The Blood Road

by Stuart MacBride

  Now there was a thought.

  He pulled out his phone with his other hand and scrolled through his contacts. Set it ringing.

  A blare of party music got muffled by something. Then, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Dr Frampton? It’s Logan. Logan McRae?’

  ‘Ah, Inspector McRae. Let’s see it’s … twenty past seven on a Saturday evening, I’m guessing this isn’t a social call?’

  ‘I know it’s the weekend, but I wondered if you could maybe do me a wee favour?’

  ‘A forensic soil scientist’s work is never done. What do you need?’

  ‘I’ve got a pair of shoes with some dirt on them. I need to know what they trod in and where.’

  ‘Do you now…’ A pause. ‘Well, I suppose you did sort out that thing for me…’ Then a slurping noise came through the phone’s speaker. ‘It’ll have to wait till tomorrow, though: I’ve been downing Tom Collinses since four and even I wouldn’t trust me to run the mass spectrometer.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll drop them off on my way past. Fifteen minutes?’

  ‘If I’m in the hot tub, you can leave them in the porch.’ A smile crept into her voice. ‘That or borrow a swimming costume?’

  ‘Can’t. Things to see, people to do.’

  ‘Shame. I’ve got a pair of budgie smugglers you’d look lovely in.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve got to…’ He hung up and had a wee shudder. Woman was incorrigible.

  Right, all he needed now was newspaper to wrap Chalmers’ shoes in and a box to keep them safe from here to Dr Frampton’s house.

  Logan tucked the Amazon box under his arm and locked the front door.

  Kermit the Weirdo was waiting for him, standing on the driveway, the streetlight behind him casting his face and hands into shadow. The creepy effect was somewhat undermined by the fact he was sheltering under a Hello Kitty umbrella. Was that meant to be ironic, or did it belong to some unknown baby sister? Kermit took a step closer, eyes hungry in the gloom. ‘You find anything?’

  ‘I didn’t get your name earlier.’

  Kermit nodded. ‘Norman. Clifton. But my mates call me “Tebbit”.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’ Logan held up his hand – the key glinted on the end of its fuzzy fob. ‘I’ll have to keep hold of this for a couple of days, Norman. Part of the investigation.’

  ‘Oh…’ He turned and scuffed away down the drive, shoulders hunched, umbrella canopy glowing like a pink mushroom as he passed beneath the streetlight.

  ‘Thanks for all your help.’ Logan smiled and waved him goodbye, keeping his voice nice and low so Kermit the Weirdo couldn’t hear him. ‘And this way you can’t sneak in and lick the floor where she hanged herself, you utter freak.’

  More waving and smiling, until Kermit disappeared into his mum’s house, then Logan hurried down the driveway – scrambling in behind the Audi’s wheel as his phone belted out its generic ringtone.

  He dumped the cardboard box on the passenger seat, then answered the call. ‘McRae.’

  What sounded like a little girl, singing in the background, came through the speaker. Another, littler girl joined in, getting most of the words wrong.

  ‘An allosaurus, name of Doris, lived long ago inside a forest,

  She was a stinky dinosaur, everyone told her so…’

  Then the whole lot was drowned out by a harsh, hissing whisper. ‘You utterly and completely misogynistic bastard!’

  ‘It really hurt her feelings to be told she’s unappealing,

  So Doris asked a brontosaurus, because she didn’t know,

  And he said…’

  ‘OK…’ He checked the caller ID: ‘TS TARA’. Frowned. ‘Tara, is that you?’

  ‘We haven’t invented soap, so that’s why we’re all smelly,

  Or stethoscopes, or skipping ropes, or envelopes, or telly!’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I mean the thing about the old lady rotting her way through the floor was bad enough, but I am not your bloody babysitter!’

  Not another one. He tried not to sigh, he really did.

  ‘Remember when I lent you my key this morning on the condition that you didn’t turn out to be a complete nutjob?’

  ‘Just because I offered to cook dinner doesn’t make me your skivvy!’

  ‘What the hell are you on about?’

  A muffled scrunch. Then, ‘Don’t act like you didn’t know: she turned up and dumped Jasmine and Naomi on me then ran away! She. Her. Steel!’

  She dumped…? Oh God.

  A cold hard lump ballooned inside his stomach.

  How could she do that?

