Dark Blood lm-6

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Right, well, I suppose I should be heading…’

  Gardner hauled himself out of his chair and walked Logan to the front door. ‘Are you a family man, Sergeant?’

  Logan pursed his lips. ‘It’s kind of complicated.’

  Gardener nodded, his eyes watery, rimmed with pink. Bit his bottom lip. ‘Never gets any easier, does it?’ He rubbed his hand across his face. ‘I’m sorry, it’s…It’s been a tough couple of months.’

  Logan laid a hand on his arm. ‘If we find your car I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Can I get a crime number for the insurance?’

  ‘I’ll get someone to phone it through…’ Logan trailed off. The hallway had a set of stairs leading up to the first floor. ‘Did you hear-’

  There it was again: a soft gurgling noise.

  Logan looked back at Gardner, then took a step towards the stairs.

  ‘Well…’ Gardner unsnibbed the front door. ‘Anyway, thanks for coming — I know you must be very busy.’

  Upstairs, the gurgling stopped and the crying started, quickly building to anguished howls.

  Gardner smiled, a single bead of sweat trickling down his pink neck. ‘I…must have left the TV on in the bedroom.’

  Logan put his hand on the balustrade. The old man flinched.

  ‘If I search this place am I going to find a pushchair, a sawn-off sledgehammer, and a bag full of stolen jewellery?’

  ‘I don’t…Erm…’

  ‘Your car wasn’t stolen, was it?’

  Gardner just sagged.

  The upstairs bedroom seemed to be the only place in the whole house with any furniture. It had bright yellow walls, a pile of soft toys, a sparkly mobile, and a big wooden cot. A little girl, dressed in a tiny princess/fairy costume, was imprisoned inside, holding onto the bars.

  Alan Gardner sat on the floor, clutching a floppy-eared toy bunny identical to the one on the security camera footage. ‘It’s under the crib.’

  Logan squatted down and dragged out a black-and-red Adidas holdall. He dumped it on the pink carpet — it was full of watches, chains, rings, brooches, and bracelets, gleaming in the light of a Bob the Builder bedside lamp. A big wodge of cash stuffed in the side pocket.

  ‘What happened to the first lot, from Henderson’s?’

  ‘Sent it off to one of those cash-for-gold places you see on the telly. Haven’t even got the cheque back yet.’

  ‘Alan Gardner, I’m arresting you on suspicion of-’

  ‘I didn’t have any choice.’ He kept his eyes fixed on the bunny rabbit.

  ‘Where’s the sledgehammer?’

  ‘She’s my daughter, what was I supposed to do? Let him hurt her?’

  Logan turned and looked at the fairy princess in the cot. ‘Who’d want to hurt a little girl?’

  ‘Not Nicole, her mum: Stacy, my daughter.’ Gardner creaked himself upright and handed the rabbit into Nicole’s sticky little fingers. ‘When Laura died, Stacy…Stacy got involved with the wrong kind of people. Started taking drugs, drunk all the time, she just couldn’t cope.’

  Gardner reached down and ruffled his granddaughter’s hair. ‘So now I look after Nicole. She’s my little tattieheid, aren’t you?’ The girl grinned, still chewing on the bunny’s floppy ear.

  And now Logan was supposed to feel all sorry for him? ‘You robbed two jewellery shops, threatened the assistants with a sledgehammer.’

  Gardner looked up, eyes pink and damp. ‘What was I supposed to do? Stacy ran up a lot of debts: drugs. There’s a man who’s going to…cut her if she doesn’t pay it all back. Break her legs. Worse…The interest is crippling.’ He reached down and picked the fairy princess from her cot, holding her tight. ‘I sold everything, cashed in my life insurance, pension, sold my car, put the house on the market…She’s my little girl, what was I supposed to do?’

  Damn.

  ‘How about call the police?’

  ‘He said if I went to the police they’d never find her body.’

  Logan closed his eyes, ran a hand across his forehead. Swore.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘I…I don’t know. I never spoke to him.’

  ‘But you said-’

  ‘He always made Stacy phone.’

  They stood there in the gaily coloured bedroom, Logan swearing, Gardner crying, Nicole making nonsensical gibberysing-song noises.

