The Blood Road

by Stuart MacBride

  Across the hall, what had to be an utterly massive dog barked and barked, thumping against the door, making it rattle.

  ‘Oh God…’ Rennie reached into his jacket and pulled out his extendable baton. ‘I knew I should’ve taken Donna swimming this morning…’

  Logan knocked again: three, loud and hard.

  Another dog joined the cacophony, only this one high-pitched and whiny, coming from number seven.

  Then a woman’s voice. Small, thin, and wary. ‘Who is it?’

  He held his warrant card up to the spyhole. ‘We need to talk about Fred Marshall.’

  Irene Marshall’s flat was spotless. OK, so the furniture and décor were a bit old-fashioned and dark, as if a pensioner lived there, but there wasn’t a hint of dust anywhere.

  A playpen sat in front of the TV, imprisoning a toddler in a tiger onesie who was busy banging the living hell out of some wooden blocks. His teddy bear cellmate was about three times bigger than him, eyes sparkling in the reflected light of a kids’ show with the sound turned off.

  Mrs Marshall sat on the brown corduroy couch. Late-twenties, dressed like a schoolteacher, hair cut into a curly brown bob. Big glasses. An ugly yappy miniature sausage dog in her lap. She fidgeted with its ears, eyes fixed on the rain-streaked window. ‘No. Not for two years one month and twenty-seven days.’ Deep breath. ‘Something must have happened to him.’

  Sitting on a throw-covered armchair, Rennie scribbled in his notebook. ‘Happened to him…’

  Logan leaned back against the sideboard. ‘What about his friends? Liam Houghton, Valerie Fuller, Oscar—’

  She sniffed. ‘They weren’t his friends, they were bad for him. Every time Freddie got into trouble, one of them was standing right behind him, egging him on. As soon as Freddie found out I was pregnant, that was it. He never spoke to any of them ever again. Ever.’

  ‘Never spoke to them ever again…’

  ‘So where do you think he went?’

  ‘He loves me and he loves baby Jaime. He would never abandon us!’ The dog whimpered and she hugged it, all four little legs poking out straight ahead. ‘Shhh, Tyrion. Daddy loves you too.’ She sniffed back another tear. ‘He was going to catering college…’

  ‘Going to catering college…’

  ‘Thank you, Detective Sergeant, I think we can do without the echo chamber.’

  Rennie blushed. ‘Sorry, Guv.’

  Idiot.

  ‘Mrs Marshall, did Fred ever mention someone called Aiden or Kenneth MacAuley?’

  She frowned, head on one side. ‘He was … that little boy who went missing, wasn’t he? I remember, because the book came out when I was pregnant with Jaime. And I felt so sorry for that poor woman. If anything like that happened to Jaime I’d die. I would, I’d just die.’

  The ugly dog whimpered again.

  ‘Did Fred say anything that made you think—’

  Her mobile phone dinged and buzzed, on the couch next to her. She ignored it.

  Logan had another go. ‘That made you think he was in trouble of some kind?’

  ‘Other than you lot hounding him and blaming him for things he hadn’t done?’ She stood, holding the dog even tighter, its tail whapping against her stomach. ‘I have to put Jaime down for his nap.’

  Another ding-and-buzz from her phone. She glanced at it. Licked her lip. Stepped between it and Logan.

  ‘We’re trying to help, Irene. We’re trying to get Fred back for you.’

  Mrs Marshall’s eyes flicked to the window. ‘Please, I need to put baby Jaime to bed! He’s tired.’

  The prisoner went on battering his wooden blocks together.

  ‘Don’t you want Fred back?’

  Her face flushed. ‘OF COURSE I WANT HIM BACK! I MISS HIM LIKE I’D MISS A LEG, YOU…’

  A rattle sounded in the hall, followed by the front door’s creak. Then a man’s voice, getting louder: ‘Baby? Baby, I got them Oreos you like: peanut butter…’

  Logan turned.

  He was big, broad, with tiny piggy eyes and a barbed-wire tattoo around his neck. Handlebar moustache and a chin tuft. Hair shaved at the sides and swept back on top. Fancy-looking chunky watch on his wrist, gold sovereign rings on his fingers. A hessian bag-for-life covered in daisies in one hand and a mobile phone in the other.

  ‘Well, well, well.’ Logan reached for his handcuffs. ‘If it isn’t Crowbar Craig Simpson. How nice of you to…’

  And Simpson was off, dropping the phone and legging it.

