The Blood Road

by Stuart MacBride

  Ellie stomped her foot. ‘Did not!’

  ‘Did too!’

  Rebecca scowled at the pair of them. ‘Shut up, or I’ll arrest you both.’ She pulled out a big folded sheet of paper and slapped it down on top of the chocolates, still wearing her serious face as she frowned at Logan. ‘I drew you a picture.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He leaned closer to her, dropped his voice to a whisper, and nodded towards Lucy. The teddy bear in her arms was about three hundred percent tattier than it had been out at Boodiehill Farm, one of the ears barely hanging on. ‘What happened to Onion-log? Organ-log?’

  ‘Orgalorg.’ Rebecca shrugged, matching his whisper. ‘He’s looking after her cos she’s only little and she gets horrid dreams about the Grey Man catching her and feeding her to a big pig monster.’ A wistful look crept across Rebecca’s face as she looked at her tatty bear. ‘She needs him more.’

  Logan ruffled Rebecca’s hair. ‘You’re a very brave girl, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Get off me.’ She pushed his hand away. ‘Not a puppy.’

  ‘Right: let’s see this lovely picture.’ He unfolded the sheet of paper to reveal a felt-pen drawing of two lumpy figures – one bigger than the other – shooting about a dozen bad guys. And it was obvious they were bad guys, because she’d written ‘BAD GUYS!!!’ above them in green with a bunch of arrows pointing at their lumpy pink heads. Many of which had bright red felt-tip gushing out of them. ‘OK…’ Well, that wasn’t disturbing at all.

  She stuck one foot on the bedframe, so she could lever herself up – pointing at the felt-pen bloodbath. ‘That’s you and that’s me. They’re all tits.’

  He tried for a smile. ‘Thank you, that’s very … nice.’

  And, for the first time ever, she smiled back.

  Logan shuffled along the institution-green corridor, in his pyjamas and hospital slippers, one hand on the wall, the other wheeling his IV drip on a stand. It was like moving in slow motion – other patients, staff, and visitors wheeching past him at about nine times the speed.

  Still, at least it gave him plenty of time to enjoy the paintings, collages, needlework, and murals that adorned the walls. Even if some of them were pretty terrible.

  He paused for a breather in front of a series of screen prints: puffins and seagulls in muted shades. His own face reflected back at him: bags under the eyes, hollow cheeks covered with two days’ stubble. Looking bent and broken and about ten years older than he had a week and a bit ago.

  Yay…

  He shuffled on, past the puffins, past a sort of Fuzzy-Felt-meets-Freddy-Krueger thing, past a huge oil painting of a tattooed woman’s face, and over to the lifts. A walk of about two minutes that had taken quarter of an hour.

  Still, at least it was a change of scene.

  He pressed the up button and waited. And waited. And waited.

  Ding. The lift doors slid open revealing a gloomy metal box, with duct tape holding sections of the floor-covering down. An old man stood in the corner, his back to the lift, one hand over his eyes, a bouquet of flowers dangling from the fingers of the other as he cried.

  Logan stepped inside. Selected the floor number from the list of wards printed onto strips of masking tape with permanent marker. Stood there in silence as the lift juddered and groaned its way up through the building.

  Ding.

  He wheeled his drip stand into another off-green corridor lined with variable artwork.

  Better view out the windows though. Looking across the rest of Aberdeen Royal Infirmary, down Westburn Road, and off to the North Sea. All of it shining in the afternoon sun.

  He shuffled his way to a set of double doors, next to a green button, beneath a sign marked ‘SECURE WARD ~ RING FOR ENTRANCE’. So he did.

  Then stood and watched two seagulls fighting over what was probably half a battered mealie pudding, until a nurse appeared and let him in.

  ‘Thanks. You haven’t seen a police officer kicking about, have you?’

  She pointed. ‘Down there, on your left. Can’t miss her – she’s like a black hole for bourbon biscuits.’

  Logan put his best slipper forward and followed the directions.

  PC Baker was right where she was prophesied to be, sitting on a plastic chair, outside a private room. Short and stocky, with one arm in a bright-pink fibreglass cast. Nose buried in a J.C. Williams book: ‘PC MUNRO AND THE HANGMAN’S LAMENT’ according to the cover. She looked up as he shuffled over. Gave him a pained smile. Stood. ‘Inspector McRae! I didn’t know you were… Should you be up and about? You look like—’

  ‘Is he awake?’

