The Blood Road

by Stuart MacBride

  Then those teeny reaching fingers went all floppy and the hand disappeared inside again. Before a new set of sniffling sobs clicked and hushed through the Scary Room.

  Four of them and eight crates. That meant there was still—

  The Horrible Song crackled out of the speakers up by the roof and the sniffy crying stopped like someone had thrown a tea towel over a budgie:

  ‘Teddy bears and elephants went up the stairs to bed,

  They’d had a lovely dinner of tomato soup and bread,’

  The man was coming back. The man who didn’t have a face!

  ‘Their mummy made them custard and bananas for their tea,’

  Ellie’s heart went thumpity in her chest, breaths spiky through her nose as she backed against the far wall of her crate and covered her face with her tied-together hands. Peering out through her fingers.

  ‘And read them lovely stories until they were all sleepy.’

  The door opened and The Faceless Man walked into the Scary Room all squinted over sideways cos he was carrying a big plastic carrier thing in one hand – the kind with a grille door that people took kitty-cats to the animal doctor in. He grunted and heaved it onto the workbench in the corner.

  ‘Go up the stairs, you sleepy bears, it’s time to brush your teeth,’

  Wiggled his fingers and wobbled his hand, cos whatever was in the big carrier had to be really heavy.

  ‘Then climb into your cosy beds and snuggle underneath,’

  His face was a big flat slab of grey nothing. No nose, no mouth, and no eyes either – all he had were two thin holes with darkness behind them. Much worse than a monster, because monsters were made-believey-up and The Faceless Man was real.

  ‘You elephants must say your prayers and promise to be good,’

  He unbolted one of the eight crates and thumped the lid open.

  ‘For Mummy and for Daddy just as every nice child should.’

  The Faceless Man went over to the kitten-cat carrier and pulled out a small boy with shiny yellow hair, a red splodgy dirty bit on his face, and sticky tape hiding his mouth. Both hands tied together. The boy’s eyes were big as the moon as he tried to wriggle back inside, but The Faceless Man grabbed his arm and ripped the sticky tape off his mouth. Opened a drawer and pulled out a red ball thing like Ellie had on.

  ‘It’s time for dreams and sleepy times as you lie in your bunks,

  You teddy bears without a care, you elephants with trunks,’

  The boy squirmed. ‘Lemmego, lemmego, lemmego!’

  But The Faceless Man pushed him down, stuffed the red ball into his mouth and buckled it behind his head. Then scooped him up, carried him over to the open crate and stuck him inside. Thumped the lid shut and clunked the fixy thing closed.

  ‘And Nanny will kiss you goodnight and wish you lovely sleep,

  So close your eyes, my little ones, it’s time for counting sheep.’

  The Faceless Man picked up the big carrier again.

  ‘Tomorrow is another day, what fun you’ll have, and how!’

  He turned and looked at them with his empty slits. Waved.

  ‘But today is done and over, so let’s go to sleep for now,’

  His voice was all kind and warm – like he’d stolen it from Ellie’s next-door neighbour, Mr Seafield, who always had sweeties in his pockets and a friendly smile and a doggy you could pat if you promised to wash your hands afterwards. ‘You all play nice now.’

  ‘God bless Mummy and Daddy, yes and God bless Nanny too,’

  The Faceless Man took the kitten carrier out of the Scary Room, clunking the door shut behind him.

  ‘It’s sleepy time, oh loves of mine, and I will—’

  The music stopped.

  Ellie moved to the front of her crate as the silence got bigger and bigger and bigger.

  Then the crying started again.

  19

  Fiery oranges and pinks glowed on the underside of the coal-coloured clouds, as if the whole sky was made of smouldering embers. Rain hissed against the pool car’s windscreen, thickening as they headed across Northfield.

  The radio was on again, but at least this time Rennie had the decency to hum along instead of singing. ‘You want me to get a lookout request on the go for Freddy Marshall? Maybe try Manchester, Liverpool, and Birmingham? Ooh, and Brighton too.’

  ‘Hmmm…’ According to Cold Blood and Dark Granite Aiden’s photo and description had been circulated by the FBI, Interpol, and most of the world’s press.

  ‘Honestly, it’s like talking to myself.’

