The Blood Road

by Stuart MacBride

  Bouncer grimaced. ‘Tenner says it’s all gorse and heather. Be an absolute nightmare to find anything in that.’

  ‘Aye, in the rain too.’ Steel shovelled in another mouthful of cheesy cauliflower. ‘I’ll stay in the car. Make sure no one steals it.’

  Oh no she sodding wouldn’t.

  Logan put his phone in the middle of the table, where everyone could see. ‘DI Bell won’t have buried it under a gorse bush. He’d want somewhere secluded but easy to dig.’

  The waitress appeared again, with three more plates. ‘Got a meatloaf, chicken Provençal, and another cauliflower cheese?’

  Charlie pointed at Polly’s empty chair. ‘Meatloaf.’ Then at himself. ‘Chicken.’

  Logan put his hand up again. ‘I’m the cauliflower cheese.’

  She winked at him. ‘I got you extra chips too, so you wouldn’t feel left out.’

  ‘Thanks.’ It was about time something went right. He stabbed a chip with his fork, using it as a pointer. ‘No one carries a body more than fifty metres from their car, so that’ll cut it down a bit. We start with whichever area’s more difficult to see from the road, then we—’

  His phone buzzed, then launched into ‘Space Oddity’ as the word ‘TUFTY’ replaced the map.

  So much for that.

  ‘Why me?’ Logan lowered his chip, picked up his phone and answered it. ‘Tufty? Can it wait? I’m in the middle of something important.’

  ‘Do you want the bad news, or the worse news?’

  ‘Let me guess: Norman Clifton’s solicitor hasn’t turned up?’

  ‘Forensic IT say they can’t even look at Chalmers’ phone for about a fortnight.’

  He sagged back in his chair. ‘Oh for God’s sake!’

  ‘Said they’ve got about two dozen laptops from that hacking farm in Ellon to do first. You know, the ones who leaked all the SNP’s emails, when—’

  ‘And the worse news?’

  ‘Oh. OK. So I had a go at unlocking it myself.’

  Oh no. No. No. No. No. No…

  Steel stared at him. ‘Did something just crawl up your bum? Cos it looks like something just crawled up your bum.’

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘Tufty.’ Logan tightened his grip on the phone, forcing out each individual word as if it was made of uranium: ‘What – did – you – do?’

  ‘Only unlocked it on the third try! I has a genius. See, when I was in her house I noticed all these—’

  ‘How is this “worse news”? What was on it?’

  ‘Don’t you want to hear my tale of genius and derring-do?’

  Why did everyone have to be a pain in his backside? Was there some sort of competition going on? Because right now, Tufty was winning.

  ‘What – was – on – the – phone?’

  ‘Pff… I bet Inspector Morse never gets—’

  ‘Tufty: I swear on my father’s grave…’

  ‘All right, all right. There was nothing there. Someone had deleted everything: call history, texts, photos, the lot.’

  Logan slumped again. ‘Urgh. That is “worse news”.’

  ‘But they did leave one entry in the phone’s history: a fifteen-minute outgoing call at ten twenty-two.’

  ‘Any idea who she was calling?’

  ‘The Samaritans.’

  So either Isobel was wrong about the marks on Chalmers’ arms and ankles, and she did kill herself after all, or someone was covering their tracks.

  ‘But then I has another genius.’ There was a scrunching papery sound. ‘Someone might have deleted everything, but that doesn’t mean it has to stay deleted. You can get all manner of things off an SD card if you know what you’re doing. And fortunately for us, Constable Stewart Quirrel is like a sexier Stephen Hawking.’

  ‘You recovered it? All of it?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ More scrunching. ‘And my clever doesn’t stop there. Her phone’s got GPS built in. Which is trickier to hack, but if I can pull a Mitnick we’ll know everywhere it’s been in the last six days.’ There was a small pause, followed by a swanky proud tone. ‘Are we impressed now?’

  Damn right we were. Even if we didn’t have a clue what a ‘Mitnick’ was.

  ‘You, my little friend, have earned yourself a whole packet of sweeties!’

  ‘Woot!’

  ‘Now get back to work.’ Logan hung up and dug the chip on the end of his fork into the cauliflower cheese. Grinned. Today was going to turn out just fine after all.

