‘Does anyone else on your books know him?’
‘No idea… But I can ask around, if you like?’ She carried the file over to her desk and wrote something on a Post-it note. Stuck it on her monitor. ‘I know Fred Marshall did some bad stuff in his time, but he was getting his life together. When you find him, tell him he’s always got a place on our books.’
Logan nodded. ‘Thank you. We’ll be in touch.’ He made for the door, but Rennie stayed where he was. Sitting there, head on one side. Logan pointed at him. ‘Heel.’
Rennie didn’t. ‘You were on the radio today, weren’t you, Miss Whyte? You put up a five grand reward for info about Ellie Morton.’
She shook her head. ‘How could anyone do that to a wee girl? I’ve got a niece that age; see if anyone laid a finger on her…’ Whyte gave herself a little shake. ‘Anyway, we’ve got to pull together as a community, don’t we?’ She patted him on the shoulder. ‘And you tell your mates at the station: bring Ellie home safe and there’s a case of Glenlivet waiting for you.’
Rennie bustled over to the pool car, unlocking it and scrambling in out of the rain.
Logan paused, one hand on the door handle, looking up towards the building.
Jerry Whyte’s office was on the first floor, and there she was: standing at the window, phone to her ear, smiling down at him. She even raised her hand and gave him a little wave.
He didn’t wave back. Opened the door and got in the car.
Rennie reversed out of the space. ‘Like we need bribing with whisky to find Ellie Morton. Not saying it wouldn’t be a nice bonus, though.’
She was still standing there, watching them.
Logan fastened his seatbelt. ‘Notice how everyone says Fred Marshall was a really great guy?’
‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Yeah, you are. You’re thinking it’s time to go visit Fred Marshall’s last known address, shake the family tree and see how many dead bodies fall out.’
‘Why are they all bigging him up? You’ve seen his criminal record, he was a violent thug.’
‘Maybe he had one of those Scrooge-type epiphanies? Three ghosts, “Oh poor Tiny Tim!”, and it’s turkey-and-presents for everyone.’ Rennie drove them out onto the main road and took a right at the roundabout, heading into town again. ‘Or, maybe DI Bell got it wrong and Fred Marshall didn’t have anything to do with Aidan MacAuley’s abduction after all?’
‘Don’t know. It’s all a bit … itchy. Like there’s something we need to scratch till it bleeds.’
‘Don’t be revolting.’
‘We just need to figure out who to scratch first.’
15
People didn’t appreciate places like this enough. Nice places. Family places. Traditional places. OK, so it was a little run-down, but nothing a bit of elbow grease wouldn’t fix. A grid of static caravans followed the contours of the hill, overlooking a lovely sandy beach. There was even a nice mown area at the far end to park your Swift Challenger 460 – power point and water hook-up included – with the other discerning touring-caravan owners. A low building in the middle of the site for showers and a wee shop that did a very nice sandwich and scone. Then out across the emerald grass to the golden dunes and the sapphire sea beyond. Well, the Moray Firth, anyway – the Black Isle clearly visible through the afternoon haze.
Happy families played on the sand with kites and balls and Frisbees and dogs – shrieks of children’s laughter wafting up the hill towards him on a deliciously salty offshore breeze. The sun warm on his face and bare arms.
You wouldn’t think it was October. No July day was ever nicer than this.
Absolutely lovely.
‘Lee?’
Oh, the tyranny of owning a mobile phone.
‘I’m really in the middle of something…’ He shifted on his picnic bench, turning to keep them in sight.
The wee blond boy squealed with delight, face one big grin as he hammered up and down the sand – a kite fluttering at the end of his string. His mum wasn’t doing a great job of keeping up with him, but she was trying. Bless. Couldn’t be easy, especially since she’d clearly not managed to lose all that baby weight yet. Her podgy arms and legs were sunburnt where they protruded from her shorts and ‘I VOTED YES!’ T-shirt.
‘I’ve just had a visit from two police officers.’
Interesting.
‘That’s nice.’
The wee lad wasn’t looking where he was going, lost his footing and went sprawling. Whoomp, right on his tummy. Little bare feet kicking at the air as if they hadn’t realised he’d stopped running yet.