  ‘Hmmm…’ All that coverage for about four weeks and then the media moved on to the next terrorist atrocity and celebrity sex scandal. The twenty-four-hour news cycle devouring everything fed to it, then—

  Logan’s phone dinged. Dinged. Then dinged again. When he pulled it from his pocket, ‘BRUCIE (3)’ sat in the middle of the screen. ‘Here we go.’ He brought up the first message and read it out loud. ‘“Raymond Hacker, CEO of AberRAD Investigation Services Limited. Used to be a detective sergeant, back when we were still Grampian Police.”’ Next message… ‘Ha! So much for leaving to set up his own business – says here Professional Standards kicked him out for taking bribes.’

  Rennie nodded. ‘I knew he was dodgy.’

  Message number three: ‘“Known associates, ex-DC Andy Harris: caught stealing evidence from crime scenes. Drugs mostly. And ex-DC Danielle Smith: done for excessive force. Broke a drink-driver’s jaw.”’

  ‘I could’ve taken her though. You know, if you hadn’t come along.’

  ‘She’d have had your bumhole for an umbrella stand.’ Logan put his phone away and picked up his book again. ‘So AberRAD Investigations is full of police officers who’ve been thrown off the force.’

  ‘You could make an ace detective thing on the telly from that.’ Rennie put on a big cheesy voice-over voice. ‘Once, they were bad cops. Now, they’re the last and only hope for those who can’t get justice anywhere else…’ Then launched into dramatic theme music. ‘Dan da-da dan daaaa! Diddly twiddly too dee doo…’

  ‘You’re an idiot. You know that, don’t you?’

  He shrugged and drove on in silence for a bit. Then, ‘So why didn’t you drink your tea?’

  ‘Because I know what ex-police officers are like. And I don’t enjoy the taste of other people’s spit.’

  A look of utter disgust writhed across Rennie’s face. ‘Urrgh! I drank all mine!’

  Rennie slowed the pool car as they drove down Queen Street. Pointed across the road. ‘Look at these silly sods.’

  The protest outside Divisional Headquarters was about three times the size it’d been earlier. Which was quite impressive, given the rain. It hammered down from a burnt-orange sky, yellowed by the street lights, bouncing off umbrellas and placards as they marched round and round and round.

  Logan buzzed his window down an inch and rival chants broke through the downpour.

  ‘Find Ellie Morton today! End the uncertainty! Find Ellie Morton today! End the uncertainty!’

  A second group stood over by the front doors.

  ‘Bring Ellie Morton back! Catch this sodding maniac! Bring Ellie Morton back! Catch this sodding maniac!’

  A third bunch was putting on a show for the TV cameras and journalists, their loudhailer leader whipping them up.

  Her voice hissed and crackled out into the rain: ‘WHAT DO WE WANT?’

  A ragged chorus: ‘Ellie found, safe and sound!’

  ‘WHEN DO WE WANT IT?’

  ‘Now!’

  Rennie grimaced. ‘Yeah, they look friendly…’

  Logan tucked his copy of Cold Blood and Dark Granite into his fleece pocket. ‘I want you to badger Inspector Pearce about that CCTV trawl for Chalmers’ car. Make a nuisance of yourself till she does it just to get rid of you.’

  ‘I thought, you know, as I’m SIO, I should pull in a couple of Chalmers’ colleagues.’ He took the turning around the side of the building, heading up the ra
mp. ‘Give them a bit of a grilling.’

  ‘And get that lookout request going for Fred Marshall.’

  ‘Stick them in a chair with a light in their face.’ Putting on a James Cagney voice for, ‘You’re gonna talk, see? You’re gonna talk, or I’m gonna beat the living snot outta ya!’ The rear podium car park opened out at the top of the ramp – the usual collection of patrol cars, pool cars, and the small cluster of much fancier vehicles belonging to senior officers glowed in the security spotlights.

  ‘Chalmers was working with DS Steel. So good luck with that.’

  ‘Ah… Yeah. Maybe not then.’

  Logan undid his seatbelt. ‘You’d be better off having another trawl through DI Bell’s old cases. See if you missed anything.’

  ‘Noooooo…’ Whining like a teenager asked to tidy their room. ‘But I’m SIO!’

  ‘It’s not meant to stand for “Sulky, Incompetent, and ’Orrible”.’

  Logan rolled his eyes. ‘You’re wrong. You are. Accept it.’