  Rennie scrambled out of his chair and ran after him, Logan close on his tail.

  Down the short hallway, and onto the landing.

  Crowbar hammered down the stairs, taking them two at a time, arms out to keep him upright.

  Bloody hell, he was quick. Throwing himself around the corners, bouncing off the walls, getting away.

  Logan skidded around onto the first-floor landing. ‘STOP! POLICE!’

  And then Rennie grabbed hold of the bannister and vaulted it, clearing the gap between the flights of stairs – coat-tails flapping out behind him, like a cut-price Batman. Crashing down on top of Crowbar as he reached the bottom step.

  They tumbled across the wet concrete floor in a tangle of arms and legs.

  Grunting and hissing. Struggling.

  A lurch to the left and Rennie was on top. ‘Hold still, you wee—’

  Crowbar roared. His fist snapped forward, right into Rennie’s jaw, sending him rocking backwards.

  And as Rennie thumped against the wall, Crowbar wrestled his way upright, lurching to the front door and yanking it open as Logan clattered down the last few steps and leapt.

  BANG – Logan slammed into his back.

  They burst out through the open door and thumped onto the rain-slicked path. Rolling over and over. Crowbar swinging his arms and legs. Grunting. Teeth bared. ‘GERROFF OF ME!’

  A fist whistled past Logan’s nose.

  He grabbed the wrist it was attached to, twisting it around the wrong way and leaning on it.

  A flicker of lightning sparked the sky white for a moment, then thunder roared – a vast booming crackling howl. And the rain hammered down.

  ‘GERROFF ME! I’LL KILL YOU!’

  Logan twisted harder.

  ‘AAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’ Thrashing and writhing.

  ‘Hold still!’ Logan yanked Crowbar to the left, grabbed a handful of his Peaky Blinders haircut and forced his face into the grass at the side of the path.

  ‘I AIN’T DONE NOTHING!’ The words muffled by mud. ‘GERROFF ME! YOU’RE BREAKING MY ARM!’

  ‘I said, hold still!’

  Rennie staggered out through the front door, clutching his jaw. ‘Rotten sod…’

  ‘Little help?’

  ‘You’re not meant to punch police officers in the face!’ Rennie pulled out his cuffs and snapped one end onto Crowbar’s wrist. Forcing it up behind his back so he could get the one Logan was holding as well. Crrrrritch. All nice and secure.

  They stood, panting as Crowbar bellowed his rage out into the downpour.

  Served him right.

  Irene Marshall sat on the couch with her ugly little sausage dog, glaring up at them.

  The middle of the tidy living room was almost completely taken up with Rennie and Crowbar Craig – still in handcuffs and all clarted in mud – dripping on the carpet.

  Logan shook the rain from a trouser leg. Absolutely soaked right through. ‘So that’s why you were so keen to get rid of us.’

  Mrs Marshall hugged her dog tighter. ‘No comment.’

  ‘What happened to “they weren’t his friends, they were bad for him”?’

  ‘Oh yes, because you know what it’s like being a single mother living on benefits!’

  Crowbar tightened. ‘You leave her alone.’

  Rennie patted him on the shoulder. ‘Easy…’

  ‘I have needs! OK? I’m flesh and blood and I have needs.’ The ugly dog bared its teeth at Logan and growled. ‘Shhh, Tyrion. Shhh…’ Mrs Marshal
l turned her back on them. ‘I have needs.’

  The custody suite had that strange biscuity smell to it again, like stale digestives and vinegary BO. It went with the painted breeze-block walls, community engagement posters, and row of creaky plastic seating. It especially went with Sergeant Jeff Downie – standing behind the chest-high custody desk, ignoring his domain. Skin so pale it was nearly fluorescent, shining in the overhead strip lights. Hooded eyes. Almost no chin.

  Gollum in a Police Scotland uniform.

  He was reading that morning’s Aberdeen Examiner. The one with the photo of DI Bell’s crashed rental car and ‘“SUICIDE COP” FAKED OWN DEATH’ headline.

  Logan squelched over to the desk and knocked on the Formica top. ‘Got a present for you.’

  Downie looked up, sniffed, then actually smiled for a change. Beaming at Crowbar Craig. ‘Ah, Mr Simpson! How lovely to see you again. You’ll be pleased to hear that your usual suite is available. I’d recommend a spa treatment, but I see you’ve already had a mudbath. And what is that delightful smell?’

