The Blood Road

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Me neither.’

  Steel made a show of hauling the kettle out of its rack, banging and clanging her way up the van clutching it and a two-litre bottle of mineral water.

  ‘Any ideas for motive?’

  ‘Maybe this is why he had to fake his own death? Something gets out of hand and next thing he’s got a dead body to get rid of.’

  ‘Buried six feet down where no one would ever find it.’

  Steel filled the kettle with mineral water, then stuck it on the floor, jamming the adapter into the cigarette lighter slot like she was performing a vigorous sex act.

  ‘Until Bell discovers the Western Peripheral Route is going to stick a slip road right through the middle of his secret graveyard.’

  She set it on to boil. ‘Where’s the teabags?’

  ‘I’m on the phone!’

  ‘Gah…’ Steel stomped off down the van again.

  ‘Post mortem?’

  ‘Knowing Isobel? Tomorrow morning? Maybe? If we’re lucky? Won’t find out for sure till she gets here.’ Logan tried for a smile. ‘At least we’ve got a body for her this time.’

  That had to count for something.

  Four spotlights lit up the marquee’s insides like a bright summer’s day. The effect was slightly spoiled by the big diesel generator roaring away in the corner, the stench of rotten flesh, the five figures in white SOC outfits, the dug-up heather, the waterlogged shallow grave, and the muddy peat floor, but other than that it was indistinguishable from a fortnight in Torremolinos.

  Actually, scratch that. The one and only time Logan had been to Torremolinos, there had been shallow graves and dead bodies too. No one ever put that kind of thing in the brochures, though, did they?

  Polly and Charlie were stuffing the dying heather plants into bags, while Shirley squatted at the side of the grave, looking up at Isobel. All of them glowing like aliens in the spotlights.

  Logan stepped closer. Stared down into the grave.

  A man-shaped mass of yellowy-white fat glistened at the bottom of the hole, liberally smeared with earth, peat, and mud. A lard golem.

  ‘Well?’ He pointed at the remains.

  Isobel put her hands on her hips. ‘At least you’ve actually got a body for me this time.’

  ‘Yeah, I said that.’

  She frowned at him.

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘You’re extremely lucky I got here as quickly as I did. If it wasn’t for a fatal stabbing in Insch, you’d still be waiting.’

  ‘We need an ID soon as possible.’ Logan pointed. ‘Any chance…?’

  ‘You want me to do a post mortem today? On a Sunday evening?’

  ‘That would certainly help.’

  Isobel stared into the grave for a bit. Then sighed. ‘All right, but I shall expect time off in lieu.’ She snapped her fingers at Shirley. ‘Get the remains bagged and back to the mortuary ASAP.’ Then she turned and swept from the marquee, leaving the tent flaps billowing behind her.

  Shirley waited till Isobel was definitely out of earshot. ‘I hope your arse falls off, you rancid lump of yuck.’ She patted the adipose-encrusted remains with a purple-gloved hand. ‘No offence.’

  32

  Sally grips the steering wheel tighter, like that’s going to stop her hands shaking. Eases off the accelerator as the village limits glow in her headlights: ‘LYNE OF SKENE ~ PLEASE DRIVE SLOWLY’.

  ‘The Happy Pirate Jamboree’ bounces out of the CD player. Aiden’s favourite. His little face beamed every time she put it on and they’d sing along to the adventures of Captain Wonkybeard and his silly crew.

  ‘There was panic on the poop deck, as the Kraken he awoke,

  Wrapped his tentacles around the ship, and the captain: he got soaked.’

  Sally tries to join in … but it’s not the same without Aiden.

  Nothing is.

  She takes a left at the junction, past a row of small cottages and some new-build homes, lights shining from their windows as their occupants settled in for a nice Sunday evening in front of the television.

  Out through the limits, into the countryside and darkness again.

  A breath shudders out of her: sharp and painful.

  She’s doing the right thing. For Aiden. It doesn’t matter how bad she feels about it, or how guilty – this is what she has to do to get her baby boy back.

  She glances in the rear-view mirror, past the red-eyed woman in there with the big square of sticking plaster on her bruised forehead and the long curly blonde wig, to the Shogun’s boot. Separated from the rear seats by a heavy-duty dog grille, the boot cover pulled all the way across so no one can see what she’s got in there. ‘Not long now, I promise.’

