Stuart MacBride - Dark Blood

Two patrol cars, one police van, and Dildo Mair’s Vauxhall Vectra sat in the little car park outside an unremarkable industrial unit in the Bridge of Don. The sign above the big roller doors proclaimed: ‘JAMES CLAY ~ PRINTING WITH STYLE’ next to a big cartoon exclamation mark with glasses, a cheesy grin, and its hands full of papers.

Classy.

Inside, a huge printing press sat towards the back of the unit, the smell of hot dust and oil-based ink drifting out into the cold afternoon. Reams of paper were stacked on pallets along the walls. A big electric guillotine. A collating and folding machine. In the corner, a kettle was finally coming to the boil, watched by half a dozen of Aberdeen’s finest in full uniform.

A little breezeblock office was built against one wall, full of desks, drawing boards, filing cabinets and paper samples. Logan poked the scan button on a digital radio again and the display cycled round to Original FM. An old Crowded House song bounded out of the speakers.

Sitting on the edge of a half-sized filing cabinet, Susanna Frayn, from Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs, leant forward and tapped Logan on the shoulder. ‘Turn it up, I like this one.’ Then settled back, singing along quietly.

She did the same for the next song. And then it was the news — a bit about Richard Knox; investigations proceeding into the body discovered at McLennan Homes’ Balmedie development earlier this week; a new goalkeeper signed for Aberdeen Football Club; weather — more snow on its way; and then the travel. According to which, Friday afternoon rush-hour traffic was terrible. Surprise, surprise.

A large window separated the office from the print shop. Dildo gazed out at the constables searching the place. He stuck his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. ‘We got a call today, from this bloke who wants us to get him a refund from a prostitute calling herself “Big Eleanor”, works down the docks. Says he entered into an oral contract with her in good faith.’ Dildo made hand-and-mouth gestures, poking his tongue into his cheek to sell the mime. ‘Only now he’s heard a rumour that she’s really a man, thinks he’s been a victim of misrepresentation and fraud.’

Susanna smiled. ‘What does he want, his deposit back?’

Logan shook his head. ‘Thanks for lowering the tone.’

‘Hey, could be worse.’ Dildo grinned. ‘At least I didn’t tell you about the DVDs we seized last week. There was this one with two midgets, a redhead, a jar of Vaseline, and a Shetland pony they-’

‘Dildo!’

The man from Trading Standards sighed. ‘You were a lot more fun before you became a dad. Remember that time we…’

Dildo drifted to a halt. There was a constable standing on the other side of the window holding a sheet of A1 paper against the glass. It was covered in a rainbow of bank notes: pink, purple, brown, and blue — fifties, twenties, tens, and fives. Had to be three or four hundred quid’s-worth on the one sheet.

The constable stuck his head around the door. ‘Found a huge stack of them under a pile of annual reports. We’re millionaires! Bwahahaha…’

Susanna was staring at him with one eyebrow raised.

‘We’ll…erm…start loading them into the van.’

Dildo wrapped an arm around Logan’s shoulder. ‘Laz, my man, I may just have to buy you a pint tonight.’

‘Can’t.’ He held up his bandaged hand. ‘Antibiotics.’

And by the time he was off them it’d be three weeks without a single drink. One by willpower, the rest by doctor’s order. Now if could just cut out the cigarettes and learn to eat meat again, he’d be back where he was two and a half years ago.

Still, it was better than nothing.

Richard Knox stands at the window of his hospital room, looking out at the snow-covered world. The car park’s busy, so are the roads, gritted from pristine white to glistening black.

Richard smiles — been a while since he’s had a good day. And OK, it feels like he’s been run over by a minibus and the antibiotics turn his stomach…But he’s getting better, you know? That psychologist Goulding said so: responding to therapy. Changed man.

Been telling them that the whole time.

Found God, didn’t he. Or God found him.

Doesn’t really matter in the end.

Long as you tell them what they want to hear.

He hugs the threadbare bible to his chest. All those notes and scribbles. Exodus 29.45, 18.20; Nehemiah 9.12; Ezekiel 38.03. Doesn’t take long till you’ve got bank account numbers, sort codes, authorization passkeys. Everything you need to hide large sums of money. Ten million pounds worth, even after expenses and buying that double-crossing bastard Danby off.

Jet off to Spain, disappear after a couple of months, start a new life somewhere exotic. Aberdeen’s ruined the northern hemisphere for him. He wants somewhere warm to get back to God’s work.

Richard smiles down at all the little people scurrying about beneath his hospital window.

He’d been telling the truth when he’d told them getting caught was a lesson. It taught him he wasn’t ready. Danby only found him cos Billy Adams went crawling to him, covered in bruises, his pants full of blood. Stupid mistake: he’d let Adams live.

Simple.

And that was God’s real lesson: he’d been sloppy. Lazy. So God sent him to prison with all the killers and perverts and paedos and rapists. People who could teach him how to break into houses. How to dispose of bodies. How to kill and torture and rape and not leave any traces for them CSI bastards to find.

A seven-year masterclass in how to get away with murder.

And Richard Knox is a fast learner.