  ‘Tara? I’m going to have to call you back. I’ve got to go shout at Roberta Sodding Steel!’ He hung up and stabbed Steel’s number in his contact list. Set it ringing as he started the car and pulled away from the kerb.

  The Audi’s hands-free system picked it up, and a robotic-sounding Steel belted out of the speakers. ‘You’ve reached the voicemail of Roberta Steel. I’m busy, or I don’t want to speak to you. Leave a message and you’ll find out which.’

  Bleeeeeeep.

  He strangled the steering wheel – if only it was her neck! ‘You can’t abandon Jasmine and Naomi with Tara and sod off! Are you trying to ruin everything for me?’ He bared his teeth, dragged in a long breath. ‘AAAAAAAAAA‌AAAAAAAAAA‌AAAAAAAAARGH!’ Then mashed the ‘END CALL’ button with an angry thumb.

  Had another scream for good luck. ‘AAAAAAAAAA‌AAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’

  Called Tara.

  She was still doing the angry pantomime whisper. ‘Logan?’

  ‘Steel’s not answering her phone.’

  The sound of little feet thundered past in stereo. ‘Thooloo! Thooloo!’

  ‘You didn’t agree to this in advance?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t! I bought bubble bath. I even bought fizzy wine for you to drink while soaking in the bubble bath. This is Steel’s revenge for me not babysitting last night.’

  More thundering feet. Then Jasmine’s voice sounded loud and clear. ‘Aunty Tara? Aunty Tara, Naomi needs to go to the toilet.’

  ‘I’m not good with children, Logan. They frighten me.’

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go to the station and sign out, but then I’ll be right home. I promise.’

  ‘You’d better be. Because—’

  ‘Aunty Tara? Naomi really, really needs to go to the toilet!’

  ‘Oh God…’ She was obviously trying to put a bit of confidence into her voice. It almost worked. ‘Come on, Tara, if you can blind a man with your thumbs, you can do this.’ And then she was gone.

  Logan grimaced at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. Yeah, that last bit wasn’t worrying at all…

  21

  That’s the thing about Aberdeen – as soon as the rain stops, people rush outside, trying to enjoy themselves, as if it’s the middle of a summer’s day. Only it isn’t.

  A row of black metal lampposts cast a faint yellow glow into the car park, shimmering back from the puddles. About a dozen assorted hatchbacks and four-by-fours are spread out across the bays, but Sally ignores them, reversing in alongside a dirty grey Luton van in the corner instead. All four tyres are flat, and there’s a ‘POLICE AWARE’ sticker across the windscreen.

  Hmph.

  Yes, well the police might be ‘aware’, but, as usual, they’re doing sod-all about it.

  She leaves enough space between the Shogun and the van to get the passenger door open, backing up till the towbar is a couple of feet from the hedge bordering the car park.

  Her head itches, like it’s covered in ants. But that’s what she gets for listening to Raymond, isn’t it? I’ve bought you a wig, Sally. Put the wig on, Sally. No one will recognise you if you wear the wig, Sally. She tops the long, blonde, curly monstrosity with a baseball cap, flips up the hood on her old brown hoodie, and puts on her sunglasses. She looks like a stroppy teenager, but at least no one will ask for a selfie this time.

  Right. Let’s try it again.

  Sa
lly gets the stroller from the boot, clacks it into shape on the wet tarmac and wheels it away down one of the paths that lead off into Hazlehead Park.

  Nearly half past seven and there are lanky kids in AFC tracksuits and head torches, out whacking golfballs where they aren’t meant to. A knot of underage couples snogging and smoking and passing around two-litre bottles of extra-strong cider. Hands up sweatshirts and down jeans.

  She keeps going, following the path deeper and deeper into the park. Moving from the waxy glow of one lamppost to the next.

  Trees and bushes crowd in on the path as she pushes the teddy bear in its stroller. Following the sound.

  Shrieks and yells and giggling laughter.

  It’s not a huge play area: a seesaw, a climbing frame, and a set of swings. Almost a dozen small children have descended on it – some hanging from the bars, two going up and down and up and down, four roaring around and around pretending to be spaceships – while their parents stand on the periphery, looking bored. Chatting to one another or fiddling with their phones. Someone’s reading a magazine.

  Sally wheels the stroller past them, keeping her head down – along the path as it curls past the far side of the play area and disappears between a clump of thick green bushes.

  The kids on the other side screech and roar.

  Maybe it would be…

  She stops. Frowns.