  Custody was busy — shouts and threats coming from the lower corridor of cells, where the female prisoners were normally kept. Logan hefted the sawn-off sledgehammer onto the desk, along with the Adidas holdall, both stuffed into oversize evidence bags.

  ‘Two exhibits to sign in, and one prisoner.’

  The custody sergeant nodded, reached below the level of the desk, pulled out a clipboard, and clacked it down next to Logan’s evidence bags. Sergeant Downie’s skin was so pale it fluoresced slightly in the overhead light, his hooded eyes moving restlessly across his twilight domain. The poster boy for generations of exuberant inbreeding.

  He raised an eyebrow, giving Logan’s prisoner the long, hard stare.

  Gardner was standing on the bare concrete with his head down, fairy princess granddaughter clutched to his chest, her podgy legs and little pink shoes dangling against his belly.

  ‘So,’ Sergeant Downie pulled the cap off a chewed blue biro and smiled with tombstone teeth, ‘which one am I checking in: the bald bloke, or the wee girl with the fairy wings?’

  ‘Very funny.’ Logan signed the custody form at the bottom. ‘Mr Gardner’s going to be helping us with those jewellery heists.’

  ‘I see.’ The sergeant took the clipboard back and started ticking boxes. ‘And would Mr Gardner like a wake-up call, newspaper, breakfast in bed?’

  ‘Don’t be a dick, Jeff.’

  Twitch. ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘You got any PCSOs knocking about? I need someone to look after the kid till social services get here.’

  Sergeant Downie laughed. ‘You’re kidding, right? I’ve got half a female rugby team downstairs screaming blue bloody murder. Must be that time of the month. Speaking of which.’ He leant forward and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Think Steel’s on the blob too. Been stomping about like someone’s smeared her tampons with Deep Heat. Beware of the lesbian!’

  Logan’s phone was ringing again.

  The Wee Hoose had been relatively quiet — unlike the main CID office — giving him a chance to type up Alan Gardner’s confession before heading off home.

  He peered at the phone’s display, making sure it wasn’t that idiot Beattie, before picking up. ‘McRae.’

  DSI Danby’s huge bass voice boomed out of the earpiece. ‘Any news on Knox?’

  Logan snatched the phone away from his ear. ‘Bloody hell…’ He trailed off. DS Doreen Taylor was staring at him, her eyes bugged out, mouth an angry line. She pointed at the little fairy princess sitting on her desk, legs dangling over the edge. Nicole’s wings were getting crumpled, and the chocolate biscuit they’d used as a bribe to stop her crying was slowly making its way all over her face.

  Doreen jabbed her finger at him, her voice a sharp whisper, ‘Language!’

  Logan grimaced. ‘Sorry.’ He swivelled his chair around until he had his back to them both, then turned the volume down on the phone. ‘Sorry, sir, had to close the door. They’re still swamped with sightings of Knox.’ The last part was true at least, the phones hadn’t stopped ringing in CID all day.

  ‘How many worth chasing up?’

  ‘Backshift are still checking, but you know what it’s like. A big case like this brings out all the loonies.’ Logan clicked on his email and skimmed through till he got to the message from the hospital. ‘Harry Weaver from Sacro woke up an hour ago — DS MacDonald interviewed him, but he can’t remember anything. Tox report says he was full of Rohypnol.’

  ‘The woman?’

  ‘Too early to tell.’

  There was a pause. ‘Been on to my team. No one in Tyneside’s heard from Knox since he
left, but there’s a lot of folk wanting their hands on Mental Mikey’s nest egg. Better tell your people to keep their eyes open for Newcastle gangsters, know what I’m saying?’

  Logan groaned. ‘Christ, that’s all we-’

  A pad of pink Post-it notes clattered off his monitor.

  Doreen had her finger out again. ‘Language!’

  ‘Oops…’ Logan went back to the phone, thanked Danby, and hung up. Newcastle gangsters: as if things weren’t complicated enough.

  The handset had barely touched the cradle before it was ringing again. ‘Oh for fff…’ He shut his mouth before Doreen could throw anything else. ‘McRae?’

