A pair of large police vans had parked at the edge of the crowd, one of them slowly filling up with people arrested for public order offences.
The snickt of metal sounded behind him, and Logan turned to see DI Steel sparking up a cigarette. She wiggled the pack at him.
‘Thought Knox didn’t want us smoking in the house?’
She settled onto the room’s single bed. ‘Screw him.’
It was obviously a boy’s bedroom: dusty Airfix model kits of Spitfires, Hurricanes, and other assorted warplanes, sitting on top of a tatty chest of drawers. A football poster on the wall so faded that the Newcastle United team were a collection of ghosts. Blue wallpaper. A Thundercats duvet and pillow set spotted with mildew.
Logan took a cigarette and lit it, then hauled the sash window open, the swollen wood squealing.
‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’
Steel plumped up one of the pillows and settled back. ‘Think they’d get bored after a while, wouldn’t you? Same thing, over and over.’
‘Every oddball, weirdo, and tosspot in town is going to descend on this place.’
‘Yup.’ She blew a smoke ring at the ceiling.
‘There’s something else.’ Logan told her about Collin Miller’s little revelation. ‘So with Mental Mikey dead…’
Steel didn’t even blink. ‘I know. Danby told me. Why do you think Knox wanted to move up here: our balmy climate and café culture? Nah, knew Mikey was on the way out, needed to be…’ She waved her hand in a circle, the cigarette leaving a trail in the air. ‘…somewhere all those ambitious wee radges couldn’t get their hands on him. With Mikey dead he’s no’ protected any more.’
‘Oh.’ So much for that. Logan turned back to the window, watching the snow settle on the crowd.
‘You get anything out of Polmont’s journals?’
‘Still working on it.’ He’d taken them home again last night and forgot all about them after Samantha came through wearing nothing but her tattoos, stripy hold-ups and a pair of knee-high kinky boots. ‘Why’s Danby so interested?’
‘Who says he’s interested?’
‘Do we have to go through this again?’
‘Can you imagine lying here every Friday night listening to your granny and grandad humping like horny gerbils?’
‘Fine, keep it secret, like I bloody care.’ He flicked ash out of the window. ‘How are we going to get Knox out of here?’
‘Wonder if she was a moaner, a screamer? Or did she just lie there like a sack of tatties?’
‘Road’s packed. Maybe we can get him out over the back wall?’
‘Looking at her photo, I bet she was a screamer. “Oh, Grandad Joe, you’re so big!”’ Steel lowered her voice for: ‘“Who’s the grandaddy?” “Oh, you are! Yes! Yes! Yes—”’
‘Do you have to do that?’
Shrug. ‘Got to take pleasure in the simple things, Laz. Otherwise, what have you got?’ She stuck the cigarette between her teeth and had a scratch at her crotch.
‘Better go see if they’ve got him packed up yet.’
Knox was curled up on his granny’s tatty quilt in the master bedroom, the handles of his plastic bag sticking out like rabbit ears.
‘Come on, Richard, you’re going to have to help.’ Mandy from Sacro stuck her hands on her hips, a white T-shirt clasped in one hand. A battered leather suitcase sat open on the foot of the bed, with a little pile of clothes in it.
‘I’m not going.’
Logan knocked on the door frame. ‘How we doing?’
Mandy glowered at him. ‘How do you think?’
‘I’m not going. This is me house. You can’t make us leave.’
She gritted her teeth, stared at the ceiling for a moment, then marched out, thrusting the T-shirt into Logan’s hands. ‘You deal with him.’
‘I’m not leaving.’
Logan rolled the T-shirt into a ball and lobbed it into the open suitcase. Five points. ‘Not open for debate.’
Knox wouldn’t look at him. ‘You can’t make us.’
‘Want to bet?’ The curtains were closed in the bedroom. Logan opened them. So much for trying to smuggle Knox out over the back wall and through the neighbour’s garden. There were photographers up stepladders on all three sides, zoom lenses trained on the house. Silly sods. It had to be minus-four out there.
It looked as if the paparazzi in the garden opposite had broken their vigil at one point to build a small, vaguely obscene snowman.