  31

  The Huntly Asda glowed beneath the low, heavy clouds as Steel took them across the roundabout. And the rain fell. Sheets of grey and darker grey set the landscape out of focus, robbing it of colour as the windscreen wipers squeaked.

  Steel nudged him. ‘Anything juicy?’

  Logan looked up from Tufty’s email. ‘Not so far. Most of Chalmers’ texts are her fighting with her husband. “Why didn’t you empty the dishwasher?”, “Don’t you ever dare speak to me like that again.”, “You’re disgusting Brian.” Only she’s spelled “disgusting” wrong.’

  ‘How about naked pics? She must have some of those on her mobile. Everyone has those!’

  He stared at her. ‘Remind me never to borrow your phone!’

  ‘Hmph.’ Her nose went up. ‘Done. Don’t want to send you into an onanistic frenzy.’

  Logan shuddered and went back to the email as they drove off into the wilds of Aberdeenshire.

  ‘Well, this is romantic.’ Steel pulled up on the little rectangle of tarmac acting as a car park at the side of the road. ‘Wish I’d brought some lubricant, now.’

  Ben Rinnes loomed in front of them – a lopsided lump of a hill, dark purple with heather. A track cut across it, pale tan in the never-ending rain. Another hill loomed behind them – more tussocky heather with the odd pine tree to break up the monotony.

  Headlights swept over the pool car as the Scene Examination Transit crept past and turned onto a chunk of hardstanding in front of a padlocked metal gate with ‘NO PARKING ~ KEEP ENTRANCE CLEAR’ on it.

  A small river had formed, coming down the track, out under the gate, and across the road. And still the rain fell.

  Yeah, searching in that was going to be loads of fun.

  Logan reached into the back of the car and grabbed his peaked cap and high-viz jacket. ‘We’re going to get soaked, aren’t we?’

  ‘You are. I’m staying put.’

  He handed her the other high-viz. ‘Not a chance in hell.’

  ‘Gah…’

  They wrestled their way into their jackets and climbed out into the downpour. Then Logan hurried around to the boot and got the Crimestoppers umbrella. Popped it open.

  It twitched and thrummed in the wind.

  Steel grabbed it off him and glowered at the rainswept hill. ‘For future reference, this was the moment I decided to kill you.’

  Lovely.

  Logan pulled on his hat and jogged over to the Transit van. Knocked on the driver’s window.

  As it buzzed down, what sounded like Queen’s Greatest Hits belted out for a couple of beats, then clicked into silence, leaving only the engine’s diesel grumble, the thunk-squeak of the windscreen wipers, and the hiss of falling rain.

  Polly put both hands back on the wheel and bared her top teeth. Staring straight ahead.

  On the other side of the gate, the track reached away around and up the hill. Little rapids marked the bigger stones and potholes as the water coursed down it.

  She sucked in a breath. ‘I’m not sure this is a good idea. I mean, if we had a big four-by-four, maybe…?’

  Steel banged on the side of the door. ‘Just get the bloody gate open. We’re drowning out here!’

  Polly turned in her seat. ‘Bouncer?’

  Bouncer zipped up his jacket, pulled up his hood, and hopped down from the passenger side, armed with a large pair of bolt cutters. He strode over to the padlock and snipped right through the shackle – the hinges squealing as he hauled the gate open.

  Logan
hurried around to the passenger side and climbed in. Scooted across to the middle seat as Steel clambered in after him and thunked the door shut.

  The Transit growled and juddered its way onto the track, then stopped so Bouncer could close the gate, open the side door and scramble inside.

  Grit and gravel crunched beneath their wheels as the Transit crawled uphill. Lurching through the riverbed potholes and rapids, heather thick on either side.

  Polly bared her teeth again, knuckles white where she gripped the steering wheel. ‘Still say this is a bad idea…’

  She was probably right, but what choice did they have?

  No one said a word as the van grumbled its way up the narrow track. Thumping and groaning. Windscreen wipers squealing and moaning. It listed left for a moment, then thudded down again – everyone bouncing in their seats.

  Polly’s knuckles went even whiter. ‘Eeeek!’

  Steel grabbed the handle above the passenger door.

  The little red dot on Logan’s phone crawled along Dr Frampton’s map.

  Another lurch to the left, the hillside falling away like a heather-covered cliff face as the van swayed and bounced.