  Crowbar glowered at him, jaw clenched shut.

  ‘Now, how about we empty our pockets so I can sign it all in?’

  Rennie dug through Crowbar’s pockets, lining the contents up on the custody desk. ‘Assorted keys, cash, a wallet, a bag of weed, rolling papers, some betting slips.’ He patted Crowbar on the arm. ‘Come on then, let’s have those sovereign rings. That massive lump of a watch too.’

  Between them they added his jewellery to the line.

  Sergeant Downie picked up the watch and gave it a good hard squint. ‘Ooh, now that’s a swanky timepiece if ever I’ve seen one. Stolen?’

  Crowbar shrugged. ‘Knock-off, isn’t it?’

  ‘Story of my life.’ Downie tried the wallet next, pulling out a credit card. ‘What have we here? When did you become Agnes Deveron? Looking after it for a friend, are we?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Logan helped himself to Downie’s copy of the Aberdeen Examiner and wandered off to the line of plastic chairs while Rennie got Crowbar booked in. The photo of DI Bell’s crashed car with accompanying article by Colin Scumbag Miller.

  He scrolled through the contacts on his phone and set it ringing.

  It rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. And—

  ‘Mortuary.’

  ‘Sheila, I need to talk to Isobel.’

  ‘My mistress is engaged in her profession and cares not for interruptions.’

  ‘Your…? Why are you talking like that?’

  ‘Talking like what?’

  ‘Just get Isobel on the phone, OK?’

  Her voice went a bit muffled, as if she was partially covering the mouthpiece. ‘Inspector McRae craves your attention, Professor.’

  Isobel’s voice was barely audible in the background. ‘Urgh… Oh, all right then: put him on.’ And then she was up to full volume. ‘If you’re calling for DS Chalmers’ post-mortem results, you’re at least three hours too early.’

  Logan gave the Aberdeen Examiner a pointed rustle. ‘I had a run-in with your husband today.’

  ‘How nice for you. Now, if that’s all, I’m busy. It’s gone five and I’d like to get home before the children are all in bed.’

  ‘He was in DI Bell’s widow’s house this morning, with a photographer. Says he knows what Bell’s been up to for the last two years, but he’s not going to tell us.’

  ‘And?’ All calm and unconcerned, as if it had nothing to do with her.

  ‘He’s withholding information from a murder investigation!’

  She sighed. ‘Inspector McRae, you know perfectly well that Colin’s professional life and mine are completely separate. Do we have to go over this again?’

  ‘He—’

  ‘He doesn’t speak to me about his work and I don’t speak to him about mine. If you’ve got a problem with him, talk to him about it, not me.’

  ‘You could at least have a word with him and—’

  ‘No.’ She actually had the cheek to sound annoyed, as if this was somehow all Logan’s fault. ‘Now, is there anything else, or can I return to dissecting DS Chalmers’ liver?’

  Pfff… There was no point arguing with her when she was like that. It only ever made things worse.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘We’ll have to wait for the toxicology results, but going by the smell of her stomach contents, she’d consumed a lot of alcohol.’

  ‘Dutch courage. She was on antidepressants too. Probably helped.’

  Silence from the other end.

  ‘Isobel?’

  ‘Which antidepressants? Do you know which ones?’

  ‘Erm…’ Nope – Chalmers’ medicine cabinet was a blur. Well, everything but the Aripiprazole, and that was an antipsychotic, not antidepressant. ‘I can find out, if you like?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  One last go: ‘And Isobel? Talk to Colin. Please.’

  ‘No. Goodbye.’ And she was gone.

  ‘Great.’ Ah well, no one could say he hadn’t tried. Logan put his phone away and wandered over to the custody desk. Pointed at Crowbar Craig. ‘Do you a deal, Craig. I’m soaked right through, and DS Rennie here needs a shower so he doesn’t smell of stairwell-urine any more.’

  Rennie folded his arms. ‘I do not smell of…’ He sniffed. Frowned. ‘OK, now I’m getting it.’

  ‘You tell us all about Fred Marshall and we’ll forget about you assaulting a police officer and resisting arrest. One-time-only offer, you’ve got until I get dry and changed to make up your mind.’