‘At Whytedug Facilitation Services we’re always happy to help the local authorities.’
‘And did the nice officers want anything in particular?’
‘Information on a young man I used to get work for.’
Mummy reached the wee lad and helped him up. Ruffled his hair. Laughed. Now that was good parenting. None of this, aw did poor liddle diddum hurt himsewf, nonsense.
‘And this concerns me, because?’
‘I think it’s wise if we concentrate on our core projects at the moment. Best not take on anything else right now.’
The wee boy ran and squealed on the end of his kite’s string again. Not a care in the world…
‘Did you hear me? No more extra projects.’
‘That’ll leave us short stocked.’
‘Nothing wrong with a bit of enforced scarcity. No one wants to go home empty-handed – it’ll incentivise them to dig deep and bid high. And, more importantly, it reduces opportunities for … unfortunate occurrences. Do you understand?’
Ah well.
Lee stood, gathered up his sandwich wrapper and the paper plate that came with his scone and popped them in the bin. Nothing worse than people who littered: it was everyone’s countryside. ‘Fine.’
He screwed the top on his thermos of tea, shook out the cup and clicked it into place. Picked up his holdall from the picnic bench – familiar and heavy, reliable – then headed for the car. Also familiar, heavy, and reliable, in a forgettable shade of anonymous beige.
‘Trust me, it’s for the best.’
He hauled the tailgate up and chucked the holdall into the boot. The zip popped open a couple of inches, exposing two rolls of duct tape, some rope, a ball gag, and a couple of knives. Oops!
Lee zipped it up again. Then checked the tartan rug was still nice and snug over the pet carrier and its silent occupant. Of course there was a risk of overheating, but he had parked in the shade and opened the windows a—
‘And listen: I also wanted to tell you that we’ve picked a venue for the company barbecue.’
About time!
Lee straightened up, grip tightening on the phone. ‘Where?’
‘A lovely little farm, out past Inverurie. I’ll text you the details. Just make sure it’s all set-up for Monday night.’
Well, that was excellent news. He put his mobile away. Smiled. It’d been far too long since the last one.
The Volvo’s boot squealed as he closed it – have to get some WD-40 on that. And then another squeal eeeeeeked out behind him, only this one was due to delight, rather than a rusty hinge.
The wee blond boy burst over the brow of a dune, running through the spiky grass, hauling his saggy kite with him.
He thundered past the Volvo.
Lee’s hand snapped out, grabbing hold of the wee boy’s T-shirt – pulling him up short. Holding him there as Lee knelt beside him.
More rustling in the undergrowth and Mummy lurched over a different dune, pink-faced and puffing hard.
Lee waved to her, then gave the wee boy a tickle, making him wriggle and giggle.
Mummy staggered over. ‘Urgh… Thanks, he’s a proper little monster this one. Nought to sixty in three seconds!’
The little monster squirmed, beaming. ‘I want ice cream!’
Lee gave her a wink. ‘Not a problem.’ Then ruffled the kid�
�s hair. ‘You have fun, Tiger.’
He let go and the wee boy took his mummy’s hand.
The pair of them skipped off towards the low building and its shop, singing a happy song about dinosaurs and soap.
Lee smiled. ‘Cute kid.’
Ah well.
He climbed in behind the wheel, pulled out of his parking space, and made for the exit. Sticking to the five-mile-an-hour speed limit. No point taking risks when there were small children running about.
The wee blond boy and his mum waved as he passed them, and Lee waved back. Then adjusted his rear-view mirror until the pet carrier filled it, draped in its jolly tartan rug.
‘Looks like it’s just you and me, Kiddo.’
Lee slowed at the junction, waited for a blue Nissan to rumble past, and turned onto the main road. Time for home.
Deep breath:
‘Ninety-nine green bottles, hanging on the wall…’
— the mortuary songbook —
16
A bus rumbled past the pool car and Logan turned away from it, a finger in his other ear. Didn’t make any difference to the noise, though – still couldn’t hear the phone. ‘Sorry? I didn’t get that.’