It didn’t take long before someone spotted Logan at the window, and flashes started flickering. He closed the curtains again.
‘On your feet, we’re leaving.’
‘Told you, I’m not going anywhere.’ Knox stuck his forehead on his knees. ‘Why does no one listen to us?’
‘Right, Richard Knox, I’m arresting you for—’
‘You can’t do that!’
‘There’s a mob out there, and they’ve already attacked the house once. By staying here you’re inflaming the situation – that means I can do you for causing a breach of the peace.’
‘But—’
Logan took out his handcuffs. ‘Look on it as a test from God.’
Silence. Then Knox rolled off the bed and yanked open a drawer in an ancient dresser. Various old clothes went into the suitcase: shirts, socks, Y-fronts.
Logan watched him pack. ‘So, you’re on the run from the mob then?’
The little man stopped in the middle of packing a string vest. ‘Who told you that?’
‘All those years Mental Mikey took care of you, and now he’s dead. Every crook in Tyneside must be after a slice of his nest egg.’
Knox shrugged, then fetched an antique grey suit from the wardrobe, laying it carefully into the suitcase. ‘God takes us all in the end, like.’
‘You know, if I was sitting on some gangster’s millions—’
‘That’s what they’re saying about us, is it? I’ve got Michael Maitland’s cash?’ Half a dozen sombre ties followed the suit into the case.
‘Don’t you?’
‘Nearly forgot…’ He disappeared through the bedroom door. There was the sound of someone rifling through a medicine cabinet, then Knox was back with a dusty bottle of Old Spice. He wrapped it in a pair of Y-fronts and placed it carefully next to the suit. Then shut the lid.
Steel popped her head around the door, mobile clamped to her ear. She stuck it against her chest. ‘Ricky the Rapist ready to go?’
Logan nodded and she raised the phone to her ear again.
‘Yeah…Yeah, he’s ready.’ Then she was gone, clumping down the stairs.
Knox looked around the shabby room. Sighed. ‘I was happy here, long time ago.’
‘You want a blanket?’
‘What?’
‘Over your head when we take you out the front. Do you want a blanket?’
‘Oh…’ He ran a hand across the faded, cat-scratched bedspread, the one his grandparents used to hump under every Friday night. Knox pulled it off the bed and draped it around his shoulders, then collected his bible in its tatty plastic bag. ‘Ready.’
29
Dear God, there’s hundreds of them. A wall of angry jock bastards, all waving placards and chanting: ‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’ Like he’s some sort of animal, like…
Richard ducks back behind a policeman. Takes a deep breath. Pulls the bedspread over his head. Now everything smells of dust and mildew, with the faintest memory of Granny Murray’s night cream.
Someone says, ‘You ready?’
‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’
Richard nods. Clutches the carrier bag tighter to his chest.
‘There’s more officers just outside the door, OK? We’re going to be all around you.’
‘I’m ready…’ His voice sounds high and scared, even to him.
Never been hated by this many people all in one place. Yeah, there was a crowd outside the cour
t when he got sent down, like, but they was all outside. He was in a police van. Tinted windows. Safe. Not like now…
‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’
‘OK, let’s get going.’ That sounds like the bloke, Sergeant McThingy, the one who wants to know about Michael Maitland’s rainy-day money. Probably wants a cut – typical bloody copper.
A hand in the small of Richard’s back pushes him forward.
‘Don’t touch us!’
He stumbles out the door, bedspread over his head, watching the world change beneath his feet. Top step. Garden path, the snow trampled to grey mush.
‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’
And then they see him. They have to, because the chanting becomes screaming. Insults, threats. The police hurry him forward, closing in on all sides. Touching him.
Don’t freak out. Please don’t freak out. Stay calm.
‘FUCKING WANKER!’
‘YOU SHOULD HANG!’
‘PERVERT BASTARD!’
The police get closer as the garden path comes to an end beneath Richard’s feet. Squeezing through the gate.
The jostling gets worse, shouts louder.
‘KNOX, YOU’RE DEAD! YOU HEAR ME? DEAD!’
