Dark Blood

The door clunked shut behind her, leaving Logan alone in the car park.

Bloody typical.

23

‘This all of it?’ Logan stood on his tiptoes and peered at the row of boxes arranged on the metal shelving.

‘Next one down too. And the one under that. And we got some more over there.’ The sergeant in charge of the Water Lane evidence store turned and pointed at another rack over by a stack of archive files. ‘That’s everything they brought in from Polmont’s flat.’

The store was a converted Victorian warehouse, a pile of filthy granite hidden away down a narrow alleyway off Mearns Street, just wide enough to get an unmarked Transit van down, if you were careful. Quiet and anonymous. The building’s high windows were nearly opaque with dirt, and barred on the inside.

The room was partitioned up with adjustable shelving units, turned into a maze with the heavy metal cage for drugs and confiscated money lurking at its heart. The shelving groaned under the weight of seized goods and lost property, the wooden floorboards gouged and scuffed. Strip lighting hung from the bare rafters, buzzing and flickering, making Logan’s breath glow white in the cold air.

‘OK…This lot been processed yet?’ Trying not to sound too hopeful.

The sergeant laughed, a surprisingly high-pitched sound for someone who looked so much like an axe murderer. ‘You’re kidding right? What am I, your mum?’

Logan groaned. There had to be two or three hundred items on the shelves, all of which needed to be catalogued, verified, and checked against the stolen property register. Bloody DI Steel — this was going to take him forever.

Sergeant Axe-Murderer patted him on the back and grinned. ‘Look on the bright side, at least it’s sodding freezing in here.’

‘You can bugger off now, Clive.’

‘Don’t mention it.’ Clive gave him one last pat, then wandered off, hands in his pockets, whistling. Git.

Logan pulled the first box from the shelf and dumped it on the floor. It was full of Sony MP3 Walkmans in their original packaging. He dug them out one by one, opening the cases to make sure they contained what they said they did, then wrote everything down in his notebook. Knowing that he’d have to type it all up when he got back to FHQ.

The next box was full of watches, the one after that: digital cameras. Logan sat back on his haunches and stared at the stacks of stuff still sitting waiting for him.

Bugger this.

He dug out his mobile and went hunting through the contacts, then hit the button. It was Sunday, so he’d have to leave a message, but if anyone asked he could honestly say he was doing something.

But a real person answered the phone: ‘Trading Standards, can I help you?’

‘Dildo? It’s Logan. What are you doing in the office?’

‘Fucking overtime. Got a backlog like you wouldn’t believe.’

‘I need a favour from the Shop Cops.’

‘Oh aye…?’ Pause. ‘Still owe me a pint from last time, remember?’

Logan looked up at Polmont’s collection. ‘I think we’ve found a stash of counterfeit goods.’ Not entirely true, but it could be. And that made it Trading Standards’ responsibility.

There was a groan. ‘Do me a favour and lose it again. We’re up to our ears in the bloody stuff as it is.’

‘My heart bleeds. We’ve got the lot down at the Water Lane store, get your bum over here and work your magic.’

He was silent for a moment. ‘This you trying to get me to do your bloody paperwork again?’

‘Dildo, I’m hurt.’

‘Yeah, and you didn’t answer the question.’ Sigh. ‘What have you got?’

Logan smiled. ‘MP3 players, hair straighteners, video games, bunch of other stuff. All boxed.’

‘Sod…OK, OK, I’ll come over. But it’s going to have to be Monday: got a bunch of Weights and Measures reports to write up, and I’m bloody well going home tonight before my kids are asleep.’

They set a time and Logan hung up. Then stood and stuck two fingers up at the contents of Steve Polmont’s flat, now officially someone else’s problem. Who said he couldn’t be a team player?

Logan parked outside the fourth address on his list and checked the caller display on his phone, just as it rang through to voicemail: Colin Miller — the Aberdeen Examiner’s star reporter. Logan gave it a minute, then checked his messages. Four from Steel threatening to castrate him; one from Samantha asking if he fancied taking her out to dinner for a change; one from Beattie — had he done anything about that meeting yet?

Logan frowned. What bloody meeting?

And then it was Colin, asking to be called back.

Logan hit reply and three rings later the reporter’s Glasgow burr rattled his eardrums.

‘Laz, my man, how they dangling?’ He didn’t bother waiting for a reply. ‘Great. Listen, I’m free the night, fancy hittin’ the town? Grab a bite to eat and some beers?’

‘Can’t tonight, got a date with a tattooed lady.’

‘Aw, come oan! You got any idea what I had to do to get a free pass? Couple of pints, bit of banter, just like the old days.’

Logan creaked open the car door.

A security light cracked on, bathing the gravel parking area with harsh white light. Twenty past four and the sun was taking its hat off, packing its bags, and sodding off home, leaving the countryside washed in dull pink and cold blue.

‘I’m kinda off the booze for a bit.’

‘You’re kidding me!’

‘Antibiotics.’ As good a lie as any.

‘Shite…’

There were no streetlights out here in the sticks. It was a cluster of converted farm buildings between Dyce and the Bridge of Don. Not all of them had been finished, and an old steading sat off to one side, the roof a ribcage of pale pine joists with a tatty-edged chunk of blue plastic sheeting draped over half of it.

At least the wind and sleet had died down. Still bloody freezing though.

‘Then we’ll grab a curry. You can have a Lambrini, or whatever it is you teetotal homosexuals drink these days.’

‘Colin-’

‘We can moan about work — got this new bloke in charge of the news desk, carrot-top bastard thinks I’m “too sensationalist”. Wanker. You can bang on about that tit Beattie, or your lezzer boss.’ Pause. ‘Bet that wee shite Richard Knox is a nightmare to deal with…?’

Logan slammed the car door. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. ‘Subtle, Colin, real subtle.’

‘What? I just-’

‘I’m not giving you info on an ongoing investigation, you know that. Curry and a pint my arse.’

There was silence for a moment, and when Colin spoke again Logan could hear the grin in his voice.