  The smile got even more pained. ‘Yeah, but maybe…’

  Logan pushed through into the room anyway.

  ‘OK, then.’ She followed him inside.

  It was a bigger room than his, sunlight streaming in through the open curtains, framing an even better view than the one from the corridor. The whole sweep of Aberdeen beach was on display, a crescent of gold and green, from the links all the way to Footdee and out to the hazy horizon.

  Of course, Lee Docherty wasn’t in much of a position to enjoy it. He was slumped in his bed, skin as pale as boiled milk, with drips and tubes and wires connecting him up to machines and various pouches – both ingoing and outgoing. The latter hanging from the bedframe like horrible fruit.

  He scowled at Logan, breathing in short jagged gasps. ‘Going to … sue … the arse … off you.’ Each word sounding as if it cost him a slice of his soul. And let’s face it, there couldn’t be much of it left.

  ‘Good luck with that.’ Logan leaned on the end of the bed, taking the weight off a bit. ‘Lee Jonathan Docherty; forty-five years old; currently residing at three Forest Crescent, Udny Station; form for criminal damage and assault.’

  ‘No … comment.’

  ‘You know we’re going to break your nasty wee paedophile ring into tiny pieces, don’t you, Lee? You and the rest of the kiddy fiddlers are all going to jail.’

  Docherty’s chin came up an inch. ‘That’s slander. I … am not a … kiddy fiddler!… My role is … strictly procurement, … inventory management, … and sales.’

  ‘That’s a shame, because fiddling with kiddies is exactly what we’re going to put you away for. And you know what they do to people like you in prison…?’

  A small growl. Then he raised a wobbly hand, the middle finger barely making it upright. ‘No comment.’

  ‘Then there’s the murders of DS Lorna Chalmers and Angela Parks. And the attempted murder of Sally MacAuley. Oh, and trying to kill me too.’ Logan winked. ‘Let’s not forget that.’

  Docherty’s hand fell back onto the covers and he panted for a bit. Then, ‘No … comment.’

  ‘Or you can make things easier on yourself and help us out? All those guys in the animal masks, do you think they’d take the fall to protect you?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Logan poked one of Docherty’s legs through the blanket. ‘We’ve got one of your crew, Lee. Ian Stratmann, your “Number Five”. He’s looking at a looooong stretch, so what do you think he’s doing right now? Other than trying to grow his eyebrows back.’

  More glowering.

  ‘I’ll give you a clue: it involves an interview room and telling us everything he can about you, your operation, your staff, and your customers.’ A grin. ‘Isn’t that fun?’

  Docherty closed his eyes and sank into his pillows, voice barely audible in the sunny room. ‘No … bastarding … comment.’

  ‘Thought so.’ Logan turned and shuffled from the room, whistling a happy tune.

  Outside the window, the sky was a swathe of dark violet with a thin smear of light blue at the bottom, fringed with gold as twilight turned into night.

  Sally MacAuley shifted in the big visitor’s chair, staring down at her hands clasped in her lap. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t come earlier.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ Logan shook his head. ‘I get out soon anyway. Which is nice. Ten days of hospital foo
d is worse than being stabbed.’

  Aiden sat in the other chair, next to his mother. Not fidgeting. Not moving at all. Staring off into space, like a mannequin. Not even interested in the huge collection of kids’ drawings that plastered the room’s walls – everything from Rebecca Oliver’s violent fantasies and Ellie Morton’s vampire mice, to Jasmine and Naomi’s pirates and unicorns and zombies and dinosaurs.

  Sally managed a moment’s eye contact, before concentrating on her hands again. ‘I… I wanted to tell you how grateful I am to you for saving Aiden.’

  Aiden didn’t even react to the sound of his name.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’s fine!’ Sounding brittle, but trying. ‘Aren’t you, Aiden?’

  Still nothing.

  She shrugged. ‘He’s just a bit … shy now.’ Sally cleared her throat. ‘That man in the grey mask, the Auctioneer, he would’ve killed me, wouldn’t he?’

  Of course he would.

  ‘Best not to think about it.’