‘WE DON’T WANT YOUR KIND HERE!’
Richard keeps his eyes on his shoes. ‘Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name…’
A shove and he nearly falls.
‘RAPING SCUM!’
‘GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM!’
Lurching forwards, tears streaming down his face in the darkness. Oh God…
Something bangs against the top of his head. A policeman swears.
‘You! I saw that!’
‘HOPE YOU FUCKING DIE!’
‘KNOX! KNOX! KNOX! OUT! OUT! OUT!’
More shoving, pushing – Richard stumbles and falls against the policeman in front of him, ends up on his knees in the slush.
Why can’t they leave him alone? He just wants to—
Rough hands on his elbows, hauling him back to his feet, hurrying him onwards.
‘BASTARD!’
‘KNOX! KNOX! KNOX! OUT! OUT! OUT!’
And then a metal clunk and he’s dragged into the back of a police van. Richard steps on the trailing edge of the bedspread and ends up on his hands and knees, pain lancing through his palms. Then daylight floods over him as the quilt snags on the metal floor.
‘KNOX! KNOX! KNOX! OUT! OUT! OUT!’
Richard turns and looks out across a sea of hate, crashing against the police cordon. People jabbing their placards at him, men and women, faces pink and screwed up, teeth bared.
Someone spits, a thick glob of yellowy-white that flies through the falling snow and spatters against Richard’s chest.
‘THEY SHOULD STRING YOU UP!’
And then the van door thumps shut and everything is darkness again.
Someone says, ‘Thank fuck that’s over…’
And then the van starts to rock. People slamming their hands against the sides.
‘BASTARD!’
‘KNOX! KNOX! KNOX! OUT! OUT! OUT!’
It’s not over. It’ll never be over.
‘A complete disaster!’ DSI Danby stabbed his thumb on the remote, freezing the picture on the boardroom TV as someone slammed their placard down on Richard Knox’s bedspread-covered head: ‘DETH TO ALL RAPIST!’
The emergency MAPPA meeting wasn’t really going that well. They’d gathered in the boardroom at FHQ – Steel, Logan, DI Ingram from the Offender Management Unit, some hairy woman from the council, a Sacro supervisor, and DCI Finnie. Everyone trying to make sure they didn’t get blamed for anything.
Danby thumped the TV remote down on the boardroom table, and turned to glower out of the window at the snow slanting horizontally across Broad Street. ‘You couldn’t even keep his location secret for four days!’
Steel leaned over and whispered in Logan’s ear, ‘You want to tell him, or should I?’
Logan pretended he hadn’t heard.
DI Ingram ran a hand across his little military moustache. ‘I don’t think that’s entirely fair…The Offender Management Unit has done its best—’
‘Its best?’ Finnie frowned. ‘Well, that’s all right then, isn’t it? I must have imagined there was a riot outside Knox’s house this morning because his address was in the bloody papers!’
Danby poked the polished tabletop with a finger. ‘I want a full enquiry. I want to know which one of your lot went running to the media, first chance they got!’
Steel settled back in her seat, left hand scritching away beneath the desk. ‘Actually, Sergeant McRae has some information on that, don’t you Laz?’
‘Er…yes. We know who leaked Knox’s location to the press.’
‘Who? I want them up on charges, you know what I’m saying? I want them bloody crucified!’
‘The leak didn’t come from Aberdeen, it came from Newcastle. Knox’s old English teacher sold his school records to the papers. His granny’s address was in there.’
Danby backed off a step. ‘Ah…I see.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Right, well…contingency plan then.’
And that was it, no apology, no nothing.
DI Ingram went over the plan again, the alternative address they had in waiting, just in case things went horribly wrong.
He was droning on about cost models when the boardroom door creaked open and a rumpled corduroy man slumped in, dumped a little leather rucksack on the table and collapsed into one of the vacant chairs. He took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. ‘Sorry I’m late. Any chance of a coffee?’
‘Ah, how nice of Social Work to grace us with their presence.’ Finnie checked his watch. ‘We started twenty minutes ago!’