  Not long…

  A track leads away into the woods – the junction marked by a teddy bear cable-tied to a tree…

  Sally slows at the junction and stares at it. It’s different to the one in Skemmel Woods, but it means the same thing. Only this time she’s complicit.

  And it’s too late to turn back now.

  So she pulls onto the track, the engine growling as the Shogun rolls and bounces through the potholes, water rearing up over the wheel arches even though she’s keeping the speed down so Becky won’t get thrown around in the boot.

  Deeper into the woods, headlights dragging trees from the darkness, before letting them fade away. Past the looming hulk of a collapsed metal structure. Past piles of logs and a thicket of brambles. Eyes glittering in the woods to either side, their owners lurking beyond the headlights’ reach.

  Deeper.

  A ruined cottage emerges from the gloom up ahead, sagging at the side of the road. No roof left, the windows nothing more than ragged sockets in the building’s skull. Walls smeared with moss and streaked with rain. A garden in front of it choked with weeds: brambles, bracken, docken, and the grey-brown spears of rosebay willowherb. Like something out of a Brothers Grimm tale.

  She stops in front of it, gripping the steering wheel even tighter as she glances in the rear-view mirror again. Swallows down the thing growing in her throat.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry, but I haven’t got any choice. I need my little boy. I need him so very, very much…’

  Becky doesn’t reply, but then she can’t.

  Sally wipes her eyes. Huffs out a breath. Then another. And another.

  ‘Come on, Sally, you can do this. Do it for Aiden.’

  Yes.

  She puts on her baseball cap and sunglasses, adjusts the wig, then pulls up the hood on her hoodie. Checks her reflection again.

  Even without the disguise, would she recognise the woman looking back at her? After everything she’s done?

  Probably not. But what choice does she have?

  She climbs out into the gloom as the rain starts again – like the pitter-patter of tiny feet on the car and trees and earth.

  The Shogun’s headlights pick out the pale skeletal forms of branches and trunks up ahead, casting a thin grey glow along the front of the cottage, leaving everything else in darkness. Its engine grumbles, exhaust trailing scarlet in the tail-lights’ glare.

  Sally stands there, breath fogging around her head.

  No sign of anyone.

  Come on, you can do this.

  She pulls a torch from her pocket, clicks it on, and follows its glow to the four-by-four’s boot. Pops open the tailgate. Forces a smile as she slides the cover away. ‘Hey, you…’

  Becky lies on her side, cosseted in a nest of sleeping bags and blankets and towels. Hands tied with baler twine, ankles too. Sally tucks Mr Bibble-Bobble in between Becky’s arms and chest – she moans behind her tea-towel gag, eyes barely flickering.

  Two more green pills and another mini stamp.

  ‘I know. I know. I’m sorry.’ Sally reaches in and lifts them both from the boot, cradling them against her chest as she crosses the weed-strangled verge to the cottage’s rusted gate.

  She takes a deep breath. ‘HELLO?’

  The o
nly sounds are the car’s engine and the falling rain.

  ‘HELLO? IS THERE ANYONE THERE?’

  She shifts her grip on Becky and runs the torch across the cottage. Something scurries into the brambles. A rusting jumble of metal casts a twisted shadow along the wall.

  ‘I CAN’T JUST LEAVE HER OUT HERE IN THE RAIN!’

  She turns on the spot, playing the torch across the garden, the trees, the track, the Shogun. ‘HELLO? IS ANYONE—’

  A muffled voice growls out behind her. ‘What part of “clandestine” did you not understand?’

  Sally moves to face him, but something hard presses against her hoodie at the back of her neck. There’s a metallic click and she freezes. It’s the unmistakable soundtrack to a million action films – a gun’s hammer being cocked.

  ‘No, no, no.’ He sounds patient, like he’s talking to a small, but favoured, child. ‘I get to see you. You don’t get to see me. That’s how this works.’

  She holds Becky tighter. ‘But—’

  ‘Genuinely, it makes no difference to me if you survive this handover or not. I leave with the girl either way.’ The gun presses harder into Sally’s neck. ‘Put her down on the ground. Nice and gentle – don’t want to damage the goods.’