  Samantha: ‘I was…Are you doing another late night? I mean it’s OK if you are, I just wanted to…you know.’

  Logan checked the time on the computer — 19:40 — nearly three hours after the end of his shift. ‘Drowning in paperwork: caught the guy doing over the jewellery shops.’

  ‘Oh…Well, never mind.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Actually, I’m just about done. How about I pick up a Chinese on the way home and…Sod it, I can’t. I’ve got an unattended minor here. Have to keep an eye on her till social services turn up.’ Logan closed his eyes and banged his head softly against his keyboard.

  ‘It’s not important.’

  Of course it was, he could hear it in Samantha’s voice.

  Doreen cleared her throat. ‘I can look after her.’

  Logan raised his head. There was a long line of gibberish stretching across his screen.

  Doreen ran a hand through the little girl’s pale-yellow hair. ‘Nicole can help me prepare case papers for the golf club murder, can’t you Nicole?’

  The fairy princess stuck her thumb in her chocolaty mouth and sooked. To be honest, she’d probably be more help than most of CID.

  ‘Hello? You still there?’

  Logan made more keyboard gibberish. ‘I’m on my way.’

  43

  Logan picked his way down Marischal Street, a plastic bag from a nice little Chinese carryout on King Street swinging from one hand. The council hadn’t bothered to grit this bit and the pavement was a treacherous mixture of snow and ice. Which would’ve been bad enough, but the road made a steep descent from Union Street all the way down to the docks, turning the whole thing into a toboggan run.

  The wind wasn’t helping any either, hammering icy nails into his face, making his skin throb and ache with cold.

  He slithered to a halt outside the building’s front door and fumbled in his pocket for the keys. Could barely see the lock in the gloom…He shifted sideways, letting the streetlight’s yellow glow fall on the scarred wood.

  The key skittered around the lock, before finally going in. And then the light disappeared.

  ‘God’s sake…’ Bulb had probably blown again. The seagulls liked to eat the rubber sealant, letting the water in, because they were rotten evil bastarding things…

  Not seagulls. The light hadn’t gone out, it’d been eclipsed by a huge shadow.

  ‘Been waiting fucking ages for you.’

  Oh shit. Reuben.

  Logan span around, feet slipping on the ice, staggered, bounced off the damp granite wall and fell on his backside.

  Pain jagged across the base of his spine.

  The plastic bag made a dull thud as it bounced off the pavement beside him, egg foo yung and prawn crackers going everywhere.

  Ow…

  He looked up to find Wee Hamish Mowat’s right-hand man standing over him, that scarred fat face twisted into a grin. ‘Classic. Didn’t even have to lay a finger on you.’ In the dim light, the bruises were almost black, the plaster across the bridge of Reuben’s nose a pale grey strip against the swollen skin.

  The big man reached inside his thick padded jacket and Logan flinched. Gun? Knife?

  Reuben sighed. ‘Moron.’ He pulled out an envelope and threw it in Logan’s face.

  It bounced, and fell into his lap.

  ‘Open it.’

  Logan peeled back the self-adhesive flap. More money. ‘I can’t-’

  ‘Mr Mowat says if you want any more, you go see this man.’ He pulled out a sticky note and slapped it onto Logan’s forehead. Then stood there, grinning as the snow battered down all around them.

  Logan pulled the note from his head and scowled at it — ‘JAMES CLAY’ and an address in the Bridge of Don.

  One of Reuben’s massive hands clamped down on the top of Logan’s head. ‘See you around.’ He shoved, sending Logan sprawling on his back.

  Logan tensed, waiting for the kicking to start. But it didn’t. Instead he heard a car door slam, then the tractor-rattle of a diesel engine starting up. A car driving slowly away.

  He sat up, watching the dented BMW pause at the bottom of the road, then turn right onto Trinity Quay and disappear into the night.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Samantha looked up from her spot on the sofa, electric fire blazing, a cup of tea steaming away on the coffee table, some sort of costume drama on the telly, and a book open in her lap.

  Logan dumped the plastic bag next to her mug, then struggled out of his jacket. ‘Going to have to share the chow mein.’

