Dark Blood

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Steel poked at the newspaper, jabbing her finger into Richard Knox’s face. ‘How the hell did they find out where he’s staying?’ She thrust the newspaper into Logan’s lap. ‘Call him.’

Logan looked down at the photo. ‘What, Knox?’

‘No: that greasy wee journalist mate of yours, Colin Buggering Miller. I want to know who told him where Knox was, and I want whoever it was buggered with a traffic cone!’

PC Guthrie turned around in the passenger seat. ‘I suppose as it’s pointy, they’d have time to get used to-’

‘Are you looking for a slap?’

Guthrie faced front again.

Logan stuck his hand in his pocket, looking for his phone, and finding a handful of circuit board shrapnel instead. ‘Bloody hell…’ He had to borrow Steel’s mobile to dial Colin’s number.

The Glaswegian’s voice was barely audible over the siren. Logan stuck his finger in his ear and tried again. ‘I said, who told you where Knox was staying?’

‘…freezin’, man. Stop…tea or somethin’…’

‘Colin?’

‘…before…in…’

‘Hello?’ Logan slapped a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Switch off that bloody siren!’

PC Guthrie did. Now there was just the roar of the engine.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello? You still there?’

‘Who told you?’

‘About Knox? Privileged sources, journalistic integrity, etc. So you going to stop past a bakers or what?’

‘Don’t pull that privileged source crap with me: do you have any idea the kind of shit-storm you’ve started?’

‘Story was in the public interest, Laz. People got a right to know if a rapist moves in next door.’

‘There’ll be bloody riots!’

‘Shoulda thought about that before you dumped him on the poor people of Cornhill, shouldn’t you?’

‘I didn’t dump…’ Logan ran a hand across his forehead, gritted his teeth. ‘Where are you?’

‘Outside Knox’s house, freezin’ my nads off, where do you think? And when you go past the bakers get a couple of teas and a wee steak pie or two.’ There was some muffled conversation. ‘Yeah, and Sandy wants a macaroni pie, or sausage roll.’

‘I’m not going to a bloody bakers!’

‘Might tell you where I got the info…?’

Logan told Butler to stop at the next bakery she saw.

‘Took your time.’ Colin Miller swivelled round in his seat as Logan clambered into the back of the ancient beige Volkswagen and slammed the door. The engine was running, so at least it was warm inside.

The bald man in the driver’s seat turned and frowned. ‘Watch the car, yeah?’

Colin smiled. He was immaculately turned out in brand new designer jeans and a leather jacket that probably cost more than Logan’s Fiat. A muscle-bound action figure with a faint whiff of cologne. ‘Laz, this is Sandy. Don’t let the crappy manners fool you, he’s a photographic wunderkind. Aren’t you Sandy?’

‘Sodding thing’s falling apart as it is. You any idea how much it cost to get it through its MOT?’

‘Then buy a decent bloody car for a change.’ Colin held out his black leather-gloved hands. Some of the finger joints didn’t bend, making them look like deformed claws. ‘So…tea?’

Logan dug into the white plastic bag and produced two wax-paper cups with plastic lids. ‘Milk, no sugar.’ Handed them over, then dug out a pair of paper bags, partially transparent with grease.

‘Good man, yersel!’ Colin peeked into the paper bags, then passed one to the driver. ‘Your lucky day, Sandy: macaroni pie and a sausage roll. Say thank you to the nice police officer.’

Sandy grunted and took a bite of his sausage roll. Flakes of pastry tumbled down the front of his baggy green jumper.

Colin gave him one of the teas. ‘Go make yourself scarce for a couple minutes.’

Sandy stopped chewing, looked out at the street with his mouth hanging open. ‘It’s snowing.’

Cairnview Terrace was a winter wonderland. Big fat flakes drifted down from a gunmetal sky, flaring as they passed through the streetlights’ glow, blanketing everything. Predawn light painted the street in shades of blue, making it look even colder.

The photographer’s Volkswagen was parked directly in front of Knox’s house, the patrol car two doors down, behind a blue Volvo estate with ‘BBC SCOTLAND’ down the side, across the road from a Transit Van bearing the SKY NEWS logo, exhaust fumes clouding out into the cold morning.

No signs of a lynch mob waving pitchforks and burning torches. Maybe they were having a long lie?

Colin reached over from the passenger’s side and fumbled with the driver’s door handle. Popped it open. ‘Take your tea for a walk; enjoy the taste of your pie in the great outdoors; bum a fag from the Sky lot.’

Sandy grumbled for a bit. Stuffed his sausage roll in his mouth, grabbed his greasy paper bag and his tea, them clambered out into the early morning and slammed the door even harder than Logan had. But at least he’d left the engine running.

Colin watched Sandy stomp away into the snow, then helped himself to a steak pie. Talking with his mouth full. ‘So what you doin’ about Knox, now his cover’s blown, and that?’

‘Yeah, and who blew it?’ Logan went back into the plastic bag for a milky coffee and a cheese and onion pasty. ‘Who told you?’

‘Suppose you’ll have to move him. Might be an idea to let him put his side of the story first, you know?’

‘Colin, my boss is sitting in that patrol car over there, thinking up new ways to make my life a living hell, because I talked her into stopping off to get you breakfast. Now who told you where Knox was staying?’

‘And how is Madame Wrinkles the Lesbo Lothario?’

‘Colin!’

‘No one told me.’ Colin took another bite of pie, the hot meaty smell oozing out into the Volkswagen’s interior. ‘See, the thing about bein’ an investigative journalist is you go out and investigate. Should try it some time, be amazed what you can turn up, but.’

Smug git.

Logan creaked the plastic lid off his coffee. ‘How about I tell Isobel where you really were two weeks ago? When she thought you were in Dundee interviewing the idiot who got hypothermia trying to steal that statue of Desperate Dan?’

Colin stared at him. ‘You wouldn’t.’

‘Got till I finish my pasty, then I’m calling her.’

‘You are such a…’ Scowl. ‘OK, OK: when I was down in Newcastle I spoke to a neighbour, who put me onto his old English teacher. Creepy auld wifie with too many cats and a face like a skelpt arse. She says every single one of Knox’s “What I did on holiday” essays was about him comin’ up to Aberdeen and stayin’ with his granny and grandad, while his mum went aff on the pull.’

Colin took another bite of pie, taking care not to get any gravy on his gloves. ‘Offered to sell me one of the essays, you believe that? Soon as they charged Knox with raping that old man she went and dug everythin’ she could out of the school records. Knew it would be worth somethin’ some day.’

He shook his head, took a sip of tea. ‘Report cards, notes from his mum, complaints from the gym teacher… Tell you, makes you proud of the education system, doesn’t it? First thing she thinks of is how much cash she can rake in.’

‘And?’

‘Gonnae be in tomorrow’s Examiner: “Portrait of the monster as a small boy”, kinda deal. Four-page spread.’

‘No, you idiot, how did you get the address?’