  There’s a small girl sitting on the ground beneath one of the bigger bushes where it’s dry, playing with a handful of Star Wars action figures. A pretty little thing – can’t be more than five years old – in denim dungarees, a wine-red T-shirt, and grubby trainers. Hair a froth of Irn-Bru-coloured curls.

  No sign of her mother.

  How could anyone just let her wander off like that?

  Sally stands on her tiptoes, peering over the top of the bush. The parents barely seem to register the children screeching around in front of them. It’s unbelievable, it really is.

  She hunkers down in front of the little girl. ‘Hello.’

  No reply.

  ‘That looks fun.’

  Still nothing. So Sally picks up the Darth Vader figure and makes it walk towards her, adopting an over-the-top French accent: ‘Ello. I have ze leetle boy who likes space stuff too.’

  She doesn’t look up. ‘That’s not how Gunter talks. He’s American.’

  Right. Of course he is. Sally swaps her Inspector Clouseau for John Wayne instead. ‘Well gee, I sure am sorry, partner.’

  The little girl attacks a Chewbacca with a Princess Leia, biffing them together. ‘It’s OK. He’s a bit of a tit anyway.’

  ‘A bit of…?’

  Chewbacca falls over and Princess Leia jumps on his head.

  ‘That’s what Daddy says when someone’s not as clever as he is.’ She puts on a deep growly voice. ‘“Christ’s sake, Becky, but your Uncle Kevin’s a bit of a tit!”’

  ‘I see…’ Sally forces a smile. ‘Well, Becky, would you and Gunter like to come play with my little boy?’

  ‘Is he a bit of a tit?’

  Sally bites her lip for a moment, then pulls on the smile again. ‘No, he’s a lovely, handsome, clever, funny, little boy.’ She nods at the teddy bear, strapped into the stroller. ‘This is his best friend, Mr Bibble-Bobble. They’re playing hide-and-seek.’ She brings up a finger and points it at the bushes opposite. ‘Can you see him? He’s a very good hider.’

  And at that, the little girl finally looks up from Princess Leia giving Chewbacca a kicking and stares at the bush, eyes narrowing, lips pursed.

  Good. You keep facing that way.

  Sally slips the homemade gag from her pocket – it’s only a tea towel with a knot tied in the middle, but perfectly serviceable. ‘Can you see him?’

  Becky squints. ‘… Yes?’

  She edges closer. ‘Ooh, look: there he goes!’ Swinging her finger towards the nearest exit. ‘I bet we can sneak up on him if we’re all super quiet and sneaky like spies.’

  Becky scrambles to her feet. ‘Gunter is a spy!’

  ‘Quick, jump in the buggy and hide under Mr Bibble-Bobble.’ Sally unbuckles the bear. ‘He won’t expect a thing.’

  Becky puts one hand on the stroller … then stops. Looks back through the bushes at the knot of parents.

  Sally tightens her grip on the gag. Come on. Get in the buggy. Get in the buggy.

  She scuffs away a step. ‘Maybe I better—’

  ‘Unless you’re too big a scaredy-cat to be a spy?’

  ‘Am not a scaredy-cat!’ She grabs Darth Vader / Gunter from Sally’s hands. ‘Come on, Gunter, don’t be a tit.’ Then clambers into the stroller and pulls the teddy on top of herself. It barely covers half of her, but it’ll be good enough from a distance.

  She makes little giggling noises as Sally wheels her away along the path.

  ‘Shhh… You have to be very quiet.’

  Past the play area, past the snogging underage drinkers. Past the where-they’re-not-meant-to-be golfers. Back into the car park. And Becky’s still giggling…

  Sally pushes the stroller into the dark gap between her Shogun and the big manky Luton van. That’s when the giggling stops.

  Becky sits up and frowns. Stares at her. Then hauls in a huge breath, mouth open and ready to scream.

  Sally stuffs the gag into it.

  Quick – before anyone sees!

  She shoves Becky back into the stroller and grabs her hands – tying them together at the wrists with a double length of baler twine, ignoring the legs kicking against her thighs, the muffled roars as the little girl bucks and writhes.

  Soon as she’s got the hands secured, Sally ties the gag as well, then hauls the Shogun’s rear door open and bundles Becky into the footwell. Pins her against the carpet and ties her ankles together in the dim glow of the interior light.

  More muffled roaring.