  The corridor was all nice and shiny and smelling of pine – down the far end, the familiar rhythmic whum-whum-whum of a floor polisher echoed off the walls.

  Rennie opened the door to their temporary office. ‘All I’m saying is: the shark would definitely win.’

  Logan followed him in. ‘What if they were fighting in a wardrobe? The bear would definitely win.’

  ‘Yeah, but why would a shark be in a wardrobe in the first—’

  The Addams Family theme tune belted out of Logan’s phone. He pointed at Rennie’s computer. ‘Go. Do stuff.’ Then answered it. ‘Sheila?’

  A cold, hard voice sounded in his ear. ‘Of course not.’ Isobel. Oh joy. ‘Have you identified the antidepressants DS Chalmers was on yet?’

  ‘Isobel. How nice to hear from you again.’

  ‘The antidepressants, Inspector McRae, have you identified them?’

  Logan stuck his hand over the phone and grimaced at Rennie. ‘Can you remember what antidepressants Lorna Chalmers was on?’

  ‘Ermmm… No?’

  ‘Well, you’re a fat lot of help, aren’t you?’ He turned around and trudged out into the corridor again. ‘I’m on my way to do it now.’

  ‘I should think so too.’ And then she hung up.

  Lovely.

  Logan put his phone away and hauled on his best Isobel voice. ‘“I should think so too.” “The antidepressants, Inspector McRae.”’ He dropped the iceberg impersonation. ‘God, Logan, you really could pick them…’

  At least the rain’s stopped…

  Sally pulls a handkerchief from her coat sleeve and blows her nose. Huffs out a cloudy breath. Wipes at her stinging eyes.

  The play area’s busy – scores of kids screaming as they run around the slides and climbing frames and wobbly duck things. Their mums gather at the outside edges, smoking, chatting, or fiddling with their mobile phones, exploiting this break in the weather to tire out their little darlings. Up above, the sky is a solid lump of churned granite, but the setting sun has somehow managed to find a chink between the clouds and the earth, making Westburn Park glow. Turning Aberdeen from a dreich grey lump to a technicolour beauty.

  She settles down on the edge of a bench – the only dry bit – and shifts the stroller so it’s next to her. The teddy bear strapped into the seat is mostly hidden by the hood and deep walled sides, but it still smiles its dead smile at her, plastic eyes glinting in the sunlight.

  Sally takes a deep breath. Bites her lip.

  Stares out at the play area.

  Look at them all, running and shrieking and laughing, playing tag and pirates and…

  She swallows down the knot of wire in her throat. Wipes her eyes again.

  The swings were always Aiden’s favourites. He would’ve spent hours on them if she’d let him, squealing for Kenneth to push him higher this time. Higher, Daddy! And Kenneth would smile and push him higher, and they’d all laugh…

  The knot of wire is back. Sally bites her bottom lip and tries to keep it all—

  ‘Excuse me, are you OK?’

  She looks up and a fat balding man is running on the spot, right in front of her, in Lycra shorts and a fluorescent-orange T-shirt, earphones held in one hand. Face all pink and sweaty. His belly jiggles every time his big white trainers hit the ground.

  Heat rushes up her cheeks. ‘Sorry.’ She dries her eyes again. ‘Just being stupid. Sorry.’

  ‘OK, if you’re…’ He’s staring at her. Then his eyes widen. ‘You’re her, aren’t you? Yeah, yeah, you are! God. Wow. I read your book!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, it was really good.’ A smile spreads across his chubby face. ‘Wow. Sally MacAuley…’ He licks his lips. ‘Look, I wouldn’t normally, but like I said, I read your book…’ Then he pulled out a smartphone. ‘Can I take a selfie? Yeah?’

  ‘I really don’t… I’m not…’

  But he does it anyway: pulling a pose and flashing victory Vs at his phone’s camera as it clicks. The two of them captured forever on the screen.

  Sally flinches.

  He puts his phone back in his pocket. ‘You sure you’re OK?’

  A nod. Holding it in. Please go away. PLEASE GO AWAY!

  His smile never slips. ‘OK. Great. Well, really nice to meet you. Keep up the good work!’ He gives her a thumbs up, then sticks his headphones on again and lumbers off. ‘Sally MacAuley… Wow!’

