Dark Blood

A horn, blaring.

Logan hurried over to PC Butler and helped her to her feet. ‘You OK?’

‘God, that was close…’

He lurched around the corner — Butler limping along behind him — and froze. The little sports car was wedged in at forty-five degrees between the grass verge and a drystane dyke; front end crumpled; the folding soft- top torn off, exposing its soft chewy centre. A huge tractor idled in the middle of the road, massive, mud-covered wheels sitting on the sports car’s missing roof.

The farmer clambered down from the cab, and stood, swearing at the deep scrape along the side of his tractor.

Middleton was slumped over the Mazda’s steering wheel. Dark-red seeped out onto the white deflated sack of his burst airbag.

PC Butler looked up from the Airwave handset pinned to her shoulder. ‘Control says the ambulance should be here in five or ten.’

Logan nodded and added milk to all three mugs of tea, then lumped four sugars into the one on the end. As was traditional.

Kevin Middleton pulled the dripping towel off his face. ‘Told you, I don’t need an ambulance.’ The right side of his face was bright pink and swollen, and a tail of red-stained toilet paper stuck out of one nostril.

Logan handed him the hot, sweet tea. ‘You want more snow in the towel?’

‘I just want to go home.’ He sipped. Grimaced. ‘How much sugar did you put in this?’

‘Tell me about Angus Black.’

There was a pause. ‘Never heard of him.’ Middleton pressed the towel gently back against his face.

‘He’s the one who sold you the green Golf GTI sitting on your junkyard forecourt.’

‘So what? I buy lots of cars.’

Logan pulled out Angus Black’s statement. ‘He says you gave him six and a half grand for the car, in cash?’

‘Might’ve done.’

‘It was counterfeit, wasn’t it?’

Middleton huddled over his tea. ‘When’s that ambulance getting here?’

‘You went back to Douglas Walker’s house, didn’t you? You went back for more counterfeit money. What did you do, threaten him? Beat him up again?’

‘Think I might have that internal bleeding…’

‘Good.’ Butler scowled at him. ‘Nearly killed me with that bloody car.’

‘Wasn’t my fault: road was slippy.’ He took another sip of tea. ‘And I didn’t have anything to do with any dodgy notes.’

‘Then why’d you run?’

No answer.

Logan stood. ‘Soon as you’ve been checked out by the hospital I’m doing you for reckless driving, resisting arrest, and attempted murder.’

Tea went everywhere, in a sticky beige spray. ‘I didn’t-’

‘You drove straight at PC Butler. I saw you do it.’

‘It was slippy!’

‘You tried to run me over.’

Middleton slumped forwards in his seat. Shoulders rising and falling beneath the grubby boilersuit. ‘OK, OK. So I went to see Walker a couple of times, gave the cheeky wee fuck a smack.’

‘How much did he give you?’

Middleton shrugged. ‘Twenty grand. Said that was all he could take without anyone noticing.’

‘And where’s the rest of it?’

The garage owner’s eyes darted to the safe in the corner, then away again. ‘Spent it.’

Sigh. ‘Fine, I’ll get a warrant.’

Middleton just stared at his shoes.

‘It’s for you.’ PC Butler unfastened the Airwave handset and passed it over, keeping her other hand on the steering wheel as they followed the ambulance through the snow towards A amp;E. At least the blue flashing lights meant they were making decent time.

Logan turned the radio down, putting Whitney Houston out of everyone’s misery. ‘McRae.’

Detective Inspector Beardy Beattie’s bunged up voice boomed through the little speaker. ‘When’s the meeting?’

Logan looked at Butler, but she just shrugged.

‘Meeting?’

‘I’ve been trying to get you on your mobile all day, honestly it’s-’

‘What meeting?’

‘You said you’d set something up with Trading Standards and HMRC. We’re supposed to be cracking down on those counterfeit goods.’

‘When did-’

‘Saturday morning! You said you’d do it. You stood there and told me you would.’

Logan watched the ambulance squeeze between a massive four-by-four and a bendy bus. ‘I’m kinda in the middle of something.’

‘I don’t believe this.’ The sound of someone scratching their beard crackled out of the handset. ‘No, you know what: I do. You don’t give a toss about doing what you’re told when it’s me, do you? If it’s Steel, or McPherson, oh then you’re all over it, but you think you can ignore me because we used to work together, don’t you?’

Logan clamped his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘How do I turn the volume down?’

Butler waved a finger at the Airwave handset. ‘Button on the left.’

He pressed it until Beattie’s rant wasn’t hammering out of the speaker loud enough for everyone to hear.

‘…long enough. I’ve been patient with you, because of…you know…but that’s it. I’m making a formal complaint to the head of CID.’

‘Gordon, have you seen the news today? The Examiner outed Knox, what am I supposed to do?’

There was a pause. Then, ‘It’s not “Gordon” any more. It’s “Sir”, “Guv”, “Guv’nor”, “Inspector”, or “Boss”. Meeting, today, Sergeant.’

And then the bearded tosser hung up.

Logan turned up the radio again — getting the tail end of a news report about the protests outside Richard Knox’s house.

‘…made a number of arrests, say the Newcastle-born rapist will be moved to a secure, undisclosed, location. Do you have an opinion about the demonstration? Maybe you were there? Then why not give us a call on 01224…’ Logan switched it off again.

Bloody Beattie. How was he supposed to get a meeting organized at that short notice? It was…He frowned — Butler was staring at him.

‘Eyes on the road, Constable.’

She fluttered her eyelashes a couple of times. ‘Trouble, Sarge?’

‘Do you think?’ He punched a mobile phone number into the Airwave handset. ‘Dildo? It’s Logan. I need another favour…’

Julie sits back in her seat and says, ‘Fuck.’

The TV’s on, but the sound’s turned off — the BBC News Channel playing them crowd scenes outside Knox’s