  The seat of his trousers was soaked through and his left hand throbbed — the palm scraped and stinging. He sucked at it, then scowled at the little beads of red that seeped through the skin.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Fell on my arse.’ Logan took off his trousers and hung them over the radiator.

  ‘I’ll get the plates.’ She disappeared, calling through from the kitchen. ‘You’ve got a message on the machine, by the way.’

  Oh God, please not another one from Wee Hamish Mowat…

  He pulled the envelope full of cash out of his jacket pocket and stuffed the crumpled sticky note in with the tens and twenties. There had to be over a grand in there, maybe two.

  ‘Logan? You want chopsticks?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks…’ He pressed the button on the answering machine, standing there in his socks, shirt and damp pants as DI Steel’s voice crackled out of the little speakers.

  ‘You rotten bastard, I had to walk back to the station!’

  Bugger. She’d still have been in the naughty knicker shop when he’d headed off to tell Alan Gardner his car had been used in a jewellery robbery.

  ‘Was bloody soaked through by the time I got back; had to interview that bastard van driver dripping wet. If I die of pneumonia, you’re sodding for it!’ There was more, none of it flattering or polite. Logan hit delete.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yeah…just cold and tired.’ He didn’t look around.

  He could hear her walk into the room, the clatter of plates on the coffee table, then the warmth of Samantha’s body against his back, her arms wrapping around him, her breath hot on the back of his neck. It was nice. Intimate. Maybe they’d be all right after all.

  ‘God, you are freezing, aren’t you?’

  Logan gave a little shudder and slipped the envelope up the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Baltic out there.’

  ‘Right.’ She stepped back, pulled up his shirt-tails and slapped him on his grey Markies pants.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Get your cold bum in the shower, we can always stick the noodles in the microwave.’

  The bathroom filled with steam, the shower hissing and gurgling into the white plastic bathtub, the blower grumbling hot air from the dusty unit mounted on the wall. Logan locked the door and settled onto the toilet lid, pulled Reuben’s envelope from his sleeve, and counted the contents. Two thousand, four hundred and sixty pounds, all in used notes. Less than last time, but then Logan hadn’t actually done anything to deserve it…Unless you counted elbowing Reuben in the face.

  He smoothed out the crumpled Post-it note — the name and address of the man to speak to if he wanted more cash from the DIY self-service bribery buffet.

  Nearly six thousand pounds, when you added in the envelope hidden away in the back of the airing
cupboard. Not that much in the great scheme of things. Not compared with being a corrupt bastard.

  44

  Bloody jocks are useless.

  Detective Superintendent Graeme Danby sits on the end of the bed wearing the white fluffy bathrobe that came with his tartan hotel room. Remote in one hand, mobile phone clamped between his ear and shoulder so he can have a good scratch at his sack.

  ‘Don’t really know, Val, love. All depends on how long it takes to sort things out up here, you know what I’m saying?’

  Eleven o’clock. There’s a film starting on Sky, but he can’t concentrate for more than five minutes. So he skims through the channels, always ending up with SKY NEWS and their coverage of Richard Knox’s escape.

  Hysterical — in both senses of the word.

  Graeme slumps back on the bed, dressing gown falling open. Not like there’s anyone there to complain, is there?

  ‘And I managed to find this lovely blue bikini.’ Her voice goes up and down, in that sexy Fife accent of hers that always gets more pronounced on the phone. ‘It’s going to be so nice to be warm again.’

  Graeme flicks through the channels: sports, music, documentary about Hitler, American sitcom…then back to the news.

  ‘You won’t need the top though; don’t want white bits, do you?’

  He can hear the smile in her voice. ‘You’re a bad man, Graeme Danby.’

  There’s a knock at the door. Graeme groans.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hold on…’

  He stands, ties the robe shut and shuffles into the complementary towelling slippers.

  ‘When are you coming home?’

  Graeme marches over to the door and undoes the latch. ‘Told you: when I’m finished here.’

  Another knock. ‘Mr Danby? Hospitality management, you have a problem with your shower?’

  ‘But the flights are booked for-’

  ‘Val, it’s not a problem, you know what I’m saying?’ He opens the door. ‘I can always meet you out there, and-’