  Soon as he’s gone, Sally hits herself on the head – thumping her fist into the hair above her ear, making it ring. Then again, harder. And again. ‘Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!’

  What the hell was she thinking?

  She stands, grabs the stroller and wheels the teddy bear towards the exit. Past the play area with its happy children and mothers too tired, or too stupid to realise that every single moment with their sons and daughters has to be cherished. Because someone can come along and take it all away in an instant.

  She scrubs a hand across her eyes as she gets to the car park. Wheels the stroller over to her rusty old Shogun and opens the boot. It’s full of empty feed bags and drifts of orange baler twine, but Sally folds the stroller up and thrusts it inside anyway. Slams the boot shut and stands there, forehead resting against the scratched red bodywork. Scrunches her eyes closed and curls her hands into fists. ‘How could you be so stupid?’

  Quarter to seven on a Saturday night and the streets were virtually deserted. Up above, the sky was still its burnt marmalade colour, the clouds lit from underneath by the city lights. But it had actually stopped raining for a change.

  Logan took the slip road at the Lang Stracht junction, onto the dual carriageway, heading for Kingswells. Should be there in about, what, five minutes?

  An overexcited DJ burbled out of the Audi’s stereo. ‘…is dinner with local crime writer J.C. Williams and the chance to be a character in her next PC Munro book!’

  His phone dinged and buzzed, announcing an incoming text.

  Well tough. He was driving.

  ‘And bidding for that stands at two thousand and sixty pounds. Let’s see if we can get it to three grand by the end of the show!’

  Right at the roundabout, up the hill past the park-and-ride. Trees crowded both sides of the road, leaves shiny and dark. Glistening in the row of street lights.

  This time, his phone didn’t bother dinging, it launched straight into ‘If I Only Had A Brain’. Logan pressed the button on the steering wheel and the radio faded to silence. ‘Simon.’

  Rennie’s voice boomed out. ‘First up: Biohazard Bob says thanks for arresting Crowbar Craig. He owes you a pint or two.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘Oh yeah, it’s absolutely lovely. I’m the one got punched in the face! Where’s my pints?… Wait, you sound like you’re in a car. Are you in a car?’

  ‘What’s second up?’

  ‘Did you abandon me at the ranch and sod off to do something more exciting instead?’

  ‘I need to check those antidepressants a
t Chalmers’ house. You were busy doing things, remember? Now: second up.’

  A grunt, a groan, then, ‘OK, OK… Had a word with a mate of mine in DI Fraser’s MIT. They’ve got an address for where DI Bell was staying: the Netherley Arms. They’re keeping it top secret.’

  The road skirted Kingswells, orange and grey pantile roofs visible over high garden fences.

  ‘Odds on it’ll be all over the Aberdeen Examiner tomorrow morning.’

  ‘And third up, but not least up: I nagged the team looking through the CCTV footage for DS Chalmers’ car, like you asked.’

  Left at the junction and into darkest Kingswells. They’d made some effort with the planting, but it was still a sprawling collection of housing estates, bolted together by cutesy-woodsey-named roads.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Not great. Automatic number plate recognition only works if you’ve got the car on camera and there’s only so much of Aberdeen that’s covered in cameras.’

  ‘Hmmm…’ Logan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, How the hell were they meant to find out where Chalmers had been with no clues, witnesses, or evidence?

  ‘Does it matter where she went? I mean, if she killed herself…?’

  ‘It matters because she thought she had a lead on the Ellie Morton abduction, but she didn’t want to share it. We need to know.’

  ‘Ah, OK. In that case, maybe we’d be better off trying to track her mobile phone instead?’

  He’d walked right into that one.

  Logan grinned. ‘Good idea. Off you go then.’

  ‘Gah…! But it’s quarter to seven. On a Saturday! I knew I should’ve stayed at home…’

  ‘You’re SIO now, remember? SIOs get to go home when the work’s done.’

  Silence.

  Logan took a right, then a left, following the satnav.

  A long, grudging sigh huffed out of the speakers. Then, ‘All right, all right. I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Let me know.’ Logan thumbed the button and hung up.

  The DJ on the stereo got louder again. ‘…twenty pounds from Marion at Chesney’s Discount Carpet Warehouse in Milltimber if I’ll give a big shout-out to all their staff and customers. Done and done, Marion!’