Dark Blood

OK?’

Logan hovered by the door when the psychologist had gone, staring at the bruised figure on the bed. He cleared his throat. ‘I wanted to say, thanks. Again. For stopping Connelly.’

Knox shrugged a shoulder — the one without the bandages on it. ‘Thanks for not giving up on us. Again.’

Nod.

Silence.

‘Yeah, well…’ Logan backed towards the door. ‘Bye.’

He caught up with Goulding at the lifts. ‘You want to go on ahead? I need to see someone.’

‘Ah.’ The psychologist nodded. ‘Of course. Would you like me to wait? I’ve cleared the afternoon to write up Knox’s evaluation reports anyway.’

It wasn’t as if Logan could drive anywhere by himself — not with his hand full of stitches and swollen up to the size of a small balloon. He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. ‘Actually, you’re OK. Thanks, but I can get a lift back with a patrol car. Not a problem.’

‘Well, if you’re sure…’

‘Yeah, thanks anyway.’

They said goodbye on the ground floor, Goulding getting out of the lift to walk to the exit, Logan staying on to the first sublevel. He wandered the old familiar chipped and faded corridors to the Maternity Hospital. It wasn’t visiting time for nearly two hours yet, but a flash of his warrant card and some puppy-dog eyes got Logan through the security doors and into the post-natal ward. Where a chubby nurse with squeaky shoes escorted him to a little double room. The curtains were drawn, leaving just the flickering light from a TV mounted above one of the beds, a worn-looking woman staring dark-eyed at the screen. DI Steel was sitting beside the other — empty — bed, one of those plastic nicotine inhaler things clamped between her teeth.

‘How is she?’

‘Off having a pee.’ Steel looked up, her face a roadmap of wrinkles and creases, dark purple bags under her eyes. ‘You look like shite.’

Logan sank into the chair next to her with a grunt. Everything ached. ‘Not exactly page-three material yourself.’

‘Cheeky wee shite.’ But she was smiling as she said it. ‘Any news?’

‘Been on the phone to SOCA — said they couldn’t comment on any ongoing investigation, assuming there actually was one. Which they refused to confirm or deny. Wouldn’t even tell me if Sergeant Julie Bultitude really exists or not. The bastards could’ve been anyone…’

‘Aye, that sounds like SOCA all right.’ Steel creaked her way out of her seat, rubbed the small of her back. ‘Come on, I’ll introduce you.’

The little intensive care ward was dim behind the glass partition, green lights winking in the gloom on half a dozen microwave-oven-sized plastic incubators.

Steel cupped her hands to the glass, then leaned her head into the hollow.

Logan did the same. ‘Which one?’

‘Second from the right, third row. Jasmine.’

A little pink bundle of wrinkled skin with a tube up her nose — taped to her cheek with a white strip. Little fingers. Little toes. Wires stuck to her chest with sticky pads covered in printed teddy bears. ‘God, she’s tiny.’

‘Nine weeks preterm. That’s sod all these days. Before you know it she’ll be nicking fags and necking Bacardi Breezers round the back of the shops.’ Steel straightened up and slapped Logan on the back, hard enough to make him wince. ‘Who knew your knob would turn out useful for something, eh?’

‘This is a last and final boarding call for flight SZ515 to Plymouth, would all remaining passengers please go to gate number six where this flight is now closing.’

Detective Superintendent Graeme Danby shuffles another step forward in line. Fast bag drop his arse. What’s the point of doing everything online when it takes half a bloody hour to get your stuff checked in?

He leans left, favouring his gammy leg, and peers around the two chavs in Nike tracksuits. Looks like the only exercise this pair get is waddling to the door to pay for their home delivery pizza, know what I’m saying?

Graeme checks his watch. Twenty to three. Plenty of time.

He shuffles forward another step, teeth gritted, even after half a dozen painkillers.

Should really be flying business class, bypass all this standing in line crap. Still it’s a lot of money. Hard to break the habit of a lifetime. Even when he’s got four-point-six million split between various offshore bank accounts. That bitch Julie and her thugs tried to beat it out of him, get him to fess up to taking the cash, but he kept his mouth shut, didn’t he?

Four-point-six million’s worth a couple of broken ribs.

Mr and Mrs Athletic get to the front of the queue with their overloaded trolley.

Graeme checks his watch again.

Always like this when he’s got to fly somewhere. Especially if he’s got to make connections. Newcastle to Charles De Gaulle; Charles De Gaulle to Shanghai; Shanghai to Auckland. Over thirty hours sitting in economy.

He tries not to think about it. Bad enough flying anywhere — that’s why he’s got sleeping tablets. Pop two when they board in Paris, wake up in the Far East eleven hours later. Valerie and the kids meet him at the airport in Auckland. Tearful reunion. And they all live happily ever after.

The Tracksuit Twins are arguing with each other about who’s got the passports. Morons. Should have a couple fake ones stashed away, shouldn’t they?

Never know when you need to get out of the country without those bastards from the Serious Organized Crime Agency finding out, you know what I’m saying?

Preparation — that’s the key.

‘This is a general boarding call for flight BA1333 to London Heathrow. Would all passengers please come forward to gate number two with their boarding cards ready for inspection.’

Someone taps him on the shoulder, but Graeme doesn’t look round. ‘You can bloody well wait your turn like everyone else-’

‘Now, Mr Danby, is that any way to talk to an old friend?’ A deep gravelly voice, the words wafting into his ear on a cloud of extra strong mint.

Graeme keeps his eyes fixed on the fatties. ‘Alfie. Thought you were doing a six stretch in Holme.’

‘Very kind of you to take an interest, Mr Danby. But got out early, didn’t I? Good behaviour.’

The mint smell gets stronger, making Graeme’s stomach clench.

‘Mr Cunningham wonders if you’d like to join him for a drink, Mr Danby? Discuss a certain shipment of his you…intercepted.’

He swallows. Keeping the bile down. ‘Love to Alfie, but I’ve got a plane to catch, know what I’m saying?’

Something hard jabs into his back. ‘RSVP, Mr Danby. We wouldn’t want to make Mr Cunningham invite your wife and kids too, would we?’

He’d do it too, no matter how far away they were.

Fucking hell.

He’d been so close.

Head down, Graeme picks up the handle of his trundle case and follows Alfie out of the queue.

What other choice does he have?

The canteen was quieter than the Wee Hoose, so Logan grabbed a table there. Tin of Irn-Bru, Tunnock’s Tasty Caramel Wafer, making little chocolate shrapnel while he copied notes out of his vomity notebook and into the new one he’d just signed out of stores.

Took a while to cross reference it all back to the original, with page numbers and everything, but at least now he could leave the stinky thing in its plastic bag, buried away in a filing cabinet in case it was ever needed. Instead of carting it about the whole time.

That done he moved onto the scrap of paper he’d liberated from Douglas Walker’s bedroom. Copying the