Outside the car windows, George Street was a grey mass of grey buildings beneath the grey sky. A swathe of down-at-heel businesses lined the bit they’d parked in: bookies, charities, pawn shops, and a wee café with steamed-up windows.
A gust of wind slapped an empty crisp packet against the windscreen. It caught on the wipers and writhed there, crackling.
But at least it’d stopped raining. For now.
Superintendent Doig sighed and had another go. ‘I said, “Well what is it in particular that’s worrying you?”’
‘Don’t know. It just feels … off.’
‘Have you seen the opinion piece in today’s paper?’ Rustling sounds came down the phone, followed by, ‘Listen to this. “It’s about time Police Scotland admitted NE Division,” brackets, “formerly known as Grampian Police,” close brackets, “is incapable of finding little Ellie Morton and send in a team of more qualified officers instead.”’ Another sigh. ‘No wonder Hardie’s got his Y-fronts in a knot.’
‘Why would DI Bell kill someone and fake his own death? Why not simply disappear?’
‘Of course it’s all that Colin Miller’s fault. Stirring things up. Nothing he likes more than putting the shoe-leather into us poor souls.’
‘He had to be panicking that something was going to come out. Some secret so bad that he’d be utterly screwed if anyone discovered it.’
‘I bet he was bottle-fed as a child. You can always tell.’
On the other side of the road, Rennie emerged from the coffee shop – a paper bag in one hand and a cardboard carrier-thing in the other. It had two wax-paper cups in it. So at least he’d got that bit right.
‘Only it didn’t come out. So there he is, lying low in Spain, worrying at it like a loose filling.’
‘You want a bit of advice, Logan?’
‘Hiding away all that time, until now. What changed? Why come back now?’
‘The human heart is a dark and sticky animal, but nobody does anything without a reason. Your job is to figure out what that reason is.’
Logan slumped in his seat and rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, thanks for that, Boss. Very helpful.’
You could hear the smile in the rotten sod’s voice. ‘I thought so.’ And then he hung up.
Always nice when senior officers shared the fruits of their hard-won experience.
Not far up the road, a woman with a pushchair launched into a screaming row with an older man. The pair of them in tracksuits that looked as if they spent more time in the kebab shop than the gym. Flailing their arms around and yelling at each other, their words torn away by the wind, leaving nothing behind but the pain on their faces.
The driver’s door opened and Rennie thumped in behind the wheel. He plucked one of the wax-paper cups from his carrier and passed it over. ‘Iced Caramel Macchiato, with a shot of raspberry, and white chocolate sprinkles.’
Logan curled his lip and creaked the plastic lid off. Sniffed at it. Sort of sweet and bitter and fruity all at the same time. ‘I asked for a coffee.’
‘It’s got coffee in it.’ He held out the paper bag. ‘Bought this for you from the charity shop.’
OK…
Inside was a paperback copy of Cold Blood and Dark Granite, by Sally MacAuley and someone billed as ‘AWARD-WINNING JOURNALIST: BOB FINNEGAN’. The cover was a bit lurid – the Aberdeen skyline Photoshopped into a scene from Skemmel Woods, a close-up of that teddy bear cable-tied to the tree, and a head-and-shoulders of Aiden and Kenneth MacAuley. A bit tatty around the edges, the pages yellowing, spine cracked.
‘Are you happy working with Professional Standards, Simon?’
‘What?’ A look of utter horror crawled its way across Rennie’s face. ‘But… But I bought you a coffee, and a book!’
‘I’m not firing you, you halfwit, I’m asking if you’re enjoying the job.’
Rennie’s mouth clamped shut and his eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’
‘Superintendent Doig is thinking of offering you a permanent post. Well, two to three years, depending. Something to think about, anyway.’
A smile, then he reached across from the driver’s seat. ‘Guv…’
Logan batted his hands away. ‘No hugging. I can still tell Doig you’re a liability.’
Rennie beamed at him.
Urgh…
Logan opened Cold Blood and Dark Granite, flipping through to the shiny pages in the middle, where the photos were.