  ‘Shh…’ Sally reaches out to stroke her hair, but Becky thrashes in the footwell like a mackerel in the bottom of a rowboat trying to escape the hook.

  ‘Shh… It’ll be OK. I promise, it’ll be OK…’

  Another length of rope goes around her waist and then around the metal struts supporting the passenger seat. Tied tight so she can’t get free.

  ‘It’s only for a little bit, I promise. Be a good girl and it’ll all be over soon. OK?’ And then Sally takes the pillowcase from the back seat and pulls it over Becky’s head.

  More roaring.

  She closes her eyes and lets out a shuddering breath. ‘Oh God…’ Then backs out of the car, closes the door, shoves the stroller in the boot, and hurries in behind the wheel. Starts the engine and twists on the headlights.

  It isn’t easy, sticking to the posted fifteen-mile-an-hour limit, but Sally does her best, even though muffled screams and thrashing sounds boom out from the back of the car.

  ‘Please, it’ll be OK. Please: shhhh…!’ Her voice is shrill in her own ears, panicky, pleading. ‘Shhhh…!’

  And it makes no difference – Becky keeps going.

  So Sally switches on the radio and turns it up to drown her out.

  A broad Doric accent joins the cacophony, so thick it’s barely comprehensible. ‘…an amazin’ four thoosand poon! Absolutely crackin’. And dinna forget we’ve still got a richt load a thingies ye canna buy oanywye else tae auction off fir the Ellie Morton Reward Fund! Noo: fit aboot a bittie music?’

  ‘Hold still!’ Sally tightens her grip on Becky’s dungarees, unlocks the shed, then carries her and the teddy bear inside.

  It’s gloomy in here. The ivy choking the window stops all but the faintest glow from the spotlight above the kitchen door getting through. Rain hisses on the roof, rattles in the ivy, scratches against the walls. It took most of the morning to clear the shed out, and now the only things in here are a couple of yoga mats with a sleeping bag on top, a pillow, a bucket, and the chain – screwed to one of the shed’s uprights.

  Sally carries Becky over to the sleeping bag and lowers her onto it, which w
ould be a lot easier if she wasn’t wriggling and squirming. Growling behind her gag, face still hidden by the pillowcase. Thrashing away on the floor of the shed.

  Maybe she’ll tire herself out?

  Or maybe she’ll hurt herself.

  Sally grabs her by the shoulders and gives her a shake. ‘Stop it! Stop it, please…’

  And she does. She actually does.

  Quick – before she starts up again! Sally wraps the chain’s loose end around Becky’s chest, just under the armpits, tight enough that she won’t be able to get it down over her tummy, and fixes it in place with a padlock.

  Good.

  Sally stands and puts the sunglasses on again. Makes sure her baseball cap is straight and her hood is up. Then removes the pillowcase from Becky’s head, revealing a pair of puffy bloodshot eyes and a bright-pink tear-streaked face.

  ‘Oh my baby…’ Sally reaches out to stroke her hair, but she flinches away – growling again. ‘Look, I know it’s bad. I know. But I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. I…’ She lowers herself to the wooden floor, sitting cross-legged in front of Becky. ‘I need your help. It’s only for a couple of days.’

  Becky glowers at her.

  ‘If you promise to be a good girl, I’ll untie your legs. Do you promise?’

  ‘Mnnnphgnnnph mmnnn…’ She holds up her hands.

  ‘No. Not the hands, the legs. You promise?’

  Silence. Then a nod.

  ‘There we go.’ Sally undoes the quick-release knot. Tucks the baler twine in her pocket. Sits back again. ‘Isn’t that a lot more comfortable?’

  ‘Mmmgnnnfff…’ Still glowering.

  ‘They took my little boy, Becky. They took him and they sold him to some very bad people.’ Sally picks up the teddy bear, squeezing it tight. ‘And I know he’s still alive, I know it, because people have seen him. People have…’

  This won’t be easy to explain to a five-year-old.

  ‘Becky, they have something called the Livestock Mart: it’s like an auction where you can buy and sell people. Children. He’s going to be auctioned off again.’ She looks down at the teddy bear in her arms. ‘I…’ Hugs it tighter. ‘I’m going to buy my little boy back, but it’s not easy. The people who run the auction are … suspicious of newcomers. If you want to be there you have to prove you’re one of them.’ Bile stings at the bottom of Sally’s throat. She swallows it down. ‘You have to have someone to sell.’