Stuart MacBride - Dark Blood

He tried to force a smile into his voice. ‘I’m sure it’ll be-’

‘So, have you sodded up all my cases yet?’

‘Of course not. It’s fine.’

The Land Rover slowed, bouncing to a halt at a break in the central divide, opposite a sign saying ‘MCLENNAN HOMES — SITE TRAFFIC ONLY’. Then they rumbled across the other carriageway and up to the site gate.

‘Anything else going on?’

Logan looked out at the high chainlink fence and the signs caught in the Land Rover’s headlights: ‘SITE PATROLLED BY GUARD DOGS’, ‘NO ENTRY TO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL’, ‘WARNING: RAZOR WIRE’, ‘DANGER OF DEATH’.

He swallowed. ‘Yeah, no, everything’s fine. Tell Susan we’re all asking for her, OK?’

They said an awkward goodbye, then Logan slid the phone back in his pocket.

The gate was open, not all the way, just wide enough for a large car to squeeze through. Butler drove the Land Rover in. On the other side, the road was virtually invisible, a set of rutted tyre tracks disappearing into the gloom.

Logan turned and peered into the back of the vehicle. ‘We got any weapons?’

‘Sarge? I thought we were meant to wait for the cavalry?’

If this was America they’d have shotguns and tear gas and riot gear and ammo. Instead of which they had a big first aid kit, some road flares, and enough rope to build a bouncy bridge over the River Dee. Fat lot of good that was going to do.

The car lurched to a halt, throwing him backwards against his seatbelt. ‘Hoy! Careful.’

Butler tapped him on the shoulder. ‘We’ve got company.’

She was right. A set of headlights glowed in the darkness, getting closer.

‘Sod…’ Logan glanced left, then right. ‘Block the road.’

The constable wrestled with the steering wheel, three-point-turning the Land Rover until it was parked side-on, then Logan reached into the back, grabbed a couple of the road flares, and clambered out into the snow.

It was like being punched with a fistful of ice. He staggered, letting the car door slam shut in the wind.

Fuck it was cold…

He lurched over the rutted surface, about six feet from the Land Rover’s bonnet, pulled the plastic cap off of the first flare and struck the igniter across the end. It sputtered, then sent out a gout of lurid scarlet flame. Logan jammed the other end into the snow, then hurried around to the other side and stuck the second one behind the car.

With the blue-and-white lights flashing in the middle, there was no way you could miss the police Land Rover.

He hobbled back to the driver’s side. Butler wound down the window and said something Logan couldn’t hear over the howling wind.

‘What?’

‘I said, we’re supposed to wait!’

Logan pointed through the whipping snow to the approaching headlights. ‘You want to let them just drive right past you?’

Butler thumped back against the headrest, sighed, then undid her seatbelt and climbed out into the snow. She hauled on her gloves and hunched her shoulders up round her ears. ‘Must be bloody mad…’

The headlights got bigger and bigger and then a huge black rectangle growled out of the snow. It stopped ten feet from their makeshift roadblock and sat there, with the engine idling.

Logan wiped the snow from his face and stumbled through the gusting wind to the huge car, PC Butler swearing along behind.

It was one of those massive Range Rover Sports jobs. The kind that looked as if they’d been designed out of Lego. Three people: two in the front, one in the back.

Logan knocked on the driver’s window. It buzzed down and the driver smiled at him. She had blonde hair cut in a bob and jazz on the stereo.

‘Can I help you, Officer?’ English, probably from somewhere posh.

The man in the passenger seat scratched his eyebrow, keeping his eyes on the road. The one in the back seat yawned, then ran a hand through his greying quiff. All very nonchalant.

‘Can I see some ID?’

The woman’s smile got bigger. ‘I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours, Babe.’

Logan gritted his teeth, unzipped his jacket and pulled out his warrant card. Trying to stop his pink fingers from shaking.

‘Nice one.’ She reached down between the seats, rummaged, then produced a black leather card holder. Handed it out of the window.

Logan flipped it open.

It was a warrant card, just like his, only where his said, ‘GRAMPIAN POLICE’ hers said ‘SOCA’.

He checked it twice before handing it back. ‘Care to tell me what the Serious Organized Crime Agency is doing on a building site north of Aberdeen, Sergeant…Bultitude was it?’

‘Nope.’

Logan stared at her.

In the back seat, Elvis shifted from one buttock to another. ‘Close the window, eh, Julie; getting a draft, like.’

The woman went to buzz the window back up again, but Logan slapped his hand on the sill. ‘We’re not finished here.’

‘Yes we are, Babe.’

He stared at her. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? Two men and a woman — you’re the ones who took Richard Knox from Bruce Lowe’s place. Where is he? And where’s DSI Danby?’

The man in the passenger seat sighed. ‘Not again…’

The woman’s smile became sharper. ‘That’s need to know, Sergeant.’

‘Don’t screw me about: where are they?’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Neil?’

‘Fuckin’ have it.’ The back door popped open and Elvis climbed out into the snow. Typical Geordie, he didn’t even have his coat on, just a black shirt picking up a dandruff coating of snow. He flexed his arms.

Jesus he was big: six-foot-two, six-foot-three, arms like a body builder’s.

Logan’s other hand dug deeper into his pocket, fingertips wrapping around the little canister of pepper-spray. Out of the corner of his eye he saw PC Butler take a step forwards, the harsh CLACK of her extendible baton clearly audible over the wind and the Range Rover’s engine.

‘Is there a problem, Sarge?’

The big man just looked at the pair of them, then smiled. Cricked his neck from side to side.

A gust of wind buffeted Logan. ‘There’s a firearms team on its way. You won’t even make it back to town.’

Sergeant Bultitude clapped her hands. ‘A firearms team? How, exciting! Will they have guns?’ She dipped back out of sight, then came back with a semiautomatic pistol clutched in her hand. ‘Like this one?’

She brought it around until it was pointing at Logan’s face.

He felt his bowels clench. Held his hands out, palms open. ‘Let’s not-’

‘This is how it’s going to go down, Babe. You get back in your little plodmobile and drive away. Nice and peaceful. Otherwise…’ She made a little circular motion with the gun barrel.

Logan stared up at her. Swallowed. Tried not to tremble. ‘Where’s Knox?’

Bultitude pursed her lips. ‘Brave. I like that.’ She nodded, back towards the building site.

‘You actually did it? You sold him to Malcolm McLennan’s mob? You’re supposed to be police officers!’

A shrug. ‘Your Malk the Knife’s the tip of a Europe-wide smuggling iceberg: drugs, goods, people, weapons. Worth millions every year. Richard Knox is a nasty little rapist, but he’s worth a lot to certain people down south. We sell him to Mr The Knife at a knock-down price, and we get an in with everyone.’

‘You can’t just-’

‘You know what he did: what he got away with. Dozens of old men, tortured and raped. And you want to let him walk?’ She snorted. ‘Sweetheart, at least this way they get a bit of justice.’

Logan stared at her. ‘What about Danby: you sell him too?’

The woman from SOCA sighed. ‘I’m afraid Detective Superintendent Danby’s been a naughty boy. We got a call from Knox a couple of weeks ago — Danby offered to smuggle him out of the country for a cut of Mental Mikey’s rainy-day money. That’s not nice, is it?’