  Simpson scowled at him, mouth working on something, jaw muscles clenching… Then he hung his head. Groaned. Nodded. ‘I hate Aberdeen…’

  18

  Rennie’s voice oozed out through the closed door. ‘…and it’s a really big deal, right? They don’t make just anyone Senior Investigating Officer, do they? So I said to him, I said, this isn’t—’

  He went quiet when Logan opened the door and stepped inside.

  Rennie winked at Crowbar Craig. ‘I’ll tell you later.’

  Someone must have given Interview Room Three a coat of paint recently, hiding its usual scent of desperation and cheesy feet beneath a magnolia-coloured chemical funk.

  Crowbar sat in the chair opposite Rennie’s, with his back to the window, fidgeting. Not making eye contact as Logan closed the door and sat down.

  A thumbs up from Rennie. ‘Ready when you are, Guv.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  He set the machinery recording again. ‘Interview resumes at seventeen twenty-one, Inspector Logan McRae has entered the room.’

  Logan dumped his folder on the table and settled back in his seat. Watching Crowbar. Letting the silence grow.

  ‘Aye.’ Crowbar fidgeted a bit more. Glanced up at the camera mounted in the corner of the room, where the walls joined the ceiling. ‘Before we begin, I want to make it crystal: I don’t shag my mates’ wives.’

  Rennie nodded. ‘Well, except for, you know, shagging your mate’s wife.’

  ‘That’s different. That’s no’ shagging, that’s …’ his cheeks went all pink, ‘making love.’

  Rennie spluttered.

  Logan was a bit more professional, but it wasn’t easy hiding the smile. ‘You wanted to tell us about Fred Marshall, Craig.’

  ‘Aye. Long as we agree about the shagging thing, right?’ He paused, eyebrows raised. And then, when no one said anything: ‘Right. OK, so Freddie was going straight. Didn’t want to do nothing any more. No robbing, no nicking cars, nothing. I tried… I mean, some other bloke tried to get him involved in a bit of protection racketing and he wouldn’t even do that!’ Crowbar inched forward in his seat, eyes shining. ‘And I mean it was buttery as a fresh rowie: old fart shopkeepers with grandkids. No way they’d put up a fight or go to the cops.’

  ‘But he wouldn’t do it.’

  A shrug, arms out as if it were unbelievable. ‘Told you: gone straight.’

  Logan put on a
full-throated panto voice. ‘Oh – no – he didn’t!’

  ‘Aye, he did. And anyone says different is a lying bastard.’

  ‘Really?’ Logan opened the folder and pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘Because I have here your statement to Detective Sergeant Rose Savage, two and a half years ago, where you claim that Fred Marshall told you he abducted Aiden MacAuley and murdered Aiden’s father Kenneth.’

  ‘Ah.’ Crowbar looked away, cheeks darkening even more. ‘No comment.’

  ‘You see, it’s hard to take you seriously when you say Fred Marshall was going straight with one breath and with the next you’re telling us he’s murdered someone.’

  He slumped in his seat. ‘Aaaaaargh…’

  ‘In your own time.’

  ‘Before we go any further I want it made crystal: I don’t clype on people, right? Right.’

  Rennie grinned at him. ‘But…?’

  ‘Yeah, he told me he killed the dad. Bashed his head in with a rock.’ A shudder. ‘He … kept on going with it, you know? Smashing and bashing till there’s blood and brains and bits of skull and that everywhere.’

  Logan leaned forward. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Said he must’ve recognised him or something. I dunno, do I?’

  ‘Then why did he abduct Aiden MacAuley?’

  ‘Some bloke offered him two grand for the kid.’

  Silence.

  Logan skimmed the statement again. ‘Doesn’t say anything about money here, Craig.’

  ‘Yeah, I … must’ve forgot about that bit.’

  ‘You forgot that your best mate was paid two thousand pounds to abduct a child and murder someone?’

  He went back to fidgeting. ‘I was doing a lot of coke then. Stuff gets muddled up.’

  ‘Riiiiiiiiiiight. Course it does.’ Logan tapped the tabletop. ‘Who paid two thousand pounds for Aiden MacAuley?’

  ‘I don’t do coke no more, cos of Jaime. Can’t be around a kid when you’re on coke. Got to raise kids right, like.’

  ‘Who – was – it?’

  Barely a mumble, like a small child caught with a handful of biscuits: ‘Don’t remember.’

  Of course he didn’t.

  The little red lights on the recording equipment blinked.

  Outside, in the corridor, someone shouted something incomprehensible.