Dark Blood

A pair of huge white fire engines blocked the street, their flickering lights sparkling through the snow, thick jets of water raining down on the burning building.

‘Got any fags? I’m gasping.’

Logan handed her the packet.

‘Ta. Neighbour called it in about nine, seems our conscientious media bastards stood and filmed the place burning; never thought to actually get on the blower and call nine-nine-nine.’

‘There’s a shock.’ Logan turned on his heel, looking past the blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape cordoning off the front garden, to the forest of TV cameras and zoom lenses on the other side. ‘Think they got whoever did it on film?’

‘God, that’s brilliant!’ She slapped a hand against her forehead. ‘Why do you think I dragged you all the way out here, to sing songs round the camp-fire?’

‘Thanks. Couldn’t have got Uniform to do it, could you? No, had to drag me out in the middle of the night. Just because you’re not getting any-’

‘Don’t whinge. Think I want to be here? Should be back at the nick interrogating the wee sods we arrested. Gallagher’s no’ saying anything, but the van driver was beginning to…’ She frowned. Then smiled. ‘You were at it, weren’t you? You and the gorgeous goth! Come on then: blow by blow.’

At it? The way things were going he’d be lucky if she was still there when he finally got home.

Steel pursed her lips. ‘Bet she goes like a bloody steamengine.’

Logan glared at her, then turned around and marched off towards the ranks of cameras, the inspector’s words ringing out behind him: ‘And see if you can’t scrounge up some more tea!’

Half an hour later he was hunched over in the BBC Scotland Outside Broadcast Unit — which was a fancy way of saying ‘Transit Van Stuffed With Weird Bits Of Equipment’. A generator grumbled away somewhere behind a bank of knobs, switches, and flickering lights, just loud enough to be annoying.

‘I’d love to, but it’s company policy.’ The bearded bloke in the polar fleece, blew his nose into a damp hanky; never taking his eyes off the screen in front of him, where a rosy-cheeked reporter was doing a piece to camera, the snow whirling down around her head. ‘…sense of anger in Aberdeen tonight. We spoke to some of Richard Knox’s neighbours…’

‘We’re talking about an arson here.’

The man twisted a dial on his little editing desk. ‘Mate, if it was up to me I would…’

Logan sighed. ‘But?’

‘The BBC has to be seen to be impartial, otherwise no bugger’s ever going to trust us again. I’m not allowed to give you any footage without a warrant.’

Which was the same reply he’d got from every other sod camped outside the cordon of ‘POLICE’ tape.

‘Can you at least show me it?’

Mr Beard puckered up. ‘Give us a second, OK?’ Then he leant forward, clicked a button, and spoke into a little microphone. ‘That was great Janet, now can we try it again? And make sure you mention the campaign to have him deported.’

The woman on screen scowled. ‘You can’t deport someone from Aberdeen to Newcastle, it doesn’t make any sense! And it’s flipping freezing out here.’

‘So say “repatriate”, “forcefully relocate”, or “hound out”. Something. Then you can come in, have a cup of tea, and get ready for the next bulletin: we’re live at twelve past.’ He let go of the button. ‘Bloody prima donnas.’

He span around in his seat, ducking to avoid a dented anglepoise lamp. ‘Going to be on News at Ten anyway, so I suppose I can give you a preview…’

He flicked a switch on the back wall of instruments and a small screen, mounted above what looked like an eight-track recorder, came alive with static.

‘Headphones.’ He pointed at a scabby pair hanging from a bent coat hanger looped through the equipment rack, the cable plugged in next to the screen.

A quick rattle across a dirty keyboard, and the female reporter appeared again. Behind her Knox’s house was ablaze, sheets of orange and yellow billowing out of the lounge window, red sparks mingling with the falling snow, the upper windows glowing with flickering light.

‘This morning notorious rapist, Richard Knox, was escorted from his family home by police-’ The picture cut to familiar footage of the crowd surging outside the house. ‘-after angry scenes. Local residents, and people from as far away as Cheshire, descended on a quiet Aberdeen street when a North East newspaper revealed that Knox was living in the city’s Cornhill district.’

Cut to a puffy-faced man with a strawberry birthmark across one cheek. ‘No’ right is it? Why should we be lumbered with Newcastle’s perverts?’

Then a woman with her hair scraped back in a Torry face lift. ‘Revolting, so it is! It’s an utter disgrace!’

A teenager with more acne than skin, nose like a sharpened pencil. ‘Nasty gay-’ Loud bleep. ‘-shouldnae ever been allowed out o’ prison.’

Back to the reporter. ‘But events escalated this evening, as tensions, already running high, exploded into violence.’

Another cut: night, snowing. The crowd had thinned down to the hard-core, frozen few. Then someone emerged from off camera, a lit petrol bomb in their hand. It sizzled across the screen, leaving a trail of glowing white, and the camera swung around to watch it explode against the granite wall of Knox’s house. The flash was bright enough to overload the camera for a moment, and then it was back in focus, just in time to catch the second bomb being thrown. It burst on the sill of the broken lounge window — sending burning petrol all over the curtains.

‘With Knox moved to an undisclosed location, the police are appealing for calm, but it seems unlikely that local anger will be defused so easily.’ Another shot of the reporter, staring straight at the camera. ‘This is Janet Milton, BBC News, Aberdeen.’

The screen went blank.

Logan pulled up one side of his headphones. ‘How do I rewind?’

‘Big black knob to your right.’

The Transit’s side door slid open and there was the reporter. She froze, one foot up on the van’s floor, thick flakes of white specking her shoulders and hair; nose and ears a deep shade of pink. Her forehead creased. ‘Where am I supposed to sit?’

Logan turned his back on her, twisting the big black knob till she appeared on screen again.

‘Come on, Greg, this is ridiculous.’

‘Shut the door, eh, Janet? Freezing me nuts off here.’

‘You’re freezing yours off? What about mine?’

‘There’s a thermos in the cab…’

Logan stuck the headphones back on and set the report running again. Shutting out the argument.

‘But events escalated this evening, as tensions, already running high, exploded into violence.’

The first petrol bomb was too quick — the cameraman didn’t have time to catch much more than the rough shape of someone wrapped up in a padded jacket hurling the bottle. But the second time he’d got the camera around in time to catch the thrower centre frame.

Logan hit pause.

It was either a very effeminate man, or a slightly butch woman. Difficult to tell with all the padding. They had a black-and-white bobble hat pulled down over their ears, wisps of dark hair sticking out of the bottom. Eyes screwed up, nose crinkled. A checkered scarf covered the lower half of their face, and they were wearing what looked like a blue North Face jacket — the logo just visible on the left chest — with matching gloves.

So that probably meant no prints on the bottle.

Logan frowned, then took off the headphones and hung them back on the improvised hook. ‘Do you have any other shots of who threw the petrol bomb?’

‘You’re bloody impossible, Gavin! How am I supposed to work under these conditions?’ The reporter stormed