  Sally tenses. ‘How do I know you won’t hurt her? How do I know you won’t … touch her?’

  ‘Well, one: no one wants to buy damaged goods. And two: I’m not the kind of guy who’s into little kids. I leave that to perverts like you.’ This time, he doesn’t push with the gun, he shoves. ‘Now, put – the kid – down.’

  She lowers Becky onto the wet ground, steps away, and stands there with her hands up.

  ‘There we go.’

  There’s a rustling noise, then Becky moans.

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘We…’ No. Probably best to make him think she’s working on her own. ‘I gave her something to keep her calm.’

  There’s a pause that grows and grows and grows.

  Then, ‘Fair enough.’ More rustling and a grunt.

  Becky moans again – has he picked her up?

  ‘Go stand over there, both hands on the bonnet.’

  Sally picks her way through the weeds and does what she’s told.

  ‘Now, you know the rules for tomorrow, right? Cash sales only. I so much as suspect that you’re dodgy: you go home in bitesize chunks. Well, you know, dodgy for a paedophile. Bar’s set a bit differently for you people.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘You come alone. You don’t tell anyone. You don’t bring anyone. You pay in cash. And you never ever tell anyone about this. Not even on pain of death.’

  Sally grits her teeth. ‘I said I understand.’ No one ever listens.

  His voice is getting fainter, as if he’s backing away. ‘You get to keep eighty percent of anything your “contribution” makes on the night, collectible at the end of the evening.’

  ‘But you haven’t told me where to—’

  ‘You’ll get a text with the time and place. Don’t be late…’

  She stands there, hands on the warm bonnet, the engine’s grumble drowning out everything but the rain thumping against the brim of her baseball cap. Breathing hard. Every exhale a glowing grey ghost in front of her face.

  Is it safe to turn around yet?

  Count to a hundred, that would be long enough, wouldn’t it?

  One… Two… Three…

  By the time she finally turns, there’s no sign of Becky or the man with the gun.

  Sally wraps her arms around herself for a moment, squeezing till the trembling subsides. Then closes the Shogun’s boot and climbs in behind the wheel.

  The track is a bit tight for a three-point turn, but she manages it – heading back the way she came, one hand wiping the tears from her cheeks.

  At least it’s done. She’s one step closer to saving Aiden.

  It doesn’t matter how much it burns inside, it’s for Aiden.

  She thumbs the hands-free button on her steering wheel and calls Raymond’s mobile.

  He picks up on the first ring. ‘Sally? Sally, is everything—’

  ‘It’s on for tomorrow night.’

  The Shogun rides the potholes harder this time as she puts her foot down, not having to worry about damaging her precious cargo any more. Past the thicket of brambles and the pile of logs – their shapes looming in the headlights, then sinking into darkness again.

  ‘Sally, are you OK?’

  Past the crumpled metal hulk. Hands tight on the steering wheel, the muscles in her jaw clenching.

  ‘Sally?’

  Scowling out through the windscreen. ‘Of course I’m not OK! I handed a little girl over to a bastard with a gun, so he can auction her off to a bunch of paedophiles!’

  Filthy liquid crashes over the bonnet as she thunders through a waterlogged rut.

  ‘We’ll get her back, remember? Andy and Danners won’t let her out of their sight. I promise.’

  Sally shakes her head, scrubs a hand across her eyes again. ‘I don’t know if I can go through with—’

  ‘Yes you can! You can do this, Sally. You just have to be strong for Aiden.’

  But that’s easy for him to say, isn’t it? He isn’t the one who has to bloody do it.

  On the one hand, drugging children really did seem wrong, but on the other, they really were a lot less … wriggly afterward.

  Lee shifted his grip, making sure Rebecca wasn’t going to slip off his shoulder, tucking her teddy bear under his arm as he picked his way through the rattling spikes of rosebay willowherb. Gloomy out here and getting darker. But no point hurrying and having an accident.

  Around the back of a clump of spiky holly.

  Rebecca groaned.

  Poor wee thing. ‘Shhh… Almost there.’

  And over to the Volvo. Hidden from the road by a huge swathe of brambles and rhododendron.