First up: a smiling family at Aiden’s third birthday – party hats, cake, candles, and grins.
Then another pic of Aiden, sitting in the back garden, little face fixed in a serious frown as he played with a Dr Who action figure and a couple of Daleks.
Next up was a series of holiday snaps. Then one of Kenneth MacAuley lording it over a smoking barbecue in shorts and a T-shirt. Sausages and chicken blackening away.
And the next page: DI Bell, looking threadbare and knackered, directing a group of uniformed constables.
Opposite him was a black-and-white portrait of a middle-aged man with a hint of grey in his swept-back hair. A strong nose and jaw. The caption underneath was, ‘RAYMOND HACKER – ABERRAD INVESTIGATIONS.’
And last, but not least, some more pictures of the woods. The bridge. The stream. The tributes. Not a single crime-scene photograph to be seen.
Logan closed the book. ‘Two options: we go see Fred Marshall’s family, or we try our luck with Sally MacAuley’s private investigators.’
Rennie dug a fifty-pence piece from his trouser pocket and held it up. ‘Toss you for it.’ Then his face contorted in a pantomime wink. ‘Oo-er missus!’
‘I’m an inspector with Professional Standards, Detective Sergeant. And if you expect to join us, you’re going to have to learn the difference between what is and is not acceptable. Professional Standards don’t do “oo-er missus”.’
His face sagged. ‘Sorry, Guv.’
‘We do “fnarr-fnarr”.’
17
‘…anything else?’
‘No, that’s good for me. Thanks, Brucie.’ Logan stuck his phone back in his pocket.
Rennie took a left, parking outside a drab beige-and-white row of tenement flats in Hayton. Four storeys of rain-soaked brick and harling, punctuated by steamed-up windows and rusting satellite dishes. Eight flats to a communal door, three doors per block. An identical tenement faced it across the potholed parking area.
Why did council housing have to look so depressing? Why couldn’t they build something nice for people to live in?
Tower blocks loomed behind the flats – big and grey, sticking up like the transistors on a circuit board – their upper floors scratching at the low grey sky.
The pool car’s wipers clunked and groaned.
Rennie pulled a face. ‘Well, this is … lovely.’
&nb
sp; ‘Intel’s a bit out of date, but Brucie says Fred Marshall’s last known associates were Liam Houghton, Valerie Fuller, Oscar Shearer, and Craig Simpson.’
‘Urgh. Great. Crowbar Craig. Don’t suppose we can call for backup, can we?’
Logan climbed out of the car, into the rain. Stuck his hat on his head as he hurried up the little path to the middle door. A crack in the downpipe sent a gout of water spraying across the harling, like a teeny waterfall. Or a slit wrist.
The intercom was broken, wires protruding from its battered casing, the names obliterated by a squirt of red paint that bled its way down the wall. He gave the door a quick shove – it swung open.
Rennie scurried up the path after him, shoulders hunched around his ears. ‘What if they’ve got a dog? Or a sawn-off? Or a candlestick in the library?’
‘Then I’ll hide behind you.’
Inside, the stairwell was every bit as bleak and damp as the outside. Rainwater made lopsided puddles on the concrete floor. Or at least it looked like water.
Rennie’s face curdled, nostrils flaring as he sniffed. ‘Smells like a tramp’s Y-fronts in here.’
Logan picked his way up the stairs. ‘Top-floor flat.’
‘And not a healthy tramp either. One who’s been drinking anchovy smoothies and rubbing his crotch with mouldy onions.’
‘Feel free to stop talking now.’
Around the landing and up another flight.
‘And then peeing on the onion. Then eating it.’
Another flight. Another landing. Another questionable puddle.
‘And then peeing out oniony piddle and rolling in it.’
‘Will you shut up about piddling?’
The third-floor landing had all the charm of an abattoir, only without all the blood and dead animals. Instead the skeletal remains of a bicycle were chained to the metal balustrade, both wheels missing, the frame kicked and bashed into a twisted wreck. Two flats – one on either side.
Logan knocked on the door to number seven.
Rennie dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘It’s not too late to call for backup.’
The Blood Road Page 14
