffee table. ‘Just…shut up.’

The knocking at the window got louder.

She sank back into the sofa. ‘We didn’t let Knox go, we sold him.’

Logan could feel his mouth hanging open. ‘You sold him? Who the hell wants to buy-’

‘Some bossy cow turned up with two thugs. She said she could sell Knox to some gangsters who’re after him. Split the money with us. Supposed to be compensation for what he did.’ Ellen gave a short laugh, then picked up her glass again, greasy beads of alcohol shimmering on the sides. ‘They even had this…fat naked guy in a dressing gown with them, tied up with a bag over his head. Suppose they were going to sell him too.’ She took a swig. Bared her teeth. ‘Must be good money in perverts.’