The newcomer polished his glasses on the edge of a hanky. ‘Good for you. I started twenty-four hours ago. One of my clients got the crap kicked out of him down the docks last night, and I’ve been trying to get things sorted out ever since.’
Danby’s face twitched. ‘I’d have thought Richard Knox would get your undivided attention, know what I’m saying?’
‘Yeah, that’s a great idea, I’ll just tell my thirty other clients they don’t matter any more. That how they do things in Newcastle, is it?’ He dug into his corduroy jacket and came out with a piece of paper. ‘Desk sergeant gave me a message for a Sergeant McRoy?’
‘McRae.’ Logan held out his hand. It was barely legible – which meant Sergeant Eric Mitchell was manning the desk – ‘THERE’S A TIM MAIR HERE TO SEE YOU + OVERTIME: WTF?!?’ and then a doodle of a skull and crossbones.
Steel leant over and squinted at the note, then put her lips against Logan’s ear. ‘I hope Social Work Boy’s no’ propositioning you for hairy bum sex in the toilets.’
‘Someone’s here about Polmont’s stash of electrical equipment.’
‘Well, don’t just sit there – bugger off and…’ Everyone was staring at her. Steel smiled. ‘I was just consulting with my colleague about the viability of Knox staying on in Grampian. Everyone knows he’s here, they’ll be on the lookout for him. He’s a target. Move him somewhere else and he might live to see his next birthday.’
DI Ingram cleared his throat. ‘Actually, there’s a lot of merit in the inspector’s suggestion—’
‘Course there is.’ She thumped Logan on the back. ‘Now, Sergeant, why don’t you run along and see if you can’t get a nice constable to whip us all up a wee cup of tea?’
Dildo, AKA: Tim Mair, was leaning on the reception desk downstairs, helping himself to Sergeant Mitchell’s bag of Revels. The bag’s owner had the kind of moustache that would have made walruses jealous, and it twitched as Logan tried to join in.
‘Hoy! Who said you could have one?’ Mitchell snatched the bag away. ‘Been trying to get you all sodding morning. Turn your bloody phone on!’
Dildo grinned, pulling his black goatee out of shape. ‘You tell him, Eric.’
Logan dug into his jacket pocket and let a handful of plastic shrapnel tumble onto the reception desk. ‘If you can figure out how, be my guest.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Oh, and Steel wants someone to make a load of teas for the MAPPA meeting.’
Sergeant Mitchell’s moustache bristled. ‘Well don’t look at me!’
‘Just get some PC to do it.’ Logan turned to leave. ‘Oh, and make sure whoever it is spits in DSI Danby’s mug.’
‘Right.’ Dildo wiped the steam from his John Lennon glasses. ‘Let’s see these dodgy goods you found.’
Logan pointed through the glass front wall, at the swirling snow. ‘They’re at the Water Lane store.’
‘Oh for Christ sake…could you not have brought them up?’
‘No room. We can take your car if you like?’
‘Left it at the office.’
‘OK.’ Logan swept the bits of phone back into his pocket. ‘We’ll go in mine.’
‘Piece of shite…’ Dildo hauled at the passenger door release. ‘Have you got the child locks on or something?’ The black plastic bag duct-taped over the missing window bucked and shuddered in the wind, the engine running on for a whole three seconds after Logan pulled the keys out of the ignition before it finally gave up and died.
‘Don’t be such a girl – got you here, didn’t it?’
‘Only just, would’ve been quicker bloody walking.’ It had taken them over twenty minutes to drive the quarter mile from the station, crawling through the snow and snarled up traffic.
‘Yeah, if you want to die of frostbite.’ Logan climbed out into the narrow lane. White flakes swirled around the car, battering against the rusty paintwork as Water Lane funnelled the wind into a teeth-chattering gale. He hurried round and hauled open Dildo’s door from the outside. ‘Well, don’t just sit there!’
They bustled through the keypad-locked door, into the little corridor on the other side. Stomping their feet to get rid of the snow. They signed in with a red-nosed, sniffly constable, and headed through to the evidence store.
Dark Blood Page 23