  A nod. A long, uncomfortable pause. Then, ‘My lawyer says I’ll probably get community service. It was the stress made me do it. I only … borrowed Rebecca because I was so desperate to save Aiden. I wasn’t thinking straight.’ She wiped away a tear. ‘I’m sorry…’

  Aiden just sat there.

  49

  Ten o’clock on a Friday morning and Divisional Headquarters should have been a buzzing hive of police work. Logan limped along the corridor without even the sound of a distant floor polisher for company.

  Maybe everyone was out catching criminals for a change?

  His crutch was one of those metal poles with a sticky-out handle and a plastic bit that your forearm fitted into. And it made an irritating clunk-scuff, clunk-scuff noise all the way down the grey terrazzo flooring.

  Walking through the empty station was like something out of the Twilight Zone. Where the hell had everyone—

  ‘Logan! What are you doing here? Aren’t you still meant to be in hospital?’

  He turned and there was Superintendent Doig, smiling at him, folder under one arm. Logan nodded. ‘Guv.’

  ‘You look terrible, by the way. And where’s your uniform? Anyone would think you’re auditioning for a Westlife tribute band in that outfit.’

  ‘I’m not even on duty!’ Logan frowned down at his jeans, shirt, and jacket. ‘And what’s wrong with my clothes? This is a perfectly good shirt, thank you very much.’

  ‘Listen, while I’ve got you.’ Doig held up his folder. ‘I had a meeting with the Police Investigations and Review Commissioner about you shooting that Lee Docherty scumbag.’

  Really?

  ‘I didn’t have any choice, he was going to—’

  ‘Shoot you. I know.’ A smile. ‘And he would’ve killed Sally MacAuley too, if you hadn’t intervened. Her statement tallies with your version of events one hundred percent.’ He thumped a hand down on Logan’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. ‘So I’m pleased to tell you that you’re officially off the hook. There’s even talk of a Queen’s Medal!’

  ‘A medal?’ Wow. An actual Queen’s Medal.

  ‘Possibly. Maybe.’ Doig glanced left and right, then dropped his voice and leaned in close. ‘You know how these things go. Best not to put too much—’

  The Pet Shop Boys’ ‘Go West’ belted out of the Superintendent’s pocket and he hauled out his iPhone. Smiled at the screen, then grimaced at Logan. ‘Sorry, got to take this. Good to see you up and about. Don’t forget your uniform next time, though!’ Then he turned and marched away, back straight, chest out, phone clamped to his ear. ‘Andy?… Of course I do, been looking forward to it all day. … Ha!… Put the Tanqueray in the freezer and we’ll celebrate when I get home.’ Doig disappeared through the double doors at the end, launching into a laugh that sort of simmered, then bubbled, then was cut off as the doors closed.

  All right for some.

  Logan limped over to his temporary office and stopped outside. Took a deep breath. Then let himself in.

  Blinked.

  Maybe he’d taken more of those painkillers than he’d thought, because not only were Rennie, Steel, and Tufty all in there, they were actually working. There were fresh notes written up on the whiteboard – some of which had been spelled correctly – and a sense of … well, purpose to the place. As if they’d gelled into a team in his absence.

  Tufty was hunched over a laptop, frowning at the screen; Steel two-fingered-typing at a computer of her own – a pair of small square glasses perched on the end of her nose for squinting through.

  And Rennie was on the phone: ‘Are you sure?… No, run it again. … Because you’ve screwed something up, that’s why.’

  Logan knocked on the door frame. ‘Don’t tell me DI Vine’s actually managed to mould you lot into an effective unit?’

  They all swivelled their office chairs around.

  Steel wheeched her glasses off. ‘Laz!’

  Tufty beamed. ‘Sarge!’

  Rennie mugged a grin and pointed at the phone he had to his ear, mouthing the word ‘Phone’, presumably in case Logan had forgotten what one looked like.

  ‘Thought you were no’ getting out till Monday!’ She stood. ‘I was going to pick you up.’

  ‘Only so much grey cauliflower-cheese one man can eat.’ He indicated the room with a sweep of his crutch. ‘Figured I’d pop by and say hello on the way home. See how you all were.’

  ‘Well, du-uh.’ Rennie rolled his eyes. ‘Because it’s obvious, isn’t it? Someone’s mixed the samples up.’

  Tufty bounced in his chair like a wee boy. ‘Perfect timing, Sarge: I has had a genius of supermassive proportions!’ He spun around and hunched over the laptop again, clacking away at the keys. ‘Come see, come see!’

