Dark Blood

looking into the bathroom. Three o’clock in the morning, and all the lights in the flat are off. Except for this one.

Richard’s da’s in heaven — had himself a bit of an accident, didn’t he? With a length of metal pipe over the back of the head. On his knees in a vacant warehouse, blood pouring from his shattered mouth, making gurgling noises. Sobbing. Trying to kid on he was really sorry, you know? Like he didn’t mean to run out on Richard and his mam. That it wasn’t his fault.

Mandy from Sacro’s on her knees too. Gripping onto the toilet bowl. Heaving and retching. Bile spattering from her open mouth. Not caring she’s getting sick on her hair.

‘Are you all right?’

She waves a hand, without looking up. ‘I’m fine…I just…I…Oh shite-’ She heaves again, spine humping as the sound echoes back from the toilet bowl.

It’s a crappy modern flat, in a crappy modern development, walls and carpets the same colour as prison porridge.

Mandy groans, then gives the toilet another mouthful.

Richard’s eyes drift down to the rolling pin in his hand. It’s no lead pipe, but it’ll work just as well. Only Christian to put someone out of their misery, like…

There’s a fine mist of red on his face. Tiny red dots.

His arm aches. Wrist throbbing.

Richard pushes open the door to the third bedroom. Harry’s there, lying curled up under the covers, face all pale and glistening. The room stinks of sour sweat.

Richard flicks on the light.

Harry gives a little moan in protest and sticks a hand over his eyes. Poor lamb. All helpless and defenceless. Richard could do whatever he wanted, and no one could stop him.

Been a long time.

There’s clothes spread all over the floor: jeans, jumper, shirt, towels…Hasn’t even been here twenty-four hours, like, and already the place is a tip.

‘Please…you need to call…call a doctor…’ Voice all slurred and blurry.

Richard licks his lips, they taste of copper pennies.

Course Harry’s a bit young, isn’t he? Bit podgy. Not quite Richard’s type. Still…

Been a long, long time.

He steps inside. ‘Hey Harry, not feeling so well?’

Harry forces a smile. ‘Something didn’t…didn’t agree with…with me.’

Richard smiles back. ‘It’s called Flunitrazepam, you know? Rohypnol? Takes everyone different, like. Your mate Mandy’s in the bathroom spewing her ring. Sometimes happens if you take it with alcohol — think she’s a secret drinker?’

He closes the door. Not that Mandy’s going to interrupt them, just…well, modesty and that.

‘Rohyp…?’

‘AKA: the date rape drug.’

Richard steps towards the bed, unfastening his belt. Then the secret mobile phone he’s not supposed to have bleeps. Got a new text message. All it says is: ‘DOWNSTAIRS.’

He checks his watch. Twenty minutes early.

Richard shuffles to the front window and peers out at the street, four stories below. There’s a big black car sitting in the car park at the back of the flats, its hot exhaust pluming out into the cold night air.

‘Sorry Harry. Love to stay and get better acquainted, like, but me lift’s here.’

Twenty minutes…

Maybe they’ll wait?

38

‘Fuck.’ This was no way to start a Tuesday morning. Half past eight and the day was already ruined. Logan puffed back up the eight flights of stairs to the fourth floor, then stood at the top, wheezing and dizzy. Got to cut back on the fags.

He straightened up and shambled through the door into the corridor.

Knox’s new flat was part of a huge, ugly development — a long winding terrace that looked more like municipal buildings from the 1970s than modern housing. A developer’s dream: build them cheap, pile them high, and charge a fortune.

There were six flats on the fourth floor, all leading off the main corridor. Alpha Three Nine were second on the scene, so they’d been given the task of going door-to-door, stopping people from getting to work. That and blocking off the elevator with ‘POLICE’ tape.

DI Steel was slouched against the wall outside Knox’s new flat, having a scratch.

Logan waved the plastic packages he’d dug out of the pool car’s boot at her. ‘Smurf time.’

She stuck her hand out. ‘Give.’

They struggled into the white paper oversuits, Logan hopping about like an idiot. Bloody shoes never went down the legs properly, did they? He fought his arms into the sleeves, hauled the hood into place, and zipped the thing up, from groin to chin, then slipped the blue plastic booties on. The elasticated facemask went on over his nose and mouth, he pulled on a pair of purple nitrile gloves, and finished off by sticking a second pair over the top of those.

DI Steel hauled her own zip up and stood there: booted and suited, masked and gloved, just like he was. She sniffed. ‘It’s what all the best-dressed people are wearing this season.’

Logan knocked on the door.

PC Irvine from the Offender Management Unit opened it, wearing the same protective clothing. She made them sign in before she’d let them over the threshold.

Steel picked her way into the hall and Logan followed, avoiding a dark smudge on the oatmeal-coloured carpet in case it was evidence. ‘Any word on the ambulance?’

‘Should’ve been here five minutes ago.’ Irvine pointed a shaky hand at the bathroom. ‘She’s in there.’

Logan peered through the open door. Mandy from Sacro lay on the bathroom floor, her curly brown hair matted to her head with something dark and sticky. A pool of red on the linoleum beneath her. Spatters up the cream tiles, a misting of pink on the underside of the hand basin. ‘Bloody hell…’

Someone had arranged her in the recovery position. And if Logan stared hard, he could just make out her chest rising and falling.

Irvine nodded. ‘Paul and me got here about quarter past eight to run through the matrix again. No answer when we knocked, so we gave it a couple of minutes, tried phoning. Nothing. Paul used the spare key.’

Steel cleared her throat. ‘Where’s the other one?’

‘Second bedroom from the end.’ She glanced down the hall. ‘Can’t believe we bought prawns for him.’

The room was small, a double bed crammed in against the wall, an upturned bedside cabinet, a wicker chair lying cracked and bashed next to it. The eye-nipping, throat-catching, bitter reek of vomit and urine.

‘Oh, Jesus…’

Harry, the other Sacro volunteer, was tied facedown on the bed, a stack of pillows under his groin propping his backside up in the air. Naked. Blood caking the sheets around his ruined face, his back covered in scarlet welts, bite marks, cigarette burns.

Steel blinked. Voice muffled by the mask. ‘Is he…?’

‘He’s alive.’

The inspector turned and smacked PC Irvine on the chest. ‘Then why the bloody hell haven’t you untied him! Fuck is wrong with you?’

‘But we don’t have a camera, and the crime scene-’

‘FUCK THE CRIME SCENE!’ Steel stormed into the room, grabbed the T-shirt tying Harry’s right ankle to the