  Someone in the back laughed – high-pitched and nervous.

  And on they went, climbing the river / track. On and on and on and—

  Logan thumped his free hand on the dashboard. ‘That’s us.’

  Polly’s face was fixed in a pained rictus grin. ‘Oh thank God for that!’ She hauled on the handbrake and sagged in her seat, arms dangling by her sides, head drooping, eyes shut.

  He didn’t have the heart to tell her they’d probably have to reverse most of the way down again. Well, it wasn’t as if they’d be able to do a three-point turn up here.

  Directly in front of the van, the track narrowed even further. To the right, Ben Rinnes stretched away uphill, to the left, it fell towards a line of trees, four, maybe five hundred feet distant.

  Charlie poked his head between the front seats and frowned at the drenched landscape. ‘Good a place as any, I suppose.’

  Logan undid his seatbelt. ‘What about trace evidence?’

  ‘In this?’

  Bouncer snorted. ‘You’ll be lucky. If it’d been dry: yes.’

  Polly nodded. ‘Anything viable would’ve washed away days ago.’

  ‘Right, people,’ Shirley clapped her hands together, ‘get your waterproofs on. We’ve got a deposition site to find.’

  It didn’t matter that the rain had downgraded itself from a full-on torrential downpour to the standard Scottish drizzle, Logan was still soaked. Bulbous clumps of heather grabbed at his legs, hiding roots, rocks, puddles, holes, and other assorted fun ways to break an ankle.

  Every step came with the sibilant squish of waterlogged socks.

  He picked his way through yet another clump – no dead body – then turned, looking uphill.

  The Transit marked the middle of the search area, lurking on the path about eighty feet away. Which meant there was still another eighty-odd to go. God, this was going to take forever.

  Five fluorescent-yellow figures inched their way through the treacherous undergrowth. All spread out across the downhill side of the search area. Maybe he should have split the team and got one half searching the uphill side at the same time? The sun was already sinking towards the hills. They only had, what, an hour and a half before it set?

  But then, three people would take twice as long to search the same area, so in the end it would’ve made sod-all difference.

  Thank you very much, Detective Chief Inspector Stephen ‘I can’t spare anyone’ Hardie. How was Logan supposed to—

  ‘The Imperial March’ blared from his phone, partially muffled by the thick high-viz jacket. He hauled it out. The words ‘HORRIBLE STEEL’ filled the screen. He answered it anyway. ‘Have you found something?’

  ‘I just stood in a dirty great puddle!’

  ‘So watch where you’re putting your feet.’

  ‘I’m cold and I’m wet and how are we supposed to find anything in this godforsaken hellhole?’

  ‘Keep looking.’ He hung up.

  About seventy feet away one of the high-viz figures made very rude hand gestures in his direction.

  Heather grasped hold of his right ankle and Logan toppled forward, arms outstretched, a bush rushing up to punch him in the face.

  And BANG! Right into it, branches and leaves scratching at his cheeks and hands. An eruption of water as the rain-soaked undergrowth gave up a fair portion of its moisture.

  ‘Arrrrrrrrgh!’ He struggled on to his soggy knees. Wiped the water and bits of vegetation from his face. Spat out some peaty-tasting soil. ‘Sodding heathery bastards!’

  He forced himself upright, bellowed in frustration, then gave the traitorous bush a serious kicking. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’ Kick, bash, boot, batter, thump.

  Logan stopped and bent double. Hands on his knees. Face and shoulders prickly with heat, panting out great billows of steam. ‘Argh…’

  This was impossible. Completely and utterly—

  His phone rang again and he yanked it from his pocket. Stabbed the button. ‘No, you can’t go back to the van for a kip! You can search like the rest of us!’

  Silence from the phone.

  Water dripped from the hem of his high-viz jacket.

  ‘What, no sarky comeback?’

  ‘Erm… Guv?’

  Oh. It wasn’t Steel, it was Shirley.

  ‘Sorry. Thought you were someone else.’

  ‘By my reckoning, we’ve gone a hundred and eighty feet from the van.’

  Logan turned. The Transit was a lot smaller than last time he’d checked, the rest of his team were all spread out, the ones in the middle distance like tiny Lego figures. ‘OK. We head back and try the other side of—’

  ‘HEY!’ A voice bellowed out across the hillside. ‘HEY!’ The Lego figure furthest away jumped up and down, waving her arms in the air. ‘OVER HERE!’