  He opened the tailgate and reached in – careful to hold her in place with his other hand, didn’t want to drop her, after all – and pulled the pet carrier over. Eased her inside. Patted her on the cheek.

  Looked like a sweet kid.

  He placed the teddy in beside her, closed the carrier door, draped the tartan rug over the whole thing, then shut the boot. Walked around to the driver’s door and climbed in out of the rain. Smiled. Nothing quite like the satisfaction of a job well done.

  Lee plucked the cheap burner phone from his pocket and dialled from memory. Listened to it ring as he started the car and pulled out onto the track, driving in the opposite direction to the woman and her mud-spattered four-by-four. No point taking any risks. And yes, technically it was against the law to use a mobile phone while driving, but this was a private road, so there you go.

  Jerry, sounding cheerful, but noncommittal: ‘Hello?’

  ‘Our final item is now in stock.’

  ‘Excellent. No issues?’

  Trees and bushes slid past the car, dark and brooding. Have to turn the headlights on in a minute, once he was a safe distance from the cottage.

  ‘Some people need the rules explaining to them, that’s all.’

  ‘Good. Excellent. Well, in that case, I think you’re all in for a lovely evening tomorrow.’

  ‘Looking forward to it.’ He hung up, slowed for the junction, flicked on his headlights and turned right onto the narrow road. Threw back his hoodie’s hood, removed the grey mask, and placed it in its box on the passenger seat.

  Lee turned in his seat. ‘Hope you’re ready to make some nice new friends, Rebecca! Well, maybe not nice, nice, but at least they’ll give me a lot of money, and in the end isn’t that what matters?’

  Of course it was.

  — in the dark woods, screaming —

  33

  The stairwell rang with the sound of feet and voices, coming from the floors below as Logan plodded his way up. One hand on the bannister, one on his phone. ‘I’d love to, but I’ve no idea when I’ll get finished tonight.’

/>   Tara sighed. ‘You sure?’

  ‘I know I’m only in charge for forty-eight hours, but it’s still a murder inquiry.’

  A tiny PC thundered down the stairs, carrying a stack of case files. He nodded at Logan on the way past. ‘Guv.’

  ‘Damien.’ Logan kept on climbing.

  ‘And have you decided how you’re going to make things up to me yet, or do I need to impose sanctions?’

  ‘Sanctions?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll go all United Nations on your arse. You’ll think North Korea’s getting off lightly.’

  ‘OK, now you’re being cruel.’ He walked past the lifts and pushed through the double doors, into the corridor beyond.

  ‘I got dumped with your kids last night, Logan. I’m allowed to be cruel.’

  ‘Yeah, you’ve got a point.’

  A couple of doors down, Rennie poked his head out of the temporary office and waved. ‘Thought it was you. DCI Hardie’s throwing a wobbly!’

  Wonderful.

  ‘Sorry: got to go.’

  ‘I know, I know. “It’s a murder.”’ She hung up.

  Logan sighed and put his phone away. ‘Has Norman Clifton seen his solicitor yet?’

  ‘I’m not kidding about Hardie: this isn’t just any old wobbly, it’s a full-on, five-star, man-the-lifeboats, wibbly wobbly. He’s about thirty seconds off exploding and taking everyone with him. Wants you in his office A.S.A.F.P.’

  Wonderful.

  ‘What’s gone wrong now?’

  34

  Hardie’s office door was open, letting the sound of muttered voices ooze out into the corridor, overlaid by the harsh electronic ringing of his desk phone.

  Logan stopped, hand up – ready to knock.

  DS Robertson and DS Scott had Hardie hemmed in behind his desk and he did not look happy.

  Scott dumped a huge stack of paperwork into the in-tray. ‘Five hundred door-to-doors and not a single lead.’

  ‘What a shock.’ Robertson grabbed the ringing phone. ‘DCI Hardie’s office. … Uh-huh. … Uh-huh…’

  DI Fraser fumed in one of the visitors’ chairs, arms folded, eyebrows down, as if someone had spat in her ear. ‘Completely unbelievable that anyone could be that stupid. It’s a PR disaster! How are we supposed to get the public to trust us after this?’