  Logan limped over, Steel scuffing along behind.

  She poked him. ‘You had us all worried there. Well, this pair of big girls’ blouses were worried. I’m made of sterner stuff.’

  Tufty fiddled with the mouse. ‘See I’ve been having hella difficulty getting into DI Bell’s laptop and then my brain went “ping!”’

  ‘No need to worry: I’m fine. Only got stabbed once this time, barely counts. Might even be getting a medal.’

  ‘Aye, that’ll be shining.’

  ‘So,’ Tufty pointed at the screen – the default Windows login page, ‘I’d been trying all these combinations of Aberdeen Football Club dates and stats and stuff like that, but nothing ever worked. Then I “pinged”: he’s been living in Spain, so what if he speaks Spanish?’

  Steel poked Logan again. ‘Look … can you … next time someone offers to stab you with a knife, just say no, eh? Susan’s barely eaten since she found out you died again. It’s no’ the same when she loses weight – I like a good handful when I go a-groping.’

  ‘And then I tried “the Dons” in Spanish: “los dones”, which is technically “the gifts”, but when I typed it in…’ His fingers clacked across the keyboard and the login page was replaced by a picture of Pittodrie Stadium, from the Richard Donald Stand, with a superimposed AFC logo. Subtle.

  ‘What happened with Danielle Smith?’

  Steel shrugged. ‘Had to let her go. No evidence.’

  ‘No evidence?’ Logan banged his crutch on the carpet tiles. ‘She nearly caved my skull in! Tied me up! I had to escape from the boot of her sodding car!’

  ‘Aye, but you try proving that.’

  ‘She stole my phone! The one with the photos on it.’ Logan sagged. ‘I got the fat sod’s number plate…’

  Tufty turned around in his seat again. ‘Do you lot want to know what I found or not?’

  ‘How could there not be any evidence?’

  Rennie gave a loud performance groan. ‘All right, all right: I’ll hold.’ He put a hand over the mouthpiece and pulled a face at Logan. ‘You had Steel in tears, you rotten—’

  She kicked him.

  ‘Ow!’

  Tufty folded his arms. ‘I don’t know why I bother, I really don’t.�
��

  ‘Well, what about DNA? Her boot must’ve been full of it.’

  ‘DNA’s sod-all use when you douse everything in bleach.’

  Logan slapped a hand over his eyes. ‘Oh for God’s sake…’

  A sniff from Tufty. ‘I might as well not even be here.’

  He sighed. Sagged. ‘All right, Tufty, what have you found?’

  The wee sod bounced up and down in his chair again. ‘This!’ He clicked his mouse and a QuickTime window filled the screen. Not professional footage – the lighting was too bad for that, the picture a bit grainy, the colours slightly wonky from a poorly set white balance.

  ‘It was lurking in the system recycling bin.’

  The video showed the inside of a shed, devoid of the usual tins of paint and lawnmowers and shovels and gardening odds and sods. The only things in here were a waist-height shelf along one wall with various cordless DIY tools on it, and a young man tied to a dining room chair. Fully dressed with a gag in his mouth.

  Logan moved closer. ‘Isn’t that Fred Marshall?’

  A figure appeared at the edge of the frame, too out of focus to be recognisable, but there was no mistaking her voice. Even though the words were a bit slurred and mushy. ‘What’s your name? Say your name.’

  Marshall mumbled something behind his gag.

  Sally MacAuley stepped into shot and slapped him hard enough to make the whole chair rock. And when he straightened up again, streaks of scarlet dribbled from his nose.

  She ripped out the gag. Wobbling slightly. Drunk. ‘State your name for the record.’

  He glared at her, blood turning his teeth pink. ‘I’m gonna kill you, bitch! I’m gonna carve you up like a—’

  She slapped him again, even harder. Then turned to the shelf while Marshall sagged against the ropes, shaking his head. Drops of red splattering down across his grey sweatshirt.

  He sat upright. ‘You think you’re scaring me? You think I’m—’

  Sally smashed a hammer into his shoulder – a proper overhead all-her-weight-behind-it swing.

  ‘AAAAAAAAAA‌AAAAAAAARGH!’

  She grabbed his collar, leaning in close: ‘WHERE’S MY SON? WHERE’S AIDEN?’