  Logan waded into the heather, fought his way past a clump of broom, more heather. Yet more heather…

  Everyone fought their way through the undergrowth, all converging on where Polly stood, still waving. As if they wouldn’t be able to find her by the glow of her massive fluorescent-yellow coat.

  Logan clambered over a ridge and stopped.

  Polly stood in the middle of a natural hollow, surrounded by heather that looked a lot browner and droopier than the stuff around it.

  He took one step down into the hollow and stopped. What was that horrible smell? Rotting sausages and… He retreated a couple of steps, breathing through his mouth. Urgh, you could taste it – rancid and greasy. ‘Dear Lord…’

  Charlie lurched up beside him. ‘What’s…’ Then his eyes bugged and he slapped a hand over his nose and mouth, hiding the scarlet lipstick. ‘Aw, Jesus, that stinks!’

  Polly pointed to a bush, three feet from her foot. ‘He’s had to grub up the heather to get at the soil for digging. That’s why it’s all brown. Dying.’

  Shirley stumbled to the brow of the hollow. Narrowed her eyes and wafted a hand in front of her. ‘Can’t be a very deep grave if it smells this bad out here.’

  Bouncer sagged. ‘Not again.’

  And last, but not least, Steel appeared. Hands in her pockets. She stopped at the edge, flared her nostrils, and took a good sniff. Then nodded. ‘I ate a kebab that smelled like that once. Tell you, my arse was like a Niagara Falls of oxtail soup for a whole week.’

  Everyone stared at her.

  ‘Oh, like you’ve never done it.’

  ‘…absolutely stinks. And I mean spectacularly.’ Logan shifted in the driver’s seat, looking through the window and down the hill. Phone pressed to his ear.

  A newly erected blue plastic marquee squatted over the deposition site, the walls glowing – Shirley and her team turned into monstrous shadow puppets by the crime-scene lights. It was one of the bigger ones, too. Could probably have parked a couple of minibuses in there.

&n
bsp; Rain drummed on the van roof, its grey blanket hiding the fields and hills opposite. As if the setting sun wasn’t doing a gloomy enough job.

  Hardie’s voice took on a hopeful edge. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any ID on the body, is there?’

  ‘Difficult to tell. According to the SE team, everything’s been swallowed by the adipocere. Victim looks like he’s been carved out of solid lard.’

  ‘Pfff… I don’t like it, Logan. I don’t.’

  ‘Only bright side is the ground around here isn’t as diggable as the stuff at Nairhillock Farm.’

  ‘Ding-Dong was one of us. It was bad enough he’d killed one person, but two?’

  ‘Body was barely three feet down. And they must’ve been three hard feet to dig.’

  ‘How many more did he kill? How long was he at it?’

  ‘Managed a good six feet down at the pig farm. It’s—’

  The van’s sliding door rattled open, letting in a gust of wind that set jackets and paperwork and takeaway menus rustling.

  ‘Shut the door!’

  Steel clambered in. ‘What did you think I was going to do? Sit here with it open?’ She hauled it closed with a thunk and collapsed into a seat. Sat there with her arms held out to her sides. ‘Freezing, sogging-wet, buggering horrorfest…’

  Hardie made a little groaning noise. ‘Let me guess: Detective Sergeant Steel?’

  She cupped her hands and blew into them. ‘Should’ve brought a thermos of coffee with us.’ Then she leaned forward and thumped Logan on the arm. ‘Why didn’t you think of that, you’re supposed to be in charge!’

  Logan hit her back. ‘Get off me! And there’s a kettle in the equipment rack – plug it into the cigarette lighter and make yourself useful for a change. I’ll have a tea.’

  She rolled her eyes, flipped him the Vs, then stood and slouched away down the van. ‘What did your last slave die of?’

  Logan shifted the phone to his other ear. ‘Sorry about that. Look: we haven’t got definitive proof DI Bell killed anyone yet.’

  ‘Do you really think that matters? I know he did it, you know he did it, everyone and their bookie’s dog knows he did it.’

  ‘Yes. But…’ Logan sighed. ‘I worked with him for ten years and till we found his body in that car… A killer? I wouldn’t have believed you.’